i 
 
k - V 
 
THREE STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 VITESLAV HALEK. 
 
 UNDER THE HOLLOW TREE. 
 ^POLDIK THE SCAVENGER. 
 ON CONDITION : OR PENSIONED OFF. 
 
 TOGETHER WITH 
 
 ^TWENTY-EIGHT LYRICAL PIECES 
 
 BY THE SAM* AUTHOR, » ,•„ »••» 
 
 Translated prom the Czech by W. W. STRICKLAND, B.A., 
 Trin. Coll., Cambridge. 
 
 YORK: 
 J. Sampson, Publisher, IB, Coney Street, 
 
 1886. 
 
PRESERVATION 
 DOPY ADDED 
 ORIGiNAL TO BE 
 RETAINED 
 
 R 2 1 W94 
 

 Hftirf 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 If the reader will take a map of the world and draw three lines, 
 one from Venice to Dantzig, another from Constantinople to the 
 White Sea, and a third from the Erz Mountains, west of Prague, 
 to Kamschatka, he will be able to form some idea of the vast stretch 
 of territory affected by Sclavonic civilization. 
 
 No confraternity of nations, not even the Anglo-Saxon, occupies 
 so large a portion of the earth's surface as the rapidly-increasing 
 Sclavonic brotherhood. 
 
 On this account alone, if for no other reason, any attempt to 
 bring home to English readers something of the inner life of some 
 of these peoples is worthy of attention. Bohemian literature, 
 moreover, has several special claims upon English readers. In the 
 first place more than once the. royal families of England and 
 Bohemia have been united. Then again the country to some 
 extent in its configuration and the variety of its strata, still more 
 in its plethora of coal, ironstone, and other minerals has much 
 in common with England. Bohemia has never broken entirely with 
 the traditions of feudalism, and in the flourishing condition of its 
 principalities and great-estates, the richness of its woodland, the 
 abundance of its game, its fine breed of horses, and the excellence 
 of its beer, we seem to see a copy of old England, and are reminded 
 that similar causes produce similar effects : not that this is exactly 
 true of the last item, however, which is at once milder and of purer 
 quality than our own. Lastly, the religious struggles of the 
 Reformation were fought out in Bohemia much on the same lines 
 as in England, and while we may proudly claim some spiritual affinity 
 between our own Protestant martyrs and the victims of Papal 
 power in Prague, we are also reminded that in the national hero of 
 Bohemia, John Hus, more than in any other of the great Pro- 
 testant martyrs, were exhibited the most spotless purity of life, the 
 most complete absence of self-seeking or worldly ambition, the 
 most loyal devotion to duty, and the most simple and ready self- 
 sacrifice in the cause of truth. The literature of a country which 
 has produced the most perfect type of Christian piety which the 
 
 979158 
 
iv Preface. 
 
 world has yet seen, a man who of all others approximates most in 
 his life and death to the originator of the Christian cult, merits 
 something better than neglect at the hands of Christians steeped in 
 the flimsy rhetoric of French triviality and the latest production of 
 a civilization which was of no mean order while England still 
 revelled in barbarism, might occasionally be exchanged with 
 advantage for the endless verbiage of our own school of novels or 
 the edifying lucrubations of Emile Zola. Goethe, in a conversation 
 with Eckerman, speaks with admiration of the simplicity and purity 
 of the Bohemian writers, and since his time there has been a great 
 re-awakening of the national spirit, and the language which had 
 sunk to be a despised dialect of the common people of the towns 
 and the peasantry of the rural districts, now claims half of the 
 University of Prague, has its seat in one of the finest theatres in 
 Europe, and is once more the proud mouthpiece of art and science. 
 
 The writer, some of whose stories are here brought to the notice 
 of the English reading public, was one of those who helped on the 
 attainment of this proud result. Palacky and Jungmanns aroused 
 the interest of the people in their own history by publishing 
 historical and antiquarian works in the vernacular. Cajetan Tyl is 
 still remembered as a patriotic dramatist and writer of fiction, and 
 Erben's Sclavonic folk-lore has a general interest, but none of the 
 Bohemian writers has caught so speaking a likeness of the inner 
 life of the Bohemian people as Viteslav Halek, no one is remem- 
 bered with such enthusiastic affection by all classes, or strikes so 
 responsive a chord in the feelings of high and low. Already 
 throughout Bohemia societies have been formed for the reading of 
 his works, although he has not been dead fifteen years, and when I 
 lodged in Smichoff with an honest Bohemian stonemason and his 
 wife, I found it difficult to keep their hands off my copy of his 
 stories. The more cultivated classes admire him for the simplicity 
 of his style, and even the Germans are constrained grudgingly to 
 acknowledge his merits. A complete edition of his works has 
 indeed, been lately published in the original language edited by a 
 writer, whom from his name (Ferdinand Schultz), I should judge to 
 be a German. 
 
 These works consist of some half dozen dramas drawn chiefly 
 from Sclavonic history. The first of these, Carevic Aleksej, was 
 acted about the year i860, and is modelled to some extent on 
 Goethe's Egmont. For another, composed and brought out about 
 
Preface. v 
 
 the same time, (Krai Rudolf) the author had the honour of a short 
 imprisonment at the hands of the Austrian Government. Sergius 
 Catiline, Zavis z Falkenstjerna, Krai Vukasin (dealing with 
 Servian history) and Amnon and Tamar are the names of his other 
 dramas. They are all tragedies, and somewhat heavy reading. 
 Amnon and Tamar, written in 1874, is the most powerful of them, 
 but the subject is objectionable. 
 
 It is difficult for a foreigner with an imperfect knowledge of the 
 language to judge correctly, but I should say that none of the 
 other plays rise much above the level of Tennyson and Swinburne's 
 dramatic efforts. Most of them, however, are the work of the 
 poet's earlier years as a writer, and it is noteworthy that his latest 
 works are far above those of a more youthful period, and this 
 makes his somewhat premature death the more regrettable. These 
 dramas fill two volumes. Another volume is devoted to lyrical 
 pieces, ballads, and romances, written at different times between 
 1854 and 1870. A few samples are given in the present book of 
 translations. These were most of them written in 1858. They are 
 very popular in Bohemia. In fact a large number of them have 
 been set to music and are now the ' volks-lieder ' of the people. 
 The student of Heine will observe that several of the ideas in these 
 Bohemian poems have been adapted from the Jewish writer ; for 
 example, one of Halek's lyrics beginning : 
 
 Nay marvel not if thou should'st hear 
 The birds sing songs of thee, love, &c, 
 is a very close copy of Heine's 
 
 Wer hat euch dies Wortlein gelehret 
 Ihr Voglein in lustiger Hoh ? 
 
 Schweigt still ? wenn mein Herz es horet 
 Denn thut es noch einmal so weh. 
 
 Es kam ein Jung-fraulein gegangen 
 
 Sie sang es immerfort 
 Da haben wir Voglein gefangen 
 Das hubsche, goldene wort. 
 A wild poem by Heine, beginning 
 
 Ich kam von meiner Herrin Haus 
 
 in which the dead are supposed to rise from their graves and 
 recount to one another what brought them there is also twice 
 
vi Preface. 
 
 imitated by Halek in his idyllic poems. Once in a scene in a poem 
 called Alfred (1858) and again most elaborately in a poetical 
 historical retrospect, Dedicove bile hory (1869). 
 
 This brings me to mention his volume of Idyllic poems written 
 at different times between 1858 and 1871, some of which I judge 
 to be the most perfect of his works. In the latest of these Idylls 
 Devce z Tater (a maiden of the Carpathians) the splendour of 
 the language and melody of the verse outshine that of any 
 modern poet (Leopardi not excepted). The story is simple and 
 interesting, the sentiment healthy, and the characters life-like ; 
 could it be adequately translated English critics would, I think, 
 admit it to be one of the most perfect Idylls in any language. 
 Krasna Lejla and Mejrima and Husejn, Turkish Stories in verse, 
 (1859) and Alfred (a Czech romance) are also readable and highly 
 poetical. Goar and Cerny prapor (the black flag) are the names 
 of two others. A volume of prose stories written between 1857 
 and 1859 is of less interest. The stories are diffuse, full of 
 criticisms about art and Wagner's music, the plot is slight and the 
 characters commonplace. Two volumes of prose stories written at 
 a much later period, a story called i( In the cottage and on the 
 estate," and a volume or two of criticism comprise the rest of 
 Halek's works. One of these volumes of stories is here presented 
 to the public in an English dress and of their merits the English 
 reading public can therefore form its own opinion. The stories 
 are for the most part translated literally and I must apologize for 
 retaining here and there Bohemian words, sometimes where an 
 English equivalent is wanting, sometimes, in order to give an idea 
 of the character of the original language, which also means the 
 character of the people who speak it. The stories have been twice 
 revised. Once by a learned Bohemian Jew in Prague, to whom I 
 read them aloud and who was kind enough to appreciate them in 
 their English dress. " They are written from the heart to the 
 heart," he said. And again a second time by an English literary 
 man to whom the sentiment of the stories was so obnoxious that 
 he put his pen through about one third part of them. Most of his 
 excisions I have rejected. In spite of these revisions I cannot 
 hope to have avoided many errors of translation which I hope 
 may be corrected by the critical reader ; nor can I expect 
 a wide circle of English readers. The stories appeal to 
 a civilization developing on different lines from our own, 
 
Preface. vii 
 
 and, although they are a true picture of Sclavonic life and senti- 
 ment, they will no doubt often appear to English readers fantastic 
 and overstrained. It may be worth noticing, in passing, that 
 'Poldik,' the name of a character in one of the stories, is the 
 diminutive of Leopold, and that of Bartos, in another of them, 
 stands for Bartholomew. 
 
 He who can read between the lines will perceive in both these 
 stories ingenious political allegories. These I will leave him to 
 discover for himself, premising that in both the main idea is the 
 maintenance of the Bohemian nationality against the encroach- 
 ments of the centralizing Austrian power. The last story is based 
 on a strange institution in the rural districts of Bohemia — that of 
 " vejminkar." In the case of small freehold estates or farms held 
 on a long lease, the owner, as his sons grow up, pensions himself 
 oft ; or. to put it differently, retires upon a settlement from the 
 active management of the estate, in order that the eldest, youngest, 
 or favorite son may marry and have the enjoyment of it. The 
 pathetic fate of the village Lear in this story is an eloquent exposi- 
 tion of the abuses of the system which exists to this day in some 
 parts of Bohemia. 
 
 I began this preface by pointing out what an immense portion 
 of the globe forms the nidus of Sclavonic civilization, and as 
 many people have very indefinite ideas about Slavism and its 
 languages, it may not be amiss to conclude with a few remarks 
 upon the Czech or Bohemian language and its relation to other 
 Sclavonic dialects. As I do not profess to be a learned man, I 
 have extracted the little I have to say on the subject from Mikes's 
 Russo-Czech grammar. 
 
 The Sclavonian nation, he writes, now contains eighty million 
 souls, and is divided by its position into Southern, Eastern, and 
 Western. 
 
 I. In Eastern Sclavonia we find 
 
 (i) The Cyrilian or Ancient Sclavonic used, like the Latin, 
 but very much modified, as the language of the Church, 
 by Russians, Servians, Bulgarians, and part of the Dal- 
 matians. 
 (2) The Russian language divided into three slightly different 
 dialects. 
 
 (a) Great Russian spoken by thirty-five million people. 
 
 (b) Little Russian spoken by thirteen million people. And 
 
viii Preface. 
 
 (c) White Russian spoken by three million people. 
 
 II. South Sclavonic is divided into 
 
 (a) Servian spoken by five million people. 
 
 (b) Croatian spoken by one million people. 
 
 (c) Carinthian-Slovenian spoken by one million people. 
 
 (d) Bulgarian spoken by seven million people. 
 
 III. Western Sclavonic is divided into 
 
 (i) Polish employed by about ten million people. 
 
 (2) Czech divided into 
 
 (a) Cesko-Moravian spoken by over four million people. 
 
 and 
 
 (b) Hungarian-Slovenian spoken by two million people. 
 
 (3) Lusatian-Servian divided into Upper and Lower, and 
 spoken by 150,000 people in Saxony. 
 
 I will not weary the reader by going over in detail the relation- 
 ship of these languages to one another ; suffice it to say that the 
 Czech or Bohemian is most closely related to the Upper Lusatian, 
 the Croatian and the Little Russian dialects. The Bohemians, like 
 most of the Catholic and Western Sclavonians, use the Latin char- 
 acters, and thus their language forms a good introduction to the 
 study of the rest. 
 
Wintstx tht Ifollorto Crte, 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 X\3?ft7'HEN Venik was twelve yedrs old'; 'his father* 
 ?& Riha took him from school. "You'musV 
 help us now," he said. " You will he our little 
 shepherd, and will drive off the sheep to the hill- 
 side ; then in the afternoon I will bring you your 
 dinner there, and you will come home yourself for 
 the evening meal." 
 
 Venik spun round with delight on his right heel. 
 His teeth flashed out from his gums, and his father 
 added, "Take your violin with you to the pasturage." 
 After this, Venik was like one possessed ; he skipped 
 about the apartment, till he had skipped up to his 
 violin, taken it down from its nail, stretched several 
 of the strings, and played and skipped about at the 
 same time. 
 
 Venik, it must be understood, learnt the violin at 
 school, and on Sunday used to play primo in the 
 gallery so well that the schoolmaster composed a 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 solo in the gloria expressly for him ; and when Venik 
 played, people at church turned their eyes to the 
 gallery instead of looking at the altar. But no one 
 could see him from below, he was still so small 
 that he scarcely touched the rail of the gallery 
 with his head. Then year after year the head 
 emerged just over the rail, but the violin was yet 
 invisible from below. 
 
 So then pretty early next morning Venik drove off 
 the sheep to the hillside below the wood, and took 
 with him nis violin. Below the hillside murmured 
 a viver. on the hillside began to murmur the oakwood. 
 Venik skirted the wood, and at the edge of it he noticed 
 a single old tree whose trunk was hollow, so that four 
 people could comfortably seat themselves inside. 
 This tree looked as though it had stepped out from 
 the wood. It had a sort of door and threshold ; on the 
 threshold, beside the entrance, squatted Venik, that 
 he might look after the sheep, and he said to himself 
 " Here I like to be : beside this tree I shall remain." 
 
 When he had sat thus a short time and saw how 
 the river fled away below him, and how the sheep 
 kept creeping over the hillside, and how the wood 
 behind him kept murmuring so softly, something 
 stirred within him like the river, and something 
 murmured softly like the woodland. 
 
 But when birds began to call to one another from 
 the wood, Venik thought that he ought to answer 
 them. He took hisviolin to make them some response* 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 He played a whole mass in their behoof and his 
 own, just as he had played it last in chapel. He 
 thought that in that way he should soonest make 
 friends with them by showing them what he knew. 
 
 He played : and when he came to the gloria, 
 where he had the solo in chapel, he thought he 
 ought to do his very best. He did his best, and 
 played till his face shone. If those birds had under- 
 stood anything about playing they must have been 
 well contented with him. When he had finished 
 playing you might have heard an answer, but it was 
 not the birds who answered, it was the little Krista 
 who, when Venik had finished playing, began to sing 
 over her solo for last Sunday's mass. Unseen she 
 had crept behind the tree, and now betrayed herself 
 by her singing. 
 
 Venik was the violinist of the gallery, and Krista 
 was its chief songstress; she had a voice like a little 
 angel, and when she sang people said it was like 
 stringing pearls on a silken thread. Venik and 
 Krista made music in the gallery side by side ; and 
 when one accompanied the other people said the 
 chapel was like paradise ; they were not brother and 
 sister, but people called them " those children," 
 because they always learnt together, together walked 
 home from school, and from home to school, and 
 stood together in the gallery. The village folk 
 talked about " those children " on their way to the 
 chapel ; " those children " were like a miracle to 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 them when they heard them in chapel, and they 
 talked about " those children " again all the way 
 from chapel. 
 
 Krista was an orphan ; she was now nine years 
 old, and had no recollection of her parents. She 
 was attached to the home of Venik's father like the 
 swallow's nest which hung from the eaves, and which 
 no one thought of pulling down. Venik's father, 
 perhaps, did not the least know why he had her at 
 his house. It may have been because she was an 
 orphan; or, perhaps, it may have been because of 
 her sweet little voice. She was like that swallow's 
 nest under the cornice : no one pulled down that nest* 
 
 Venik's father was sometimes known as the 
 cottager, because there was another Riha in the 
 village — a peasant proprietor — the brother of Riha 
 the cottager. They also talked of Riha as Riha the 
 widower, because Venik had already lost his mother. 
 
 When Krista began to sing behind the tree, Venik 
 put down his violin,' turned in the direction where sat 
 the little songstress, beat time to her, nodded with 
 his head, and was well satisfied. But when she had 
 quite ended he roughly accosted her : " Krista, why 
 are you not at school," he said. 
 
 " Why are you not there too," said Krista. 
 
 " I, indeed ! I am tw r elve years old and belong to 
 school no longer, but you are only nine." 
 
 "I dont belong there either now," retorted Krista, 
 " and I wont go ! " 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 " How dare you ? if Papa knew of it he would 
 drive you there," retorted Venik angrily. 
 
 " I am come to feed the sheep with you, and you 
 want to drive me away," pleaded Krista. 
 
 On this Venik stood up, took her by the hand, 
 and said imperiously, " Go at once, or I will drive 
 you hence. Hie away to school ! " 
 
 " I wont go, and you know it," retorted Krista. 
 
 And when she would'nt stir an inch, Venik took 
 her round the waist and dragged her as far as his 
 strength sufficed. Krista staggered back, sank to 
 the ground, burst into tears, and cried plaintively, 
 " Ah ! I am only a poor orphan girl." 
 
 These words touched Venik. He forgot all at 
 once that he had to send her to school, and only saw 
 that Krista was in plaintive mood, and that he was 
 the cause of it. He stood as if fixed to the ground, 
 and did not know in which direction to move, 
 whether towards Krista or towards the tree ; then 
 he went to the tree and sat himself there. He 
 wished to play but it would'nt come. No mass, no 
 song even occurred to him. Then he looked round 
 at Krista and could have cried with her, could have 
 gone to her, could have soothed her, could have 
 asked her pardon and have excused her school, but 
 he did not know how he could do that. 
 
 He felt even worse when Krista ceased to cry, 
 when she raised her head and in silent sort reiterated 
 what she had said before in words. When having 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 her hands clasped and herself sunk to earth, and 
 when having her eyes full of salt tears and fixed on 
 the vague distance, like an actor in his part, she 
 confirmed even by the expression of her countenance 
 the signature over which was written, " Ah ! I am 
 but a poor orphan girl." 
 
 As she sat thus plunged in her childish grief r 
 Venik silently approached her, squatted himself 
 beside her, and after a few moments said, " Krista, 
 how does it feel to be an orphan." 
 
 He said it with all the sympathy of which, at his 
 age, he was capable. He said it as if he would have 
 told her, " Tell me how it feels and I will share it 
 w r ith you." 
 
 " How does it feel ? " said Krista, in reply to his 
 question. " When I have only you, and you drive 
 me from you, how can I be anything but an orphan ? " 
 and her eyes still moist with weeping turned from the 
 vague distance to him, and were full of mute reproach 
 
 " Nay, I do not drive you from me, but I want 
 you to go to school, and to school you must go, for 
 you are not twelve years old like me," said Venik. 
 
 " I dont want to go to school any more," retorted 
 Krista, " I like to be here on the hill side, and stay 
 here I will." 
 
 " And where will you learn to sing," asked Venik 
 as a last resource. 
 
 " With you," said Krista, and this quite beat 
 Venik what to say next. 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 However, he answered, "You might go to school, 
 and after school come here on the hill side. Lord ! 
 how we should get on if you learnt at school and 
 here as well ! " 
 
 At these words Krista fell a thinking, then she 
 looked at Venik, took him by the hand and said, 
 " You are right, I will do so. I will go to school, 
 and after school I will come to you on the hill side." 
 
 Thus did these two young diplomatists come to a 
 mutual understanding. And when both were satis- 
 fied, Venik said, " Are you still a poor orphan girl, 
 Krista ? " 
 
 "You know that I am an orphan. I have neither 
 papa nor mamma," she said, and Venik felt again 
 so sorry, that he thought he must still try to do 
 something for Krista to make her less an orphan. 
 
 And he said, " I have no mother either." He said 
 it as if he gloried in it, and as if he made Krista a 
 sort of present, and as if that present was the mother 
 whom he had lost. 
 
 Venik thought then that he had effected in Krista 
 what he wanted to effect in her. Renouncing his 
 own mother, he laid that renunciation in the balance, 
 and Krista seemed by so much the nearer to him. 
 He gloried in his own orphanhood that Krista might 
 bear to be an orphan more easily. He discarded his 
 own mother as though he would discard even life 
 itself for Krista's sake. 
 
 Krista's case was indeed different. She had never 
 
8 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 seen Venik's mother ; she had not known her, and 
 so she thought that at the Riha's there had never 
 been a Mrs. Riha, and that Venik all his life had 
 never had a mother. But now when Venik announced 
 his loss, Krista perceived that what he did not 
 possess he had really lost. " Did they bury your 
 mamma?" asked Krista, as if all at once his mis- 
 fortune presented itself to her imagination. 
 
 "They did not bury her," said Venik, "because 
 I was still quite little and it was winter, but in the 
 cemetery she lies for all that." 
 
 Venik's mind was haunted by a notion that when 
 his mother's death took place people had said that 
 they were not going to bury her ; and he had clung 
 to this idea ever since, just as it happens still oftener 
 that a chance word which we have heard in child- 
 hood, and which we have clothed with a wholly 
 incorrect meaning, hampers us with that incorrect 
 meaning years after our reason has learnt the right 
 one. So Venik till now would have it that his 
 mother was not buried, that thus she was perhaps 
 not entirely a corpse, and that consequently he was 
 exaggerating a little when he said that he had not 
 a mother either. 
 
 " Stay, if she is not buried let us bury her here on 
 the hillside," said Krista, " and then you will always 
 be near her ; you shall dig the grave and I will bring 
 her here." 
 
 Very little of all this certainly did Venik under- 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 stand, either of what Krista wanted to do or what 
 she had got in her mind. But children quickly 
 adapt themselves to everything. They pretend a tile 
 to be a basin, a fragment of crumbling earth to be a 
 cake, a pebble is a house, a bit of wood is a shop- 
 keeper, the trestle ol a table is a school, a scrap of 
 rag is a shopful of dresses, a scrap of paper is a book. 
 The fancies of children are omnipotent, and if a child 
 says " our apartments with papa and mamma are 
 better than the whole world," it is true from the 
 moment that the child says it. 
 
 So when Krista got up to bring Venik's mamma, 
 Venik got up also and began to make his mamma's 
 grave beside the hollow tree. He grubbed in the 
 earth with his pocket knife. And when he had done 
 with the grave Krista brought his mamma. She 
 had her lapful of her, and had collected her all over 
 the wood and over the hillside. 
 
 And now they began to lay her in the tomb. First 
 Krista strewed the grave with moss that mamma 
 might feel it soft beneath her. Then she took a 
 briar in full bloom and said, " look, that is her 
 heart," and she laid the briar in the middle of the 
 grave. Then she took two willow wands and said, 
 " Look, those are her hands, and laid them next the 
 heart. Then two other wands were for two feet, 
 and finally she took from her lap sweet marjoram, 
 and said, " Look, that is her head," and laid it on 
 the top. Nothing more was wanted in her opinion 
 
io Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 to make a woman. So the corpse was done with 
 and Venik's little mother lay in the grave. 
 
 After this began the funeral in due form. Krista 
 began to weep, and Venik wept with her. And they 
 wept in earnest. Then Venik took his violin and 
 played a " miserere," just as he usually did in the 
 cemetery, and Krista sang. Then Krista sang over 
 the funeral hymns, and Venik accompanied her on 
 his violin. They sang and played everything they 
 knew ; they sang funeral hymns for the burial of a 
 child ; then those for youths, and lastly those for 
 adults. And they sang and played with so much 
 earnestness and with so much warmth of feeling 
 that they were both quite ill after it, and hiccoughed 
 with emotion. A more touching funeral never took 
 place in reality than the imaginary one conducted 
 by these children. If the spirit of Venik's mother 
 hovered above them, doubtless it rejoiced and wept 
 with them. 
 
 Then the little gravedigger filled in the grave with 
 earth, and his little mother was buried. They still 
 had to sing over, " Oh ! rest in peace/' and after- 
 wards " We bid adieu to this body, we bury it in 
 peace." Thereupon they quitted the tomb to the 
 sound of the song and the violin. But once more 
 they returned, not indeed to the grave exactly, but 
 aside to the hollow tree, for Venik said that he would 
 compose a requiem, and that there should be a full 
 choral mass. And he played and Krista sang. They 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 ii 
 
 played and sang through all the solos, and the hollow 
 tree was both church and gallery. 
 
 Even when late that evening they drove home the 
 flock they were still sobbing and crying, and the next 
 day Krista would'nt think of going to school, " for 
 you know," she said, " it is the vigil after the 
 funeral." 
 
CHAPTER II, 
 
 ROM that day forth these children felt that 
 they were equals. From that day forth one 
 was no more an orphan than the other. From that 
 day forth the hillside was their consecrated ground, 
 it was also their home. In the house they had a 
 father, even Krista had a father in old Riha ; on the 
 hillside they had a mother, even Krista had there a 
 mother. Immediately after school she used to be 
 with Venik, and when there was no school she was 
 with him the whole day. 
 
 Such days were like saints days to both of them. 
 Then she sang till her voice rang all through the 
 woodland, and Venik would play on his violin, till 
 people going past used to pause, and all the shep- 
 herds of the village would most gladly have pastured 
 their flocks on the hillside if they had had the right 
 of pasturage there. When it rained the two crept 
 into the hollow tree, and then it seemed as if the 
 tree was resonant with string and song, as if in its 
 old age it grew young again in heart and mouth, and 
 as if itself played and sang. 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 13 
 
 The rain drops fell splashing among the leaves of 
 the old tree, and from its hollow, from its extinct 
 portion, issued songs as though the tree had a young 
 heart and a young mouth. When the sun shone 
 the children seated themselves before the tree in the 
 cool shade ; and while all around the faded grass 
 drooped and died, in the cool shade of that hollow it 
 grew rich and strong as if it had been watered by 
 the dew. 
 
 After a time Venik learnt also to imitate the birds 
 on his violin, and when he had a mind could arouse 
 such a concert that Krista herself sat beside him in 
 astonishment, and as if in the presence of a revelation. 
 
 In the meantime Krista learnt to sing at school, and 
 learnt also with Venik ; at school with more ardour 
 than formerly, in order to give pleasure to Venik, 
 and when with Venik with more ardour still, in 
 order to give pleasure to him and herself too. And 
 so over the hillside these two young artists fluttered 
 like two birds with happy notes. They reanimated 
 it, for all its life the like of these had never there 
 been heard. They were like the living heart of that 
 hillside ; they were its language and its speech, and 
 could well have been a consolation to any who chose 
 to listen to their conversation. 
 
 They were developed beyond their years; the 
 girl's little throat was as consonant to Venik's strings 
 as the two children were to one another, one was the 
 complement of the other, so that I might have called 
 
14 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 the tones of her voice and the tones of the violin 
 comrades, if there had been as many likings and 
 dislikings in the kingdom of tones as there are 
 among men. 
 
 And they grew. When Venik was fifteen and 
 Krista twelve, Krista also quitted school; and proud 
 she was, as Venik had been before, to think that she 
 was now twelve years old. But what delighted her 
 most was that now she could linger on the hillside all 
 day long ; and then at that time Krista desired 
 nothing more than this ; she had everything ; twelve 
 years of age, the hillside, and on the hillside singing, 
 and besides singing, Venik and his violin. A loftier 
 ideal of happiness she had not. Her little heart 
 panted for no other bliss, but was filled to the brim 
 with that of the present hour. Nay, it was even 
 overflowing. She even felt that the world had a 
 superfluity of joy and brightness, the sky a super- 
 fluity of blue transparent ether, the world a superfluity 
 of song and all sweet scents. It never oppressed 
 her now — the thought that she was an orphan. She 
 felt no special want to be supplied, and if she could 
 have managed to give full expression to her feelings, 
 she must have said that she rejoiced to live in the 
 world. 
 
 But all at once Venik was again a solitary on the 
 hillside. Riha, his father, began to fail in health, 
 he took to his bed and Krista had to stop at home 
 with him. From that moment Venik ceased to take 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 15 
 
 his violin with him : the song and the playing were 
 silenced ; death, like the shadow of a heavy pinion, 
 hovered over Riha's cottage, and our children all at 
 once ceased to be children. The world all at once 
 took on a different colour ; it suddenly lost for him its 
 brilliance, and his breast was overflowing with anxiety. 
 When Venik from the hillside saw his cottage-home it 
 looked to him as though it could be singled out from 
 all the other buildings by particular signs, and to 
 Krista sitting in complete silence in the sick room 
 with the ticking of the old clock and the groans of 
 the failing Riha, it seemed as though an invisible 
 finger had wiped off from the world all mirth and all 
 sweet singing. All who came into the sick room were 
 gloomy and grave ; those who went away from it 
 seemed to be without hope, and Krista, who sat con- 
 tinually in the sick room, felt as if all that gloom 
 and hopelessness had concentrated itself on her; 
 and time elapsed. 
 
 ■3fc $fc -,fc ♦ $fc -Sjc- 
 
 Krista flung herself on the bed sobbing, and out 
 of doors the death knell was sounding far and wide. 
 When its deep vibration thrilled over the hillside 
 Venik started to his feet like a wounded hart. With 
 weeping and lamentations he collected his sheep, 
 and with weeping and lamentations drove them home. 
 He had no need to ask for whom the death knell 
 was tolling, he knew it in an instant, and if he had 
 not known it, a single glance at the sick room would 
 
1 6 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 have told him all. The sign of death was visibly 
 scored upon the house. That heavy wing had 
 swooped down upon it, and the expression of every- 
 thing was one of gloom and sorrow. 
 
 Krista knelt by the bedside on which Riha had 
 just expired, Venik knelt beside Krista, and in broken 
 syllables — for in such the deepest anguish is wont 
 to speak if it finds words at all — thus addressed her, 
 " Now I also am a poor orphan " ; now he had sacri- 
 ficed his father also ; now Krista was at last in no 
 sort poorer than himself. Ay, it seemed to him that 
 he was the most wretched of all." Then both felt 
 as if in presence of an apparition ; they could not grasp 
 the truth, and it seemed to them as though this truth 
 was somehow not quite true; and then again it ap- 
 peared beyond all suspicion to be the truth. And the 
 truth was yet more irresistible when people brought 
 a coffin to the house. Then Venik went to meet this 
 coffin, and felt as though he himself must be lodged 
 therein ; he embraced it and cried out " So this is 
 now papa's only chamber." 
 
 After this anguish silenced him ; perhaps it 
 deafened and stifled him. Venik found no more 
 words ; he neither wept again nor lamented. Not even 
 when they bore away his father in that new, narrow 
 chamber to the cemetery, to lay him beside Venik's 
 mother, who perhaps after all was already buried 
 there. Venik took his violin, to conduct his father 
 to that last resting place, and when the singing 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 17 
 
 and the weeping above the grave were ended, Venik 
 began to weep above it. He wept on his violin ; he 
 wept so that all the people burst forth into tears 
 afresh. m He played " The orphan child." It was a 
 language which everyone understood better than 
 words, — it was the language of tears, which are 
 disparate from words. In a region of the heart 
 already inaccessible to words, those tones opened 
 for themselves every fastening, and pierced and 
 saturated all. People had never heard speech so 
 moving, and Venik hitherto had never spoken in 
 such moving language. 
 
 Everyone was astonished at him, and Krista stood 
 as though changed to a statue. Those tones were 
 not the outcome of mere memory ; they were the off- 
 spring of anguish, and Krista again found force to 
 weep. They were the tones of orphanhood, and 
 where in the world are there tones more touching. 
 
 This time Venik for long would not detach himself 
 from his violin, and long was the burial speech he 
 spoke upon it, 
 
 Only now for the first time he saw exactly how 
 people are laid in the grave, because he whom they 
 laid there was his father. 
 
 When all was over Riha's cottage had a new 
 
 owner. Instead of Riha the cottager came Rihathe 
 
 peasant, brother of the defunct, and now Venik's 
 
 guardian. He was already at the cottage with his 
 
 wife when Venik and Krista returned from the 
 c 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 funeral, and he at once began to order this and 
 order that. 
 
 Venik and Krista did not understand what all 
 these orders meant. They were still in fancy by the 
 father's grave, and when they came home they heard 
 many words. All they understood was that from 
 that moment everything would be different. 
 
 All that had been heretofore began to crumble 
 beneath the children's feet : with their father perished 
 even their home. It was unloving words which they 
 now heard, and a loveless home is no home at all. 
 They listened like frightened birds, and longed to 
 flee away to the hillside. 
 
 " You Venik," said Riha, " can't you leave that 
 precious violin to be a violin. A great boy like you 
 and nearly grown up to go mooning about the hill- 
 side , what a pretty affair it is ! Thy father was 
 too good-natured to thee, and when he saw thee and 
 thy violin together, he thought — God knows what 
 he thought. But what will become of the house 
 and farm, I wonder, if you treat it like that ? Until 
 harvest you shall still pasture the sheep. When 
 harvest comes I will take a turn with thee in the 
 field myself, and after harvest I will find someone 
 to put you in the way of things." 
 
 " And thou," said Riha's wife, turning to Krista, 
 " dont let me see thee running out of the house any 
 more after Venik. A girl like thee, who could 
 already be in service, to go prowling and howling in 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 19 
 
 the woods ! Once I miss thee from the house and 
 I make short work of all thy caterwauling ! Just 
 remember that thou hast but a slippery foothold in 
 this house and that we can manage to do without 
 thee. Thy howlings wont make the cottage bloom, 
 and we cannot have thee here to be muffled in cotton 
 wool for the sake of thy singing. Mercy on us ! I 
 suppose thou thinkest thyself a cut above all our 
 peasant girls." 
 
 It is possible that many of these words were true, 
 but they were all ill-timed. At that moment it was 
 cruel to scourge hearts already in any case bowed 
 with grief. I have already said that Venik and 
 Krista did not fully understand all they heard ; only 
 so much as this, they felt that every word inflicted 
 a wound opon them, and that each wound smarted. 
 
 That day, at even, may be by accident, Venik and 
 Krista met at the hollow tree on the hillside. Krista 
 was already there, and Venik came somewhat later. 
 
 " I am come to say good bye," said Krista, and 
 flung herself on the little grave which three years 
 before they had dug for his mother. 
 
 " And I am come to say farewell to the hillside 
 and my violin," said Venik plaintively ! 
 
 " And I to say adieu to thee, dear Venik," added 
 Krista. " Ah, heavens ! I mustn't dare to be beside 
 thee any more. I mustn't dare to sing with thee, 
 they have taken my all. Oh, now I am a poor 
 orphan girl," and she fell a-weeping. 
 
20 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 " Come when you like, Krista," said Venik with 
 sudden determination. Who ever heard of such a 
 thing ! You not to sing ! I not to play ! This very 
 night I will bring away my violin and hang it on the 
 tree, and play I will whene'er I have a mind to, and 
 you shall come here when you choose,— upon my 
 word you shall." 
 
 " I shall not dare," said Krista, plaintively, 
 though Venik's determination revived her consider- 
 ably. " I am already but a cipher at the cottage. 
 I have nothing more in the world. Why did they 
 not bury me in the grave ! " 
 
 At mention of the grave, Venik again gave way ; 
 but after a pause he said, " Meet here we will, you 
 shall see, and if they pursue us we will away to the 
 woods." 
 
 And after this they went home as if from a second 
 funeral. That same evening Venik took down his 
 violin, even tore the nail out of the wall, and went 
 with both to the hillside, hammered the nail into the 
 hollow tree and hung the violin upon it. But he 
 soon took down the violin and played upon it its own 
 farewell and its own lament. Possibly the Rihas 
 heard him — and how could they fail to hear him 
 when the village was close to the hillside ? however 
 they said nothing when he came home. But Krista 
 was the worse off of the two. Already she had no 
 hillside to fly to. Already she had no breathing 
 time to look forward to as a consolation. Already 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 21 
 
 she had only a hard couch on which to weep herself 
 to sleep at night. 
 
 The home which but yesterday was like a warm 
 nest now breathed upon them like a winter's gust. 
 Venik now encountered no loving looks responsive 
 to his own, and heard no loving words. And if 
 Krista was still attached to the house like the swal- 
 low's nest to the cornice — now the cornice itself 
 began to totter — there were already people to be 
 found who would pull down the nest. 
 
 One day, just before harvest, Venik, seated on the 
 hillside, began to reckon how long the hollow tree 
 and the hillside would be still a portion of his world. 
 The wheat already pricked- to maturity, it was but 
 a short time to harvest. 
 
 Krista was at work in the house when her peasant 
 mistress stepped up to her, tore her work out of her 
 hands, trampled it on the ground, and screamed, 
 " Why, hast thou no hands thou awkward slut ? " 
 
 Krista stood before her in amazement; and the 
 peasant woman continued, " Perhaps you expect 
 me to pick it up from the ground for you." 
 
 To this Krista replied, " Kind mistress, I cannot 
 do it any better, and if you .will not shew me how 
 to do it, I shall not be able to work for you." 
 
 " Then be so good as to be off to-day better than 
 to-morrow. Come, come, none of thy threats to me. 
 Tie up your rags at once, and dont let me see you 
 here by nightfall." 
 
22 Under the Hollow Tree. < 
 
 After this Krista began to implore forgiveness, for 
 she felt that perhaps she had been hasty. But the 
 peasant woman would not hear a word. " Dont let 
 me see you in the house a moment longer," she 
 roared, and Krista did not venture to address her 
 again. 
 
 She collected her clothes, tied them in a bundle, 
 and with the bundle tramped off to Venik on the 
 hillside. 
 
 " Now I am going, now it is all over," she said 
 when she came there. " Now I dare not venture 
 into the cottage." She said it with a smile, for her 
 grief assumed the guise of smiles, which were indeed 
 a kind of determination. And then she said what 
 had happened. 
 
 " Where shall you go ? " said Venik, as if beside 
 himself: for indeed he had never before had to face 
 so horrible a calamity. 
 
 " 1 know not," said Krista, " I only know that 
 I must say good bye to you in earnest. And again 
 she laughed a short constrained laugh, so that Venik 
 began to be embarrassed to know whether it was 
 all jest or earnest. 
 
 But it was all so perfectly true, that Venik for a 
 long time lost the power of speech. When he found 
 words to speak the first he uttered were " you shall 
 not go alone ; I will go with you." 
 
 " Where would you go," said Krista with surprise 
 and terror. 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 23 
 
 " Do you think I shall stop here without you ? We 
 will go and be in service together/' spoke out Venik. 
 
 Then Krista could have fallen on Venik's neck 
 and have kissed him all over. To have only him 
 and he not to cast her off, — he to wish to entwine 
 his fate with her's, — was not that enough to make 
 her feel at that instant twice a woman ? was not 
 that enough to bring all at once into her heart spring 
 time, fair weather, flowers, and all sweet songs ? 
 
 " We will find a place where we shall be allowed 
 to play and sing together," said Venik warmly, and 
 as if in proof thereof, he forthwith loosed his violin 
 from its nail and began to play as if he wished to 
 say good bye to all the birds in the wood, and as if 
 he gave them to understand that he was going to 
 search for himself a hillside, a wood, and a hollow 
 tree, — everything in another corner of the world. 
 Krista sang to his accompaniment, and it seemed 
 quite impossible for these two beings ever to be 
 separated, for that playing and that singing to be 
 isolated from one another. They were so closely 
 united that it was impossible to think of them as two. 
 
 " Do you know what," cried Venik of a sudden, 
 with as much delight as if he had found a treasure, 
 " we will not go out to service anywhere. We will 
 go into the world, I with my violin, and you shall 
 sing to it." 
 
 They knew what the world was like which they 
 would have entered on as farm-servants behind the 
 
24 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 barn, and wished to enter it. But they might quit 
 their home for other scenes, and that would be also 
 to go into the world. They had been willing to take 
 service with people ; now they would go and make 
 people merry with singing and music, — would that 
 be worse than service ? 
 
 All that Venik now thought about was how he 
 could get his clothes quietly into their wallet as 
 Krista had done, and then they would be off. And 
 they arranged between them that Krista should pass 
 the night in the hollow tree, and keep watch over 
 Venik's violin, lest haply they should lose it just at 
 the very time when they had most need of it. Then 
 he was to bring his clothes there at night and they 
 were to be off before the break of day. 
 
 The seed which is no longer sheltered by the 
 husk is easily carried away by the wind : these chil- 
 dren had lost the sheltering husk of home, and the 
 wind carried them away. They quickly came to an 
 understanding about a plan and the means of carry- 
 ing it out. 
 
 When that day at even Venik drove his flock 
 homeward, he drove them quickly, as he did on the 
 day when he heard the funeral bell toll out the news 
 of his father's death. But he drove them with 
 different feelings. For indeed the circumstances 
 were differnt. Venik was in high spirits. To-day 
 he longed for something to occur which should bring 
 down upon him the wrath of the peasant Riha, his 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 25 
 
 uncle ; such wrath that he would have to fly his 
 home, and then he and Krista would be just in the 
 same plight. This he did not succeed in bringing 
 about, but it was not for want of trying. 
 
 Riha's wife greeted him with these words, 
 " Haven't you said farewell to that precious bride of 
 yours," she said. " At last we have got rid of her, 
 the bread-wasting vagabond — that little pet of thine. 
 Wesha'nt have to scrape together cotton gowns for 
 her any longer, nor take care lest her soft hands get 
 callosities upon them." 
 
 To that Venik replied, " For all you say I know 
 why you have driven her forth. It is because my 
 dead father loved us dearer than the cottage. You 
 would gladly be rid of me, too, because all you care 
 about is the cottage. But you wont succeed in that, 
 I tell you." 
 
 These words enraged Riha's wife because they 
 were true, and because she saw that Venik began to 
 have an inkling of her own bad intentions. And 
 when at supper she told her goodman what Venik 
 had said, the day of judgment was rehearsed in that 
 building. Riha hunted for Venik to teach him how 
 to speak to his aunt in future, and when Venik was 
 not to be found, he said that it should stand over 
 till morning, and that he would give it him with his 
 breakfast. 
 
 But he never gave him anything more at break- 
 fast. Venik had already migrated, wallet and all, 
 
26 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 to the hollow tree ; and when Riha brought him his 
 breakfast next day, where then were Venik and 
 Krista ? 
 
 In the house an alarm was raised. No one knew 
 aught about Venik; none of the servants had an 
 idea what had become of him. And in the village 
 people laughed at Riha and told him that now he 
 would have to pasture the sheep alone. 
 
 And so Venik and Krista threw themselves upon 
 the world. Very early, when above the tops of 
 the old oak wood crept the first rays of dawning, he 
 and she stood prepared for the journey. They stood 
 before the hollow tree as by their sanctuary, as if it 
 were their true home. Thither from the cottage 
 they had fled with light hearts : now that they had 
 to flee from it they felt a load upon their hearts. 
 Here was their church in which they had been both 
 angels and pious listeners. Perhaps that tree had 
 roots even in their hearts. And certainly even the 
 flowerets which grew upon the hillside had in their 
 hearts both soil and sustenance. Now they felt a 
 load upon their breasts. And they knelt beside that 
 little tomb in which, many a long day since, they 
 had buried the sweetbriar, the willow w r ands, and 
 the sweet marjoram, and of which they had made 
 Venik's mother. 
 
 " Venik, thou weepest," said Krista, and wept also. 
 
 " Krista/' said Venik, " if in the world we ever 
 fall sick, we will come here to get well." 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 27 
 
 And it felt very hard to take the first step. Then 
 yet once again Venik took Krista by the hand, held 
 it firmly, and said, " Krista, if thou art lost to me 
 in the world, I shall come here to seek thee— re- 
 member the way." 
 
 And both felt heavily oppressed, as though some- 
 one was taking their heart out of their breast piece 
 by piece. 
 
 The first step was so hard to make that they 
 scarcely managed to take the second. Then their 
 steps soon became lighter, and when village, river, 
 hillside, and wood were lost to view, they were 
 already as light as two birds. Youth alone easily 
 adopts itself to all, and quickly forgets both weal 
 and woe. 
 
CHAPTER III, 
 
 HAT day they tramped many a long mile, and 
 passed many a village. As yet hunger had 
 not importuned them, and they had tramped along 
 easily enough, but when hunger began to hint its 
 presence, they had to reflect how to rid themselves 
 of that unwelcome guest. So far they had marched 
 through villages"only for the fun of the thing, and 
 had not wished to post themselves by the door and 
 explain by their music that they were in want of 
 food. But when reality was more powerful than 
 their weak thought, they were fain to discuss what 
 decided step should now be taken. It was alreay after- 
 noon when they reached a new village, and their feet 
 began to ache. They sat themselves down near the 
 village under some willow trees, and Venik said, 
 " Now we must try our fortune, and now we must 
 arrange what we are going to play and sing." And 
 they began to compose and arrange. At this very 
 time a large group of children wended their way to 
 the village school. Hearing young musicians, a 
 youth and a girl, who might well have been going 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 29 
 
 to school with them, they paused to listen ; and as the 
 musicians and their listeners were both equally 
 juvenile, they quickly came to understand one 
 another. The young public paid what it could, and 
 Venik promised to accompany them with his music 
 to school. 
 
 And he accompanied them. Krista paced beside 
 him, and Venik played all he could think of to make 
 them dance and laugh and whistle. After him 
 trotted the youthful group of scholars, and a pro- 
 cession so gay debouched into the village that the 
 like of it the villagers had never seen before. To- 
 school advanced so cheery a procession of children 
 that even the school had never seen anything like it. 
 In a moment school was deserted, and round Venik 
 and Krista gathered an audience which was composed 
 of all the children in the village. Then Krista began 
 to sing, Venik accompanying her on his violin, and the 
 school children were almost beside themselves. When 
 •it was rumoured among them that the musicians 
 were orphans, gifts rained upon them from all sides. 
 Kreutzers, all kinds of sweetmeats and sugarplums 
 which the children had with them for school. Venik 
 soon had his hand full of kreutzers, and eatables and 
 dainties filled Krista's apron. 
 
 This happy beginning filled them with hope and 
 courage. As the children were now obliged to go 
 in to school, they made a compact with Venik and 
 Krista to meet them again as soon as school w r as 
 
30 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 over. And who would have thought it ? these young 
 rascals marched out of school to the sound of music, 
 as proud as the gay fellows who swagger home 
 from the alehouse on festival or gala days, to the 
 accompaniment of fife and tabor. 
 
 Venik and Krista went thus from house to house, 
 everywhere playing and singing some piece. Every- 
 where the school-children trooped after them, and 
 they seemed to have brought back spring with them 
 into the village, and surprising it was to see how 
 many gifts they collected at the various homesteads. 
 
 Then they also played and sang pathetic songs. 
 Krista sang " The orphaned child,'' Venik accom- 
 panied the song on his violin, and when the village 
 children again mentioned to their parents that the 
 musicians themselves were orphans, tears started 
 from every eye — young and old wept aloud, just as 
 though someone had been dead — such were the 
 laments they made. We have already seen how 
 Venik played this piece at his father's funeral ; 
 now to bis playing was superadded Krista's 
 singing, and she in no wise lagged behind her com- 
 panion. Those around who listened were not 
 orphans ; and yet no single heart was unimpressed. 
 The children of the village felt as though they had 
 lost a mother ; the mothers felt as though they were 
 already laid in the grave, and their children were 
 covering them with pine needles. 
 
 The effect which the piece produced was almost 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 31 
 
 terrible. The people knew the song, but never in 
 all their lives had they heard it sound as it did then. 
 They seemed to be hearing it for the first time ; they 
 seemed to hear in it tones completely new ; no one 
 had a suspicion that it contained a fund of pathos 
 such as no one could resist. In the tones of our 
 musician that song was heard in all its grandeur, 
 aye, in majesty, and every heart was rent. 
 
 After that piece, if they had implored anyone of 
 the masters and mistresses of the several home- 
 steads to be their father and mother, not one of 
 them would have reflected a moment but would have 
 led them away and treated them as their own chil- 
 dren. They might have asked what they chose, and 
 they would not have appealed in vain. 
 
 They had already no need to feel any anxiety 
 about victuals. They were at once taken to a house, 
 and on the morrow someone else asked them out, 
 and on the following day someone else ; and so they 
 could be a whole week here just as at home. Every 
 one felt that they were not mere strolling musicians; 
 Venik and Krista were just like their own children 
 to them, and were treated royally. 
 
 Early on the morrow they again accompanied the 
 young people of the village to school ; after school, 
 they accompanied them home, and in the village 
 this seemed to be accepted as the natural order of 
 things. Never in their lives before had the young 
 people gathered so willingly to school, and never in 
 
32 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 their lives had they marched so merrily from 
 school. 
 
 On the Sunday our young musicians asked to be 
 allowed to play and sing in chapel, and Lord ! how 
 completely people forgot to look at the altar and 
 fixed their eyes upon the gallery. 
 
 When in days gone by they had sung and played 
 thus in the chapel of their native village, people, 
 when they talked about " these children," were quite 
 accustomed to them. Here people heard them for 
 the first time, and also heard such playing and sing- 
 ing for the first time. That Sunday they might 
 have selected whichever farm they pleased to sup 
 at ; places were laid for them at every house. 
 
 It was fortunate for these young souls, at this 
 period of their lives, that strangers treated them as 
 if they were of their own family and at home. 
 
 Possibly, if things had fallen out otherwise, they 
 would have lost their waj^ and ended in filth and 
 obscurity, out of which there is no means of extri- 
 cation. But as it was, they never stumbled on to 
 the false track to ruin ; their path led them other 
 whither. 
 
 The fame of the young musicians spread rapidly. 
 The young people of neighbouring parishes also 
 desired to be accompanied to and from school with 
 music ; an invitation was sent, and when Venik and 
 Krista departed from the place where they had begun 
 their musical pilgrimage, young and old escorted 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 33 
 
 them a good piece of the way, as if the two wanderers 
 had been their own children. 
 
 Just before bidding adieu, Venik and Krista struck 
 up the " Orphan Child/' and the procession was 
 drowned in tears. Then Venik struck up a lively 
 tune, and the parting was a merry one. Their kind 
 friends embraced them, and promised them when- 
 ever they chose to re-visit the village, to receive 
 them with open arms. 
 
 So they separated. In the next village the young 
 people were all expectancy, and Venik and Krista 
 were welcomed as brother and sister. 
 
 All marched together to the accompaniment of 
 music to and from school, then to the different houses 
 in the village ; and on the way there was a repitition 
 of what took place in the first parish the two chil- 
 dren had entered. The whole village went into 
 raptures, and when the "Orphaned Child" was 
 played people were drowned in tears. 
 
 This song had everywhere the power of enchant- 
 ment. People were quite beside themselves, and 
 yet they could have listened to it till nightfall and 
 beyond. They scrutinized Venik and the strings of 
 his violin, to see whether the instrument really was 
 the source of what they heard issue from it. But 
 the music must have been there evolved, although 
 to them it appeared exactly as though the music 
 came from Venik himself. As to Krista it was 
 easier to satisfy oneself, she obviously spoke with a 
 
 D 
 
34 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 real mouth, and so it was easier to believe in her 
 heart. 
 
 On Sunday afternoon, young and old disported 
 themselves on the village green, and there, too, 
 Venik performed and Krista sang. All the youth of 
 the village were soon in a ring round them, and be- 
 hind the young people came the old, and then I 
 really do not know who remained at home. Then 
 might wicked people have gone from house to house 
 and walked off with everything. No one would have 
 prevented them, for no one was left at home to pre- 
 vent them. But those wicked people who had 
 slipped out to pilfer, hearing Venik and Krista, would 
 have left off thieving, and would have gone and 
 listened like the rest. Then Venik and Krista made 
 a grand display of their stock of songs, playing what 
 they just remembered and what they knew; they even 
 sang and played masses, and the people said that 
 they never before felt so festive even on a Sunday. 
 
 Their fame increased. Scarcely had they begun 
 to feel somewhat at home here, before invitations 
 came from two — from five villages all at once, begging 
 them to come and delight the inhabitants. The 
 whole district spoke of them, and if they had spent 
 all their lives in going from village to village in the 
 district, taking them in succession, our musicians 
 would never have stood in need of their daily bread. 
 
 They even visited the town on market days, and 
 when they posted themselves in the square, people 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 35 
 
 ceased their bargaining and came to listen. The 
 shopkeepers went so far as to be angry with them, 
 and jealous of them for hindering business, but as 
 soon as they heard them, they gave them gifts like 
 the rest. They were looked upon, however, with 
 still less favour by some other singers who had 
 posted a large booth in the market place, and notified 
 on a painted board what they were going to perform. 
 These latter had not a living soul on their side, and 
 soon had to clear off, and lamentably bewailed the 
 state of trade. But they dared not grumble too 
 loudly, for our child musicians had so completely 
 won over the listeners to their side that they had as 
 many champions as they had listeners. Besides, in 
 all their audiences, they found old acquaintances — 
 people who listened to them here on market days, 
 had heard them long before in their own native 
 village, and introduced themselves to the children as 
 friends, or, perhaps, even as relations of their family. 
 It is needless, therefore, to add that Venik and 
 Krista prospered in their tramping mode of life. 
 They were dressed very becomingly. Venik wore 
 his shepherd's costume, only that everything was 
 bran new, and fitted him like his own skin, in fact, 
 the boy himself was like a bouquet. Krista was 
 dressed in peasant's costume, but in gala trim. On 
 her head was a short silken handkerchief tied in a 
 hood, a string of ducats on her neck, a neat corselet 
 showed off her trim figure, and a short skirt let one 
 
3 6 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 catch a glimpse of a pretty foot in white stockings 
 and low shoes. 
 
 They were like a picture- Everywhere they were 
 taken for brother and sister, and to all intents and 
 purposes were as brother and sister. 
 
 A year floated by like a day, and three years like 
 three days. Venik was now eighteen years of age, 
 and Krista fifteen. The boy was like an ash sapling. 
 As for the girl it was a pleasure to look at her. And, 
 of course, people did look at her. Venik himself 
 sometimes stole a furtive glance into her eyes as he 
 used to look into the fresh mountain spring. It 
 happened that once again they came to the town, but 
 it was not market day ; there was a performance at 
 the town theatre, and the villagers of the various 
 parishes putting on their best suits for the play, and 
 happening to talk about the theatre, invited Venik 
 and Krista also to accompany them thither. Krista 
 looked at Venik, and Venik went with her. 
 
 All the way there they scarcely spoke a word. 
 Krista was wondering what it would be like in the 
 theatre, and Venik's mind was perhaps similarly 
 engaged. They were about to look upon an un- 
 known world, and their eyes were downcast. 
 
 They had never yet been at the theatre, and when 
 they had taken their places in it they felt as though 
 a ton weight had fallen upon them. They saw a 
 number of people before the curtain and behind the 
 curtain— who could tell what there might be ? 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 37 
 
 Then the curtain was drawn up and they saw a 
 wood, and here both bethought them of that wood 
 which stretched behind their hillside; they bethought 
 them of the hollow tree and of that river which ran 
 below the hillside ; they were half inclined to weep, 
 and again they were half inclined to rapture. But 
 all was different in that wood behind the curtain. 
 There people walked and conversed and acted to- 
 gether, and our two spectators felt even that wood 
 behind the curtain grow dear to them. Their whole 
 attention was fixed upon it, and everything happened 
 quite naturally in it, and like real life. Now they 
 were constrained to laugh, and the next moment 
 they were fain to cry. 
 
 The play was over, and in the body of the hall 
 twilight reigned. When they listened they seemed 
 to hear their own names called, and that by many 
 voices. It really was their names, and before they 
 could recover from their surprise they felt themselves 
 touched by hands, many hands, and again before 
 they could recover from their surprise, they were 
 gently lifted off their feet, and pushed behind the 
 curtain into the wood, and a hundred throats 
 clamoured for Venik to play and Krista to sing. 
 
 It was like a revelation. They did not know how 
 it all happened, but they sang and played. It half 
 seemed to them as though they were standing on 
 their own hillside, and yet somehow it was quite 
 different. When they had concluded the theatre 
 
38 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 was all agape with excitement, and like one mouth, 
 and they were obliged to play and sing afresh, and 
 when even this was concluded Venik saw that a 
 body of fine gentlemen had gathered round Krista 
 and were conversing with her about the stage, and 
 about matters which he himself did not understand, 
 and which she, perhaps, also did not understand. 
 And then again they talked to her about matters 
 which pained him, and which he did not wish to 
 hear. Then he felt quite fit to cry, and so he took 
 Krista by the hand and led her out of the theatre 
 and out of the town. 
 
 Then Venik felt as though he had a different pair 
 of eyes, and as though Krista had become changed 
 from what she had been hitherto. Lovelier, a 
 hundred, a thousand times lovelier than she had 
 been hitherto, and than they told her she was in the 
 theatre. Venik thought that he must tell her so ; 
 but when he sought words to express himself he 
 could not find them, and when he had found them 
 they stuck in his throat. And then he felt as though 
 he had a different heart. What was that strange 
 resonance in his bosom which he had never felt 
 before, but the beating of that poor heart ? It seemed 
 to beat more audibly : it was full to overflowing ; 
 and when he asked himself what that was within it, 
 he was fain to answer that it was Krista. He wished 
 to tell her so, but his heart throbbed worse than 
 ever. And while he hesitated, he grew as pale as a 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 39 
 
 wall, and was fain to fetch a sigh from the very 
 depths of his soul. 
 
 He could not the least recollect how long Krista 
 had now been linked with him. So far as memory 
 carried him she had always been at his side. With 
 him in school, in church, on the hillside, on the 
 road — everywhere she had been with him, and it 
 could not be otherwise. But now he felt as though 
 the Krista who walked with him was a different 
 Krista from her with whom he used to walk. She 
 was no longer like a deserted orphan whose brother 
 he was, now she was a girl — Krista, and when he 
 thought about her he trembled. 
 
 Until that hour they had shared the same couch, 
 and when they had laid them down were like two 
 birds of a single nest. To-day when they came 
 to the farm house in which they were to pass 
 the night, Krista lay down alone on the couch — for 
 the first time alone, and Venik went out in front of 
 the building and cried. He was alone at night for 
 the first time in his life, and kept awake all night 
 long. 
 
 The next day he scarcely dared to raise his eyes 
 to Krista. He felt as though she were much above 
 him, and as though he ought to beg her to allow 
 him to remain by her side. He was gloomy and 
 sorrowful, and when Krista looked upon him she too 
 was gloomy and sorrowful, and her eyes were down- 
 cast. And yet they had not wronged one another in 
 
40 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 anything, they had done nothing to one another to 
 merit blame, no single too-familiar word had ever 
 passed between them. 
 
 That day the violin was left hanging on its nail, 
 and Venik was well nigh heartbroken. He longed 
 continually to meet with Krista, and when he had 
 met her he longed to be away again, as though he 
 had committed a crime. Then he fancied that 
 Krista was ailing, and longed to enquire about her 
 health ; but when he saw her he saw, too, that she 
 was as pink and fresh as a rose, and as beautiful as 
 a day in spring ; only her lips quivered for a moment 
 as though they wished to whisper something, but 
 they closed and did not whisper it. She was sadder 
 and more gloomy than Venik himself, and conversed 
 even less than he did. 
 
 Yet several days floated by, and they were more 
 estranged. Venik did not play, Krista did not sing, 
 they did not converse, they did not laugh together, 
 they had no sweet confidences ; and yet it seemed 
 to Venik that he was happier then than he had ever 
 been before. Until one morning Venik said, 
 " Krista, I think that I am going to be ill." 
 
 Krista looked at him apprehensively and said, 
 " Why should'st thou be ill ? " 
 
 '■ I feel so oppressed, Krista. Let us go to the 
 hillside to the old oak wood. If I am to gtt well 
 again I shall get well there : if not, I had rather die 
 there." 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 41 
 
 " Why should you die ? " said Krista. " You are 
 so young," she added, and felt as though she had 
 said too much, and as though in saying those words 
 she had already sinned. She turned away from 
 him, and after a long pause said, " If you feel so 
 oppressed let us go. It is now three years since we 
 were there." 
 
 And they went. They went to the spot where they 
 had first met one another, where together they had 
 played and sung, where they had been like two angels, 
 with the hollow tree for their sanctuary, and whence 
 they had first gone forth together into the world. 
 
 The return journey was a dreary pilgrimage to 
 both. Venik loitered wearily the nearer he ap- 
 proached the hillside ; and once when he looked at 
 Krista he said, " Krista, we are going each as it 
 were alone." They went, each as it were alone, 
 immersed in his own private thoughts. At this 
 Krista took him by the hand, and their hands were 
 moist and like fire. In speech and manner they 
 were equally embarrassed. Their mouths were 
 parched, their steps tottered, and after this they 
 again unclasped hands, and again went each as it 
 were alone. 
 
 When they were exhausted by their walk they sat 
 down under some willows, by a streamlet which fled 
 away to the river, that they might rest themselves. 
 Their feet rested, indeed, but in their soul they 
 seemed to fret more and more. 
 
42 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 In a neighbouring wood a cuckoo cuckooed. 
 Krista looked at Venik, then yielded to tears, laid 
 her head on Venik's bosom and sobbed aloud. 
 Venik stroked her hair, stroked her face, and was 
 like one distraught. Alter this Krista ceased to 
 weep, rose, went to the streamlet, gathered at it 
 " fishes eyes," and entwined them with her hair, 
 and when Venik saw her it seemed to him that he 
 could go mad with love of her — so dear she was to 
 him. 
 
 Then they rose, went forward, and conversed. 
 Venik felt that the previous burden had fallen from 
 him, that his words were once more unfettered, 
 and that he could breathe freely. 
 
 Only he still could not say the particular 
 thing he wanted to say; and several times as 
 he thought about it his words again became more 
 constrained. But on the whole they felt freer. 
 Already they could not say that they were going 
 each by himself. Already they almost tripped 
 along together. 
 
 So the next time they sat themselves down, under 
 pretence of resting a little, Krista did not again 
 fling herself weeping on to Venik's bosom, but none 
 the less did Venik take her head in his hands, none 
 the less did he lay her on his bosom, stroke her hair 
 and face, and wipe her eyes, although they were no 
 longer bedimmed with tears. 
 
 It drew towards evening as they approached the 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 43 
 
 hillside. The sun had set, and left but a faint blush 
 in the western heavens; the day was over and had left 
 but a shadow of itself; evening stole upon the world, 
 and with it came faint odours and the song of birds. 
 
 When they reached the hillside and saw the hollow 
 tree at the outskirts of the wood, Venik was like a 
 child once more, and when he had seated himself at 
 the threshold with Krista beside him he said, 
 " Krista, now I feel ill no longer." 
 
 And here it seemed to Venik that never in all his 
 life had he felt his breast so full as it was just then, 
 and that never in all his life he had felt what he then 
 felt. If he had had to explain it all, he would not 
 have succeeded, but when he looked at Krista he 
 thought his looks alone explained it. He was half 
 inclined to weep, but much more to rejoice. The 
 river and the village far below them already veiled 
 themselves in filmy mists ; that cuckoo which had 
 cuckooed to them as they sat beside the streamlet 
 under the willows, seemed to have accompanied 
 them even hither; here it cuckooed from the 
 wood. 
 
 And it seemed to them as if they had departed 
 thence but yesterday. Village, river, field, wood, 
 hollow tree, — everything was the same : even the nail 
 on which Venik had hung his violin still stuck in 
 the hollow tree. Only when he looked at Krista all 
 seemed different. And he looked at her very much, 
 and then everything was very different. Krista's 
 
44 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 eye was inflamed and moist with tears, and 
 when he touched her hand it was again as hot 
 as fire. 
 
 When. the moon rose, Krista said to Venik that 
 he never was to think of her again, and Venik to 
 this replied, ft Prythee, why should'st thou unlink 
 thyself from me." 
 
 But, as her only reply, Krista again laid her head 
 on his bosom, and wept and sobbed as if she 
 would unlink herself from him for ever. She kissed 
 his face, his eyes, his forehead, his mouth — it was 
 the first time that she had kissed him. 
 
 Then Venik said, " Krista be mine." 
 
 On this Krista nestled yet closer to his side — but 
 then of a sudden she rose and ran away to the wood. 
 
 Venik sat a long time alone, and it seemed to him 
 as though he had seen happiness flutter round him, 
 and as if he had actually caught hold of it. He 
 held it in his hands, he looked for it and did not 
 know what had become of it. After this he shouted, 
 " Krista, Krista," and when Krista responded not 
 he went into the wood, gathered leaves and moss 
 with both hands, carried them in his arms to the 
 tree, and in its hollow trunk strewed a couch. Then 
 he sat on the threshold, and was like a sentinel on 
 guard. 
 
 There were no signs of Krista, but still it seemed 
 to Venik as though she was there, and as if he saw her 
 at every glance, and at every glance she seemed more 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 45 
 
 fair. Then she was there, she stood behind 
 him like a shadow, she never stirred, her head 
 drooped upon her bosom, and her hands clasped 
 together. 
 
 " Krista, I have but now prepared thy couch in 
 the tree," said Venik, and his voice trembled so 
 that it was not in him to say anything more. Krista 
 without a word went and laid herself down in the 
 tree on the leaves and moss. 
 
 Venik retired a few paces toward the wood, and 
 laid himself down beside it. 
 
 But he did not sleep. It seemed to him as though 
 he must make certain whether Krista slept or not. 
 He rose, stole silently to the tree, looked in a brief 
 moment, and in that moment Krista raised her head. 
 
 Venik as though with a knife in his heart retired 
 to his previous resting-place, and laid himself down 
 once more. 
 
 Then he fell asleep, and all his dreams ran on 
 Krista. And he fancied that she laid her head on 
 his hand ; he fancied that he awoke, and that as he 
 held it so his eyelids opened upon the happiest 
 moment of his life. He fancied that he was com- 
 pletely happy, that nothing more was wanting to 
 him, and in the consciousness of that happiness he 
 again fell asleep. 
 
 And again he seemed to see upon her face a fire 
 and a hot enthusiasm, and in presence of that fire 
 and that hot enthusiasm all girlish modesty was 
 
46 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 effaced, so that she had it neither in her looks nor 
 her words. He dreamt so vividly that he fancied it 
 could not be a dream. And even when he awoke 
 in the morning he did not know how far waking 
 realities differed from a dream ; for that past night 
 was to him both reality and a dream. And he 
 dreaded lest it was reality, and he dreaded yet more 
 lest it was a dream. 
 
 Krista had not yet awoke, she had not yet risen. 
 He went to rouse her, and went to the tree along 
 with the rays of the rising sun, which aimed its 
 level beams into the hollow trunk. And when he 
 had reached the spot along with them, at first he 
 looked in furtively and then more boldly, the couch 
 was vacant. Krista was not on it. 
 
 Venik felt as though only now he was immersed 
 in dreams, as if only now he was laid in bed. He 
 looked again and again into the tree, he looked 
 again and again around him, leant his head on his 
 hand to collect his thoughts — but he was not 
 dreaming. He was awake. He tossed about the 
 moss and leaves as though Krista might be under 
 them, but she was not there. 
 
 And all at once it seemed to Venik as though the 
 whole heaven had crumbled at his feet, as though 
 the stars had fallen from the sky, and the last day 
 had already come upon him. He grew as livid as a 
 corpse, he longed to hurry away and bury himself 
 in the grave, that he might the sooner rise from the 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 47 
 
 dead ; and his eyes were suffused with blood, so 
 that they looked like bleeding suns. 
 
 And then he thrust his fingers through his hair, 
 ran along the hillside and past the wood, and 
 shouted "Krista! Krista ! " But there was no 
 reply, then he ran into the wood, searched it cross 
 by cross, and shouted, " Krista ! Krista ! " But 
 there was no reply anywhere. 
 
 Then it seemed to Venik as though he had roved 
 that wood for several days, as though he had grown 
 old, as though he had lost the power of speech, as 
 though he was exhausted, and his feet refused to 
 stir. On this he staggered towards the hollow tree, 
 and rested in weariness, and was still. 
 
 He waited. 
 
 He waited for Krista to come — for her to return. 
 But even if she had returned, it seemed to him that 
 now the world would be the world no longer, that 
 the heaven would be the heaven no longer, since 
 once the sun had stooped from the sky and had 
 lost its pathway in the heavens. And Krista 
 returned not. 
 
 Venik waited that day and that night : he waited 
 the next day and the next night. At night he slept 
 on that couch of leaves and moss from which Krista 
 had vanished. He only felt that he was alone, and 
 the hollow of the tree resounded with his sighs. 
 
 And once again he went out like a sportsman to 
 the wood, and as though he was bent on sport, and 
 
4§ 
 
 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 shouted, " Krista ! Krista ! " But he was an unlucky 
 sportsman, and then he felt as though a wound had 
 been made in his side by some one, and as though 
 blood trickled over that side of his body. 
 
 Krista had made that wound, she had deserted 
 him, and now for the first time he was an orphan. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 (*=». 
 
 [LT seems to me that then for the lirst time was 
 (^ Venik without a public, without listeners, when 
 seated again on the hillside, he took once more 
 his violin in his hands and played, " The Orphaned 
 Child." 
 
 He was that orphaned child. Long ago, when 
 Krista had accompanied him with her voice for the 
 first time in the gloria, she had burst into tears 
 because she was an orphan ; and Venik convinced 
 her that she was not an orphan. Then his father 
 died : Krista was driven from the house, and when 
 she had to begin her wandering in the world he had 
 taken her by the hand, and wandered with her, and 
 pointed out the way ; again she was not an orphan. 
 And when it was all finished, she voluntarily 
 departed from him, at the very moment when he had 
 hoped with her to enter paradise. That paradise 
 closed upon him — where was it now ? 
 
 Venik's thoughts had no beginning and no end, 
 they were like an unbroken wilderness, where the 
 eye tires itself. There was nothing for it to rest 
 
50 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 upon, nothing to look upon with pleasure. He had 
 desired so little for himself; and when he lost even 
 that little, it seemed to him that he had lost the 
 whole world. He also had cherished her ; and when 
 he looked and saw how she had torn herself, root and 
 all, from his very heart, he saw that where those 
 roots had been was a bleeding heart. 
 
 He had moments when it still appeared to him 
 that what had befallen him could not really have 
 happened. Surely he was befooled, surely Krista 
 would return to him all at once. And then he 
 seemed to hear her step, and the rustling of her 
 dress : for a moment he saw her dancing eyes, her 
 heavenly look, and heard her glorious voice. He 
 turned his eyes in the direction whence that step 
 and that rustling seemed to come, and when he 
 perceived that it was but a mere delusion he cursed 
 his fate. 
 
 If some one had asked him how long he had 
 already sat thus, he would have said, " a whole 
 eternity," and he would have spoken the truth. 
 And if he had been further asked how long he had 
 walked with Krista in the world, he would have 
 answered, " Two or three days," and would equally 
 have spoken the truth. 
 
 Then Venik arose and went again into the world. 
 Sometimes he played and sometimes he did not play, 
 as the fancy took him. Sometimes it seemed to him 
 as though he wandered in the world in search of 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 51 
 
 Krista ; and again it seemed to him that if he found 
 her he should cast her from him that he might have 
 her no more with him. 
 
 First he came to the parishes in which he had 
 dwelt long since with Krista ; and when his old 
 comrades saw him desolate, they asked him where 
 he had left Krista. Then he sometimes answered 
 with a word, sometimes with a smile, sometimes 
 with a tear, just as was consonant with the answer. 
 But through it all it was apparent that each of these 
 modes of reply tormented him ; he felt it too, him- 
 self, and, therefore, made up his mind not to go to 
 villages where he was known, but only to go among 
 strangers. 
 
 In villages where he was not known, indeed, no 
 one enquired for Krista, because no one had known 
 her. But even that was not a clear gain to him, for 
 he observed that he himself also on that very account 
 made fewer enquiries about her. Already he had 
 not enquired about her for many a long day. 
 
 Sometimes the whole business of strolling through 
 the villages and of playing to people also wearied 
 him ; he was sick of it all ; and then if he 
 could find any gay young fellows anywhere he 
 would attach himself to them as long as they wished 
 to listen. By his playing he lured them to the 
 dance, and he played so that anyone who had wished 
 to tarry always beside him would perhaps have been 
 led to destruction. And then although at the 
 
52 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 beginning he was but sombre and melancholy, the 
 further his merry companions prolonged their orgies, 
 the gayer he became. His gaiety waxed in proportion 
 as his youthful followers slackened and grew weary. 
 If people from the villages in which he had been 
 so dear, when he and Krista were still their young 
 musicians, had seen him at such orgies, verily they 
 would have shrugged their shoulders at him, and 
 the mothers would have cried " What a pity it is, 
 poor boy, so young and bonny as he is, and once so 
 good and honest." Now people began to nickname 
 him " Wild Veni^' 1 
 
 Then again it would happen that he had nothing 
 to say to anyone. He shunned the villages, or at 
 most seated himself or laid him down somewhere 
 behind the barn under the willows, as long ago he 
 had done with Krista. And here, just as he who 
 praying with a rosary takes and pushes one bead 
 after another, so Venik dwelt in memory on Krista, 
 and word by word repeated everything he had ever 
 said with her, everything he had ever felt for her, 
 each single recollection was like a single bead of the 
 rosary, and the whole remembrance was like a single 
 prayer. Sometimes these prayers soothed him, but 
 yet it was so only apparently. Then again it seemed 
 to him either that he felt surfeited, or that he had 
 not begun to be satisfied at all. 
 
 Sometimes wishing neither to go to villages where 
 he was known, nor to those where he was unknown, 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 53 
 
 he prowled around so purposely and futilely, that 
 when he tried to recall that wandering to mind, all 
 he knew was that he sat on the hillside at the out- 
 skirts of the wood beside the hollow tree. It was 
 passing strange to him. Like a heavy dream rested 
 upon him all that had taken place beyond that spot 
 of ground, and that had ended there. He peered 
 into the tree, and there yet lay Krista's couch of 
 leaves and moss as though he had strewed it there 
 that very day. And here he flung himself on this couch 
 and embraced the whole of it as if in a wild frenzy 
 of passion. Then he laid himself down on it and 
 lay awake or dreamt. He reflected how constant 
 were those fallen leaves and that shrunken moss in 
 comparison with man. Deprived of the sunlight 
 and the sun's warm beams, it had not proved un- 
 faithful to its post. In the hollow, worm eaten tree, 
 he had laid that moss and foliage, and he found it 
 there whensoever he returned. 
 
 Here it seemed to him that after all it was im- 
 possible that he was so deserted as he held himself 
 to be. He got up, ranged the wood once more, and 
 shouted " Krista, Krista ! " but there was no reply ; 
 there was not even her footprint, there was not even 
 her shadow. And when he turned back without 
 success, he did not wish to go again to the tree, .or 
 to the couch within it. 
 
 Then he cast his eyes over his own native district, 
 and felt as though here he was in his own home 
 
54 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 once again. He longed to go back once more to the 
 Riha's to offer to tend his flock, and even to leave 
 behind him that violin which he knew not whether 
 he ought to curse or bless. Once, indeed, under 
 cover of evening he approached the village and 
 wended his way to his own parental roof, and debated 
 long with himself as to whether he should enter the 
 house or not. He passed the courtyard and stood 
 behind the hall door, next to which was the kitchen. 
 In the kitchen on the hearth burnt a fire, beside the 
 hearth stood Riha's wife preparing the evening 
 meal. The fire flashed into her face, that face had 
 the colour of the fire, and it was a strict face. But 
 still it seemed to him like an honest face, and one 
 that he could trust. Always it had never promised 
 him anything, always it had only threatened him ; 
 and just because it realized its own threats, it was 
 honest. Krista had never threatened him ; there 
 was no strictness in her words or face, and yet how 
 had she sinned against him in comparison with yon 
 poor old beldame. 
 
 Perhaps he would have entered, perhaps he would 
 have offered to drudge at anything, and nothing 
 would have been too burdensome for him. But at 
 that moment Riha's wife carried away the supper 
 from the hearth, she returned no more, and Venik 
 departed. He paused awhile at the window, and 
 looked into the lighted room. And here it flashed 
 across him that the cottage with its bit of land was 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 55 
 
 his property, that it was a rare stroke of fortune for 
 his uncle and aunt, the Riha's, when he went a-roving 
 in the world, and that he might even now enter 
 the chamber where they sat and demand of them an 
 account of their stewardship over his farm and 
 rights. He might settle here, leave his vagabond 
 life far behind him, and become a well ordered man. 
 A well ordered man ! 
 
 Hereupon Venik turned from the windows and from 
 the cottage, and went once more toward the hillside. 
 
 To be a well ordered man. What was that ? 
 Venik laughed sarcastically. When he had fled 
 into the world with Krista he was a well ordered man. 
 When she departed from him — an end to order- 
 liness ! even though he should be the master of 
 a farm. Perhaps Krista was well ordered, and now 
 he could be so too. Fie upon it all. Where was 
 the good of perfunctorily saying, "I will be a well 
 ordered man," — and then to have in one's bosom 
 everything in disorder. A cottage and a settled life 
 do not create orderliness. And yet something still 
 drew him back toward the cottage. 
 
 Then Venik struck off again from the hillside, 
 bent his steps into the world once more and hurled 
 himself upon it like a drop of the mountain torrent 
 which blindly hurls itself into the river that it may 
 reach the sea at last. 
 
 He was again the wild Venik who made merry all 
 night long with a merry gay brotherhood ; who 
 
56 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 tippled with them heart and soul, who made them 
 merry with music and jesting, and who would not 
 feel the dint of care till morning. Venik was again 
 the centre of a group of lads in their prime ; only 
 that at this time mothers would no longer have 
 invited him to their homes : rather, they would have 
 slammed the door in his face lest he should entice 
 their son to drunkenness and debauch. 
 
 But he only acted thus in unfamiliar villages 
 where he was not known in the days when he 
 walked with Krista. When he came to the villages 
 he knew he was different, as though he fain would 
 humble himself, and as though he did penance for his 
 nights of revelry elsewhere. He was gloomy and 
 melancholy. Here he seemed to be still treading in 
 Krista's footprints : and sometimes he fancied that 
 he was tracing her and on the search for her. His 
 familiar listeners perceived in his silent moods some- 
 thing sinister and had him in compassion. 
 
 And even here summer sped away. Sometimes 
 the days were indeed as interminable as the sea, but 
 summer whirled away with them as with all else : 
 it engulphed them and there was never a trace of 
 them. Three years floated by from that time when 
 Krista took to flight from her couch in the hollow tree. 
 
 Then Venik went again to the same town in 
 which he and Krista had been in a theatre for the 
 first time, and where the people had lifted him and 
 Krista on to the stage for him to play to them. 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 57 
 
 And when he saw the theatre, he reconnoitred it 
 and pryed about it, and felt he hated it so bitterly 
 that he would not have hesitated to throw a burn- 
 ing brand upon it : if any one else had done so, 
 he would have looked on with delight, while the 
 tongues of flame devoured and reduced to nothing a 
 place whence began his hardest turn of destiny. He 
 would have helped the flames yet further to devour 
 and annihilate it, till there remained no trace of it, 
 just as no trace of Krista had survived. 
 
 This hatred of the building, be it understood, did not 
 hinder him from entering the theatre. He was now 
 already of riper years than on the memorable day 
 when he was first here, and he looked on things with 
 different eyes. What he saw on the stage amused 
 him : it amused him to see others the sport of adverse 
 fate, it provoked him when they succumbed to 
 their fate, and although it provoked him, yet it 
 tempted him thither, and he seemed to read there a 
 fragment of his own life and to be thereby consoled. 
 
 And now he frequented the theatre every day, and 
 when he saw that there was but a spare supply of 
 musicians in the orchestra, he offered himself with 
 his violin, and was accepted. Then he looked from 
 this orchestra on to that theatre as it were at first 
 hand, he drank from it, as it were, the first draught, 
 and when the curtain fell, he concluded all with his 
 playing. And sometimes he was glad of this, and 
 sometimes he laughed at it. 
 
58 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 It pleased him well to have his mind diverted and 
 employed. But it did not please him when he saw 
 how those theatrical princesses to-day proferred love 
 to this man, and to-morrow to that; to see them kiss 
 and embrace one man to-day, and to-morrow another. 
 This ran so counter to his ideas that sometimes he 
 would not have grudged his words, if he could have 
 told them what place they had in his esteem. 
 
 Sometimes also on the stage was the wood which 
 he had seen here for the first time with Krista, and 
 which reminded him of the hillside and wood, with 
 the hollow tree at the outskirts of the wood. 
 
 Sometimes also he was asked to play a tune in 
 that wood ; and he played till he made people weep 
 or whistle ; for from his strings spoke both weeping 
 and laughter- 
 Then they held Venik in respect and honour : they 
 led him to a music master, with whom he studied 
 and played all day long. They also taught him 
 many things which he played to their admiration 
 finely and touchingly. But still he only rose far 
 above the rest, when he played those songs of his 
 own just as he had taught them to himself on the 
 hillside. Then, indeed, it was just as though the 
 whole hillside breathed out of him, as though all the 
 wood resounded in his strings, as if even the birds 
 were full of voice, as if even the river played 
 which gurgled far below. Of these songs people 
 could not have enough, and called for them again 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. $q 
 
 and again. But, indeed, when he played his 
 " Orphaned Child," the public was enthralled by the 
 magic of his art. Now it was as though every full 
 grown man were again an orphan, and as though they 
 were gathered together to one common grave to 
 weep their fill. 
 
 At length rumours reached the town about other 
 theatres, about theatres in the capital town of 
 Prague. The newspapers wrote about them, and in 
 the town they talked about them, in the theatre, 
 everywhere they talked about them. And with 
 these rumours came one certain piece of news, about 
 a sort of prima donna who carried away the palm, 
 both by her voice and execution, so that hitherto she 
 had not her equal. When she stepped on to the 
 boards, the wonder was that the garlands and 
 bouquets did not smother her; and when she had 
 finished her performance and prepared to drive home, 
 people unyoked the horses from hef carriage and 
 with torches and hurrahings conducted her to her 
 house. Rumour further said that she was young 
 and beautiful, that she had been a strolling musician, 
 until some one interested himself in her and had her 
 carefully instructed, and that now she was a perfect 
 miracle. 
 
 When Venik heard these and other things, a pang 
 shot through him and he could not rest a moment. 
 He left the orchestra, took his violin and as though 
 everything was on fire behind him and around him,. 
 
6o 
 
 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 he hastened onward toward Prague. And in Prague 
 he soon learnt all about the matter. Here, what- 
 ever place he entered, people spoke about her. In 
 the beerhouses, hostinets and cafes they were pre- 
 paring for the theatre, all the afternoon, and evening 
 was spent in conjecturing how many garlands she 
 would get and who would throw them to her. 
 
 Venik listened and held his breath, and he had no 
 need to begin the conversation anywhere. In every 
 hole and corner he heard about her. 
 
 Was it possible that it was Krista ? 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 fWO hours before the beginning of the play he 
 had already reconnoitred the theatre in the 
 hopes of gleaning some certainty without the need 
 of asking questions. The moment the ticket office 
 was opened, in spite of the jostling crowd, he was 
 already to the front, and when he felt the ticket in 
 his hands, it seemed to him to give him admission 
 to the kingdom of heaven. But, indeed, who knows 
 whether it were the kicgdom of heaven to which it 
 gave admission : possibly that ticket led quite other 
 wither. At any rate he would not have parted with 
 it for all the world, and when he looked at it as it 
 lay in his hand, he seemed to be looking upon a 
 portion of his own existence. 
 
 He had been seated in the theatre a long time 
 before the beginning of the opera. He saw how 
 they lit the lights one by one, he saw how the public 
 sauntered in, he saw how the orchestra filled with 
 
62 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 musicians, and he saw below the curtain a swarm 
 of pretty feet already upon the stage. Who could 
 say whom they might belong to ? 
 
 Everything seemed to spin round him, and he 
 hardly seemed to be in the world. And again all 
 around him roared with the din of a thousand voices, 
 as when the wind crashes through the woodland and 
 a tree is mere stubble in its path. The words 
 spoken merged into one constant hum, and he 
 seemed to be a tiny portion of that humming. 
 
 Then they began to play in the orchestra, and 
 then the curtain was furled up. The stage represent- 
 ed a wood. Then she stept forth whom all awaited 
 with breathless expectation ; and when she stept 
 forth, garlands and bouquets fell thick at her 
 feet ; it was a rain of flowers, and the people made 
 the tempest. Through this rain and through this 
 tempest it was impossible to distinguish anything 
 clearly, and yet Venik fancied that he had dis- 
 tinguished something. Then the tempest subsided 
 and the singing began. She sung. 
 
 It was Krista in every movement and in every 
 tone. Full well he knew her every movement ; full 
 well he knew her every tone. And when she began 
 to sing Venik felt a choking in his throat, and as 
 though no heart beat any longer within him ; as 
 though he was no longer alive ; as though it could 
 not be the least true which yet was true; as though 
 everything around him was enchantment, and he 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 63 
 
 alone was in that enchantment. Would to heaven 
 it were only enchantment ! 
 
 At the first touch, when he saw, heard, and 
 recognised Krista, he felt only unembittered delight. 
 Delight — to see her so beautiful, and to hear her so 
 touchingly powerful, that she seemed like a superior 
 being. As though she had got wings and flown to 
 the stars. It was Krista, but a heaven-descended 
 Krista. It was a different Krista from the one he 
 had known, but it had grown out of the old Krista. 
 
 He smiled and the tears stood in his eyes. So 
 near he was to her, so far away he was from her. 
 From the hollow tree hither the road was one which 
 had taken three years to traverse, and he had 
 reached the goal at last. Through a whole world, 
 through an eternity he had to go, through nights of 
 waking and debauchery, through a whole river of 
 te?rs, and through many sighs that path had led — 
 andPnow he had reached the gaol at last. And now 
 he seemed to be on a bed of roses, and to hear the 
 song of the nightingale. And it w r as all Krista. 
 
 His heart now beat so audibly that he fancied 
 everyone heard it, that even Krista heard it. But 
 no one heard it, all eyes were turned to her, and 
 Krista never heard it : at least she never thought of 
 running to his side. 
 
 When her song was at an end they clapped and 
 shouted ; Venik did not clap nor applaud, but he 
 was greatly delighted. If he had clapped, perhaps 
 
64 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 he would have called attention to himself; if he had 
 shouted, perhaps he would have shouted Krista. 
 He felt delight — unembittered delight. 
 
 Then the delight began to be embittered. 
 A singer stepped forward, and here Krista was 
 already not alone upon the stage. This singer 
 pledged his love to her, and she pledged her love 
 to him. Then they embraced and kissed each 
 other. Already Venik was pretty well awakened 
 from his dreaming and well nigh stricken to the 
 ground. Here already he was not on a bed of roses, 
 here he began to feel only its thorns. Here Hiis 
 heart began to beat differently, but his face grew 
 pale and wan. 
 
 Then they sang together, the singer and Krista, 
 and they sang about their love, continually about 
 their love ; when people after this again clapped and 
 shouted, Venik neither clapped nor shouted, then 
 if he had wished to shout he would have called out 
 " a theatrical princess." And after that he would 
 have burst into a mocking laugh. 
 
 It was Krista. And now began to drum in his 
 head the words "It is not Krista, that being yonder 
 was, it is she no more." The path to her had taken 
 three years to traverse, it went through sorrow, 
 tears, and sighs, and now that he had reached the 
 goal at last, he said to himself, " I have found her 
 and it is not she." 
 
 It was Krista and it was not. 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 65 
 
 When the opera was concluded, he heard voices 
 round him saying, " They drag her home again." 
 He ran out of the theatre and looked for the carriage 
 in which they were going to drag her home. He 
 saw a carriage, it was choke full of the garlands 
 which were flung to her in the theatre, and young 
 men were detaching the horses, and yoking them- 
 selves to the carriage in place of them. It appeared 
 to him past all conception loathsome — but it was a 
 lucky chance for him. He also harnessed himself 
 to the carriage. When the road to her had taken 
 three years to traverse, surely he might have one 
 close look at her when they were in the same town 
 together ; and he awaited by the shafts. 
 
 Krista stepped into the carriage and seated herself 
 in the midst of the garlands and bouquets. All the 
 young men took off their hats and yelled. Venik 
 also tossed up his hat and yelled. And Krista 
 smiled blandly in all directions and bowed in all 
 directions ; she smiled on all alike, and she bowed 
 to all alike. A portion of these smiles also fell to 
 Venik's lot, and a portion of those bows, just as 
 much as to the rest'; he might go shares with them, 
 and he went shares with them. 
 
 While they drew her along with yells and shouts 
 Venik went almost close beside her, he could have 
 touched her. When they approached a street lamp, 
 and it cast a stream of light into the carriage, Venik 
 cast a glance there likewise, but only for an instant, 
 
66 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 that he might not meet her eyes. But indeed he 
 need have been under no apprehension on that 
 score — she had no time to meet his eyes — she had 
 to smile blandly in all directions, and to bow in all 
 directions. Then he took a long look at her, for he 
 observed that they all took a long look at her. He 
 took a long look and their eyes never met ; then it 
 appeared to him that their eyes did meet, but it was 
 dark, and a man easily becomes the sport of fancy 
 when the lights are out. 
 
 Also a man in a multitude sees less and is less of 
 a man, just as among many voices our own voice 
 is lost, so also each particular individual is lost in a 
 multitude of individuals. When a multitude is 
 unwise — and it always is unwise — we are infected by 
 the multitude and by its unwisdom. A single person 
 would not have drawn Krista in her barouche : he 
 would have said " Horses are for that purpose." 
 But the multitude yoked itself without reflection, 
 said to itself "I am a horse" — and horse it was. In 
 that multitude Venik tore along and yelled with the 
 rest of them. He ceased to be Venik. He was at 
 that moment only one of those who dragged and 
 yelled and tossed up their hats. 
 
 Then they halted before a house, and Krista 
 stepped out of the carriage. The crowd and the 
 carriage stood before her dwelling, and those young 
 gentlemen assisted her out of the carriage and con- 
 ducted her up the staircase. Others took the gar- 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 67 
 
 lands out of the carriage and carried them after her. 
 Venik also took one and carried it after the rest. He 
 wished to see what sort of life she led, but he went 
 more from mere instinct and merely because he was 
 a portion of that multitude which carried garlands. 
 
 He saw but little of her abode, but enough to see 
 that it was rich and costly. In the front hall the 
 young men laid down the garlands and then went 
 away : Venik did so too — laid his garland down and 
 departed. 
 
 When he reached the street, a procession ap- 
 proached with torches and halted before the mansion. 
 Singers sang and Krista came out into the open air 
 on to the balcony, and thanked them all quite com- 
 posedly and quite impartially : she paid him his due 
 also and he accepted it. He heard her speak and 
 when she opened her lips he seemed as though only 
 now he saw and heard her, for in the theatre she 
 merely sang. 
 
 Then all the pageant began to disperse in different 
 directions, and Venik was in the street before Krista's 
 house alone. And when he was alone he ceased to 
 be a member of that multitude, became again a man, 
 and was Venik. 
 
 He posted himself opposite the house, and his 
 glance ranged over the illuminated windows. But, 
 of course, he well knew which windows were hers, 
 for he had a few moments previously laid a garland 
 in the first floor. 
 
68 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 And now he stood there, and looked and watched, 
 to see whether he could hear any voice, and he heard 
 many. There was a subdued hum of voices, perhaps 
 there was a dinner party or some sort of entertain- 
 ment, and numerous pleasure seekers with her. He 
 heard conversation and laughter, he saw lights, he 
 heard the singing of divers voices, then he heard 
 Krista also sing, and here he began to parley with 
 himself. He would have gladly posted himself at 
 the very window, if need be, in 1 order to gain a clear 
 view of everything ; but it was impossible. So he 
 drew on his imagination for what he could not see. 
 
 A gas lamp was glaring near the window, and 
 when the lamplighter came with a ladder to put out 
 the lamp, he longed to ask to be allowed to mount 
 the ladder himself. He could then have peered into 
 the interior of the house and have seen whom she 
 conversed with, and with whom she sang and 
 laughed. But he felt himself frozen to the spot 
 where he stood and could not stir. 
 
 Then he asked himself what he wanted there 
 exactly, and whether he was in his right place there. 
 It is hard to say, it is hard to answer. Rather let 
 us philosophise on the very substance of sprit : we 
 shall more easily answer the question what man is^ 
 than I can say whether Venik was here in his right 
 place or not. He was, and he was not. Instinct 
 prompted him to fly hence, and yet held him here so 
 that he could not stir. 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 69 
 
 When he heard Krista's song above, everything 
 pressed him to reply. She sang a song from the 
 hillside, she sang what she had once sung with him 
 in the villages. Had he had his violin with him, he 
 would have answered — he would have announced his 
 presence. For a minute or two he thought he must 
 run and fetch his violin, and that he must announce 
 his presence. But he never went. Then he rumin- 
 ated. If he had gone for his violin, and had played 
 under the windows, it would have been peculiar: 
 Krista would have heard him, and what then ? Would 
 she have started ? or would she have continued to 
 sing and jest ? Would the song and jest have de- 
 serted her ? Granted that it did desert her, then 
 everything would have cleared away from her and 
 Venik have been left in the street alone, and she would 
 have been alone in yonder house. If he were to play 
 below her window, she would be left desolate, her 
 guests would disperse, and what he saw and heard 
 would be all over. So in his ruminations he came 
 to this conclusion, that it lay in him to say how long 
 they had for the jest and for the song. If he should 
 say " Hold ! enough ! " it would be enough. He 
 granted them that feast ; he prolonged it for them ; 
 and which of them had the least idea that so it was ? 
 
 Verily Venik smiled to himself to think what a 
 puissant lord he was, until he began to feel an 
 arrogant conviction that everything which happened 
 on that first floor was under his control. 
 
70 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 But he did nothing, and yet he waited until every- 
 thing was at an end. Gentry and ladies dispersed 
 from Krista's house, and throughout the first floor 
 silence began to reign. In the street where he stood 
 not a living soul was to be heard. 
 
 The lights in Krista's window were extinguished 
 and then a single window opened. It w r as a warm 
 summer night and the window could remain open all 
 night long. 
 
 The moon shone just in the direction of Krista's 
 window, and Venik stood in the shadow of the 
 opposite houses. 
 
 From Krista's window a head peeped out, and 
 perhaps it was her head. Venik at that time stood 
 facing her and was alone. Even she was alone at 
 last. Then the head vanished and did not appear 
 again. 
 
 If he had wished to address her, he could have 
 done so before, but now it was too late. And what 
 was there to say ? Where to begin and where to 
 end ? His speech might need to be a very long one 
 or it might be a single word. And what was the 
 word ? Where was it to be found. 
 
 If at that period when he sought her three years 
 ago he had been ten times further away from her, 
 he would have spoken to her, now he was but a few 
 paces from her and yet he did not open his lips. 
 Now he was simultaneously moved to anger, to 
 weeping, and to laughter, and he neither wept nor 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 71 
 
 laughed nor stormed. Where then was he to find a 
 word that should express both anger and weeping 
 and laughter ? And yet he found it. When the head 
 had vanished from the window and all was silent for 
 a long time, Venik called aloud from his hiding place 
 " Krista ! " and in that word was both anger and 
 weeping and laughter. 
 
 He had not long to wait before the head again 
 appeared at the window and looked up and down the 
 street in great surprise. It looked up and down 
 and in all directions but because Venik was in 
 shadow it did not see him. And Venik did not stir 
 any more. The head after a few moments again 
 vanished from the window. Doubtless it thought 
 that there was some trick in it all and that it was a 
 voice without reality. After this complete silence 
 reigned in the first floor, perhaps Krista was dozing, 
 perhaps she had already gone to sleep. 
 
 Venik after this crept from his lair under cover of 
 the shadow and only determined further that he 
 would come pretty often to trick her with his voice 
 unless he thought better of it. 
 
 And then he wandered about the streets of Prague 
 and wandered in his own consciousness. He wandered 
 even in his thoughts — he wandered even in his im- 
 agination. Yet unceasingly he heard voices, laughter, 
 songs; he saw torches and a glowing face and in the 
 midst of it all he himself seemed to shout out Krista, 
 and when he had thus shouted all was over for ever. 
 
72 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 Then it appeared to him that he again stood 
 before Krista's house, and there he stood. No living 
 soul was stirring anywhere, the house and the street 
 were plunged in sleep — not a voice was to be heard 
 anywhere as though that day had never been at all. 
 
 All that to-day had been, already now spoke only 
 in Venik, it was already only an echo, though this 
 echo was very distinct indeed and sometimes well 
 nigh found a voice. The torches seemed to be 
 aflame in his bosom and a cry seemed perforce to be 
 wrung from it as if he had to shout for the whole 
 troop. 
 
 The next time when Krista once more sang he 
 was again first in the theatre. This time when the 
 curtain was furled up, the wood was not on the 
 stage : there was a garden and in it was a hum of 
 voices. One might suppose a fete represented in this 
 garden, and Krista sang at it while the guests 
 amused themselves. The action on the stage was 
 concluded by the first violin playing a solo melody 
 which the public clapped : but Krista on the stage 
 had to feign herself conscience stricken by the 
 melody and finally to fall fainting on the ground 
 whereupon the curtain fell. 
 
 When Krista fell fainting on the ground, Venik 
 could scarcely refrain from calling out to her. But 
 then the public kept on clapping, the curtain rose, 
 Krista stepped before it, as if she had never in her 
 lifefallen on the ground in a fainting fit, thanked 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 73 
 
 them, smiled blandly, and as often ■ as the curtain 
 furled up was ready with more smiles and with 
 more thanks. When Venik saw all this thanking, 
 he was no longer disposed to call out to her, 
 disdain again played around his mouth and half 
 to the neighbour who sat beside him he audibly 
 exclaimed, " a theatrical princess." 
 
 His neighbour took these words for eulogy and to 
 heighten their force, said, " yes, a perfect queen of 
 the theatre ! M and asseverated it to himself, which 
 was also a kind of asseveration to Venik. 
 
 "Yes, a perfect queen of the theatre ! " repeated 
 Venik after him, as if he himself could heighten the 
 force of his neighbour's criticism by repeating it. 
 
 What then happened after this in the theatre 
 Venik scarcely saw or heard. All that was stereo- 
 typed in his mind was that solo of the first violin 
 from the orchestra, then how Krista sank in a faint- 
 ing fit, how the curtain fell, how the curtain was 
 raised, and how Krista had her fainting fit over in a 
 twinkling, and was able to thank them all and to 
 smile blandly. 
 
 When the theatre was over there was no watch- 
 word given to-night that they were to take out the 
 horses from Krista's carriage and drag her home. 
 
 But still Venik again posted himself by the exit 
 from the theatre, and just where Krista had the 
 other night stepped into her carriage : and there he 
 waited. 
 
74 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 There was the carriage again ready prepared, but 
 Krista did not step into it, she told the coachman 
 that she would go a-foot, and the coach only drove 
 home her wardrobe. She went a-foot, and she did 
 not go alone. There walked by her side a very 
 stately young man. Krista hung on his arm and 
 they conversed together very amicably. After them 
 at a respectful distance followed more young men, 
 doubtless some of those who the other day had drawn 
 her carriage in place of horses : to-day they only 
 followed as a kind of escort or body guard. 
 
 Along with these young fellows followed Venik 
 and learned from their conversation both the name 
 and rank of the person who accompanied Krista : 
 but he did not much care about his name or his rank. 
 Then he learnt that he escorted her almost always ; 
 that the barouche in which Krista drove was his and 
 that she drove in this barouche, even in the daytime, 
 whenever and whereever she chose. 
 
 Now this was not a matter of indifference to 
 Venik : when he heard it the red blood rushed to 
 his face. But then, yet again, he affected indiffer- 
 ence and said, half to himself half to his neighbour, 
 "Ah ! well ; I knew it from the first." 
 
 His neighbour doubtless paid scant attention to 
 these words or to him who spoke them. 
 
 As soon as they had reached the house in which 
 Krista dwelt, her cavalier bade her good night very 
 heartily, kissed her hand, and made many polite 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 75 
 
 bows. After this he departed, Krista entered the 
 house and the rest dispersed to their several homes. 
 Only Venik again was left standing just on the spot 
 where he stood the other day. 
 
 He was again overshadowed by the shadow of the 
 opposite houses, while the moon's radiance fell in 
 full lustre on Krista's house and upon her window. 
 
 This time there was no din of voices in that 
 house. Krista was seemingly alone. Now he could 
 have spoken to her. But what was there to say ? 
 
 While he looked thus at those windows of hers, 
 behind which floated rich curtains, he felt as though 
 he fain must again cry out " Krista ! " Then 
 perhaps the window would be opened and she would 
 appear at it. But he did not call out to her, and yet 
 the window was opened and Krista appeared at it. 
 She looked into the sky and to a star. Then she 
 went away from the window and Venik heard her 
 hum to herself snatches of song, and amongst them 
 he recognised many from the hillside, and from the 
 hollow tree. At this his flesh crept. Then she 
 came to the window again, again for a moment 
 looked toward the sky, and toward the star, and then 
 Venik heard her humming to herself half aloud 
 " The Orphaned Child." 
 
 And here Venik shivered as if the cold of winter had 
 come upon him. Was she yet orphaned, was she yet 
 in sorrow ? Did she remember ? Did the gorgeous 
 life which she now led fail to satisfy her ? Could he 
 
j6 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 have spoken to her, could he have questioned her, 
 could he have announced his presence, he would 
 have learnt all and perhaps they would have found 
 one another. 
 
 They might have found one another, they had all 
 but found one another, and here Venik again said to 
 himself, that he wanted her not. And once more 
 his mind ran upon the solo of the first violin, her 
 fainting, the curtain, her smiles, her bows, her 
 thanks, then her escort home, their confidential con- 
 versation, the barouche, and at the end of it all, her 
 humming melodies and the "Orphaned Child" — 
 and out of the chaos again emerged the title " a 
 .theatrical princess." If he had then wished to know 
 and call her by name neatly and elegantly, he would 
 not have shouted " Krista," but "Oh! Theatrical 
 Princess/' and there was humiliation to him in the 
 expression. 
 
 So when Krista's head once more vanished from 
 the window and when the song and that day's excite- 
 ment was hushed for him, Venik hurried away from 
 the spot not however stealthily to-day nor did he 
 wander on the way. To-day he went direct to his 
 temporary dwelling and on the road only " the 
 orphaned child" kept buzzing in his head just as he 
 had heard Krista hum it. 
 
 Next day he enquired for the manager of the 
 orchestra, went to him and announced himself as a 
 violinist and begged to be received into the orchestra. 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 77 
 
 The manager gave Venik something to play over 
 and was fully satisfied with him, and told him that 
 he would take down his name and use his influence 
 to have him accepted. On this Venik further begged 
 that he might be allowed on the next performance, 
 as if to approve himself to the public to play that 
 violin solo in the orchestra. The conductor gave 
 Venik the solo to play through then and there to 
 test him. As Venik played the conductor smiled 
 and told him that he was quite satisfied with it. 
 And Venik also was quite satisfied. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "XfoftTHEN the appointed day arrived, the theatre 
 J^)V did not differ from its ordinary appearance 
 except perhaps that the public interest was some- 
 what less than heretofore. The public knew the 
 opera, and it knew Krista's song in it and was 
 already accustomed to it as we accustom ourselves 
 at last to all. Even popular enthusiasm in the end 
 smoothes out its waves. Krista was an apparition 
 above all dear to them but they were already 
 habituated to it. To-day they went to the theatre 
 pretty much from habit, not from any inward 
 necessity, not because something drew them to it 
 with irresistibleforce. Nothingthat they could see and 
 hear to-day could be any more either novel or striking. 
 They saw and heard it already in their recollection, 
 to-day those recollections had only to be sprinkled 
 with a few drops of dew and then they would be 
 tolerably revived, and ever recollection is but pale 
 and wan beside the full blown roses of novelty. 
 
 The theatre then had a more ordinary appearance. 
 Among the public there was no expectation only 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 79 
 
 certainty, comfortable certainty. Just as, when we 
 travel through a country for the second or third 
 time we know where we ought to look out of the 
 window and where we . may spare ourselves the 
 pains. 
 
 True, one new violinist sat yonder in the orchestra,, 
 but does that change the aspect of a theatre ? Is the 
 aspect of a country changed because there is one 
 tree there more or one tree there less ? In the 
 orchestra ! The orchestra is not the stage. On the 
 stage we mark at once every change — but the 
 orchestra ! Who gives so much as a passing look to 
 that. If a young drummer is seated by the drum 
 instead of the old one whom they buried yesterday 
 what of that ? If a bald pate stands by the bass 
 fiddle who a few years before had not yet grown 
 bald — what of that ? Not a single person paid the 
 slightest attention to his head while it was hairy, 
 why should he pay attention to it any more, now 
 that it is smooth and polished. 
 
 A new violinist ! Plenty of them are seated in the 
 orchestra ; whether there is one more or one less 
 concerns only the members of the orchestra, and 
 among these perhaps only the violinists, it does not 
 change the aspect of the theatre. True there were 
 in the orchestra artists as good as those on the 
 stage, hut it is the fashion with the public to look 
 only at the stage, let us piously adhere then to the 
 fashion. 
 
So Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 And now the curtain was furled up. When the 
 violin solo came, Venik settled himself to his violin 
 and played. In this solo the violinist was allowed 
 some liberty and was not obliged to confine himself 
 rigidly to the written score, he might improvise and 
 he did improvise. 
 
 When Venik began to play, something thrilled the 
 audience and caused it to cast a languid look at the 
 orchestra and it was observed that someone different 
 was performing to-day. Even those tones were 
 different. And scarcely had people listened a 
 moment longer when they held their breath. 
 
 That violin was all at once in tears and lamen- 
 tation. The hillside and the woodland sobbed out 
 in it, and man bewailed. And he bewailed with 
 anguish and with wrath. 
 
 The theatre was thrilled anew, it was thrilled again 
 and again. Its aspect was completely changed by 
 the mere swaying of a hand. Venik had brought 
 the public to their senses, and now he played " The 
 Orphaned Child." 
 
 It was a horrible outpouring of grief, and beneath 
 it all lay a hidden tempest of emotion. People 
 wiped away their tears, and their flesh crept. 
 
 And that violin seemed to wish to speak as 
 follows: "Like two flower-cups, we grew together 
 on one stalk, and thou, rapacious hand of society 
 hast torn away the one and I the other am 
 orphaned. 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 81 
 
 And that violin seemed to say, like two birds we 
 fluttered together over the hillside when they take 
 counsel together of what they shall weave their nest ; 
 and thou insatiable maw of society didst devise a 
 cunning springe. Thou need'st must catch my mate 
 and I am orphaned." 
 
 And further it seemed to say, " Two hearts we 
 grew together side by side, and one struck root in 
 the other, 'twas I who cherished those hearts till 
 they were like as one, but ye have rent away the 
 one, the roots which ye have torn out with it have 
 left but wounds, and those which ye have not torn 
 out anguish yet more — ye have that heart and I — I 
 am orphaned of it." 
 
 And then it said, "We were that sportive, laughter- 
 loving nature which maketh music in itself : but ye 
 had a craving for mere craftmanship ; ye outraged 
 nature, and nature thus outraged has found her way 
 hither, and calls aloud in me because I am 
 orphaned." 
 
 And yet again it said, " Faith have ye expunged 
 out of my life, and what exotics have ye planted 
 there instead ? Who of you dares still to 
 submit his prayers to heaven, when ye have 
 plucked the heart out of my breast for life ? But I 
 indeed have a right to tears and bitter accusations 
 and wrath and cursing, and I fling my curse upon 
 you — I hate you and I curse you — I, only an 
 orphaned child." 
 
82 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 And much more in the like strain did that violin 
 say to them, and the public heard it and under- 
 stood it, trembled, and wept salt tears. It was 
 like a trumpet call to judgment ; an invisible hand 
 wrote the words of fate and the words were compre- 
 hensible to all. The audience half rose from their 
 places, to see who it was that could thus speak with 
 his strings and their hearts heaved with one common 
 emotion. He who but a little moment before was 
 last in the theatre was now first. He singly had 
 changed the whole aspect of the theatre — changed, 
 nay, revolutionized it. They were but simple tones, 
 but they crashed and sawed. The public swayed 
 the head in one common movement, it seethed in 
 one common turmoil of feeling, but it was silent. 
 That silence was ominous. 
 
 And how passed it on the stage ? On the stage 
 was a garden and in it a gay company. 
 
 When Krista heard that melody, she left her gay 
 companions, ran across the stage even to the foot- 
 lights, ran even to the orchestra, and staggered back 
 amongst her gay company. But it was not given 
 her to rest there. She sprang to her feet once more, 
 wrung both her hands, raised them clasped to 
 heaven, then pressed them to her heart, then tore 
 over the stage like one distraught, then seemed to 
 shrink cowering into herself, then again raised her- 
 self to her feet with an effort as if she wished to 
 retain her self-command, but in that over tension of 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 83 
 
 the nerves her strength seemed shattered at a 
 single blow, she uttered a shriek which cleft every 
 heart in twain and sank on the ground all at 
 once, crushed and broken — sunk in a last and 
 deadly faint. 
 
 If it was the mimic art, it was past all conception 
 perfect ; if it was the mimic art it seemed as though 
 her every gesture had been fashioned by the Creator 
 of the world himself. 
 
 So she remained lying and Venik still played on, 
 and the public was carried away by the perfect 
 acting of Krista, and was wrought almost beside 
 itself by the perfect playing of Venik. 
 
 Thus they played together once again. The 
 curtain remained for a moment still lifted, and when 
 Venik concluded, it fell. And here arose such a 
 clamour in the theatre, such a tempest of excite- 
 ment, as was never before seen or heard in any 
 theatre. 
 
 The public was by a single touch driven beside 
 itself. 
 
 The curtain rose but Krista lay there still, she did 
 not thank them, she did not smile upon them. 
 
 The curtain fell, but the public stormed on. And, 
 hereupon, those in the orchestra told Venik that the 
 applause belonged to him, and that he ought to turn 
 toward the public and express his thanks. Venik 
 turned thanked them and smiled, thanked them and 
 smiled also in the name of Krista. 
 
84 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 Still the public wished to see Krista again, and 
 here those in the orchestra told Venik that he must 
 hie on to the stage that he and Krista might express 
 their thanks together. They lifted him quite on to 
 the stage, and when the curtain rose, the public 
 could perceive that Venik knelt beside Krista, he 
 cried "Krista! Krista!" but that was inaudible 
 to the public because of its own tremendous 
 clamour. 
 
 Then the curtain fell and all at once it seemed as 
 though a knife had stabbed the public and as though 
 each man felt that knife in his own breast. 
 
 Then some one stepped forward before the curtain 
 and announced that Krista had fallen in an actual 
 fainting fit, and in the public silence succeeded to 
 the storm. 
 
 Then no one stepped forward again before the 
 curtain, but something like a flash of lightning ran 
 through the public and with that lightning a hoarse 
 thunder-peal : " Krista is dead ! " 
 
 After this lightening stroke 'the public was 
 stupified. 
 
 Meanwhile, on the stage Venik had started back 
 from Krista and now wandered over the stage just as 
 Krista had done a little while before. Then he 
 again knelt beside her and thus remained kneeling. 
 They brought Krista round, physicians hastened to 
 her and vaguely stated that there might yet be hope 
 of her recovery. Krista raised her eyes, seemed to 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 85 
 
 whisper something, seemed to seek someone's hand 
 and no one understood it all. 
 
 Venik cried out " Krista ! Krista ! " and Krista 
 seemed to collect her ebbing strength into one ray 
 of light, fixed both her eyes on Venik, fixed them on 
 him with a smile and said, " We have found each 
 other at last ! M 
 
 Venik knelt as if in a dreadful ecstasy and said, 
 u Krista! Krista ! we have found each other." 
 
 Then they carried her away from the stage, out 
 into the open air, to the carriage and Venik 
 accompanied her. He was seated in the carriage 
 before they placed her in it, and when they laid 
 her there he took her in his arms, and he held 
 her softly and warmly so that she might have 
 been upon a bed of roses ; he held her to his heart, 
 his breath mingled itself with hers, his eyes inter- 
 cepted the rays of light which fell from hers, and at 
 intervals as if from the very depths of his soul, 
 re-echoed the words, " Krista we have found one 
 another." But now it was as though Krista could 
 speak no more in words, her spirit spoke only by a 
 glance and by a smile, and in that glance was a 
 smile. 
 
 And yet once again she forced herself to speak, " I 
 knew that thou would'st come but I did not expect 
 thee thus." 
 
 The carriage drove along at a slow pace. It was 
 in solemn pomp that Krista drove home to-day and 
 
86 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 yet she smiled. Her smile this time belonged to 
 one alone, it was genuine and came from the heart, 
 it was the reflection of her whole being, of her whole 
 life, but of a life which already flickered in the 
 socket. Krista knew it, Venik guessed it too well, 
 and cried out " Krista, Krista, we shall yet tell one 
 another all." 
 
 "Salute the hollow tree," said Krista, "I wished 
 to have found thee there, thou hast been beforehand 
 with me — 'tis better thus." 
 
 The carriage stopped before Krista's door, Venik 
 lifted her in his arms, bore her to her chamber, there 
 laid her on her bed and Krista still sought his face 
 with her hand. And her own face was smiling, 
 though now her eyes grew cold, and fixed ; her 
 whole being already ceased to speak, and she moved 
 no more. Venik again knelt by her side but she 
 was already speechless. 
 
 The public dispersed from the theatre, many- 
 walked up and down before Krista's dwelling and 
 spoke about her and about the violin player, and 
 over Prague the news flew like wild fire that Krista 
 was dead. 
 
 The storm now emptied itself out of the theatre 
 into the town and as it enlarged its area, diminished 
 somewhat of its tragic force and vehemence. 
 
 " It was a stroke," some whispered. " She fell 
 unfortunately," said others. But it never occurred 
 to anyone that there was any connection between 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 87 
 
 Krista's death and Venik's playing, or indeed 
 between Krista and Venik. When they asked him 
 Venik assented " It was an unfortunate fall," he 
 said. 
 
 Then Venik was alone in the chamber of death. 
 At Krista's head the waxen tapers were burning, and 
 they and Venik were the only watchers. And here 
 Venik looked musingly at those well-loved features. 
 Ah ! how like they were to their living self — how 
 fair the) 7 were and the lips scarce cold, as though 
 they might yet move in speech. It was not like the 
 sleep of death, it was not like sleep at all. But 
 just as though she had closed her eyes in sportive 
 jest and pursed her lips together to simulate an 
 easy slumber, and could throw away the mask and 
 thaw the wells of speech whenever she chose. 
 
 Venik seemed to see her once again on her couch 
 of leaves and moss within the hollow tree. His 
 hand had strewn the couch of leaves and moss in 
 the old days — the couch from which she fled so 
 faithlessly. And his hand also had strewn the 
 couch on which she lay to-day, but she was not 
 truant now. 
 
 Then Venik questioned the shade of her — the lost 
 one. " Krista why didst thou desert me in the 
 old days ? " But Krista's lips were mute and her 
 shadow answered not, and on her face she smiled 
 the same cold smile. And Venik's tongue faltered 
 his reproaches — " Only once in the old days thou 
 
88 Under the Hollow Tree, 
 
 didst desert me." But the dead Krista treated 
 both his questions and his repinings with the same 
 icy calm and smiled the same cold smile which 
 froze the life blood within him. 
 
 And he gazed at the fair fair corpse again and 
 sighed and wondered. " Was it to sleep thus in 
 fruitless beauty on a gilded couch and silken 
 cushions that thou didst leave so recklessly my 
 couch of moss and leaves." 
 
 And then Venik whispered to himself that he 
 would carry her away by stealth and lay her on the 
 couch of moss and leaves and that perhaps she 
 would awaken — perhaps she would rise once more. 
 And then he thought that it would be easier to go 
 to the hollow tree, bring away the leaves and moss, 
 and strew it here, and then perhaps she might 
 awaken. But, however he planned and plotted, 
 Krista treated all his day dreams with the same icy 
 calm and smiled the same cold smile as though she 
 wished to say, " I am contented with everything 
 thou dost," or again, just as though she said, 
 " Fool, fool, all is over, I am well cared for now." 
 
 Then Krista in that calm unnatural repose was 
 such a riddle to him that he turned away and vowed 
 that he would strive to unriddle it no more. He 
 turned away and taking his violin in his hand 
 examined it all over inch by inch to see where lay 
 that secret source whence had issued words so 
 shrewdly tempered that they had smitten Krista to 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 89 
 
 the death, and then as if to solve the secret his 
 fingers closed idly round the bow and he swept it 
 gently across the strings. But only as though he 
 coaxed and stroked them lest they should utter 
 their words of death anew, only just as Krista had 
 done that night when stepping to the window and 
 gazing at the evening star, she had sung half 
 whispering, half aloud " The orphaned child." 
 
 And Venik too stepped to that open window and 
 looked toward the heaven, looked well nigh in the 
 same direction as did Krista ere death had robbed 
 her of the light for ever. And his strings sighed 
 out in whispers " The orphaned child." Did Krista 
 listen as she used to listen in the old days ? He 
 turned to look at her once more and she smiled as 
 smoothly as before and seemed to say, " I know all, 
 but what of that." She took all his questionings 
 and all his musings so lightly that his questions died 
 away upon his lips. 
 
 Then he stroked her hair just as in the old 
 days he had stroked it by the btreamlet under the 
 willows when the cuckoo cuckooed to them, and 
 Krista smiled placidly even at this and seemed to 
 say " How soft your hand is." And he kissed her 
 eyeballs but now no salt tears oozed from under the 
 heavy eyelids, and he kissed her on the mouth but 
 now alas ! it chilled all kissing that fell upon it. 
 And do what he would Krista repulsed him not, at 
 everything she only smiled, to everything she made 
 
90 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 but one response, "I am contented with everything 
 thou dost." 
 
 She smiled the same cold smile whatever Venik 
 did or thought. Be it subtile questioning, be it 
 doubting, be it the outpouring of affliction — for it all 
 she hadbut one cold smile. 
 
 Then he took his violin into his hands again and 
 turning towards Krista with it he said " A little 
 while ago these strings breathed life, now only the 
 icy wind of death streams from them. Oh ! Krista 
 a little while ago they charmed thee to my side, 
 now they have murdered thee and driven thee away 
 for ever." And Krista ever smiled the same cold 
 smile. 
 
 And she still smiled when they brought her coffin 
 and when they laid her to rest in it on a bed of 
 flowers. And when the singers came with whom 
 in times gone by she had wrought her audience to a 
 frenzy of delight, and when above her pealed the 
 funeral dirge its last farewell she smiled the same 
 cold smile. And she smiled when priests came and 
 above her coffin pattered prayers which sounded 
 already like the rattling of the clods of earth upon 
 its lid. And still she smiled when the lid was 
 laid upon the coffin, even when that lid had all but 
 closed upon her, even when in one last lingering 
 gleam the light of this world died away into eternal 
 darkness. The lid concealed her face and concealed 
 her smile. And Venik in spirit saw her still smile 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. . gi 
 
 on, even in the coffin, even in the carriage in which 
 they laid her. 
 
 Now when he saw the horses gird to and move 
 away with her he would gladly have unyoked them 
 and himself drawn Krista to her burial. Now it 
 seemed a shameful thing to leave it to horses to 
 draw her to her last resting place, just as in her 
 hour of triumph it had seemed a shameful thing 
 that the people should yoke themselves to her car. 
 The people paced behind her coffin. There was a 
 countless multitude and Venik was but one of them, 
 and felt the oppressive presence of that crowd. Oh ! 
 that he could have carried Krista far away with no- 
 one by — carried her away wherever he chose, free 
 from the curious gaze of the inquisitive and where 
 he might vent the anguish of his soul alone. 
 
 But in all that multitude sorrow was but a forced 
 unnatural plant. It was but the mere semblance 
 of sorrow and struck no deep root. 
 
 That was soon apparent. By the time the pro- 
 cession reached the barriers of the city all but a very 
 few of the mourners had slunk away and ere the 
 earth was well nigh shovelled over the coffin all 
 were gone but he and two or three gravediggers. 
 Then even the gravediggers departed and Venik 
 remained alone. And here beside the grave it 
 seemed as if he talked once more with Krista, as if the 
 bonds of sorrow were loosened and as if even in the 
 midst of bitter anguish he was himself once more. 
 
92 
 
 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 He stayed long beside the grave and paid his sad 
 court there several days — its living monument. 
 And at evening he went to Krista's previous 
 dwelling and looked long and wistfully at the yet 
 open casement. But from that casement no one 
 now looked forth either into the street or toward the 
 sky or toward the star. 
 
 Then it seemed to Venik as though the book of 
 fate was closed and all was accomplished, he quitted 
 Prague, aimed straight for home, and came one 
 evening to the hillside, beneath which flowed the 
 river and on which stood the hollow tree at the out- 
 skirts of the old oak wood. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 tN the old oak tree was yet strewed the couch of 
 moss and leaves. He laid himself down to rest 
 upon it and was utterly alone. And now even his 
 thoughts had no basis in reality. He began to 
 smile vacantly at everything just as Krista had. 
 
 And a strange numbness stole upon him, and 
 though it was a warm summer's evening, winter 
 seemed to close in around him. 
 
 And the birds sang now no more their carol of the 
 spring, the tuneful stream was stayed, the full 
 voiced choir was hushed, only from time to time 
 they piped a dreary call-note as if to tell the world 
 they still were there. And then when Venik took 
 into his hand his violin it seemed as though, like the 
 song of those birds, the melody had vanished from 
 its strings. The tale he had to tell upon them was 
 already told, his joy had throbbed itself out upon 
 them, his grief had sobbed itself to rest upon them, 
 and now he scarcely knew what had come over 
 them. Already they held but empty tones, already 
 their melody had ceased to speak. 
 
94 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 The river hummed its old perpetual song and 
 above the neighbouring village, his home and birth- 
 place, the sleep of dreams descended. And fitful 
 slumber seemed to flap about the hollow tree and to 
 mock and gibe at Venik. 
 
 But perhaps only that aged tree understood the 
 deep delight of slumber. Venik crept out of it and 
 then he began again to muse and speculate and 
 question within himself, whether all must be that 
 had been, and whether there was not some power in 
 nature to efface and roll back the past. And his 
 own soul answered him that all must be as it was 
 and that he and Krista had understood one another 
 at last. Krista had always smiled and smiled, and 
 still she smiled even in the earth. 
 
 Then it seemed strange to him that he and Krista, 
 who had grown up together like folded leaves upon 
 a single bough, should have diverged so far from 
 one another, that one could neither see nor touch 
 the other ; or they were like two mountains set side 
 by side — for half their height they were like one 
 single growth, for the other half their summits grew 
 wider and wider apart, and never more encountered, 
 or only when the snow wreath and the tempest 
 swept over them, and one summit sent its message 
 to the other on the wings of the lightning. Thus 
 he had sent his message to Krista on the wings 
 of the lightening, and it had stricken her to 
 death. 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 95 
 
 And he began to feel oppressed within that 
 hollow tree, or perhaps it oppressed him to be on 
 that couch of leaves and moss, which now so vainly 
 began to be a couch. He laid himself down before, 
 the tree just on the spot where in the old days he 
 and Krista had buried his mother, that is to say, 
 the sweet briar and the willow wands and the sweet 
 marjoram, and out of it had made his mother. 
 And here on that little tomb he felt more at 
 peace. 
 
 And it was just as if he saw and heard around 
 him everything that he saw and heard here in yonder 
 distant past, when here he shepherded the sheep. 
 
 There stood the little Krista, whose piping treble 
 sang the gloria to his violin, and who wept because 
 he chased her from him, and because she was a 
 a poor orphaned girl. 
 
 And he began anew to smile vacantly at everything, 
 just, ah ! just as he had seen the dead Krista coldly 
 smile. 
 
 And then a cuckoo cuckooed and its note rang 
 lonely through that lonely wood, where now but 
 few birds sang, rang out as if in witness of a 
 desolate world, and as if it tolled a dirge of endless 
 woe. "Ah ! ha ! thou hast scarce anyone to whom 
 to cuckoo now," said Venik, and smiled to himself 
 thereat. 
 
 Then a bat flew out and fluttered round the tree, 
 just as if it sought something. 
 
96 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 And Venik smiled tauntingly and said, " Brother 
 mine, seek." Then he perceived that there were 
 two bats and that they had found one another, and 
 in the tree a piping from a nest of young bats made 
 itself heard. And after this Venik said, " Ha ! ha ! 
 how fares it with the young vampires, how fares it 
 with the young vampires ? " And again he added, 
 " I also am but a hollow tree." 
 
 Then he began to look to the horizon and saw the 
 river glittering dead white below him, and aoove him 
 a wan firmament and wan stars. And again his eyes 
 looked deep into those star-depths, and far away in 
 that direction whither Krista's eyes had strayed, and 
 he began to murmur fitful snatches of melody. 
 
 The hillside and his life upon it began to skip 
 about in his memory, like the ignes fatui of the 
 night. And thus, too, wildly rose and fell his 
 snatches of wild melody. 
 
 Then he said to himself, " What is it all worth ? 
 When chill autumn comes, the birds must hie away 
 away home ! " 
 
 And he felt the chill winter round him once again. 
 And once again he peered into the tree, at the couch 
 of moss and leaves and said, "What shall I do with 
 thee ? " 
 
 And he arose and gathered up about half of the 
 leaves and moss. " Thou shalt smile too," he said, 
 and made a fire of it. All was winter in his heart, 
 and he warmed himself and smiled inanely and said 
 
Under the Hollow Tree. 97 
 
 to himself, " it was a merry bout to warm himself at 
 Krista's couch." Then he patted down the leaves 
 and moss and added more fuel until he made a 
 roaring bonfire of it, and it burnt higher and higher 
 and crackled and smiled as he had said. And he 
 smiled too. And there was yet merrier sport to 
 come : for the old hollow tree took fire from the 
 bonfire and burnt like a gigantic fiery column, scat- 
 tering sparks in all directions. The whole horizon 
 was aflame, the smoke stretched ruddy to the 
 firmament, and Venik thought the sport grew mer- 
 rier, and merrier so that now everything smiled 
 upon him, even the whole world. 
 
 Then he took his violin once again for the last time, 
 and played just as if he had gathered all the dust of 
 life into a single pinch and would scatter it to the 
 winds by the vibrations of his instrument. 
 
 The hollow tree was a gorgeous theatre. It shone 
 and crackled and Venik played by its fitful glare. 
 He played and imitated all the birds which had 
 already fled in terror. In sooth he played feelingly 
 and finely, just as Krista had done, when she fell in 
 a fainting fit, and Venik smiled madly at it all. 
 
 Then in the village a bell rang out from the very 
 chapel in which he and Krista once played and sang 
 together. The bell rang out an alarm, and when 
 the people from the village streamed on to the hill 
 side, Venik was still playing underneath the tree so 
 that it looked and all fell out just as in the old song 
 
 H 
 
98 
 
 Under the Hollow Tree. 
 
 where the linden tree burns and its sparks fall upon 
 the girl lying beneath it, only that here an oak tree 
 burnt and under it was Venik. 
 
 And just as the people began to throng the hill 
 side the hollow tree collapsed with a horrible crack- 
 ling and in its embers the song of Venik was silenced. 
 The people saw exactly how it buried him, and 
 a shriek ran along the whole hill side as if from a 
 single throat. 
 
 The family of the bats fluttered round. Then all 
 burnt out, all was extinguished, all was silenced, 
 the music of two human lives was hushed and on 
 the face of death the smile was turned to stone. 
 
 The hollow tree, Krista's couch, Venik, the violin 
 — all was one cinder. 
 
Selections from D deli's (feiitg Songs. 
 
Selections; front Salefc's €bentng Songs, 
 
 Translated from the Czech. 
 
 I am that knight of fairy lore 
 
 Who rode so boldly into the world, 
 
 To see the maiden whose beauty 
 Like a rose on its bush is unfurled. 
 
 And they said that who so beheld her 
 With an endless curse was opprest, 
 
 Either changed to a stony statue 
 Or his heart torn out of his breast. 
 
 But I thought in my pride and madness 
 Some haply escape sometimes, 
 
 Forth rode I, and, for my presumtion, 
 Am changed to a rhymer of rhymes. 
 
Evening Songs. 
 
 II. 
 
 All on earth is lapped in slumber, 
 All save the heart in my breast ; 
 
 Tell me Lord of the firmament 
 Why hath that heart no rest. 
 
 This world so divine is silent all, 
 
 All save my heart that throbbeth ever, 
 
 Tell me Lord of the firmament 
 Why doth it tire never. 
 
 Thought is lulled to rest on the lap of slumber, 
 Day and night alternate watch are keeping, 
 
 But the heart true guardian of love eternal, 
 Throbs on for ever unsleeping. 
 
 III. 
 
 The brightness of the sun at noon, 
 
 That is my love to thee, 
 And night fair shadow of the day, 
 
 Thy silent love for me. 
 
 Thou lit'st in me a fire as hot, 
 As burns earth's central zone, 
 
 But now that fire unfed by thee, 
 Feeds on itself alone. . 
 
 I thought with thee on love to feast. 
 Now crumbs are all my share, 
 
 What wonder if in lonely grief, 
 My face is shrunk with care. 
 
Evening Songs. 
 
 But human hearts can suffer much. 
 
 And sickness tames their might, 
 And I, i' faith, can scarcely say, 
 
 If mine be day or night. 
 
 Thus is it writ. And day and night 
 
 Eternally are fleeting, 
 And only one brief kiss is theirs, 
 
 In twilight's hour of meeting. 
 
 IV. 
 What boots it that yon nightingale, 
 
 So sweetly sings to me love, 
 When this estranged heart of mine, 
 
 Dallies alone with thee love. 
 
 Ah! were his song that charms the sense, 
 
 The sweetest 'ere created, 
 What boots it — when my soul with thee, 
 
 And thy sweet soul is sated. 
 
 Ah ! little mortal man suspects, 
 How sweet 'tis thus to' adore thee, 
 
 I'd drag the stais from heaven for thee, 
 And sell my soul, love, for thee. 
 
 . v. 
 
 It seemed to me that thou wert dead, 
 I heard the death knell tolling, 
 
 And through the air a voice of woe 
 And lamentation rolling. 
 
Evening Songs. 
 
 How strange a couch they strewed thee there, 
 
 A stone the coverlid, 
 And bade me write a verse thereon 
 
 In memory of thy shade. 
 
 Oh ! people ! people ! hearts of stone. 
 
 Here take my heart among you, 
 Be graven on the funeral slab, 
 
 What yet I have not sung you. 
 
 My living love ye trusted not, 
 My words were for your jeering, 
 
 Now shall the stones cry out on you, 
 And win my words a hearing. 
 
 VI. 
 
 When to the earth I yield my dust, 
 My soul to God from whom it came, 
 
 I pray that I may buried be, 
 As best befits a poet's fame. 
 
 Around my brows the laurel wreath, 
 And lodge the lyre within my hands, 
 
 That my new neighbours well may know, 
 Who entereth last their silent lands. 
 
 Sacred to me my lyre hath been,] 
 And not the plaything of an hour, 
 
 Then let it rest upon my breast, 
 When death's long shadows lower. 
 
Evening Songs. 
 
 And when it irks us in the -grave, 
 
 I'll wreath a song around their heart, 
 
 And sing them songs of such delight, 
 The dead to life shall start. 
 
 But if ye living idly dream, 
 
 The good that's ne'er accomplished 
 I'll rouse the dead against you, ay ! 
 
 I'll wake the living with the dead ! 
 
 VII. 
 Ye little birds upon the tree, 
 
 Whose very dreams are song, 
 Which of you thinks of me, your friend, 
 
 Who dies of cruel wrong. 
 
 Thou little moon ride high in heaven, 
 I hail thee for my brother, 
 
 My passion's beam is chill as thine, 
 "We suit with one another. 
 
 The last faint flickering warmth is quenched,. 
 
 And only words remain, 
 Yet, could I fan them into life, 
 
 I'd live my griefs again. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Ah ! marvel not if thou should'st hear, 
 The birds sing songs of thee love, 
 
 Since once they came at eventide, 
 To hear and look on me love. 
 
8 Evening Songs. 
 
 And once they came and yet again, 
 
 As to an elder brother, 
 For I am free as they and we, 
 
 Are kin to one another. 
 
 And many a song I sang of thee, 
 
 Songs full of love and passion, 
 To which those small birds tuned their throat, 
 
 And sang them in their fashion. 
 
 So when I visited the copse, 
 
 Where those sweet birds were singing, 
 I marvelled much to hear the grove, 
 
 With my own love notes ringing. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Your arm about some supple waist, 
 
 To thread the waltz — what joyous pleasure ! 
 
 Come, pale-face, join the dance with us, 
 I'll bid them play a measure. 
 
 But pale-face shivered e'en as though 
 Chill frost was o'er his limbs congealing, 
 
 And o'er that pale wan face of his, 
 I saw the hot tears stealing. 
 
 X. 
 
 The greatest hero is not he, 
 
 Who being struck returns the blow, 
 
 But he is great who, though deceived, 
 Will not his faith forego. 
 
Evening Songs. 
 
 He never knew love's holiest flame, 
 Who dares her sacred shrine defame, 
 
 Love learns forgiveness unto men, 
 And, cursed, curseth not again. 
 
 Who cannot sacrifice himself, 
 
 Shall ne'er to love's pure empire rise, 
 And false the priest who loveth self, 
 
 More than the sacrifice. 
 
 Ah ! sweetheart taught by thee to love, 
 Earth's joys I'd give e'en heaven above, 
 
 Meek as the lamb submissive dies, 
 If love demand the sacrifice. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Spring flutters home from far away, 
 
 And nature's children touched with longing, 
 
 Woke from their long, long winter's dream, 
 To meet the sun are thronging. 
 
 The chaffinch flutters from the nest, 
 Fresh children from their cottage sally, 
 
 And varied flowerets on the lees, 
 Scent all the neighbouring valley. 
 
 Bursts forth the leaf upon the bough, 
 
 And from the young bird's throat are ringing, 
 
 The first shy notes, and in young hearts, 
 The germs of love are springing. 
 
io Evening Songs. 
 
 XII. 
 I am like the tufted linden, 
 
 All in gala dress arrayed, 
 Thou art the lovely rose of May, 
 
 Come seat thee in my shade. 
 
 Here every leaf is breathing sweetly, 
 Here the buzzing swarm resorts, 
 
 Hither fly the birds at even, 
 
 And the birds they are my thoughts. 
 
 And far away, away they fly, 
 
 As children from their home they flee, 
 But they will fly away no more, 
 
 When thou seat'st thyself by me. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Full oft I think — so oft as e'er 
 I press thy heart to me love, 
 
 That thou for me alone art here 
 On earth, and I for thee love. 
 
 'Tis hard to journey in the world, 
 
 And never be benighted, 
 And the best bliss on earth is this, 
 
 When kindred hearts are plighted. 
 
 And hath the king his coronal, 
 And God his heaven above, 
 
 The little bird his bower of spring, 
 Oh ! I have thee my love. 
 
Evening Songs. II 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Come, sweetheart, 'tis the very hour, 
 For holiest prayer on bended knee, 
 
 The moon is rising o'er the tower, 
 
 Time flies — oh ! loved one come to me. 
 
 Nay, do not clasp thy hands, my sweet, 
 But clasp me love as I clasp thee, 
 
 And 'stead of hands — two hearts shall meet, 
 In prayer to heaven eternally. 
 
 Be lip to lip, love, thine to mine, 
 
 That from one mouth our prayers may rise, 
 I'll breath the words, dear, into thine, 
 
 Thy breath shall waft them to the skies. 
 
 And thus our mutual prayer shall rise, 
 The purest truest sacrifice, 
 For thus united seraphs raise, 
 Eternal prayer, eternal praise. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Fair, passing fair, my Lord, is all 
 
 In love that's o'er us beaming, 
 All lives for love and would dissolve, 
 
 In love's poetic dreaming. 
 
 Yon cloudlet hastening o'er the skies, 
 Love's messenger is wending, 
 
 The bird that's dozing on the bough, 
 Still dreams of love unending. 
 
12 Evening Songs. 
 
 Man here on earth, till death shall bow 
 His head — 'tis love supplieth 
 
 The theme of all his joys and tears, 
 For love he lives and dieth. 
 
 Ay ! heavenly angels when from harps 
 Of gold their songs are springing, 
 
 What could they sing of, being forbade 
 Love's- music for their singing. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 To Paradise God summoned me, 
 
 There to learn songs of heavenly might, 
 
 'Tis ill for man alone to be, 
 
 And God formed Eve for my delight. 
 
 No rib he chose from out my side, 
 My very heart he did divide, 
 And therefore doth this heart of mine, 
 So fondly nestle, love, to thine. 
 
 And therefore yearning s passing strange, 
 Are lodged within this heart so lone, 
 
 As tho' 'twere fain our hearts again, 
 Should grow together into one. 
 
 And therefore when afar I roam, 
 My feet unbidden turn to home, 
 And 'stead of blood this heart supplies, 
 Only the tear drop to my eyes. 
 
Evening Songs. 13 
 
 XVII. 
 Thine eye is a beautiful lake, lady, 
 
 That glitters all bright in the gloaming, 
 In it bathes the fond light of the stars of the night, 
 
 Of the stars in the azure sky roaming. 
 
 And 'tis clear as the crystal of ice, lady, 
 And its depths are transparent as ether, 
 
 Youth gaze not too deep tho' the sea seem asleep, 
 There are many lie buried beneath her, 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Come sweetheart and sit beside me, 
 With my arms let me enshroud thee, 
 
 With a spirit as fair as an angel's 
 
 Out of heaven, hath God endowed thee. 
 
 And oft I would make confession, 
 
 And give thee some secret token 
 But the words, like a corpse in the grave enclosed, 
 
 Remain by my lips unspoken. 
 
 And what I so oft would tell thee, 
 Oh ! no syllables can spell it, 
 
 My spirit is full of it, 
 
 But my lips refuse to tell it. 
 
 But when my spirit melts in thine 
 And heart unto heart is pressing, 
 
 Oh ! then methinks that thou knowest all 
 That I would be confessing. 
 
14 Evening Songs 
 
 XIX. 
 
 If all the sweet delights of life 
 Should turn to dreary slaving, 
 
 And only love were left to cheer 
 Still life were worth the having. 
 
 If truth were everything on earth 
 And love were only dreaming, 
 
 I'd shun this waking life and plunge 
 In dreams were love was beaming. 
 
 And granted it were all a dream 
 
 Still ever I'd remember, 
 That sweet fond dream, that shed a beam, 
 
 O'er waking life's November. 
 
 XX. 
 Dark as is heaven's blue azure vault 
 
 So golden is the starlight, 
 Strange fancies fill the heart of him 
 
 Who gazes on that far light 
 
 Of star dust eddying far and far 
 Beyond the range of seeing, 
 
 Where yet not one small star reveals 
 The secret of its* being. 
 
 Only when in two virgin hearts 
 Love's earliest breath is breathing, 
 
 Yon heaven, 'tis said, another star 
 Among her orbs is wreathing. 
 
Evening Songs. 15 
 
 And if in one of those two hearts 
 
 Untimely fades love's blossom, 
 Also a golden star falls prone 
 
 From heaven's eternal bosom. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 That birdie that sings in the tree 
 
 As himself were the song that he singeth,- 
 Hearts wonder not that he so sings 
 
 Where love's divine harmony springeth. 
 
 Oh ! that bird he so sings from the heart 
 To the heart of the hearer believe it, 
 
 He might force e'en a mortal to weep 
 With a heart that's attuned to receive it. 
 
 And methinks that his plaintive refrain 
 To my own songs is closely related, 
 
 For this the light foam of my lyre 
 Is only a dirge iterated. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 What silence reigns around as when 
 A dream o'er weary eyes descends, 
 
 As when the bird in downy nest 
 Her callow offspring tends. 
 
 So gently might her pinions fold 
 Above the star bespangled skies, 
 
 And haply many a heart shall gain 
 What carking day denies. 
 
1 6 Evening Songs. 
 
 And haply many a heart shall win 
 
 What envious earth no more may give, 
 
 And kindly dreams make real the gleams 
 That scarce in memory live. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 I tried to think how life would be 
 Were love from this world banished, 
 
 Earth would be but a naked waste 
 Whence every flower had vanished. 
 
 The heart would wander through the world 
 
 Till canker care decayed it, 
 And gloomier than this world itself 
 
 'Ere God in light arrayed it. 
 
 So gloomy that terrestrial man 
 
 Would loath the earth he cherished, 
 
 And God himself would abdicate 
 A heaven where love had perished. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Fair was the night and transparent, 
 You might look into heaven's portals, 
 
 And the scent and the song and the murmur, 
 Enchanted the hearts of mortals. 
 
 Alas ! that thou wert not beside me 
 
 To list, love, beside me staying, 
 How the oak leaves whisper together, 
 
 And the wind with the woodbine is playing. 
 
Evening Songs. 17 
 
 How the universe is but a song 
 
 From the bosom of nature springing, 
 
 And how weak is the echo in human hearts 
 Of the star music round us ringing. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Those stars who scattered through the sky 
 With their own beauty strew it, 
 
 Look fondly down as they would fain 
 Have called me to it. 
 
 Ah ! no ye little twinkling stars 
 Yours be the circling heaven, 
 
 Dearer to me this earth — its joys 
 And woes — earth's leaven. 
 
 Ye have no notion, 'loved stars, 
 Through your chill ether racing, 
 
 How fair a heaven unfolds o'er earth 
 At love's embracing:. 
 
 i >v 
 
 XXVI. 
 I know not whether it were dream or no, 
 
 But still in memory linger night's creations, 
 How on the judgment page of God I gazed 
 
 And read the fate of nations. 
 
 Thoughts weighty as the mind of God himself 
 Above his head a hundredfold were streaming, 
 
 And beauteous as a star-lit night of spring 
 O'er his fair body gleaming. 
 
18 Evening Songs. 
 
 Many a thought — the germ of a whole world — 
 And many like some song of gentlest being, 
 
 Many — the history of a coming race — 
 Still hid from human seeing. 
 
 There, too, I found the type of my own passion, 
 
 And thy sweet heart with every charm invested. 
 
 There, too, our mutual loves in heaven's pure ray 
 
 Like two bright cloudlets rested. 
 
 And on this love of ours the Lord divine 
 
 Looked kind and fondly from his throne of glory. 
 
 And choirs of youthful angels ranged around 
 Chanted its simple story. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 All ye who labour sore opprest, 
 Come unto me to compass rest, 
 Here from your loins the burden loose, 
 And quench the spring of sorrows sluice. 
 
 Love's empire I establish here, 
 
 Where heart meets heart in friendship dear, 
 
 And what so grief the spirit tries, 
 
 Shall melt in heavenly harmonies. 
 
 Here envy shall revenge forego, 
 And speech in sweetest song shall flow, 
 Here, lions modify their throat, 
 And harpies stock the pigeon cote. 
 
Evening Songs. 19 
 
 Here, shall be balm for every sore, 
 Here, hearts be young for evermore, 
 Here, shall the rose unwithering bloom, 
 And harsh unkindness find no room. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Two thoughts in God, as stars were set 
 In heaven's divine communion, 
 
 To shine of all the starry choir, 
 In fondest union. 
 
 Till one of them fell prone from heaven 
 And left its mate to languish, 
 
 Till God excused her, too, the skies 
 Pitying her anguish. 
 
 And many a night on earth they yearned- 
 Sad earth — for their lost Aden, 
 
 Till once again they met as men, 
 As youth and maiden. 
 
 And looking in each others eyes 
 They recognised straightway, 
 
 And lived thrice blest till heaven to rest 
 Called one away. 
 
 Who dying out of earth recalled 
 Her love to heaven's fair shore, 
 
 And God forbade it not, and now 
 They're stars once more. 
 
~>-" KIT "^o ^4*oo« ° 
 
Jjototk % Srabtnger. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 jlTri TEE ! heesta ! " (gee) shouted Poldik to his 
 (3^ horses ; he was driving with his wagon into 
 Podskali (Undercliff) be it understood, and from 
 there distributed throughout the city sand in summer 
 and ice in winter. 
 
 Through summer, all through winter, and for 
 many a long year it was the same monotonous 
 journey to and fro. In summer he carted sand for 
 the builders. When one house was completed, he 
 carted for other builders perhaps in quite a different 
 quarter of the city — that change occurred in summer. 
 In winter when he had stocked the cellar of one 
 brewer, he led ice to the neighbouring brewery, which 
 was perhaps some streets distant — that change 
 occurred in winter. Otherwise, provided the order 
 was for the produce for the Moldau, ice and sand, 
 he carted anywhere, his pilgrimage to the Moldau, 
 always finishing with Myslikoff Street, thence 
 diverging to the Zitne gasse, and finally passing the 
 SipkofT mills until at last it was brought to a 
 termination at Naplavka (the Quay). 
 
Poldih the Scavenger. 
 
 As soon as his vehicle had entered these streets, 
 Poldik might have sat in his cart and gone to sleep ; 
 his horses would have found their way as we say 
 " blindfold." They knew hardly any other road* 
 They were like the bucket of awell : we let it down one 
 way and draw it up the same without a span breadth 
 of difference, but always the same ; and if they had 
 awoke some morning in any of the streets, Poldik 
 need never have opened his lips ; they would have 
 gone on of their own accord like automata through 
 that' portion of their circuit which was yet before 
 them, be it to Naplavka or from Naplavka to the 
 building steads. So perfectly familiar to them was 
 this road that they knew instinctively where the ale- 
 house was, where was the blacksmith's forge,. where 
 the fruit stall, and where Poldik bought his tobacco. 
 
 Very frequently they stopped at the ale-house 
 without Poldik's bidding : and only again jogged on 
 with the vehicle when theirmastertugged at the reins 
 and said gee up or swore at them. But it also Very 
 frequently happened that their master did not tug 
 the reins or say ' gee up ' or swear at them ; but 
 let the reins hang loose by the cart and with heavy 
 steps slouched into the ale-house. Much the same 
 occurred at the blacksmith's shop ; here they 
 generally stopped of their own accord for certain, 
 because whenever they lost a shoe Poldik swore at 
 them then and there, and that was a sign that they 
 would get a fresh shoe at the blacksmith's. As for 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 the fruit stall, Poldik only occasionally recollected 
 this halting place, turned aside to the little booth 
 and shouted at the door " Two." This had divers 
 meanings according to the season of the year ; either 
 two kreutzer's worth of cherries or pears, of plums 
 or apples — or when there were none of these 
 delicacies to be found at the stall — two kreutzer's 
 worth of brandy. Here, perhaps, for the sake of 
 completeness I ought to detail what happened at the 
 tobacconist's. But Poldik frequently filled his pipe 
 at the fruit stall and struck a light, and then it 
 appeared to him that the world was better by a whole 
 pipe of tobacco. 
 
 I do not pretend to enter into the sentiments of 
 horses, but even Poldik's horses saw the world in a 
 better light after these halts, because they had a 
 moment's rest and quiet. They knew these modest 
 stations well, and perhaps said to themselves, 
 " There, if all be well, we shall enjoy another rest." 
 
 I paint these horses for you, though you have seen 
 them a hundred times ; but they are indispensible 
 for a proper understanding of my hero ; although 
 you have seen him also a hundred times. I do not 
 know their life-history : they may have formed part 
 of some grand turn-out : perhaps they had once 
 served in a campaign, perhaps they were victorious 
 with the heroes who rode them, perhaps with the 
 same they beat an ignominious retreat. Now, they 
 were horses because the Lord God had created them 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 horses. Otherwise, they were more skeletons, with 
 just a strip of horse's hide stretched across them for 
 the sake of appearances, and if animals, like men, 
 were in the habit of divesting themselves of their 
 outer garments at night, a pair of bony frameworks 
 would have been seen taking their rest in the stables, 
 and might have served for a sciolist to demonstrate 
 anatomy on. Nor did the afore-mentioned horses' 
 hides by any means interfere with anyone who 
 wished to compute the number of their ribs. You 
 could do it to a hair, and see where the ribs began 
 and where they ended, where the stomach was or 
 rather ought to have been, where the hip bones were 
 and similar portions, which even a painter tries to 
 endue with a certain amount of flesh. 
 
 They were, then, bones and leather, only that 
 even this comparison is not quite correct. Their 
 leather was rent in many a place, particularly in the 
 region of the ribs and hip bones where the straps 
 frayed them ; in some places it was even frayed off 
 altogether, especially about the neck where the 
 collar sat. At times these frayed and shabby objects 
 tempted the fancy to divers comparisons. They 
 looked like the seedy old sofa of some aged country 
 parson, and only wanted a little horse hair or 
 whatever the sofa was stuffed with to peep out from 
 their rent hides, to make the comparison perfect. 
 Or, again, they looked like an old sleeve of a 
 past generation, which no longer gave any 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 warmth to the wearer, because all the nap was 
 rubbed off. 
 
 These horses, then, were far removed from their 
 prototype Pegasus — as far, indeed, as the hod-man is 
 from the architect, or the drummer in the orchestra 
 from the composer of the overture. 
 
 Had Apollo clapped wings on to these creatures 
 of Poldik — had he clapped on to them the original 
 pair of poet's wings, they would never, for all the 
 world, have flown along My slikoff Street — much less 
 have taken flight above it. When they stood still 
 and Poldik's *' CI ! cl ! " and his whip gave them to 
 understand that they were to bestir themselves, you 
 could count up a fair number of seconds before their 
 volition imparted itself to all the harness, before the 
 traces stretched tight, before the fore wheel got an 
 inkling of what was toward, before the cart creaked 
 and incited even the hind wheels to rotate, and 
 before the whole system was in motion : horses, cart, 
 and Poldik. 
 
 And when they were at last on the go their pace 
 was above measure deliberate. Perhaps not even 
 clockwork is so completely uniform, for we see clocks 
 gain or lose. But Poldik's horses never gained a 
 minute in a whole year, though to their praise be it 
 added that they never lost a minute either. A 
 sluggish, even, deliberate pace was so strong a 
 portion of their characters that neither Poldik's 
 whip nor his oaths caused the least variation there- 
 
8 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 from. Poldik's whip seemed to them a necessary 
 concomitant to their own deliberate pace ; if they 
 had missed it in certain conjunctures, and in the 
 same conjunctures had not heard the well-known 
 oaths, they would certainly have cried out — had 
 they been gifted with human speech — " Why don't 
 you crack your whip again now ? why don't you 
 swear at us again ?" 
 
 An anatomist, gazing at their even, and ever 
 sluggish pace, might have verified what muscles it 
 was by which they extended their feet ; he would 
 have had plenty of time for this. 
 
 For their regularity of movement they were not 
 themselves wholly to blame. They got just enough 
 fodder to keep them in leather, and this leather held 
 them together just enough for Poldik still at times 
 to boast to his companions that they pulled " like 
 clockwork." Perhaps if they had got more fodder 
 they would have pulled like greased clockwork, but 
 no opportunity was given to them of converting 
 more victuals into blood and muscle ; therefore we 
 can believe that if more fodder had been placed 
 before them, they would not have cared about it. 
 
 Poldik's own gait much resembled the pace of 
 these dilapidated horses. By long tramping beside 
 his vehicle, his pace had been drilled into one just 
 as sluggish, slow, and vacillating, even on Sunday, 
 when he no longer walked behind his vehicle, his 
 step was no fresher nor brisker. The ' tempo ' of 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 the previous week still maintained itself in his limbs, 
 and he went on just as regularly as the small wheel 
 in a watch. But inasmuch as the usual pace at 
 which people move is considerably brisker than that 
 of scavenger's horses, Poldik's step was uniformly 
 shaky ; every time he lifted one. foot and brought it 
 forward his body made a corresponding contortion 
 as though he wished to take half a step backward. 
 This shaky manner of walking was his habitual 
 manner, and so even on Sunday when he indulged 
 in something of a strut the upper portion of his 
 person kept shaking and swaying as if it wished to 
 compensate for the sluggishness of his ordinary pace. 
 
 It also sometimes came to pass that Poldik had 
 to quicken his steps, when the horses entangled the 
 reins or traces under their feet, when a horse lost a 
 shoe or anything of the like nature occurred. But 
 as soon as the affair was put to rights and the 
 cranky vehicle moved on, Poldik remained standing 
 and waited until the vehicle had jogged on so far 
 that he found himself once more in his usual place. 
 Then he felt as though he had over-exerted himself, 
 and lapsed into his usual regular pace to rest him- 
 self. And he rested long enough. 
 
 Sometimes it would happen that he wished to 
 have some confidential and important conversation 
 with the scavenger who was driving the cart behind 
 him. On these occasions he allowed his vehicle to 
 rumble on ahead while he himself paused and waited 
 
io Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 until the other carter caught him up. When their 
 chat was over, Poldik had to overtake his own 
 horses, and perhaps they might be thirty paces or 
 thereabouts in advance. Such moments necessarily 
 stirred both his blood and his stumps, and for thirty 
 paces he had matters for reflection as to how he had 
 lagged behind, how he had fatigued himself, and 
 whether it was worth the while. 
 
 Such pauses and delays did not occur frequently. 
 Poldik had no great need of them. 
 
 Not only was his step measured, vacillating and 
 swaying — his whole character was equally measured 
 vacillating and swaying. All his thoughts and con- 
 ceptions were so in their inception and concludings. 
 It must be something of extreme importance, in fact, 
 of absolute necessity which should cause Poldik to 
 halt and wait for his follower and cart to catch him 
 up and enter into conversation. In general he 
 managed to learn what he wished to know by looks 
 alone, and seldom had recourse to words. A whole 
 dialogue was thus disposed of as they passed one 
 another or trailed after one another, merely by means of 
 glances. Thus one of his mates had a white horse 
 that limped on Saturday. Poldik saw them again on 
 Monday, and the white horse no longer limped. He 
 glanced at the happy possessor of the beast, and 
 this glance meant " the white horse has soon 
 recovered." The other glanced at Poldik, infused a 
 certain smug satisfaction into his look, and this look 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. II 
 
 meant " No ; he does not limp to-day," or he saw the 
 white horse in the forenoon with one of its shoes off, 
 and when he met it in the afternoon the shoe was 
 still missing. Here Poldik looked at the carter, and 
 and this look meant " It is still with one of its shoes 
 off!" The owner of the white horse similarly 
 replied by a look, and in it Poldik heard or saw the 
 words " we have been very busy to-day, and really 
 have not had time." 
 
 Poldik's regularity was shown moreover in the 
 way he spoke to his horses. Just as if he had been 
 laying out a road, he counted twenty Poldikian steps 
 — and only after this precise measurement, pulled 
 the rein, cracked the whip, and shouted "Hee!" 
 You might wager your head it would not come one 
 step before or after the twenty paces. Only I must 
 except certain special occasions. On Monday when 
 he put to the horses after their Sabbath rest he 
 shouted ' hee ! ' twenty times during the first twenty 
 steps. That was to compensate for all that had 
 been omitted on the Sunday. And this single 
 circumstance proves to me that he did not usually 
 shout out in his sleep or in moments of rest and 
 abstraction. Moreover this exclamation occurred 
 more frequently early in the morning during the 
 first few steps, and again in the afternoon after the 
 midday meal. 
 
 In this Poldikian ** hee ! " rested a whole diction- 
 ary. Generally it was only a common-place incite- 
 
 K 
 
12 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 ment to activity, pronounced clearly and pithily. 
 But when something touched, angered, or vexed 
 Poldik, the horses certainly became aware of the 
 fact, for the " hee ! " was forcibly expressed and 
 sharply pronounced. Similarly, if he congratulated 
 himself about some trifle or if he felt a bit of self- 
 satisfaction, the horses knew it, for then the " hee ! " 
 was scarcely audible, it was only softly murmured 
 as if spoken in a sort of a soliloquy. At such times it 
 would happen that the horses stopped at the ale- 
 house of their own accord. But something much 
 out of the common way must have staggered the 
 soul of Poldik before he prolonged the " hee ! " and 
 made of it " heesta ! " Then the horses gathered 
 themselves together and took several steps at a 
 quicker rate, so that it was only on these occasions 
 that, comparing them to a watch, they could be said 
 to gain a little. But, indeed, these irregularities 
 were so rare that they were almost lost in the 
 distance of ages. Only to us who are Poldik's 
 biographers, are even these irregularities matters of 
 importance ; as we shall see in the sequel. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 wND a time came when Poldik's irregularities 
 Q^/t> became almost the rule. 
 
 At mid-day he stopped with his vehicle not far 
 from Naplavka in the shadow of a lofty wall, where 
 he and his horses celebrated the dinner hour. 
 Having hung the oat bags to the horses muzzles, he 
 waited for the coming of Malka. 
 
 Malka, his little neighbour, brought his dinner to 
 him, from the same house where Poldik dwelt or 
 rather where he and his horses just bivouacked 
 for the night. His neighbour herself, Malka's 
 mother, it must be understood, used to cook 
 and bring his dinner, but when she fell sick 
 her daughter brought it, and not till then did 
 Poldik become aware that his neighbour had a 
 daughter. Then this neighbour died, and Malka 
 was crying when she brought his dinner. 
 
 Poldik could have wept with her, for under all his 
 apparent roughness lay a tender heart. And here 
 he was prompted to say " Poor thing." By this he 
 meant the dead mother. 
 
14 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 But when Malka only cried the more, he looked 
 at her and said " Poor, poor thing, don't cry any 
 more, it can't be helped." 
 
 When that afternoon he drove off with his sand, 
 he felt as though all the time he had Malka' s tears 
 in his own heart, and sometimes for a score paces 
 his throat was parched, and " hee ! " remained only 
 in 'posse,' or it stuck in his throat, and he felt as 
 though he should cry if he succeeded in saying it. 
 He cracked his whip moodily, and the lash curled 
 itself round the handle like a flag round its flagstaff 
 when the fete is over. His swearing was such that 
 the horses could make nothing of it, and stopped 
 continually, both at the ale-house, the blacksmith's, 
 the fruit stall, and the tobacconist's. 
 
 When Malka came with dinner on the following 
 day, Poldik scrutinised her while she was still in the 
 distance to see whether she was crying. She was 
 not crying, and consequently when she approached 
 Poldik smiled faintly. He was hungry, and when 
 he had half finished his dinner, he said " Malka, 
 you are a capital cook." On this even Malka 
 smiled faintly, and Poldik gave his horses their oats. 
 That afternoon you might have heard Poldik's 
 " hee " from one end of the street to the other, and 
 he swore more in jest than in earnest, so that the 
 horses were puzzled to know what it all meant. Even 
 his own pace was fresher than usual, so that he 
 overtook his vehicle and found himself walking by 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 15 
 
 the shafts, after which he halted, and with a self- 
 conscious smirk, awaited until the cart again over- 
 took him. 
 
 And now Malka was no longer in tears when she 
 brought the dinner, but still Poldik always turned 
 his eyes to meet her, and to see how she looked. 
 Malka was sometimes already smiling in the 
 distance, and after this it appeared to Poldik that 
 only one person in the world could cook so well, and 
 that his dinner tasted excellent. He did not say so, 
 indeed, in so many words, but his looks expressed 
 as much. When he replaced the first plate in her 
 basket he smiled, and also smiled after the second 
 course, and concluded with the words " You are a 
 capital cook, Malka." Malka smiled too, but with 
 modest downcast eyes ; when she departed Poldik 
 gave her his hand, and was long enough in saying 
 good-bye. For once in their lives his horses got 
 plenty of oats. 
 
 All that afternoon this incident left traces of 
 irregularity in his gait and action, which were 
 apparent to everyone even at a distance. His face 
 looked as if he were still all the time munching his 
 dinner, and praising Malka for her cooking. He 
 kept saying " CI ! cl ! " and even his " hee ! " was 
 frequently exchanged for these euphonious sounds. 
 And when he cracked his whip it was with an air 
 which plainly said " How proud I am to be able to 
 crack a whip." He swore with a face that belied 
 
1 6 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 the oath, and seemed to say " I really scarce know- 
 why a fellow should swear after all." And all the 
 time his* mind was occupied with Malka more than 
 with anything else. She was for the present com- 
 plete mistress of Poldik's mental economy, and he 
 was delighted tothink what roguish eyes she had, what 
 pretty dimples when she laughed, what a fresh 
 healthy face, in a word, that she was a girl whom 
 anyone would turn to look at as she passed. 
 
 Afterwards it came to pass, that it was not enough 
 to give her his hand in along good-bye, but he also 
 greeted her with a shake of the hand when she 
 brought the dinner, and he laughed more frequently 
 during the meal, and said "Troth, troth, Malka, it is 
 charming." After this he always gave his horses an 
 extra feed of oats, so that now none of his com- 
 rades passed them without measuring them with a 
 look which seemed to say, " Look at him ! he means 
 to turn his jades into horses still." It is true they 
 still pulled like jades, but already they might any 
 day have trotted away like horses. 
 
 Once, I know not by what accident, he was 
 behind his time in driving to the mid-day halting 
 place. Hitherto, be it understood, he had always 
 been first with his cart at the mid-day trysting 
 place, and it was only after he had given his horses 
 their first feed of oats that Malka made her appear- 
 ance. But owing to this delay it happened that he 
 overtook Malka on the road, indeed in one of the 
 
Poldik the Scavenge}'. 17 
 
 several streets which he threaded before debouching 
 on Naplavka, and when he overtook her he said 
 " Malka, let me give you and the dinner a lift." 
 " He said this with a touch of pride, for it was not 
 everyone who could say " Malka, have a lift." He 
 took the basket out of her hands, placed it in the 
 cart, then helped Malka to scramble up, pointed out 
 to her how she was to sit, and drove the vehicle 
 standing. 
 
 Lord ! what a drive that was ! All the time 
 that Poldik held the reins he felt as though he was 
 holding Malka and helping her into the cart. His 
 features were quite playful, his eyes were quite 
 beaming, then he confused " Hee " and " Heesta" 
 together, smacked his whip as if he were off to the 
 festival, and only swore when it was absolutely 
 necessary. After which he always looked at Malka 
 with abroad smile which seemed to enquire " There ! 
 what do you think of that now for a drive ?" It was 
 a delightful moment to him when Malka smilingly 
 replied " Quite charming, Poldik dear, quite charm- 
 ing." Here at last Poldik felt that he might allow 
 himself a certain latitude ; he incited his steeds and 
 coaxed them with " CI " " CI " in such a way that 
 it put them in mind of their youthful years ; so that 
 they exchanged their sluggish pace for a fresher 
 step, so that in places they even frisked, so that the 
 cart bumped over the cobble stones until Poldik had 
 to skip from one foot to the other, and Malka was 
 
1 8 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 in difficulties, not knowing whether she ought to 
 clutch the dinner basket to prevent it from being 
 jolted out, or whether she ought to keep herself 
 there by clutching with both hands. 
 
 It delighted Poldik beyond measure this fear of 
 hers, which was at the same time half laughter. I 
 do not know what the horses had to say to all that 
 coaxing and whip cracking, but they understood it, 
 and for the nonce shook off several years of their 
 lives. But, indeed, even Poldik felt himself younger 
 and scarcely rememembered when he felt so young 
 as he did that day. 
 
 Well, and when they halted not far from 
 Naplavka (the Quay) in the shadow of the lofty wall, 
 he actually bounded from the cart, and when he 
 looked at Malka and her face was covered with 
 smiles and dimples, and she said " What a ride we 
 have had ! " — Oh ! then it seemed as though they 
 must be married to-morrow morning. Finally he 
 helped her out of the cart. Malka took his hand 
 with much simplicity, rested her other hand on his 
 shoulder, and giving a spring allowed herself to be 
 lifted off her feet and placed on the ground. Poldik 
 felt thoroughly self-satisfied, and. never in his life 
 imagined that he could have courted a girl so well. 
 
 What came to pass fortuitously to day, came to 
 pass again on the morrow and the day after, and 
 then for many a day. From some cause or other he 
 always happened to overtake Malka about mid-day 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. ig 
 
 in some street, settled her in the cart, drove about 
 with her, smirked at her, urged on the horses until 
 the cart bumped over the paving stones, and then 
 again lifted her from the cart and took his dinner. 
 At that time Poldik's horses fared well, so 
 that they thought nothing of their accelarated speed. 
 They had plainly grown rich, both in the matter of 
 speed and their provisions for life, and displayed it 
 in every step. 
 
 At this period, you will understand, Poldik's own 
 feet moved brisker and were firmer planted. He 
 was as it were on the highway to something better, 
 and showed a touch of the dandy and of the world, 
 though indeed any one at the first glance would have 
 recognised his original uniformity and ponderousness 
 latent beneath it all. 
 
 At this period it happened that once as Poldik 
 was helping Malka from the cart, a certain chum of 
 his passing by them grinned ironically at the couple, 
 and enquired " and pray, when are you two going to 
 pair off?" To this question Poldik ought to have 
 replied with a smart repartee, and Malka with 
 silence. But as it happened Malka replied with a 
 laugh — indeed, a very boisterous laugh, and Poldik's 
 blood boiled and he never answered a word, but 
 stood agape as though he had done something amiss. 
 
 It is possible that some sprightly young lady 
 reader has already condemned his faint-heartedness, 
 and given it its proper appellation. I, however, 
 
20 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 have no objection to it, and have merely to add that 
 it never occurred to me to exhibit his character in a 
 more favourable light than that in which it exhibited 
 itself. 
 
 But the truth is, that though he stood agape and 
 blushed at the question, still the question itself ran 
 in his head. " When are you two going to pair off" 
 continually buzzed in his mind, and every " hee," 
 every " heesta " was the outward expression of that 
 enquiry, every oath was a sort of a rejection of all 
 possible obstacles, every smack of the whip was an 
 asseveration that pair off they must. Ay, yet more. 
 From that moment every time Poldik looked at 
 Malka, he always saw in her that smile which had 
 been called into existence by the original enquiry 
 " When are you two going to pair off." Thus things 
 evolve themselves from one another. 
 
 At that time he used to stop less frequently at the 
 ale-house and the fruit stall. He had indeed saved and 
 put by sundry groschen at home, but still it appeared 
 to him that he ought to add every penny he could to 
 what he had already scraped together, in order to 
 have enough capital to begin housekeeping. And he 
 saved and added and reckoned in his mind when the 
 marriage could come off. Malka pleased him, about 
 that there was no longer any doubt. 
 
 One Sunday she brought his dinner into the 
 stable where his horses were stalled, and here for 
 the first time Poldik said " And perhaps, Malka, on 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 21 
 
 Sunday we might dine together in your lodging." He 
 thought that in saying this he had said a great deal, 
 and that it was a consequence of that much revolved 
 sentence " When are you two going to pair off." 
 But any one at all versed in the expression of ideas, 
 will agree with me that it really said very little. 
 
 Such apparently was Malka's opinion. And she 
 replied laughingly, " What an idea, Poldik, when we 
 are — as we are ! What would people say ?" 
 
 Malka said much more than Poldik had done 
 previously, indeed she led him a good piece of the 
 way to the goal he had in view, perhaps even farther 
 than was becoming in so young a girl. But Poldik 
 being, properly speaking, slow, vacillating, and 
 indecisive in mind did not perceive that she beckoned 
 him so far in order that he might say the word, and 
 then that they might reach the end in view. Poldik 
 only gathered from her reply that he was not to be 
 admitted to her table or to eat in her company. 
 " At present she thinks she couldn't yet " he said 
 to himself, and then wondered when the happy hour 
 would come. And though it was his Sunday dinner 
 and Malka had taken particular pains with it, Poldik 
 scarcely smiled, and scarcely praised her cookery. 
 
 When the meal was over, Malka said " Dear me, 
 Poldicek, aren't you going anywhere this fine 
 Sunday." 
 
 Here Poldik did smile again, for he more easily 
 understood this immediate project. 
 
22 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 " Malka, would you like," he said. 
 
 " I should like to have a look at Nussle or Liska 
 {i.e. the Fox inn) well enough — wait just a moment 
 till I have changed my things." 
 
 Once again Poldik thought the world fairer by a 
 whole Sunday. Only to think that he should never 
 have hit upon the device of inviting her to take a 
 walk with him, and there was Malka inviting him 
 herself! True she had excluded him from one 
 thing, but then she had freely invited him to 
 another. And it almost seemed to Poldik that 
 the second thing had the greater value. What 
 was dinner ? It only lasted an instant. But an 
 outing with her lasted the whole afternoon until 
 evening. 
 
 Then Malka came, and she was dressed in her 
 best. Poldik chuckled with delight when he saw 
 how it became her, and thought that there was none 
 to compare with Malka. And proud he felt as he 
 marched through the streets with her on his arm. 
 He felt young again at her side, and he quite forgot 
 his sluggish unsteady pace, and stepped out as if he 
 had never tramped behind a scavenger's cart and 
 his horses. He never could have believed himself 
 capable of so much animation. And he felt glad 
 when he realized that he was ; and he began to love 
 Malka more and more for that very reason. 
 
 After a time they went into some gardens, seated 
 themselves at a table, and Poldik treated Malka. 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 23 
 
 It was beyond everything dear to him to have a being 
 beside him who was pleased to be seated near him; 
 and who was glad that they had gone out and were 
 there together. Poldik looked smilingly at her as at 
 a fair picture, and all through that afternoon he felt 
 as if he must say continually how he loved her. But 
 he did not say it. Indeed all he managed to force 
 himself to say was "Well then, Malka, when are 
 we two to pair off." 
 
 " That is for you to settle Poldik, dear/' responded 
 Malka. And here Poldik thought that he knew 
 everything, and that he had need of nothing more 
 in the world. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 ROM that day Poldik considered himself 
 strictly and formally engaged to marry Malka. 
 All the domestic arrangements which he made had 
 a speedy marriage in view, now he ceased to think 
 of himself that Malka also might not be too much 
 in his thoughts ; but, of course, you know how one 
 feels under similar circumstances. 
 
 It came to pass once at mid-day, and yet more 
 frequently later on, that Poldik was obliged to desert 
 the shadows of the lofty wall and drive some hundred 
 paces further to the river side, to Naplavka. He was 
 delighted to watch Malka with the dinner searching 
 in vain for him in the old place, and Malka, too, was 
 delighted when she found him at last close to the 
 margin of the river. 
 
 Here Malka enjoyed herself vastly, and she told 
 Poldik that he was to halt here more frequently in 
 future for the mid-day meal under the shade of the 
 tall poplar, for it was far pleasanter here than by 
 that old wall yonder. 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 25 
 
 And it was pleasanter by the shore, boats laden with 
 sand lay to, and smaller skiffs kept circling round 
 them, and in these smaller boats were wherrymen 
 punting about. The distant view upon the water, too, 
 everything was better than yonder by that lofty 
 deserted wall. 
 
 On the Quay Malka was considered in the light 
 of Poldik's future bride, and thus many a joke passed 
 between them and the folk there present when 
 Poldik took his dinner from Malka's basket. 
 
 The next day Malka brought the dinner straight 
 to the shore. And she was still more pleased with 
 the scene than she had been the day before. I 
 know not what called Poldik away for a moment, 
 but in his absence Malka stole down close to the 
 water's edge, and said half to herself " How I should 
 like a trip on the water." 
 
 I also know not whether these words were a simple 
 soliloquy, but they caught the ear of one of the 
 wherrymen, who gallantly replied " Sit down in my 
 skiff, and we will have a lark." Malka looked at 
 him, and did not answer. Perhaps she considered 
 the whole affair a joke. But the wherrymen under- 
 stood it for earnest. " Only just a minute " said 
 he, " before Poldik comes back we will be ashore 
 again." 
 
 Before she expected it the little skiff lay close 
 by the shore at Malka's feet. She need only take 
 one step forward, and she would be afloat. The 
 
26 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 young wherryman stood all prepared as if he were 
 a winged being, and as if his whole attitude was an 
 embodiment of the words " Come and let us flutter 
 about." He was like an embodied smile, like an 
 embodied jest. Everything in him was playful, every- 
 thing in him was so full of gaiety that it was hard 
 to resist. His eyes alone were a comedy, his words 
 were like snatches of merry songs — Malka never 
 meant it, and lo ! there she was sitting in his skiff. 
 
 The skiff acquired wings ; a few strokes, and it 
 was in the middle of the river. The river smiled 
 around them, the heavens smiled above them, when 
 Malka looked at the young waterman he smiled, too. 
 Everything was smiling; Malka also was smiling. 
 
 And then they looked from the middle of the river, 
 and watched Poldik as he slowly returned to the 
 shore. 
 
 " Never mind " said the young waterman, " before 
 he gets back we can yet take a look somewhere else." 
 And again he plied the oar, and they seemed to fly 
 along ; like a five's ball they were at Podskali, not 
 far from Vysehrad(High burgh), and like a five's ball 
 they were back again. And they stopped again in 
 the middle of the river just as Poldik was returning 
 to his vehicle which stood by the shore. 
 
 When he reached it some of the bystanders 
 exclaimed " Your bride has eloped, Poldik, look ! 
 yonder. Francis has carried her off," and they 
 laughed. 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 27 
 
 Poldik looked in the direction whither the wherry- 
 men pointed ; there from the skiff Francis and 
 Malka looked smilingly at him, and Francis shouted 
 " Now she wishes me to tell you that she is faithless 
 to you,*' and Malka shouted to the shore " Wait a 
 minute, Poldik, dear, I will be there directly." 
 
 Poldik also laughed feebly, all laughed and joked, 
 and so it may be concluded that they were all very 
 merry at the Quay that noon. 
 
 Poldik waited for Malka a minute or two ; but 
 when she and Francis only dallied amid stream to 
 teaze him, he shouted " Malka, I must now be off!" 
 
 " We too," shouted Francis from the river to the 
 bank ; and he laughed, and before anyone expected 
 it he was again pulling hard against the stream. The 
 skiff was soon concealed behind larger craft, 
 vanished from sight and, perhaps, was already again 
 somewhere under Vysehrad. 
 
 Poldik still stood waiting for Malka, hoping that 
 she might yet soon return. But she did not return, 
 and the wherrymen began now to laugh at Poldik in 
 earnest. 
 
 " She has taken a small outing," said one ; " She 
 wants to enjoy her freedom a little longer," " Francis 
 is showing her the world," said another ; " What 
 matter ! Francis knows the world, and he knows 
 how to show it, too," said others again. 
 
 Such was the tenor of the observations sarcas- 
 tically interchanged among the bystanders. 
 
 L 
 
28 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 Here Poldik suddenly turned his vehicle round 
 loaded with sand, and tarried no longer. When he 
 drove away his first word was " Heesta ! " His 
 horses got a severe belabouriug until at last they 
 flung out with their hoofs, and after this Poldik 
 discharged a whole volley of oaths. But with this 
 volley his store of ammunition seemed to become 
 exhausted, and a considerable portion of the 
 road and several streets were passed, and Poldik 
 neither swore nor smacked his whip nor cried " gee 
 up " to his horses. He looked continually at the 
 cobble stones as if he had lost something among 
 them, and was now searching for it. 
 
 He had been already some time at this amuse- 
 ment before Francis returned with the little boat on 
 which he had given Malka a trip. " To-morrow we 
 must take another trip," said the young waterman 
 to Malka when she stepped out upon the beach. 
 
 " Poldik has gone off on account of you," said the 
 wherrymen. 
 
 " He is in a precious huff on your account," added 
 others. 
 
 And they laughed ; Malka also laughed. Malka 
 thought that she would meet Poldik and excuse 
 herself, but she did not meet him. 
 
 The next day Poldik halted for the dinner hour 
 in the old place by the high wall, and there waited 
 until Malka should bring his dinner. He had already 
 looked eagerly on his way thither to see whether she 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 29 
 
 was following him, in order that he might give her a 
 lift. But he did not see her, and waited a pretty 
 long time in vain expectation of her. 
 
 Otherwise no signs of vexation were visible in him, 
 perhaps he had slept or driven off his annoyance of 
 yesterday. 
 
 They greeted one another, and when Malka had 
 produced the dinner from her basket — " I am just 
 going to have a look at the water for a minute," said 
 she, and away she went. 
 
 Here it appeared to Poldik as if he had already 
 dined. Whether he ate or not he himself scarcely 
 knew, but he soon got himself and his horses under 
 weigh without waiting until they had satisfied 
 their hunger, threw the basket with the fragments 
 of his meal into the cart, drove off to the beach 
 for sand, and asked half mechanically " Where is 
 she." 
 
 " Ask Francis when he returns with her," said 
 one of the wherrymen who was loading his cart with 
 sand. 
 
 Poldik asked no more nor said another word, but 
 as he was driving off he put Malka's basket with the 
 plates and knives and spoons on to a boat which was 
 loaded with sand, and said generally to those on 
 board " When Malka returns tell her I shall not 
 require dinner to-morrow." 
 
 This speech seemed to the sandmen and wherry- 
 men somewhat too serious to be considered a mere 
 
30 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 matter for jest, and as jest they had hitherto looked 
 upon all which had been enacted at the quay side. 
 
 " But, But ! " — began some attempting to humour 
 Poldik — "who would take matters so seriously all 
 at once ?" 
 
 But Poldik paid scanty attention to what they 
 said, and vanished with his vehicle as quickly as 
 Francis had done with the skiff on which he was 
 giving Malka a trip. 
 
 And this time Francis and Malka were really long 
 in returning. They must have put in somewhere or 
 other beyond Vysehrad, otherwise wherever they 
 had gone they could have already returned. Poldik 
 was already a second time at the quay for sand, 
 when the wherry men shouted " Look, there they 
 go ! " 
 
 Poldik did not look to see who was going or where 
 they were going — he only made haste to finish the 
 loading of his cart before the skiff had reached the 
 shore. And he had just finished as they lay to, and 
 Malka stepped smiling out of the skiff, on which the 
 jolly waterman remained smiling also. Though 
 Malka stepped out of the skiff as quickly as she 
 could, she did not move quickly enough to stop 
 Poldik, who was just that instant driving off and 
 discharging upon his horses every oath in his 
 vocabulary like a shower of hail. 
 
 When Malka took her basket and the remains of 
 the untasted dinner, some of the men who w r ere 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 31 
 
 lading sand said, " Poldik wishes us to tell you that 
 to-morrow he will not require dinner." 
 
 Malka at these words felt somewhat conscience- 
 stricken, but she soon recovered herself when the 
 waterman said to her " Anyhow, bring the dinner, 
 and to-morrow we will have another trip in my 
 skiff." 
 
 This time, at all events, Malka made every effort 
 still to overtake Poldik ; perhaps she felt that she 
 was bound to excuse herself, even though she could 
 not wholly exonerate herself from suspicion. But 
 Poldik for once seemed not to be driving scavenger's 
 horses, nor himself to wear the buskin of a scavenger 
 — he had vanished, and there was not a trace of him. 
 
 When Poldik came home that evening Malka 
 prepared to visit him at the stable, and there to have 
 the quarrel out which, to tell the truth, was not yet 
 well begun. But Poldik had no sooner covered up 
 his horses for the night than he vanished from the 
 stable and the house, so that not a single trace of. 
 him remained, and Malka. did not tarry for him. 
 
 And when she brought dinner for Poldik on the 
 following day, she neither found him by the high 
 wall nor at the beach at Naplavka. ' Tis true the 
 jolly waterman was waiting there with the skiff, and 
 invited her with looks and words and nods and 
 smiles to seat herself beside him, for he had long 
 waited. But Malka turned aside, and went back 
 through those streets in which she thought she 
 
32 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 might perhaps meet Poldik. She did not meet him, 
 but seeing his vehicle at the ale-house where he 
 frequently stopped, and in which his comrades often 
 took their half pint, she followed him into the 
 house and placed his dinner beside him on the 
 table. 
 
 "Pray, what do you want here," said Poldik 
 gruffly, just as when he meant to swear at his 
 horses. 
 
 " I am bringing dinner for you, Poldik dear," said 
 Malka, and attempted to set all to rights with a 
 smile. 
 
 " What is the good of bringing dinner to an ale- 
 house," said Poldik in reply. 
 
 But Malka paying no attention to this objection, 
 none the less placed the dinner on the table, and 
 bade Poldik to eat. 
 
 " What is the good of bringing dinner to an ale- 
 house," repeated Poldik gruffly, and so saying he 
 tipped over everything that was on the table, so that 
 Malka's proffered gift, knives, spoons, and broken 
 crockery rolled in a pretty hash upon the floor. 
 
 Hereupon Malka had recourse to weeping, and 
 through her tears declared that her fault did not 
 deserve to be remembered, and that he had shamed 
 her before everybody in the ale-house. What a 
 rumpus he made about one little pleasure trip on 
 the water, and when she had never been anywhere 
 all that year, and had only gone such a little distance. 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 33 
 
 And more she said to the same effect. She added 
 that she would go again on the water deliberately, 
 and that Poldik had no business to take on so 
 about it. 
 
 But to-day Poldik was quite inaccessible to 
 reason ; when Malka said that she was going again 
 on the water and did not go, he got up and thundered 
 out " Well, go then at once if thou dost not wish to 
 be made a hash of like thine own dinner." 
 
 And he spoke each word as if it was a stone. We 
 know that Poldik seldom spoke, and that he never 
 spoke a word more, but rather several words less 
 than he meant. Consequently, when he pronounced 
 these words with so much precision, there was 
 nothing for it but to consider them meant seriously. 
 Malka had recourse to a yet more violent flood of 
 tears, but wasted no more words on him, and soon 
 marched off. Those bystanders who were present 
 in the alehouse with mine host at their head, posted 
 themselves round Poldik, whom they generally re- 
 puted to be a man of thoroughly temperate thoughts 
 and habits, and endeavoured by peaceful words to 
 persuade him to reconcile himself with his mistress. 
 " Let him sleep upon it." " Everything will soon 
 come straight." " Things like this will occur at 
 times." " But a man ought not to take on so." 
 " What would matters come to, if? " and so forth. 
 
 Poldik sat by his table, covered his features with 
 both his horny hands and never stirred. Whether 
 
34 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 he listened to what the bystanders, sympathizing 
 more or less with his hard fate, said to him, I 
 know not : but when they had ceased speaking* 
 Poldik made no response. So that at the con- 
 clusion of those well intended words a silence 
 occurred, such as we are accustomed to call " a 
 torturing pause." And after that pause, the by- 
 standers began to talk among themselves about 
 indifferent matters, relating to their several trades 
 or occupations ; but during their indifferent re- 
 marks all kept their eyes fixed on Poldik, so that 
 anyone at all versed in the customs of the people, 
 who had entered the house at that moment, must 
 have guessed that the conversation of those present 
 was so common place and insipid, because they 
 wished to spare him whose face was buried in 
 his palms. 
 
 Their conversation went so to say on tiptoe, for 
 fear of outraging that which not long before had been 
 raging very tempestuously. 
 
 Poldik suddenly burst in upon these pacable remarks 
 with the following monologue : — " Dotards, liars ! 
 And they tell us that God looks at the heart ! He 
 looks not at all at the heart. He allows the heart 
 of him who hath one to be wrung from him — to be 
 torn in pieces, and then the people flock around to 
 laugh at those pieces as at the crucified Jesus. Yes! 
 look at my heart ! See how they pierce it — but let 
 them torture it. All your talking is not worthy that 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 35 
 
 I should write it down on paper and then light my 
 pipe with the paper." 
 
 At these words all present looked at one another, 
 and pointed to their foreheads as if they would say : 
 " His reason has given way." 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 FTER this scene Malka took her way to the 
 water's side, even when Poldik so pitilessly 
 drove her away from him. She went with a faint 
 notion that perhaps Poldik would soon follow her 
 there himself, and that it would be easier to come to 
 an understanding by the water side than in the ale- 
 house. But Poldik and cart never appeared, at least 
 they did not appear so quickly as Malka thought 
 they would. And when they did appear nothing 
 more was to be seen of Malka, she was already with 
 Francis in the skiff, and the skiff was — the Lord 
 knows where. 
 
 For they had not by any means done with one 
 another. 
 
 And we must say that Malka on the water 
 recovered her spirits surprisingly soon. On the 
 whole she liked life on the water far better than 
 life in the street. Also, hitherto life with Francis 
 had been far more agreeable to her than life with 
 Poldik. 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 37 
 
 In the streets went on a monotonous, unexciting, 
 sluggish, clattering carting of sand. Here on the 
 water life actually acquired wings, and was 
 swift, bird-like, and diversified. And such as the 
 street was Poldik, and such as the water was 
 Francis. With Poldik, before a thought got clothed 
 in words, no brief interval of time was needed. With 
 Francis a word was like a look. He could speak 
 without let or stay, and never was in want of a topic. 
 What a perfect convulsion of nature took place before 
 Poldik managed to say that he loved her. Francis 
 had said it to her at once without any embarrass- 
 ment ; he said it every moment, and repeated it 
 continually. Compliments, which almost gave 
 Poldik the cramp to pronounce, Francis turned off 
 as easily as a tennis ball. What a piece of work 
 there was before Poldik had said " He hoped they 
 would make a pair." And lo ! here the jolly water- 
 man had said it the first time she sat in his boat, 
 " What a pity Poldik anticipated me, else we might 
 have made a pair." 
 
 And Francis repeated it to-day when Malka 
 stepped into the skiff. 
 
 " But, of course, now we shall not make a pair," 
 Malka answered, meaning, however, by this that she 
 and Poldik would not make a pair. 
 
 " Is it possible ? " looked Francis. 
 
 And thereupon Malka recounted what had taken 
 place in the alehouse. 
 
38 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 Francis, however, in place of one consolation had 
 ten at least, and each one was such that it would 
 have been sufficient by its unaided self. When 
 Francis and Malka parted to-day they clasped hands, 
 and Malka must consent to be on the beach early 
 next Sunday morning. Malka gave her consent, 
 looked forward to Sunday morning with intense 
 longing, and when Sunday came, was standing on 
 the beach at the trysting place, long before the 
 appointed hour. 
 
 And then Francis came, light hearted and versa- 
 tile — like his own skiff, full of smiles and bedizened 
 in the style of our Prague dandies which everyone 
 recognizes at the first glance. And to-day his skiff 
 was much the same as he. Light and pliant and be- 
 dizened — with pennons and ribbons streaming — 
 dressed out in silken kerchiefs and divers garlands — 
 the skiff was a dandy like its owner. Malka must 
 have been without eyes and with little good taste, if 
 she had not been at once captivated by the whole 
 affair. For, for whose sake was all this orna- 
 mentation ? Malka was not one of those who would 
 be unaffected by these considerations. 
 
 Fair dames and gentlemen ! If any of you have 
 already passed judgment upon Francis as a danger- 
 ous and fickle fellow, perhaps, even a Don Juan, 
 and in like manner upon Malka as perhaps little 
 better than his victim, I pray you be not too hasty 
 in your decision. 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 39 
 
 Surely it was past all conception natural that 
 Malka should at once prefer the lively eddying 
 Moldau to the long monotonous streets of Prague. 
 And Poldik was an embodiment of those streets of 
 Prague, and Francis was an embodiment of the 
 water of the Moldau. So then, two almost radically 
 different forms of life were here opposed to one 
 another : the regular, measured, settled streets along 
 which with loutish steps tramped Poldik beside his 
 cart with its raw-boned horses, Poldik heavy like 
 his sand, from which the water fell drip, drip : and 
 here light-heartedness and elasticity, just like the 
 smooth and marbled surface of the Moldau over which 
 like thought itself skimmed Francis, light hearted, 
 transparently gay, gentle and blithesome like that 
 water which here plashed over the yellow sand. 
 
 So that Malka's sudden desertion of Poldik and 
 her subsequent predilection for Francis was so 
 natural an occurrence, that I know not how many 
 young ladies would have given proof of their con- 
 stancy by not following in Malka's footsteps. The 
 female/heart, according to popular ideas, flies on 
 wings to meet a sailor lover; if the lover be not a 
 sailor, it goes to meet him indeed, but at a perfectly 
 Platonic pace. And we may consider Francis 
 more or less a sailor, at least, in so far as our 
 Moldau justifies the comparison. No doubt a facility 
 to captivate the female heart has also its weak side ; 
 for a heart soon won, is also soon lost. But even 
 
40 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 that awkward landlubber Rectitude has also his 
 weak side, for being ill-adapted to charm the mind of 
 woman, he is too frequently left in the lurch with- 
 out a wife, in spite of all his constancy of character 
 ^.nd his devotion to business. 
 
 Malka enjoyed herself on the water beyond 
 measure. Wherever the light craft sped its way, 
 people on the bank paused to gaze upon the 
 bespangled shallop, and asked each other whoever 
 that couple could be. It was clear in the sky above 
 them and in the water below them, the banks were 
 carpeted with brilliant green, and by the river side 
 lads and lasses promenaded in their Sunday attire, 
 and in all the innocent delights of the Sabbath. 
 Where Malka wished, the skiff stopped ; where she 
 wished, it flew forward. 
 
 They dined together in a garden, under the broad 
 blue sky ; and here Malka already confessed to her- 
 self that there was more life in one afternoon with 
 Francis than in all the time she had spent with 
 Poldik. 
 
 And this afternoon delighted her more and more* 
 They urged the boat forward against the stream, 
 and the smiles of the whole world seemed concen- 
 trated upon them. In the villages by the river side 
 bands of music were playing, and the tones were 
 wafted to them lightly over the water. The boys 
 who trooped along the banks of the river recognized 
 Francis, who was indeed a general favourite among 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 41 
 
 them, shouted to him their salutations from a dis- 
 tance, and waved their caps and handkerchiefs in 
 sign of recognition. 
 
 At one river side village they finally moored the 
 skiff, came in a body to meet him, invited him to 
 their village, and threatened to bar his further pro- 
 gress unless he stepped out among them and allowed 
 them to dance at least one round with " that bonny 
 lass of his." 
 
 Francis and Malka were agreeable, stepped out on 
 to the beach and proceeded to where the band was 
 playing, accompanied by the young men of the 
 village. As soon as Francis made his appearance, 
 the musicians greeted him with a flourish of trumpets, 
 the rest of the company turned and bowed to him 
 and danced with Malka, and unusual tokens of respect 
 were bestowed on both. Then the music accom- 
 panied them to their shallop, and the boys sang a 
 merry roundelay. And as they floated along, Francis 
 lighted various coloured lanterns in the boat so that 
 it looked like a bed of roses, flashing out into the 
 blue mysterious depths of evening. And amid the 
 roses dallied Francis and Malka, crowned with 
 smiles. Above them bent the boundless star- 
 wrought heaven, and before them in smiling eddies 
 flowed the clear and marbled surface of the Moldau. 
 
 Francis who rowed, because they floated with the 
 stream, had no need to stir an oar; the water itself 
 carried them along, he and Malka might hold 
 
42 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 each other's hands, and might look at one another 
 and at one another's smiles. 
 
 Malka thought that never in all her life had she 
 experienced anything so delightful as that lovely 
 evening on the water ; and in whispers she declared 
 what she could not venture to express aloud— that 
 she would like to linger on the water as long as the 
 moon was shining in the heavens. And the moon 
 shone so to speak in duplicate : it was visible high 
 above them, and it was reflected in the Moldau, and 
 on the water its lustre lay like molten silver. And 
 where Francis dipped his oar, the lustre was 
 splintered into a thousand silvery flakes and fell in 
 sparks and silvery drops, and all the while the 
 ripples pattered on the shore in half murmured music 
 that yet was touchingly distinct. 
 
 If the river banks had many a charm for Malka 
 by daylight, they had many more on such an evening 
 as this. The margin of the river was half lost in 
 twilight, from which emerged houses, hillocks, and in 
 general all objects bathed in glittering whiteness. 
 The gaze could not penetrate that mysterious 
 twilight, and yet the eye was loath to wander from 
 it, as though within its depths lay all that ever drew 
 the soul and spirit to itself. 
 
 This day and this evening had such an effect 
 upon Malka that they easily and completely expelled 
 from her soul the image of her previous lover which, 
 as we have observed, hung there more from habit 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 43 
 
 than from any deep spiritual necessity which would 
 have held it there so long as life lasted. Aye ! there 
 needed but a few such days and evenings and Malka 
 turned away from Poldik as from an uncouth scare- 
 crow, and as though she were flying from a ruined 
 vault whose ceiling was overhung with spider webs ; 
 and she turned to Francis as to some sunny spot of 
 earth which would free her from the dismal gloom 
 of the other. 
 
 I cannot disguise the fact that the relation of 
 Malka to Francis was a very dangerous one, and 
 that I might here fall into the temptation to weave 
 a romantic story. For threads which entwine so 
 lightly as the inclination towards one another enter- 
 tained by Malka and Francis, generally are just as 
 lightly blown asunder ; only that on one side follows 
 merely a sentiment of vexation, on the other com- 
 plete disenchantment, if not an utter dissipation of 
 all the hopes which make a girl cling to life. 
 
 But, indeed, we have no need of any such a 
 romance, and in the present instance it would not 
 be true. Francis had already repeated to Malka a 
 hundred times that they should live together as a 
 happy couple, man and wife, and Malka, when he 
 said it, had a hundred times pressed his hand, as if 
 in token of her consent. And then they had said it 
 to each other in looks and kisses, and then a time 
 came when neither looks nor kisses were needed to 
 express it, for it was so firmly fixed and settled 
 
 M 
 
44 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 between them that they saw it as clearly as they 
 saw the path along which they paced together. 
 
 Thus then it came to pass that in Podskali the 
 sandsmen and the boatmen prepared for the nuptial 
 day of Francis and Malka. They discussed it a 
 whole week beforehand on the quay, and were 
 planning for a whole week how to celebrate the 
 happy event. For Francis had always been to them 
 like their own soul ; in summer on the skiffs and on 
 the boats, in the winter on the ice where he selected 
 and set in order and superintended the skating rinks 
 over which he himself sped along like the fickle 
 wind over field and fish pond. For this reason 
 people had prophesied but last summer that all his 
 life long he would never marry, for that he was too 
 free and joyous-hearted, too like the wind and too' 
 inconstant, and that any woman who was his wife 
 would doom herself to a truly thorny path. And 
 now Francis was to marry. 
 
 Thus then, all the sandsmen and boatmen clubbed 
 together and agreed as to the manner in which they 
 were to spend the festive evening. The preparations 
 for that evening might be heard discussed on the 
 river bank, on the water, and wherever people were 
 engaged at their work. Only when Francis came to 
 the quay these discussions about the preparation for 
 the day tacitly dropped. 
 
 But still Poldik heard all that was being prepared. 
 However, he already treated the matter, or 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 45 
 
 affected to treat it as something wholly alien from 
 himself, but none the less it stung him to the heart, 
 and in his heart he felt as though a red hot iron was 
 piercing his very bosom. According to his own 
 maxim, however, he would not have given a pipe of 
 tobacco for Francis ; but yet none but Francis was 
 with her ; somehow or other he managed to hold his 
 own with Malka and to retain her always by his 
 side. And the superior ability displayed by Francis 
 in these respects was perhaps the most galling 
 thing of all. 
 
 Thus the day drew near when Francis and Malka 
 were to be plighted, and the evening drew near when in 
 their honour was prepared on the upper Moldau a 
 festival of unusual splendour and seldom seen thereon # 
 
 Just as on that eventful Sunday morning when 
 Malka and Francis first sailed out together, his boat 
 was tricked out like a dandy, and in the evening 
 glittered with divers lanterns that looked like roses ; 
 so, to-day, all the skiffs which were in Podskali 
 were gaily bedizened and awaited in thick array until 
 evening brought the happy pair among them. 
 Scarcely had the first shadows descended upon the 
 water, when all the skiffs glowed as it were with 
 one single fire, distributed in a thousand different 
 fragments. The glow broadened far over the river 
 banks, spanned the whole smooth surface of the 
 Moldau, and shot its varied streams of light far into 
 the star bespangled skies. 
 
46 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 And in the midst of it all sat Francis and Malka, 
 a newly married couple. 
 
 The skiffs — as though they had been a single large 
 vessel — crept slowly against the stream until they 
 reached Vysehrad, until even those ancient walls 
 and that ancient crag were tinged by the glow from 
 the water, and looked like a stern face with a young 
 smile on it. Immediately after this the compact 
 body of boats fell to pieces, each skiff rode over the 
 water by itself, and all circled round the exquisitely 
 adorned skiff of the young married couple. On some 
 of the skiffs music burst forth, on others singing and 
 music succeeded one another, on all reigned mirth 
 and jollity, on all the crews shouted with delight, 
 kindled torches and waved them in the air. The 
 Moldau was so animated and bedizened that it was 
 no longer like itself. And it was all because Francis 
 had married Malka. 
 
 The banks were well nigh trodden down by the 
 crowds of townsfolk who had come to feast their 
 eyes on the agreeable spectacle. Even Poldik was 
 amongst them, lost in the throng and unobserved. 
 And at times it seemed to him that it would be best 
 if he were to stab himself to the heart with some- 
 thing, then again if he were to stab to the heart all 
 those yonder who made merry, and then finally it 
 appeared to him that he deserved that taunting 
 laughter in which accorded the people, the Moldau, 
 and the heavens that bent above them, and then 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 47 
 
 finally it seemed to him that he had deserved yet 
 worse things than that taunting laughter in which the 
 festival found tongue : and that all together ought 
 to lift him above their heads and point the finger at 
 him, and shout " Pelt him ! because he does not 
 know what life is ! Pelt him ! for he does not deserve 
 to live." And then again he seemed to seethe cause 
 of it all in that jostling mob, and home he reeled 
 like one half crazed. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 OLDIK'S horses found themselves best off 
 while the passion of their master for Malka 
 was on the increase until it reached its climacteric. 
 
 In those days Poldik was glad to draw rein from 
 time to time, and took care of his horses both in the 
 streets and at home, in order that he might be able 
 to boast of them as his property, and mainly in order 
 that he might jog along with them when Malka sat 
 beside him in his cart. At that time Poldik's horses 
 were on the high road to transfiguration. Their 
 ribs began to be cased in a light coating of flesh, 
 their ears sometimes pricked, and their shoes made 
 a deeper dint upon the ground. And Poldik's com- 
 rades when they met him, looked at him with a pair 
 of eyes in which were legible the words " Poldik is 
 becoming quite a skilful groom." 
 
 Here we must note in passing that Poldik 
 occasionally took to horse doctoring, and that when 
 he took pains with the horses, he generally 
 succeeded. 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 49 
 
 Thus, for example. If some scavenger's jade 
 broke down, and its master half determined to 
 take it to the knacker's yard, it still occurred to him, 
 " Suppose I let Poldik try his hand with her." 
 From Poldik's then two paths led, either the jade 
 was converted into a passable mare, in which case 
 the owner reclaimed his property ; or she failed to 
 mend, and the knacker came for her. Poldik 
 generally " mended " his horses at daybreak or 
 evening, when his day's work was over ; and on 
 Sunday, when he had the whole day to himself, he 
 led out his troop into the courtyard in order to 
 make up his mind what further he should do with 
 them. 
 
 That troop of horses was a wonderful spectacle, 
 and would have suited Falstaff's ragged battalion to 
 a nicety, if, that is to say, it had been required to 
 turn his ragged infantry into cavalry of the same 
 kidney. One horse would, perhaps, be altogether 
 swaddled in blankets, another would have all one 
 side encrusted with a kind of tetter or scab, another 
 only the shoulders thus encrusted, a third only its 
 fore feet, another only one foot. It was just as if a 
 sculptor had formed model horses of clay and these 
 horses had been transformed into living samples : it 
 was hard to decide whether there was more clay or 
 more horseflesh as yet in their composition. 
 
 This Sunday parade in the courtyard attracted 
 plenty of spectators. First came the owners of the 
 
50 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 animals whose lives and, perhaps, sufferings Poldik 
 prolonged : after them came plenty of a second 
 public — the true spectators. Poldik paraded his 
 invalids in the court yard, just as a circus master 
 parades his trained stud in the arena. It must not 
 be supposed that these convalescents performed, at 
 Poldik's bidding, wonders comparable with the 
 wondrous feats of strength performed in the arena 
 by their fellows of the circus. But still, relatively, 
 they performed wonders, and perhaps in this respect 
 even much greater ones. For, if in the previous 
 week a horse had scarcely limped hither, and if, the 
 week after, that is on the second Sunday's parade, 
 it could go a certain pace, sometimes at a brisk 
 pace, although you could still see on which foot it 
 limped, it had in that week relatively done a great 
 deal ; so much so that even then it found a public 
 who were disposed to admire its agility. 
 
 But this occupation of Poldik's was quite a 
 secondary one. Like a true artist, he only devoted 
 himself to it when the fit was on him. And thus 
 also it came to pass that the owner of some jade 
 might lead her to Poldik, but afterwards drive her 
 off again straight to the knacker's yard, and for this 
 reason — because Poldik would not receive the horse. 
 " I don't take in horses " he would say. " £ Pray who 
 would think of taking in horses to cure." And 
 sometimes, on the other hand, he received every 
 horse that came, paraded them about the courtyard 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 51 
 
 to see what progress they were making, and when 
 they were cured despatched them to their respective 
 masters. 
 
 There were golden times in store for Poldik's 
 horses after Malka had broken faith with him. That 
 spurt of briskness which they had found sq tiresome 
 was soon expended — and from horses they quickly 
 sank again into jades. Poldik had no longer anyone 
 to whom he could boast of them, and he was angry 
 with himself for ever having been so possessed and 
 for having given himself so much trouble with them. 
 They fell once more into their old measured pacing 
 along the streets of Prague, and nothing again 
 aroused them from their ordinary shambling walk. 
 
 But after Malka and Francis were espoused with 
 so much pomp and ceremony, Poldik could not any 
 longer bear to see his horses and cart. He had 
 sufficiently clear insight to perceive what an unequal 
 contest he had waged as a scavenger with Francis 
 the wherryman. Nor was it the fault of his intellect 
 that he had lost, but of the common-place loutish- 
 ness with which he was saturated through and 
 through. It appeared to him that there was nothing 
 more despicable than his own employment ; at all 
 events he himself despised it utterly ; and at that 
 time if he could have driven off his cart and the 
 horses along with it on to some red hot rock, so that 
 no vestige of them might remain, he would have 
 done it without a moment's reflection. 
 
52 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 At that time he lost all hold on realities and 
 certainty. His horses must have been in a maze 
 of difficulties. He began according to entirely 
 different methods, and anyone who had known his 
 previous methods must have admitted that the new 
 methods were none at all. What cared he now for 
 twenty paces ? What cared he now at what point 
 he said " he ! " " heesta ! " at what point he said 
 " CI " " CI," at what point he shouted " Whoa up," 
 when he was to belabour them with the whip and 
 when he was to swear ? He mixed and tangled all 
 his vocabulary in careless confusion, swore where he 
 ought to have said "heesta!" flogged where he 
 ought to have sworn, and said "CI" where the 
 horses expected the lash. Now they never dared to 
 halt of their own accord, for then he let fly at 
 them all at once a volley of all the abusive epithets 
 which he had in his pate, just as when wind, 
 thunder, and raindrops come down pell mell to- 
 gether. The horses now walked past the alehouse 
 and the tobacconist and the fruit stall and the other 
 noteworthy snuggeries in those quarters as though 
 they were demented — they had unlearned the habit 
 of halting and were only thankful when they had 
 got through the day with a whole skin. 
 
 Hence, once more the connoisseur and the tyro in 
 horseflesh might count their ribs and could say from 
 their coat of hair how far the straps were to blame 
 and how far the collar was at fault. Perhaps 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 53 
 
 Poldik did not in the least perceive whither his 
 horses were fast hastening, and that he might have 
 driven them off any day to the knacker's yard. 
 
 Once, however, an acquaintance gave him a hint 
 about the matter. Going past Poldik he halted and 
 said with slow precision, " They are no longer what 
 they were ! " 
 
 Poldik himself looked at them and almost started 
 aghast. " They are no longer what they were" said 
 he to himself, and here he began to pity the horses 
 from his heart. 
 
 If Poldik had not been Poldik he would have led 
 them home to his own stable, but now he began to 
 consider whether he might not as well take them to 
 the knacker's. And yet to do so seemed to him like 
 smiting his own self and his own existence. 
 
 In the end, he led them to his own stable, ceased 
 to be a scavenger and began business as a stable- 
 man. As soon as the news spread that Poldik had 
 again taken to converting unsound horses into sound 
 ones he had visitors from morning till evening, 
 bringing him patients from all quarters, and Poldik 
 received them so long as he had any stall room left. 
 At that time if he had thrown himself energetically 
 into his business, he might have made quite a 
 fortune, and yet Poldik did not feel himself a happy 
 man. It was a business which so completely ran 
 counter to all his previous habits and so changed 
 his step, his gait, and all his modes of life that he 
 
54 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 was long in doubt whether he would not again quit 
 it and once more throw in his lot with the 
 scavengers. 
 
 But after all he remained constant to his new 
 profession ; for having after no long time converted 
 his own screws into decent horses he happened to 
 sell them speedily and well and it was just as if he 
 had bartered his own soul. Rather than accustom 
 himself to a new pair of horses and teach them to 
 learn his habits, he would have quitted this tedious 
 life below; and to think, too, that he would have to 
 drive down to the quay and among the wherry men, 
 and that Francis with Malka perhaps by his side 
 would be there, and that he would see the sneer upon 
 their faces. When he thought of all this he was glad 
 that he need go no longer to the quay, and here- 
 upon, like a doctor, he went his rounds, visited all 
 his patients, felt himself a new man, and was at peace. 
 
 We have already said that Poldik only practised 
 his horse doctoring when he felt inclined. But now 
 this inclination continued unchecked, and, conse- 
 quently, he had almost become a real professional. 
 By the end of the year, or at most two summers, he 
 had amassed a considerable sum of money, so that 
 no scavenger in the town could compare with him. 
 Poldik, had he been a scavenger all his life, would 
 never have attained so independent a position. 
 
 Then when his affairs began to succeed beyond 
 his fondest expectation, they began also to be a 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 55 
 
 burden to him ; wherever he looked he saw the 
 divine benediction ; but with it all to be alone in the 
 world was a grievous trial to him. 
 
 Here, no doubt, the inexperienced reader will 
 be inclined to exclaim, " Ah, ha ! the writer is try- 
 ing to find a new bride for him." He is not doing so 
 my dear reader — all thoughts of wedlock Poldik had 
 now banished from his mind for ever. He would 
 rather have stabbed himself with the first knife 
 which came to his hand than have said again to any 
 female, " When shall we two pair off." From that 
 side he was as completely cured as those horses of 
 his which he possessed no longer ; and if a new 
 saint had been required for the calendar, whose sole 
 qualification was to be that he now never even 
 looked at a woman's form — Poldik might have 
 applied for the place and have been canonized forth- 
 with. 
 
 But a new and somewhat curious idea took 
 possession of him, in consequence of which he 
 ceased to feel lonely and deserted. This same idea 
 was to beg from their parents the boys and children 
 of scavengers. When he knew that a scavenger had 
 a son who already began to trot along beside the 
 horses, Poldik went to the father and said, "What 
 do you mean your son to be ? " 
 
 If the scavenger said, "What should I mean him 
 to be ? He will be a scavenger." " Good," said 
 Poldik, " but you might entrust him to me for a 
 
56 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 time in order that he may learn to understand 
 horses." 
 
 And he got the boy ; for what scavenger would 
 have refused to have his son taught such an 
 excellent science as was Poldik's science. And as 
 soon as Poldik got him, he said to himself, " Won !" 
 
 And, to be sure, he sedulously developed in every 
 boy a knowledge of horses and the proper treatment 
 of them. But none the less, and perhaps mainly, 
 he developed a disgust of scavenging and in place 
 of it instilled into these boys a passion for the 
 business of wherrying sand. That was his evangelium. 
 When they were seated in the stable he would say 
 to the boy, " Do you still want to be a scavenger ? " 
 
 " I do not want, but I must be one," said the 
 boy. " I must ! there is no such thing as must. 
 Must take to the worst trade in the world ! To 
 drive continually along the same road among all the 
 slatterns and be the laughing-stock of everybody. 
 They look at your horses — and laugh ; they look at 
 yourself — and laugh. The horse is a sorry jade — 
 you are the same — all the spavined cattle belonging 
 to a scavenger's cart are sorry jades. And when- 
 ever you want to many you will find that no one 
 will care to give you his daughter. They had 
 rather yoke her to your cart ; that's what they'll 
 say. But a wherryman ! faith ! that is something quite 
 different. You spin along over the water and the 
 whole world smiles upon you. Be a wherryman ! " 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 57 
 
 And the following day he again enquired, " Do 
 you still want to be a scavenger ? " " What's the 
 good of asking me," said the boy, " I had much 
 rather be a wherryman, but I have no boat, and my 
 parents are not likely. to give me one. "Oh ! ho I 
 the boat is the difficulty, is it ? Well I will buy 
 thee a boat and all else that thou requirest." 
 
 Then he asked again the third day, " Do you still 
 want to be a scavenger ? " " No ; if I can get a 
 boat I will not be anything but a wherryman. 
 
 " So you shall get one ; but if you should ever 
 cease to be a wherryman the boat is mine." " And 
 who would cease to be a wherryman while he had a 
 boat ? » 
 
 After this, Poldik told the parents that their boy 
 had learnt to understand horses wonderfully soon. 
 The boy then added that he was going on the water 
 to wherry sand, and when Poldik explained the why 
 and the wherefore he generally also obtained the 
 consent of the parents. 
 
 And so then on the following day, Poldik led his 
 young charge among the wherrymen, and he felt 
 as though he was leading him to a wedding. He 
 walked with quite a youthful step, his eyes sparkled, 
 his face sparkled, his words sparkled. He chose his 
 words as easily as though he were selecting twenty 
 kreutzer pieces from ordinary kreutzers, and it was 
 evident that he was contented with those which he 
 had chosen. And when the boy got his boat and 
 
58 Poldik the Scavenger, 
 
 punted about in it, and Poldik saw his face beam 
 with pleasure, the tears came into his own eyes and 
 he could have sung for joy. His heart beat fast, his 
 feet made a few small skips, and he said as if he 
 shared the boy's joyous sense of freedom, " The 
 world will smile upon thee wherever thou lookest 
 upon it. And thou wilt easily find some Malka and 
 no one will look down upon thee. I have rescued a 
 soul from thy clutches thou foul trade of the 
 scavenger ! " 
 
 Immediately after this Poldik sought another soul 
 to rescue from the foul trade of scavenging, and did 
 with him to a hair as he had done with his pre- 
 decessor. He had already so many of these lads on 
 the water that go which way he would for a walk, 
 young wherrymen sprang to meet him and introduced 
 themselves to him as to a father, so that sometimes 
 he was heard to mutter to himself, " I think I must 
 be a wherryman myself when I have so many 
 children at the trade." 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HIS Poldik wore a harsh and rude exterior, but 
 if the heart is the real core and marrow of a 
 man, within his harsh exterior there was an excellent 
 core and marrow. 
 
 Many a year passed away. Poldik still stuck to 
 his horse doctoring, and was cited as an authority 
 in his department and summoned to a horse's sick 
 bed like a physician. He had plenty of practice, 
 and scarcely time to get through it all. His wealth 
 grew very prettily, and already he might have spent 
 any day he chose as a holiday. He could drive his 
 own carriage, too, and he did drive one ; for he got 
 horses of a higher grade to be put to rights, such as 
 had been knocked to pieces by drunken coachmen. 
 And Poldik drove these horses in a carriage which 
 he had expressly procured for the purpose, in order 
 to test how far they had progressed towards con- 
 valescence. And he also drove them that people 
 might see how his horses improved after so many 
 Sundays or so many days, and to maintain his credit 
 with the world. 
 
 N 
 
6o Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 He drove out like a gentleman who has his own 
 coachman. The coachman was always one of those 
 boys who had been adopted to be cured of scaveng- 
 ing and trained to wherrying. 
 
 As to what pertains to these boys, Poldik acquired 
 by his generosity towards them the reputation of 
 being a good-hearted fellow : it was a fine and 
 honourable thing to take the children of the poor 
 into his house and to look after everything which 
 they might have need of. But we must not blind 
 ourselves to the fact that he also laid himself open 
 to the charge of eccentricity, and in sooth, just for 
 these his good doings. He only took scavengers' 
 lads into his house, and he only turned out young 
 wherrymen. This fact now hung about his neck 
 like a characteristic label, and people, though 
 applauding his doings, also added, " Tut ! tut ! 
 Poldik, if a German mouse {i.e. a rat) were to come 
 to him from a scavenger and begged for help because 
 it wanted to set up among sand wherrymen, Poldik 
 would give it shelter." " And," pursued others, 
 " anyone could swindle him who chose. Let the 
 first idle vagabond come and say, ' I don't want to 
 be a scavenger, I want to be a wherryman,' and 
 Poldik would open his house and heart to the 
 fellow." But then on the other hand, they all con- 
 cluded their conversation with, " But, pray, who 
 would swindle him, where will you find the heartless 
 rascal to do it ? " 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 61 
 
 In one of these summers it came to pass that 
 Francis died. His boat was capsized by a paddle 
 wheel, he himself was drawn under the wheel, swam 
 to shore indeed, but took such a chill that he never 
 again rose from his bed. Malka was left with a 
 little chap about six years old. It was a cruel blow 
 to Malka. There on the water which she loved 
 best of all things, where, too, she had found the 
 man of her choice, she must see him perish. And 
 when she took stock of her means she found 
 that the unexpected blow had left her without 
 money for the funeral. 
 
 It was, too, an uncommonly hard trial to Poldik, 
 but in a different way. His instinct prompted him 
 to go to her, and then again it whispered to him, 
 " Never mind her, she has ruined thee with her 
 cold-heartedness, let her have her trials also. Pray, 
 why have a heart ? " But he mastered himself, 
 went to her, and said, " Oh ! Malka, you have much 
 sorrow and anxiety, I will look after the funeral for 
 you. People would cheat you who are a woman, a 
 man is not so easily defrauded. 
 
 It was a heavy stone which fell from his heart at 
 these words. And he looked after the funeral very 
 decently, and took care that all who wherried sand 
 on the Moldau and all who carted it away from the 
 shore should take a part in the last sad rites. 
 
 When Poldik came home after the funeral he 
 said to himself, " Poor Malka ! nowhere any one to 
 
62 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 turn to ! and her boy on her hands ! Where is she 
 to work ? What wages can she earn ? " And he 
 wished to set off at once and say to Malka that she 
 had better give her boy to him, that he would take 
 him like any other boy, and that he would relieve 
 her of all. anxiety.. He would have gone : but then 
 again he said to himself, " What should I do with 
 the little scamp? He will be like his father, he will 
 never have heard of scavenging and care for nothing 
 but the water. What is the profit of purifying his will 
 from the taint of scavenging, when he has no will to 
 be a scavenger ? And only because he had neither 
 skill nor power to lit the thing into his own mental 
 economy, he hesitated and did not go for the boy. 
 
 But once it was made known to him that Malka 
 was ill, and that she did not know how her illness 
 might end. Hereupon Poldik went directly to Malka 
 and said, "Ah ! Malka, give me this boy of yours : 
 he will be very useful to me, and then you will be 
 freed from all anxiety about him. The boy will be 
 as though he was my own ! " 
 
 On this Malka said, " I thank you, Poldik, for 
 your kindly offer : but I will not give the boy to 
 you." 
 
 These words made on Poldik the impression as 
 though he had fallen from the sky. So then, she 
 still even now so despised him that she would not 
 even trust her child to him, although she was sick 
 and in distress. 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 63 
 
 It is possible that anyone else, would have 
 snatched his hat and quitted her at once. Even 
 Poldik thought of leaving her, but his heart took a 
 considerable step higher, he mastered himself and 
 said, " iVnd what if I should still wish for the boy." 
 He thought to himself, is it possible that she does 
 not trust him to my charge. On this, Malka said, 
 " I, still, shall not give him to you." 
 
 Then at last Poldik stretched out his hand for 
 his hat, and was departing : only instead of good 
 bye, he said, " I did not think it of you." 
 
 And here Malka looked at him almost with anguish 
 and said, " Do not take it amiss, Poldik, dear. But 
 you wish to make all your boys wherrymen." 
 
 " Well, and what is the harm of that ? " said 
 Poldik, with a certain stubbornness which carried 
 with it a touch of reproach to Malka. 
 
 " I do not wish to make a wherryman of him," 
 said Malka. 
 
 " Your boy has not to be a wherryman," asked 
 Poldik, and he felt as though he had come to the 
 end of all his latinity. 
 
 " What then is he to be ? " he added. 
 
 " His father perished on the water : I cannot look 
 any longer at the water without crying, I should be 
 miserable every day if my child had to be on the 
 water for the whole day." 
 
 That was a reason with which Poldik could hardly 
 quarrel— it carried conviction with it. He laid his 
 
64 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 hat down again and said, " Well; well, doubtless 
 you are in the right. And what then has he to be?" 
 
 "A scavenger, Poldik dear, a scavenger responded 
 Malka, almost enthusiastically." "There! now you 
 know why I cannot give him to you." 
 
 "A scavenger! " Poldik was again taken aback, 
 perhaps this time more violently than before. 
 " Perhaps you know of someone," continued Malka, 
 " who would adopt him and, of course, I will work 
 for both of us in order to pay for his apprenticeship." 
 
 She would work for both and could not even work 
 for one, said Poldik to himself with a sigh. 
 
 And here a gigantic conception emerged in him. 
 Ay, it is possible that even a giant would have felt 
 himself weak beneath its weight. 
 
 Poldik's head went round at the notion, and he 
 felt as though some tremendous weight had exhausted 
 his feet and hands, and even his tongue and words. 
 He knew what he wished to say, but at that moment 
 it seemed an impossible thing to say it. To-day, at 
 least, it was too much for him ; step by step he had 
 gone higher, but now at the same time he felt that 
 if he attempted another round of the ladder, he 
 would stagger and perhaps fall. 
 
 He took the final step, staggered, but did not fall. 
 
 " I know of such an one," said he. " I will make 
 a scavenger of him for you." 
 
 When Poldik expressed himself in these words he 
 felt as though he had expressed his consent to a crime, 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 65 
 
 and yet on the other hand he felt that something 
 stirred within him which gave him wings, just as if 
 he sped in flashing skiff along the Moldau, and just 
 as if he felt a joyous sense of boundless freedom. 
 Malka looked at him as at a man completely new — 
 just as if it was not Poldik, and said : 
 
 "They do you cruel wrong,- Poldik : they say of 
 you that you are an eccentricity, and that you don't 
 want anyone to scavenge. Oh ! what a cruel wrong 
 they do you ! " 
 
 These words confirmed in Poldik the sensation of 
 having acquired wings, although they told him that 
 he was about to undertake something wholly re- 
 pugnant to his habits of thought. 
 
 Well, and so Poldik became once more a scavenger, 
 and I think that in thus doing he reached the highest 
 summit to which his capacities could aspire. For 
 the sake of a fair and noble deed — to take care of a 
 deserted child, the son of a detested father, and of a 
 mother equally detested — for the sake of the same 
 fair and noble deed to tear to pieces and fling to the 
 winds all theories, personal crotchets, hatred and 
 distastes — name to me anything more sublime 
 and more honourable — I know of none, and let 
 your heroes rant and declaim from the boards I 
 know not how far to your satisfaction — Poldik the 
 scavenger can boldly place himself beside any of 
 them, and stand on a level even with the most 
 favoured. 
 
66 Poldik the Scavenger, 
 
 He hated the scavenger's business from the very 
 bottom of his soul, and now he walked once more 
 beside his cart with sand and led by the hand the 
 son of Francis, called Francis like his father ; he 
 instilled into him a love for a calling for which he 
 himself felt no love; he pointed out to him its 
 advantages, though he himself knew of none ; he 
 was silent about its disadvantages of which he 
 could count so large a number. 
 
 But he adapted himself to it once again. He still 
 continued to exercise his trade in horses, not how- 
 ever to the same extent as formerly, but only like an 
 artist, when he felt an inclination to do so. 
 
 But now as day by day with little Francis he 
 rolled out his " hee ! hee ! " and " heesta ! " alongside 
 his vehicle, he felt delighted when the boy first 
 caught up the cry, and then he taught the little 
 fellow to say " cl ! cl ! " and to shout at the horses, 
 and he felt enormous delight when Francis' first oath 
 tripped off his tongue in the true Poldikian style. 
 He already began to settle down to scavenging and 
 it began to please him. 
 
 And now his horses again halted at the alehouse, 
 at the blacksmith's, the fruiterer's and the tobacco- 
 nist's, only they were different horses and rather 
 brisker than the old ones. And then there was a 
 different landlord at the alehouse, at the blacksmith's 
 forge a different blacksmith, at Naplavka also an 
 almost completely different set of sandsmen and 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 67 
 
 wherrymen — most of them the result of his own 
 careful training. And what immeasurable astonish- 
 ment was exhibited at the stations when Poldik 
 appeared with his vehicle once more, although if he 
 chose he might have driven his own coach — we can 
 imagine for ourselves. 
 
 The people were completely puzzled to know 
 whether he was an eccentricity or whether he was 
 not, and in the ale-house several times in the week 
 we might have heard the following conversation. 
 
 11 People always said that Poldik turned scavengers 
 into wherrymen, and now look you, he scavenges, 
 and that with a wherryman's little chap ! " 
 
 " 'Tis true he goes about with a wherryman's 
 little chap. It is Malka's boy, and don't you know 
 that Poldik wanted to have her for his wife. 
 Tra-la-la ! Strangers' boys he teaches to be 
 wherrymen, and he keeps scavenging only for — the 
 Lord be with him. Tra-la-la! " 
 
 But even bygone times, more or less, renewed 
 themselves. Malka, when her health was restored,, 
 once more brought dinner for them ; at first, how- 
 ever, only for her son, but soon for Poldik 
 also, because Poldik said as we drive together we 
 must also dine together. Sometimes they waited 
 for Malka, and when she was coming with the 
 dinner, settled her in the cart and then drove on 
 with her. On these occasions little Francis 
 must needs take the horses in hand, that his 
 
68 Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 mother might see with her own eyes how far he 
 had progressed. Here Poldik laughed heartily at 
 his " Whoah ups " and whip-cracking and looked 
 the picture of contentment. There was only 
 one fault to find in Francis, and that was that 
 he was still diffident of swearing before his mother. 
 This slight shortcoming which marred the perfect 
 whole, Poldik could not pass over in silence, and 
 therefore said, " Ah ! Malka, he is learning very 
 fast, but he still wants the least little bit of courage." 
 And that meant more particularly, " If only he 
 would swear all would be well." 
 
 At last Francis was well nigh grown to man's 
 estate, and then Poldik entirely confided to him the 
 charge of the horses and vehicle. He himself 
 carted sand no longer, but devoted himself solely to 
 the management of horses. He was already old, 
 he could not any longer walk so well as he was 
 wont, beside the cart, "hee" and " heesta" no 
 longer issued bravely from his lips, and the 
 horses obeyed them better when they heard them 
 from the lips of Francis. " Come, then, Francis, 
 manage everything for me," said Poldik, and thus 
 he quitted forever his previous occupation. 
 
 When Poldik grew enfeebled by age Malka shifted 
 to his lodging and tended him as though he had 
 been her father, and when he expired no son and 
 daughter could have grieved more heartily for a 
 father than did Malka and Francis. And it would 
 
Poldik the Scavenger. 
 
 69 
 
 be hard to name any other funeral in which so 
 many people took part, and amongst whom so large 
 a number could say and said with tears the words, 
 " He was our father." 
 
 And in the evening after the funeral — if you had 
 seen the Moldau ! The whole Moldau was covered 
 •with boats of all descriptions, on all of which were 
 lanterns of every colour of the rainbow and torches, 
 and from all of them issued plaintive music and 
 plaintive dirges— it was a grand "pannuchis" in 
 which all joined with the frankest and heartiest good 
 will. 
 
 So lived and died Poldik, the scavenger. 
 
#n Ccmfoitiott : ax ^mmamo #ft. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 T three o'clock in the afternoon, across the 
 village green of Frishets went the sexton ; 
 he had in his hand a large key and directed his 
 steps to the chapel. 
 
 Any of the villagers who were standing by the 
 window and saw the sexton, at first only said to 
 themselves, " Where, I wonder, is old Vanek 
 going ? " Afterwards they called to their wives, to 
 the servants, or to any one who happened to be near 
 at hand, " Look ! look ! Vanek is going to the 
 chapel ! Can there be a fire anywhere, or can any 
 one be dead ? " 
 
 " And where can there be a fire, and who can 
 have died ? " was the answer to these questions ; 
 but to every one it was apparent that one or other 
 of these events must now have taken place. 
 
 After this those who stood by the windows ran out 
 in front of the gate, and cast a curious glance after 
 Vanek to see whether he was not going into the 
 chapel. At this moment his key rattled in the door, 
 the door opened, and Vanek vanished within the 
 chapel. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 " What, I wonder, can Vanek want in the 
 chapel ? " thereupon enquired the neighbours one 
 of another, on the village green ; each took a few 
 steps toward the middle of the green, and then 
 replied to one another that no one could tell, because 
 there was no fire in sight, and no one in the village 
 had been seriously ill. 
 
 At that instant the funeral bell rang out. "The 
 Lord God grant him heaven," said the neighbours' 
 wives, crossed themselves and began to pray. 
 
 The men removed their pipes from their mouths, 
 lifted their caps and crossed themselves from brow 
 to breast. Everyone was like a statue, only that 
 his lips moved somewhat ; in the village nothing 
 stirred, the funeral bell swung to and fro and spoke 
 to all, and yet no one knew for whom it was 
 ringing. 
 
 All at once the funeral bell was silent and the 
 neighbours and neighbours' wives, just as they had 
 at first trailed off from the windows on to the village 
 green, so now they trailed over the village green 
 toward the chapel, each one only saying, " The 
 Lord God be with us ! Who is it, I wonder ? " 
 Their impatience increased because old Vanek still 
 lingered long in the chapel, doubtless, in order to 
 tie again to the bell the rope, which owing to its 
 rottenness so frequently snapped asunder. 
 
 And when Vanek issued from the chapel, and his 
 huge rusty key again scraped in the door a cry 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 arose as if from a single mouth, " Who is it for, 
 pry thee, who is it for ? " 
 
 "The Lord God grant him heaven — old Loyka," 
 answered the sexton, and drew the key out of the 
 door. ' "Oh Lord ! Lord ! and is it really he ? " 
 repeated the neighbours in great astonishment. 
 
 At this moment approached the spot, with a 
 basket in his hand, Vena, who acted as messenger 
 in the parish, dwelt at Loyka's house, and moreover 
 had the reputation of being a rascally impudent 
 fellow. He also enquired, " Who is that for ? " 
 
 " For your good old master, the pensioner," 
 answered the neighbours, sympathetically. 
 
 " For our — ho ! ho ! for our master, the pensioner 
 — ho ! ho ! " sneered Vena, and burst out laughing. 
 Although all held him for a fool, still it outraged 
 their feelings when he laughed at such an 
 occurrence. 
 
 "This is no laughing matter, Vena," said they, 
 reproachfully. 
 
 But something seemed to have tickled Vena's 
 fancy. " How, pray, isn't it a laughing matter 
 when it is ? Sure enough, he sent me into the town 
 early this morning, look you, with a basket, look 
 you here ; that I ntfght bring punch and rosolek, 
 look you here ; they keep it at the brewers. He set 
 me on the road as far as the gate, put some small 
 change into my hands and said, - buy there something 
 for your own maw also, my Vena, that my flasks 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 may not suffer by the way ! ' and I am just coming 
 from the town, I am bringing him punch and 
 rosolek, look at it ! And then he goes and dies, 
 you say ! Who is to drink it, pray ? And then you 
 say this is no laughing matter." And again he 
 laughed, until little by little his laughter infected the 
 bystanders listening to it, who at last were fairly 
 puzzled to know what it all meant, and turned 
 inquiringly to the sexton. 
 
 The sexton, considering that Vena had dared to 
 turn his official reputation into ridicule, strode up to 
 the culprit as though he meant to take him by the 
 collar. It was evident from the expression of his 
 own eyes that he would most willingly have pulled- 
 Vena's ears or his hair. When he stood about half 
 a pace distant from the other, so that his nose 
 touched Vena's nose, and his two eyes glared into 
 Vena's two eyes, he exclaimed pretty sharply, " This 
 is no'time for drinking, I tell you. He for whom I 
 have once tolled the bell is dead and done for, and 
 when I toll the bell for thee thou wilt be dead and 
 done for." 
 
 This speech and the manner in which it was 
 spoken, not only convinced the neighbours, but it 
 convinced Vena himself. He* stopped, almost let 
 fall his basket on the ground, and burst into tears. 
 So that again in a little time he infected all the 
 neighbours' wives at all events with sorrow ; until 
 they were fain to wipe their eyes, and the neighbours 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 said to one another, " Tis a poor fool, but he hath a 
 good heart ! " 
 
 After a few moments, Vena lifted the basket, took 
 out of it a flask of rosolek and gulping down his 
 sorrow, said to the neighbours and neighbours' wives, 
 " What's to be done with the rosolek now that he is 
 dead, now that he is nothing at all ? Ah, neigh- 
 bours ! Help and drink it to his health ! " He 
 himself took the first pull and then offered it to the 
 bystanders. 
 
 " What are you to do with him when he is a fool," 
 said they again to one another, half laughing, and in 
 the meantime began to call upon the sexton to 
 explain how it came to pass that old Loyka had died 
 so unexpectedly. 
 
 " He dropped off! He dropped off!" said the 
 sexton. " It came upon him just like a yawn — like 
 a hiccough." 
 
 " The Lord God be with us ! " cried some of the 
 neighbours' wives, for it appeared to them that the 
 sexton spoke as learnedly as a doctor. 
 
 " Frank, his younger grandson, was with him," 
 continued the sexton, "you know they loved each 
 other truly and dearly. ' Franky,' he said, ' when I 
 die my watch will be thine. Besides this, what is 
 in yonder drawers and chests is also thine, it is that 
 same silver which I have collected for thee.' Frank 
 said, ' oh ! grandfather, who, pray, would talk about 
 death, and you so hale and hearty,' and he wept. 
 
8 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 * Do you mean it,' said old Loyka, > but I am old, 
 within a little of a hundred years ' " 
 
 " A hundred years ! " reiterated the neighbours, 
 " that is a great age." 
 
 The sexton proceeded, " Ah ! Frank," says 
 Loyka again, after a pause, " I feel constantly as 
 though I had a clod of earth upon me. Boy ! 
 clear off this clod of earth ! " " You have not, 
 grandfather," said Frank to this, and again wept. 
 " You think not ? Well, then lead me out on to the 
 balcony," and although in the morning he still 
 walked like a stag, and was as fresh as a fish, now 
 he leant upon Frank as though he could scarcely 
 take a step forward. 
 
 Frank collected his strength — you know he is 
 thirteen years of age — led him out on to the balcony, 
 and Loyka looked all over the court-yard and as 
 though he bid farewell to everything, and after he 
 had cast his eyes in this manner upon one thing 
 after another — buildings, courtyard, granaries, 
 implements, he said, " Well-a-day, what is the use 
 of crying about it ! " Then he made a sign to 
 Frank to lead him back into the living room. And 
 when Frank had led him almost into the middle of 
 the floor, Loyka hung yet heavier upon him, and 
 said, " Come off! come off! " just as if he wanted to 
 tear something off with his hand, and at that 
 moment he fell down dead on the ground beside his 
 grandchild. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 " He dropped off! he dropped off!" reiterated 
 the neighbours, and in their eyes trembled a tear of 
 compassion, and at the same time a sort of astonish- 
 ment and excitement at the thought that he had 
 died so suddenly. 
 
 Hereupon all that stream of neighbours and 
 neighbours' wives just as they were by the chapel 
 gate, trailed off towards Loyka's farmstead at the 
 other end of the village. 
 
 "At such an age people do not die, they drop off 
 to sleep," said one of the neighbours, and at once 
 cited a case where something similar had occurred ; 
 there was, also, someone somewhere almost a 
 hundred years of age, and he had died at dinner. 
 Then again, others knew that at such an age people 
 knew the hour of their death before-hand, and con- 
 firmed the fact by instances. These instances, 
 however, did not suit well old Loyka's case, because 
 he had sent, while it was yet early morning, into the 
 town for punch and rosolek. 
 
 And now before his farmstead they began to 
 recount to one another his life's history. 
 
 " It is something to say, such a great age" observed 
 one — it was the Mayor of Frishets — " and yet last 
 summer at harvest, he cut his own pensioner's share 
 of the crop, and it was thus wise : he cut along the 
 line of reapers a portion equal to his own height, 
 when he had cut so much, he said, " What availeth 
 it, I cannot ply my sickle nowadays ? " and he laid 
 
io On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 him down at full length in the space which he had 
 cut. 
 
 The neighbours smiled slightly, and said, " Ah ! 
 well-a-day ! How could he ply his sickle at all at 
 such an age, I wonder ? A hundred years ! " 
 
 " One time while he lay thus," proceeded the 
 Mayor, once more, " I go close by him with my 
 sickle, and I say, " Oh ! grandfather help us in 
 God's name." Loyka perceived that I was smiling 
 and said, " Lazy body ! lie no longer, up ! up ! and 
 work thou also ! " Then he rose and set himself to 
 cut the corn, I meanwhile sat beside him near the 
 boundary stone, and waited till he had once more 
 finished cutting his own small portion. When he 
 had finished it, he again lay down. 
 
 " And why could not his son, the peasant pro- 
 prietor, cut it for him ? " enquired some, though, 
 indeed, they knew why this was not done, because 
 they had already asked the same question several 
 times at least, both in the present and the past. 
 
 " He could and he could not," answered the 
 Mayor again, " of course you understand — he was a 
 pensioner on the son's bounty. 'Tis seldom a son 
 gives the father anything who is once pensioned off." 
 
 As soon as this sentence was pronounced it was 
 again evident that Vena was present. He stood by 
 the farmstead, considering what to do with the 
 rosolek, now that no one was willing to drink it. 
 But as soon as he heard about the son and the 
 
On Condition: or Pensioned Off. n 
 
 pensioner on his bounty, he seemed all at once to 
 be beside himself. " A murrain upon you every 
 morning, ye peasant proprietors, who do not know 
 what to do with your father when he is pensioned 
 off. Only let me have power in my hands for half 
 a day, 1 would drive you round the circle, I can tell 
 you ! Every one of you should be pensioned off at 
 once for two years at least. A son cannot have a 
 korets of land reaped for his father, because the 
 father is pensioned off; blast all such sons, say I." 
 
 " 'Tis a poor fool, and yet he hath right on his 
 side," said some of the neighbours, " but he is 
 touched here." Others again said, " How, then, 
 dare you say this, Vena, are you not a dependent 
 on Loyka's farm ? " To this Vena replied very 
 indignantly, " If I am on Loyka's farm, I work for 
 myself, I have no need of any one to work for me. 
 Also I speak for myself, I have no need that any- 
 one should speak for me." 
 
 The neighbours only said to this : " He knows 
 how to give cut for cut, 'twere better let him be." 
 
 Here the Mayor again interposed : " Well ! 
 well ! old people are sometimes rather laughable ; in 
 their time everything was quite different, you know. 
 While Loyka lay on the rye which he had cut, he 
 said : " Now-a-days, my good gossip, there are not 
 such winters as there used to be. In my young 
 day, the sparrows fell from the eaves and partridges 
 and hares were frozen like clods of earth. More 
 
12 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 than once we thought it was the cat scrattling at 
 the door, and lo ! it was a hare. Did you ever hear 
 the like of that ? " On this I say to him, " Oh ! 
 grandfather, one summer you had your well froze 
 hard." At this he sat upright in astonishment just 
 where he had been lying, and said, " Lord ha' mercy ! 
 the well hard froze in summer time ! No ; I cannot 
 remember it ever to have been hard froze in summer 
 time in my young day. The Lord God be with us !" 
 
 At this all the neighbours laughed simple-heartedly, 
 and each one confirmed by some instance the state- 
 ment that old people like to discriminate between 
 their times and ours. And now the Mayor beckoned 
 to the bystanders that they should step quite close 
 to him. And then he said not very loud " On this, 
 I said to old Loyka, " Oh ! grandfather, I am sur- 
 prised to find that you do not know that you had 
 your well hard froze in summer time." " My dear 
 good little gossip," says he, " for many a long year 
 now I have not ventured to draw water from my 
 son's well ; his peasant wife does not allow it." At 
 these words a thrill of consternation ran through the 
 group of listeners. 
 
 Vena, it is true, had not wound himself into the 
 selecter circle, but, none the less, he exclaimed as 
 though he had heard all that was said " Not allow 
 him to draw water ! The .frog retires that the dog 
 may lap, and a son shuts his well against his own 
 father." 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 13 
 
 " You see he knows how to give names to things, 
 and yet 'tis but a poor fool," said the neighbours, 
 and they thought wonderingly about the peasant 
 proprietor, Loyka, although they had already heard 
 about this affair of the well, and in fact from Vena 
 himself. 
 
 " While I sat that day by the boundary stone," the 
 Mayor began again, " I enquired of Loyka " Oh ! 
 grandfather you can call to mind many a Kaiser this 
 day, I take it." " I can call to mind Kaisers and 
 gentry," replied Loyka. " I call to mind the time 
 when Kaiser Joseph ploughed, and then I call to 
 mind the time when all the gentry did it after him, 
 only that the Kaiser ploughed with horses and the 
 gentry with us." 
 
 Here the neighbours again laughed, and said 
 " What of that ! he knew how to muster his parts 
 of speech, and to give a slap in the face to high and 
 low, only that he preferred to give it to the high and 
 mighty." 
 
 " I call to mind yet more," said Vena, insinuating 
 himself into the conversation. " I call to mind how 
 that we plough one with another, and how that each 
 hospodar laments that he cannot plough the field 
 with his own father who is pensioned off. Oh ! ye 
 sons, what wouldn't you give to have your wretched 
 1 tatas ' tugging at the plough." 
 
 This remark appeared extremely personal, and 
 they began to gesticulate against* Vena ; but some 
 
14 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 recognised that what he had said was at least true 
 as regarded the Loykas. 
 
 Here one man said " Only what surprises me is 
 that old Loyka was so contented when he fared so 
 ill as a pensioner." 
 
 " Ah ! well ! well ! " said the Mayor, in elucidation 
 of the mystery. " It is easy to be content when one 
 has the wherewithal. He had good reason to be 
 content. He had money enough for himself alone, 
 about which he was wont to say ■ While that exists, 
 I need never beg anything of anyone." And well 
 that he had it, and not well that he had it. Well, 
 because his son, the hospodar, frequently kept back 
 his pensioner's share of the crop, and the old man 
 might have been reduced to real distress if he had 
 been kept waiting for it ; not well, because on the 
 other hand old Loyka, when the law bore him out, 
 forced his son to pay every quarter of grain due. 
 From this money sprang their differences. And 
 then all that he could spare was laid by, and now 
 Loyka's Frank gets it all." 
 
 " That boy will cut a figure in the world," said 
 some one. " He quite hung on his grandfather, and 
 was at his house all day and all night long, until 
 even his mother was angry with him for it. I main- 
 tain that he loved his grandfather more dearly than 
 he loved either his father or his mother." 
 
 "And where pray will you find children who do 
 not love their grandfather and grandmother more 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 15 
 
 dearly than they love their parents," suggested others 
 again. "You have at once his elder brother 
 Joseph," responded the former speaker. 
 
 " Faugh ! he, indeed, why he never loved anyone 
 in his life." The opinion thus pronounced apparently 
 expressed the general sentiment, for no one contra- 
 dicted it. 
 
 At this moment a heart-rending wail resounded 
 from the farmyard, and attracted the attention of all 
 the neighbours present. They peered through the 
 half opened gate and said to another, " 'Tis Frank ; 
 we might have known it." 
 
 Frank ran out on to the village green, his hair 
 dishevelled, his face wet with tears, his eyes still 
 filled with tears, and sobbed forth amid sighs and 
 gulpings, " We have lost grandfather, our people 
 drive me from him — oh ! unhappy that I am ! " 
 And he cried until he choked. 
 
 During this outburst of sorrow the neighbours 
 were silent. Only Vena took upon himself the task 
 of continuing the conversation. " Ah ! we know 
 why they have driven thee out. They want to grab I 
 They are grab, grabbing ! " and he began to repre- 
 sent in dumb show how they were scraping every- 
 thing into their pockets. But all at once, while 
 thus engaged, Vena paused, clapped his hand to his 
 forehead and said " Pantata, the mayor! how for- 
 getful I have been ! When I went to the town this 
 morning old Loyka gave me this paper, and says he 
 
1 6 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 " When you come back from the town give it to my 
 good gossip, the Mayor. And here am I forgetting 
 all about the paper from sheer surprise !" He put 
 his hand to his pocket, where he had an official 
 document, drew out a roll of paper and handed it to 
 the Mayor. 
 
 The Mayor broke the seal, ran his eyes over the 
 contents, and said " This is Loyka's last will. He 
 leaves everything to you Frank, and everything 
 is here mentioned down to the smallest details." 
 
 Very likely Frank did not hear what the Mayor 
 said. He sat by the gate on the ground, leant his 
 hand on the abutment of the wall, his head on his 
 hand, and wept without cessation. 
 
 But extreme surprise and astonishment had got 
 the better of the rest of the bystanders, as was 
 evident from the following conversation. 
 
 " Show it us, good gossip, the Mayor, show 
 it us!" 
 
 " On my faith it is all true " 
 
 " And as soon as Vena returned from the town, 
 he was to hand it over to you." 
 
 " Well, and he has handed it over, to be sure." 
 
 " And then, they say, that old Loyka did not 
 know when he was to die." 
 
 " To a hair he knew that he was to die to-day." 
 
 " You see, I told you that old people knew to a 
 hair when they are to die. Every one who is 
 a hundred years old knows it. And he bade 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 17 
 
 bring that rosolek here, that they might have it 
 ready against the funeral." 
 
 The circumstances of the case so cohered together, 
 that they only the more confirmed the general 
 astonishment. 
 
 Then the Mayor said " The defunct has appointed 
 me trustee, to look through his personal property in 
 the presence of witnesses, and to take everything 
 under my protection. Come, then, neighbours ; if 
 two of you are willing to offer yourselves to be 
 witnesses we can go to the house of the defunct at 
 once, and look over his personal effects." 
 
 " Prythee, why not ? prythee, why not ? " 
 answered the neighbours, and hurried into the 
 courtyard of the Loyka's, but instead of two, all 
 pressed forward, just as they were. Each man 
 thought to himself " Who knows whether the Mayor 
 will not select me to be a witness, and if not, what 
 matters it ? I shall be a witness all the same." 
 
 Even the neighbours' wives hurried after the 
 neighbours into the courtyard. Only that here in 
 the courtyard the male element detached itself from 
 the female ; the neighbours following the Mayor 
 up the staircase into the pension house, the neigh- 
 bours' wives remaining below in the courtyard. 
 
 In the meantime, that is to say, while Frank ran 
 out on to the village green and the neighbours be- 
 took themselves to the pension house, Loyka's son 
 and Loyka's son's wife laid out the corpse of the 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 defunct on a bed, and the following conversation 
 passed between them. 
 
 " Thirty years have we carried hither his 
 pensioner's share of the crop, and at last we our- 
 selves are free to enjoy the pensioner's portion," 
 said Loyka's wife. 
 
 " We have wronged him grievously," said Loyka, 
 the hospodar, and clasped his hands. 
 
 " We him ! he us much more ! It is pretty late 
 in the day to call black white now that he is dead, 
 when it was allowed to be black during all his 
 lifetime." 
 
 " He hath his dismissal ; who knows what awaits 
 us." 
 
 "A pleasing spectacle, truly! to see you begin 
 now to condemn what you approved for thirty years. 
 We lay down a burden with him in the tomb ; do 
 not prevaricate, you know it as well as I do." 
 
 " I would far sooner that I did not know it." 
 
 " Oh ! you men, you men ! ye fear not the living, 
 and as soon as their eyes are closed in death you 
 grow timorous. Why should not I feel light-hearted 
 to-day ? I never feared him while he was alive. 
 I tell him even now that he is dead — I feel the 
 lighter for his loss. I should like to know the farm 
 where they would not breathe free again when the 
 pensioner on their bounty was taken from them, and 
 such a one too." 
 
 " He was my father." 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 19 
 
 " And went to law with you about every measure 
 of his pensioner's share of the harvest. He never 
 wanted for anything, he had already laid by so much 
 for himself, and he kept back from us enough for 
 ten people to have lived upon, and then he went to 
 law with his son." 
 
 " But I lived with him before in peace and happi- 
 ness, even now I feel sorry for it all." 
 
 " Don't speak such words, peasant. Where do 
 people ever treat their pensioners differently. What 
 is given to the pensioner (vyminkar) is a lost thing 
 to the farm, particularly if he has no need of any- 
 thing, just as, in fact, your father had not." 
 
 " You always deafen my conscience, wife." 
 
 " Yes, when conscience tells thee to reckon live 
 for nine. And when it dubs me an ambitious 
 worldling — is that conscience ? " 
 
 Such and similar remarks were made by this 
 woman beside the corpse of the venerable centen- 
 arian, her father-in-law. The grave which generally 
 closes the lips of slander had no such effect upon 
 her. 
 
 Then her eyes fell on a small table which con- 
 tained, as she was aware, a considerable amount of 
 her late father-in-law's property. She reconnoitred 
 the small table, found a key in the drawer, pointed 
 it out to her husband, and said well delighted — 
 
 " You see we have the key in our hands ; it will 
 be ours, ours, too, will be all these savings and not 
 
20 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 that nasty Frank's. And you would have let the 
 boy -stay and take it all." 
 
 Her husband understood this hint, and stepped 
 close to the table in order to assist his wife in her 
 investigation, and also to see with his own eyes how 
 much his father's savings might amount to. 
 
 They had just not opened the drawer when they 
 heard steps — many steps — on the staircase. They 
 listened, the little key remained in their hands just 
 tapping against the table. At that moment entered 
 the living room of the pension house — the Mayor, 
 and after him almost all the neighbours. 
 
 Frank also had taken this opportunity to insinuate 
 himself into his grandfather's apartment, knelt again 
 beside the corpse, and only called out " Oh ! grand- 
 father ! oh ! grandfather ! " 
 
 The Mayor saluted, " Neighbour Loyka, may God 
 console you. Look here ; just read through what 
 is written on this paper, and then give that key into 
 my hands." 
 
 At these words the peasant woman grew pale, and 
 almost trembled. " You see here, neighbours, a key 
 in my hand. I should like to know who dares to 
 say " that key is mine. " 
 
 " Certainly you dare not say so, my good gossip," 
 said the Mayor sleekly. "Just wait until your 
 husband has read through what I have given him." 
 
 When hospodar Loyka had read his father's last 
 will and testament to the end, he went to his wife, 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 21 
 
 tore the key out of her hand, and said " Take it, my 
 good gossip, the Mayor ! " 
 
 " Well, then, you may see about the funeral as 
 well, good gossip, the Mayor," said the peasant 
 woman, and burst into tears. They were tears of 
 anger, of impotence, and of little mindedness. 
 
 " I will see about it, my good gossip, I will see 
 about it," said the Mayor ; went to the corpse, took 
 its measure, then took Frank by the hand, gave him 
 this measure, and said " Go, little son of mine, to 
 the gravedigger, that he may delve a grave for thy 
 grandfather according to this measure." 
 
 Frank took the measure, and sped like the foam, 
 and the Mayor and his witnesses discharged their 
 duties with respect to Loyka's personalty. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 fr N Frishets they had a chapel, near which lay the 
 ^ old burial ground, but they had long ceased to 
 bury the dead in it. The burial ground for the pre- 
 sent defunct was distant about a quarter of an hour's 
 journey from the village, and almost in a deserted 
 spot. 
 
 From Frishets to the west trended a low hill for 
 a distance of two miles ; it was tillage land on both 
 its slopes and divided into fields, while along the 
 ridge of the hill itself ran a carriage road. Half 
 way- along the hill and near the carriage road was the 
 burial ground of the union — that is to say, Frishets 
 and several other villages. 
 
 Four lofty walls, built in a quadrangle and white- 
 washed, proclaimed from a distance that they were 
 the walls of a cemetery. High aloft and stretching 
 to heaven in the centre of these four walls a 
 ruddy-painted cross on which hung a white metal 
 figure of the Christus confirmed it, while several lesser 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 23 
 
 crosses which only just managed to peer into the 
 neighbouring district with their summits ranged 
 along the wall, equally bore witness to the fact. If 
 a dead man could have risen from the grave, he 
 would only have needed to sit astride the cemetery 
 wall and he would have seen his native village and the 
 very house in which he was born, from whatever parish 
 he had been brought hither. Contrariwise, the 
 villagers of any parish could see at a glance the 
 dwelling place of their dead, and visit them in memory. 
 
 Moreover, in the cemetery were two modest 
 buildings placed side by side. One with three 
 grated windows ; and in that dwelt the gravedigger. 
 One with a single small window without any 
 grating, and there dwelt the bones. It was 
 was quite proper that, on account of the lonesome- 
 ness of his dwelling the gravedigger should have his 
 windows grated, in order that no ill-disposed person 
 should break into his house ; it would have been 
 quite superfluous to put a grating to the charnel- 
 house ; for who would ever think of entering that 
 single window ? At one side were a few skulls 
 piled in order and a few unburied shin bones — that 
 was a treasure about which a thief pays scanty heed. 
 
 By day mirth and gaiety reigned around the 
 burial ground. People worked afield, conversed, 
 sang, whistled, shouted to one another from field to 
 field, and answered one another from field to field — 
 and sound and speech are the source of all gaiety. 
 
24 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 From field to field scudded the partridges, some- 
 times a hare ran along the road as far as the 
 cemetery and browsed on the graves of human 
 ancestors to requite these for having dined off his 
 own ancestors. Or a lark fluttered from the field 
 into the blue air of heaven, and there poured forth 
 melody for its own delight, and also for our enjoy- 
 ment. The field grew green with varied tints of 
 emerald, grew pink and white with clover, grew 
 yellow with beetroot, grew crimson with hosts of 
 poppies — and in the midst of it all glistened the 
 burial ground, in the midst of the burial ground 
 stretched to heaven the ruddy cross with the white 
 iron figure of the Kristus. 
 
 Here, at eventide and at nightfall it was not so 
 gay. No one was working in the field, no one 
 spoke, the lark was asleep, and the green tint of 
 the field was bathed in the sombre colours of 
 evening and of night. And then those crosses 
 which peered forth over the cemetery wall were 
 just like heads and those heads looked just as if 
 they were leaning on their hands, and it all peered 
 forth over the wall at the carriage road, and at any- 
 one who might be passing along it. The tall ruddy 
 cross in the centre raised on high its desolate arms, 
 on which, in windy weather, thumped the white 
 iron figure of the Kristus. From the ' burial ground 
 a bat flitted forth — after this there was nothing 
 for it but that the wayfarer should cast a 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 25 
 
 timid glance at the bone-house, to see whether 
 something was not there also glowering from the 
 window, and then lastly he must fain cast a glance 
 at the dwelling of the gravedigger to see whether 
 there was a light in the window or whether those 
 windows also were lost in ghostly phantasies. 
 
 At eventide and at nightfall few of the villagers 
 cared to take a walk hither, and anyone whose road 
 led along the ridge of the hill or on either side of it, 
 preferred to diverge I know not how many miles 
 through lanes and byeways rather than allow him- 
 self to be surprised at night in the neighbourhood of 
 the burial ground. As to dwelling here day after 
 day and night after night, for a whole year, for 
 all one's life — you might have built a golden palace 
 on the spot and I know not whether you would 
 have found in the whole country-side a man to 
 inhabit it. 
 
 Logic sometimes makes strange skips. All will 
 perceive that a place which everyone shuns after 
 dark is one of perfect security. A child might 
 stand a siege there, and the puniest could put to 
 flight the staunchest hearted. And yet every grown- 
 up person would have considered himself a poor 
 creature if he had settled there as gravedigger. 
 And yet on the other hand, he thought to himself 
 that the gravedigger ought to be a perfect Hercules 
 to bear calmly all the horrors of the place — the 
 glowering of the crosses over the wall, the thumping 
 
26 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 of the tinned figure of the Christus, the flittering of 
 the bats, the desolateness of the bone-house and 
 similar things. 
 
 By a strange coincidence it happened that the 
 gravedigger was the Hercules of the neighbourhood, 
 Bartos, about whom whole books might be written. 
 If Bartos had ever said, " I will give battle to a 
 ghost," everyone would have wagered that Bartos 
 would get the best of the encounter — such a man 
 and no other was cut out to be a gravedigger in a 
 lonely cemetery. So then, perhaps, it came to pass 
 that the popular logic argued backwards, as thus : 
 because the present gravedigger, Bartos, was the 
 Hercules of the neighbourhood, it followed that only 
 a Hercules was fit to be a gravedigger in that spot. 
 
 How many a story of his strength was recounted 
 by credible eye witnesses. Once on Sunday, when 
 Bartos was on the spree, there drove into Frishets a 
 drag full of soldiers on leave, and in their insolence 
 they chivied the people hither and thither and struck 
 at everyone who approached their vehicle. Here- 
 upon arose a panic in the village, people ran out of 
 the ale-house and among them Bartos. Bartos 
 seized hold of. the horses, held them back, and held 
 back even the vehicle. But, thereby, he effected 
 but little, because he could not approach the 
 carriage, seeing that the soldiers struck out at every- 
 one. "Come and hold the horses ! come and hold 
 the horses ! shouted Bartos to his neigbours. And 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 27 
 
 when the neighbours held the horses Bartos crept 
 under the carriage, arched his back against it, lifted 
 it off the ground and upset it, so that the soldiers 
 fell out of it and then the citizens were quit of them. 
 Never in their lives had the soldiers suffered such a 
 reverse, even from an enemy, as on this occasion. 
 
 In these parishes it was a custom to test the 
 strength by charging at one another face to face. 
 Folks only tried it once with Bartos — never a 
 second time ; at the second fling, he sent every one 
 spinning, his opponent staggered backward and it 
 was a wonder if he did not fall. 
 
 Also, " the hook" was a frequent mode of exercise. 
 Two men clasped the bight of a large hook with the 
 fingers and thumb and then pulled against one 
 another across a table. Come and try "the hook" ; no 
 one tried against Bartos more than once. He always 
 gave way the first time, but at the second bout he 
 dragged along his adversary together with the table, 
 then his adversary for a couple of days had to nurse 
 his thumb in cold water. 
 
 As he was strong so he had artifice. Once he 
 went homewards by night in winter wrapt in his 
 cloak. There fell upon him four footpads, and in 
 order that he should not escape they muffled 
 him in his own cloak. But Bartos tore away from 
 beneath the chain which served for a clas'p at the 
 neck — glided out of the cloak like an eel, and soon 
 put all his enemies to rout. 
 
28 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 In order that no one should be surprised that 
 highwaymen should fall on a gravedigger, I must 
 say at once that he was well known to carry money 
 about his person. In those days strong boxes and 
 savings banks were not yet invented. People, there- 
 fore, who were possessed of wealth lodged their 
 money with Bartos, because he dwelt in a cemetery, 
 and because he was so strong. It became the 
 custom of the neighbourhood to have their money 
 buried in the ground by Bartos at his abode. Thus 
 Bartos seldom or never went to or from a village 
 without carrying silver in his ' pockets, sometimes 
 a hundred pieces or more. Just as any one wanted 
 money or was flush of it, Bartos brought it or carried 
 it away. Hence we may see also that people built 
 on his tried honesty as on a rock. 
 
 If he went to more distant villages at night-fall, 
 and had to go by a wood, and he was apprehensive 
 of danger, he laid himself somewhere behind the 
 bushes, teamed the money into his boots, and so 
 slept till morning. Or if it was cold he laid himself 
 somewhere beside a dung hill, thrust his feet into 
 it, and slept thus. 
 
 Once they almost had him. Hereupon he turned 
 round, and cried out " If you do not decamp, 
 I will plunge this knife into your bodies." The 
 chaps took fright and fled, but Bartos had merely 
 a splinter of. wood in his hands in place of a 
 knife. 
 
On Condition :'. or Pensioned Off. 29 
 
 Of his youthful experiences especially, many stories 
 were told. He was once in an alehouse where music 
 was playing, and the lads were disputing who should 
 have the honour of dancing a solo. 
 
 When they could in nowise determine among 
 themselves, Bartos stepped up to the table, behind 
 which sat the musicians, clapped his fist down upon 
 it, and shouted out *' Play me a solo." The 
 musicians tuned up, and Bartos had already begun 
 to spin round in the waltz with some damsel or 
 other. But his comrades would not leave him in 
 peace. Like one man they clubbed together against 
 him, and tried to hinder him from dancing. Bartos 
 let go his partner, caught the foremost of the lads 
 with one hand by the neck, with the other hand by 
 the girdle, lifted him off his feet high in the air, be- 
 gan to chevy the others with him, to strike them 
 blindly with him, and to press them towards- the 
 doorway until he pressed them through it ; then he 
 flung the one whom he had held by the neck and 
 the girldle among them, and said " Take him, it 
 was he who worsted you." Then he looked around 
 for his partner, she was cowering under a bench in 
 a corner of the room and trembled all over. Says 
 Bartos, " Just come out of that," and then to the 
 musicians " You have not finished playing us the 
 solo." Never in her life had the damsel danced as 
 she did that day. The servants peeped in at the 
 window to see how she and Bartos danced together, 
 
30 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 and he danced until he was out of breath. When 
 he could not make another step, he called to those 
 who stood outside " Now you may come in, now I 
 will let you have your turn." 
 
 • But Bartos was by no means a gross tyrannical sort 
 of giant. Never in his life had he ever challenged 
 anyone, never in his life had he ever given the first 
 blow, after that, if he gave one, it was scored in the 
 popular memory. Nor was he the least at feud 
 with the gentry in the public offices, only that there 
 again he had a tongue in its proper place and 
 lammed into them with words. He had no fear of 
 persons, be they gentle or humble; of the gentry 
 still less than of the humble. 
 
 He carried money for his neighbours to the public 
 offices and into the city ; who, pray, could take it 
 into the town more securely, who, pray, could do 
 their business for them better than Bartos. But 
 God preserve the official who dared to touch him 
 even with a harsh look ! Or just fancy if they had 
 threatened him with the clerks in the office. Four 
 clerks might have come, and neither singly nor 
 altogether would they have dared to forge upon him 
 — perhaps they would have been afraid to receive 
 him even in the lock-up house. 
 
 Once the neighbours drove into Prague with 
 wheat, and took Bartos with them as cashier. Bartos 
 stopped at the toll booth to pay the duty. How 
 could the collector know that it was Bartos, the 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 31 
 
 gravedigger ! He paid no attention to him, and 
 made as though he counted. " How much will it 
 be," cried Bartos with such vehemence that the 
 paper fell out of the toll collectors hand. " Come, 
 come, we will have no bullies here," said the toll 
 collector. " A thousand curses ! you are the bully," 
 said Bartos, and nothing more. The toll collector also 
 said nothing more, but his hand trembled with rage 
 as he gave Bartos the change, and thus it happened 
 that one ' desetnik ' fell on to the pavement outside 
 his office. " There is a * desetnik ' missing," says 
 Bartos. " You have it on the ground," says the tax 
 collector, and nudged himself into a certain 
 amount of valiancy. " I pick up nothing from the 
 ground," says Bartos. The toll collector must even 
 shuffle out of his office, pick up the ' desetnik,' and 
 give it into Bartos' hands.. " There now I have all," 
 said Bartos, and as he quitted the toll booth 
 muttered loud enough for the toll collector to hear, 
 " I will teach people to throw money on the ground." 
 Another time he went to an office for the purpose 
 of drawing a sum of money and the cashier happened 
 to be a new comer, and thus did not know Bartos. 
 This official said that he had the money at home in 
 his house, that Bartos might go on in advance, and 
 that he himself would follow him directly ; Bartos 
 wenf into the house. But the official did not come 
 for a long time and Bartos began to grow impatient, 
 and when the cashier did come he began to talk to 
 
32 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 his wife and did not notice Bartos. Bartos rose 
 from his seat and began to open the windows in the 
 room, he opened them all. The official begged to 
 know what he was about. " If I have to wait," said 
 Bartos, "I must have fresh air; stinks are not for 
 me." Then the cashier's wife began to interfere, 
 and shrieked out " Look at the red-hair'd ruffian ! " 
 " Yes, look at him," retorted Bartos quickly, " and 
 then look at Madame's sweet double chin." 
 
 This silenced the official's chatter, and indeed his 
 good lady's, who hastily threw a handkerchief about 
 her neck ; after a few minutes Bartos had the money 
 counted out to the last kreutzer. 
 
 Once he came to a lawyer's office, and there they 
 wished to put him off with a paper scrawled over 
 with pot hooks, telling him to come. another day. 
 " And, pray, why should I come another day when 
 I am here to-day," answered Bartos testily. " What 
 is that ?" said the official. "That I will not stir 
 hence until my business is transacted." The official 
 shouted to a clerk. Just as he had uttered the 
 words Bartos stepped up to the table behind which 
 sat the official, and said tartly "A clerk on me! 
 Here I am, if you want me." Then he struck the 
 official's table such a blow with his stick that it set 
 all the pens and pencils skipping, and shouted " Am 
 I then come to look for justice at some booby's 
 office ! " Hereupon all the official staff rushed in 
 pell mell, but as soon as they saw Bartos they 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 33 
 
 whispered something to their chief, whom the affair 
 had compromised, and in five minutes Bartos 
 business was transacted. It is to be understood 
 that now none of the clerks were forthcoming, and 
 if they had come it would have been just the same. 
 
 If some of my readers think these answers and 
 sayings of Bartos somewhat rough, and boorish, I 
 cannot help it. But still I say that he only paid 
 folks in their own coin, and that he only paid them 
 out in this manner when they as good as braved him 
 to do so. But if the brutalities and all the insulting 
 expressions were noted down, which in previous times 
 (every one knows how long ago I mean) the officials 
 permitted themselves to use towards the people, a 
 pretty large volume might be compiled. Also it 
 came to pass sometimes that the neighbours 
 grumbled in the presence of Bartos about the brutal 
 behaviour of the officials. " It is a curious thing," 
 said Bartos, " I have had no fault to find with them 
 now for a long time." ' 
 
 Once he came to an office and the official was 
 smoking. Bartos also drew out a well filled pipe 
 and lighted it. M Do you think you are in the 
 servants' hall ? * objected the official. " Yes/' 
 answered Bartos, " here is smoke as if from a lot of 
 stable boys," and they passed it over. 
 
 In other respects Bartos was, as we have said, 
 intrinsically good hearted, and even not without 
 humour. About a hundred paces from the burial 
 
34 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 ground stood several pear trees which belonged to 
 the neighbours of Frishets, but they allowed Bartos to 
 take the fruit in requital for his various services, 
 so that Bartos might say the pears were his. Once, 
 on a Sunday afternoon, thinking that Bartos was 
 not at home, two lads climbed into a pear tree and 
 shook off the fruit into bags. But, as it fell out, 
 Bartos approached. The lad who saw him first 
 jumped down and cried out to the other to make 
 haste for Bartos was coming. But the other one 
 dawdled. Just as he was about to spring down 
 Bartos run under him, caught him by the collar, so 
 that the lad found himself treading the air with both 
 feet. While continually threatening him with the 
 whip, his captor only said " I'll teach thee to dawdle 
 another time," and then he let the lad go scot-free. 
 
 Just as people told stories about Bartos as the 
 country Hercules, so also they had to tell about him 
 in his character of sexton. More than once they 
 had seen him weep while he dug a grave, and more 
 than once they heard him hold mysterious com- 
 munication above an open grave. More than once 
 they had seen him sitting on a grave as though he 
 were holding intercourse with the dead. But not 
 perhaps with this or that dead man, but with all 
 whom he had known. 
 
 He used to visit them in succession or according 
 as he missed them, and felt sorry for them. " I 
 must go to Klimoff." he would say, "just now I feel 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 35 
 
 so sorry for him." And then he reminded Klimoff of 
 all sorts of things — where he had walked with him, 
 where they used to ramble together, when they had 
 gone to hear the band play, and so forth. When 
 this recapitulation was quite at an end, he would say 
 " And now it is your turn, Klimoff, to tell me how 
 you get on down there." After this he listened for a 
 moment, and when no reply came, he made as 
 though he had heard an answer, and said " Ah ! yes, 
 that is just what I thought. How curious ! Ah ! 
 ha ! so it is like that down there. Ah ! well ! how 
 different it must be when it is like that," and so 
 forth. 
 
 He had a very special set of reflections when after 
 seven summers some one's turn came to be ex- 
 humed. When he had delved down to the coffin, he 
 rapped on the lid, and shouted " Are you there, 
 Vaclav ! " After this he answered himself for the 
 dead man, ' I am/ " Come then, creep out," he said 
 again for himself; then with the greatest care he 
 raised the lid of the coffin and, beholding the corpse 
 which looked as if swathed in spider webs, he said 
 " And pretty dainties thou dost get down there ! 
 What a figure thou art ! Thy own children would 
 not recognise thee if ever they were to meet thee ! 
 And not to have a rag on ! Shocking ! Pray when 
 did you comb yourself ? And what is the fashion 
 your head gear follows ? Nowadays we never wear 
 it thus. To think of combing it thus." And so on. 
 
36 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 Then again he run through the dead man's past life 
 with him, and here it pretty often came to pass that 
 Bartos wept; just as if he had only then laid the 
 corpse in the grave. Generally this exhumation 
 concluded thus " It is not well with thee down there ; 
 they have patched thee together but poorly. Alas ! 
 I fear thou will not hold together much longer." 
 After this he touched the corpse, which thereupon 
 fell to pieces into bones and a few clods of earth. 
 
 This man, just as he was compassionate towards 
 the dead, was yet a hundred times more so towards 
 the living. There was no grief for which he did not 
 feel compassion, there was no misfortune which ever 
 failed to touch his heart. But his was not perhaps 
 the spurious compassion which is assumed to win 
 general admiration ; rather was it the compassion 
 which, if possible without parade and bustle, is 
 succeeded by compassionate deeds. 
 
 Once they brought a coffin to the burial ground 
 slovenly nailed together. No one followed it to the 
 grave save one little girl three years of age. In the 
 coffin lay a kind of a servant girl — they called her 
 Katchka. She was an illegitimate child, and the little 
 girl who followed her to the grave was also illegiti- 
 mate. How could any honest soul come to such 
 a funeral ? 
 
 For the nonce, Bartos had to play the priest. He 
 repeated a few prayers over the grave, and when the 
 little girl wept over the coffin, he said " Sprinkle it, 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 37 
 
 little one, sprinkle it : maminka will sleep the 
 lighter ; for the tears of a child are the fairest waters 
 of purification." When he wished to lower the 
 coffin into the grave he saw that there was to help 
 him only one servant who had driven the dead 
 Katchka in an open ribbed wagon. " Is there no 
 one here but thee ? " inquired Bartos angrily. 
 
 " And who then would come to the funeral of such 
 
 a ," said the servant, and leered in a very saucy 
 
 manner. 
 
 After this Bartos was silent, and filled in the 
 grave over the corpse. When the grave was filled 
 in, the little girl plaintively lamented that she had 
 no one to go to, and that no one wanted her in the 
 village. 
 
 '•' And why does no one want her," asked Bartos 
 of the servant. 
 
 " And who, then, would trouble his head about 
 
 her, about such a ," said the servant again, and 
 
 once more leered in the same saucy way. 
 
 " What dost thou mean by ' such a one,' thou 
 boor ! " retorted Bartos on the servant. " Did any 
 other than He who created thee, create her ? Wilt 
 thou make thyself her judge, because she came into 
 the world thus and not otherwise. Thou knowest, 
 forsooth, who is such an one, and who is not such 
 an one." 
 
 And then he gave the servant a trifle to salve his 
 wounded pride. 
 Q 
 
38 
 
 On. Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 "Well they all say it," observed the servant 
 apologetically. 
 
 " All such boors as thou," retorted -Bartos. And 
 then he turned toward the little girl, and enquired 
 what they called her. 
 
 " Staza," said the little damsel. 
 
 " You shall never go with him again little Staza," 
 said Bartos, and took her by the hand. " You shall 
 stay here with me and Maminka. Would you like ?" 
 
 " I should like." 
 
 And from that day forth Bartos adopted little 
 Staza as his own. 
 
 She had been with him six years and called him 
 * tatinka ! ' and so she was nine years old when 
 Loyka's Frank brought the measure to Bartos, in 
 order that by it Bartos might delve the grandfather's 
 grave. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 tT was a dreary mission for Frank to carry to the 
 cemetery the measure for his grandfather's 
 grave. Hitherto he had not in the least realized 
 that it was a burial ground. He had been there 
 when somebody was being interred, when they sang 
 hymns to him, prayed above his coffin, and wept for 
 him. But what effect have all such ceremonies 
 upon a mere child. Issuing from the burial ground 
 he sees the laughing green fields, the flowery hedge 
 rows, he sees the weasels run along the hedgerows, 
 and forthwith yon grim cemetery is forgotten, and is 
 no longer the truth. 
 
 But now he was carrying thither the measure for 
 his grandfather's grave. So, then, after all it was 
 the truth. And then he saw how the crosses 
 glowered above the wall into the surrounding 
 district, how in the centre rose the red cross into the 
 air, and on it the white-iron figure of the Christus ; he 
 saw, too, where dwelt the grayedigger and where was 
 the bone house — so, then, all that world of greenery 
 around him was no longer true, only the cemetery 
 spoke to him. Its speech was like the speech of some 
 direful ogre ; Frank scarcely understood the words, and 
 
40 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 was filled with a kind of vague horror at which the 
 heart within him died away and his throat was half 
 choked with sobs. 
 
 The gate by which one entered the burial ground 
 was a wicket gate, and painted the same colour as 
 the great cross in the centre of the cemetery. When 
 Frank had reached the gate he stopped outside 
 it, and looked through the wicket into the cemetery. 
 He looked upon it as upon that horrible Unknown, 
 with which he must now make himself acquainted* 
 He looked first at one grave and then at another, 
 and then thought to himself" Perhaps grandfather's 
 will look pretty much like that one." Then he 
 looked to see what state the graves were in. Some 
 had half collapsed into the ground, some were 
 covered with a fair green mound, on some were 
 flowers, others were railed off, at the head of some 
 stood a cross, at the head of others only a staff with 
 a lath nailed across it to form a cross, at the head of 
 a third was only a stave without any lath across it. 
 In one corner of the burial ground lay a few unburied 
 bones. 
 
 Although it was a warm day at the beginning of 
 June, and the air was clear and full of pleasant 
 sounds, winter seemed to have entangled Frank in 
 its icy folds. That icy winter breathed from the 
 cemetery and from each and every grave within it. 
 It seemed to Frank as though with the measure for 
 his grandfather's grave he had taken upon himself 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 41 
 
 an unpropitious task, and as though he had under- 
 taken a mission to an accursed place which it was 
 impossible to carry out without contamination. He 
 stood by the gate as if frozen to the spot, not know- 
 ing how to fulfil the task entrusted to him. 
 
 At that moment came out of the gravedigger's 
 dwelling the little Staza with a watering pot in her 
 hand. She came out into the cemetery and watered 
 the graves, and all the while sang with a tiny treble, 
 sweet, and tuneful, the words " odpocinte vpokoji 
 verne dusicky."* " Rest in peace ye faithful spirits." 
 The grass and the flowers were half withered on the 
 graves : where she sprinkled them they began to 
 smell sweet, and their odour was wafted to the gate 
 where Frank was standing. 
 
 It was a very tender sentiment which now filled 
 the mind of Frank. That little girl fluttered like a 
 butterfly over the graves, watering with the dew of 
 life, like a spring shower, nature's exhausted and 
 withered offspring — and singing all the while 
 " odpocinte v pokoji verne dusicky." (Rest in peace 
 ye faithful spirits). From the cemetery the blast of 
 winter ceased to blow, a sportive presence seemed to 
 linger there, something breathed warm along the 
 sward, perhaps even the dead felt it. Then once 
 more Staza tripped away and vanished through the 
 door of the gravedigger's abode, and the place was 
 again untenanted. No song nor dance was there, 
 
 * Odpotchinte vpokoji vejrne dusitsky. 
 
42 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 only the jointed grasses raised aloft their jaded 
 limbs. And now it seemed to Frank that after all 
 the place was cold and gloomy. 
 
 But lo ! there was Staza once again with fresh 
 water and once again was like a butterfly and once 
 again was buzzing like a bee and once again was 
 watering the flowers everywhere, approaching even 
 almost to the gate. Frank was apprehensive lest 
 she should catch sight of him ; if she caught sight 
 of him all must be at an end ; he stepped aside a 
 little towards the wall and only just bent his head 
 towards the gate and peeped. Staza was again 
 singing " odpocinte v pokoji," and now she mingled 
 with it divers other tunes. She drew them 
 forth from her inmost soul one after the other, just 
 as we draw out from a wardrobe dress after dress 
 in order that we may look through them and give 
 them an airing. Even those melodies needed an 
 airing from time to time lest they should be jumbled 
 together in her bosom. 
 
 Frank, standing by the gate, felt himself every 
 moment growing more at ease ; as though some one 
 had given him in that accursed place a silver clue, 
 and he had caught hold of it. Again he emerged 
 from his hiding place and boldly posted himself in 
 front of the gate indifferent now as to whether Staza 
 saw him there or no. 
 
 Staza saw him, she stopped, she ceased to sing, 
 and looked towards the gate only just a moment to 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. ■ 43 
 
 see whether the young visitor wished to enter or 
 whether he wished to give some message. 
 
 When Frank did not speak, she advanced several 
 steps towards the gate, and then said " And so it 
 is at your house, Frank, is it ? Wait and I will go 
 and call tatinka." And she ran into the grave- 
 digger's abode. Frank was lost in amazement to 
 know how the girl could read in his face what was 
 passing in his inmost soul. We, however, need no 
 explanation of the mystery. They had heard the 
 funeral bell, and Bartos had said to Staza " Where is 
 it, I wonder ? " And he waited expecting some one to 
 give orders about a grave. Staza now saw Frank 
 and said, as if repeating her father's question, " And 
 so it is at your house ! " 
 
 When Bartos sallied forth with Staza he had 
 already a pick on his shoulder and Staza had in her 
 hands a shovel, wherewith, apparently, to throw out 
 of the grave the loosened clods of earth. Bartos 
 went directly to the gate, and said in a peaceful 
 manner " My dear Frank, perhaps it is grandfather, 
 eh ? " " It is grandfather," responded Frank in a 
 voice still half drowned in tears. " Grandfather, 
 grandfather," repeated Bartos to himself while open- 
 ing the gate. " Ah ! well a day, none escape the 
 bed I make them here. Some of us fight longer than 
 others against being sleepy, but each sleeps once." 
 
 Frank stepped into the burial ground and handed 
 over the measure. "The measure !" said Bartos, 
 
44 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 "your grandfather could just get under my chin, he 
 was amongst the tallest men in the village, I know 
 his measure. And where, pray, would you like the 
 grave to be ? " he enquired of Frank. " Take a look 
 round, I will be with you almost immediately and 
 set myself to delve the grave." 
 
 Bartos departed into his house in quest of sundry 
 other implements, and now Frank cast his eyes here 
 and there in search of a suitable spot. But he saw 
 none, because even a grown up person when over- 
 taken by some real and sudden sorrow, is as one 
 entranced so soon as anything is given him on which 
 to come to a decision. 
 
 Here Staza led him by the hand, and said " Do 
 you know what, Frank, the people from Frishetts 
 lie by yonder wall, which faces Frishetts : take a 
 peep, yonder in that corner is the highest spot of 
 ground, you can see it from the gate, and if you 
 were to stand upon the grave in that corner you 
 could catch a glimpse of Frishetts. 
 
 It is hard to make out what internal connection 
 these words had with one another ; but they 
 appeared to Frank to be so consecutive and reason- 
 able that he agreed at once. " Well, then, there in 
 the corner let the grave be," he said. 
 
 " And if you put a cross there it will be visible as 
 far as your house ; and if you plant a sapling there 
 it will soon grow big enough to be visible also as far 
 as vour house," observed Staza, almost enthusiasti- 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 45 
 
 cally. And now, all at once, Frank discovered so 
 many good reasons why the grave should be in that 
 corner that nothing in the world would have induced 
 him to permit of its being dug in any other spot. 
 
 " Yonder," said Staza, when Bartos returned, and 
 there they began to delve. 
 
 These few and briefly spoken words had already 
 deprived the cemetery in Frank's imagination of 
 much of its horror. Bartos dug, Staza shovelled out 
 the loose earth, and Frank was a silent spectator. 
 Bartos from time to time sang over some popular 
 song which was in keeping with his trade, Staza's 
 little voice accompanied him like a fiddle string, and 
 Frank formed the audience. 
 
 Bartos also occasionally muttered a few sentences 
 which apparently had reference to the defunct, but 
 which neither of the children at all understood ; 
 perhaps Bartos purposely spoke in such a way that 
 Frank should not understand him, and should not 
 have his sorrow reawakened. 
 
 All at once Staza said " Franky, when the grave 
 is delved, we will lie in it together." 
 
 At these words Frank recoiled several steps. 
 Staza laughed, and Bartos remained pensive. Frank 
 recoiled like a machine without volition ; Staza 
 laughed at this, and Bartos, after a moment's pause, 
 said " We are digging close to your mother's grave, 
 we must take care not to come upon her coffin, it 
 has only been in the ground six years." 
 
46 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 " Delve so that I may come quite close to 
 Maminka, then I shall sleep with her," said Stara, 
 as if she consoled herself with the idea, for anyone 
 who had looked for melancholy from this poor child, 
 would have proven himself completely ignorant 
 of the heart of childhood. Staza was but 
 three years of age when her mother died ; in such 
 a little heart sorrow cannot obtain a foothold, and 
 after six years a child does not know what it means 
 to have lost a mother. 
 
 After these words Frank again drew near the 
 grave on the pretence that he wanted to see whether 
 Bartos and Staza would delve so cleverly as not to 
 disturb the neighbouring grave. 
 
 "Thou hast never, yet slept in a grave Franky," 
 said Staza not at all interrogatively, but just as 
 though she were stating a certainty. 
 
 " In a grave ? " enquired Frank in astonishment. 
 Staza grew on graves as the grass and the floweret 
 grew upon them. This cemetery was her playing 
 ground, her village green where she frolicked, where 
 she delved and watered the plants and tended 
 them, it was her school where with Bartos and 
 on those graves she learnt little of literary lore 
 'tis true, but more than all the patter of the class 
 room. 
 
 When she was yet quite young she had once asked 
 Bartos " What is my mamma doing in the grave ? " 
 
 " She sleeps," said Bartos. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 47 
 
 After this, the very next time Bartos delved a new 
 grave, she laid herself in it and slept there as she 
 said " Like Maminka." From that time she slept in 
 every grave as soon as it was delved, if it was not 
 winter time and if it did not rain. When any one 
 died she consoled herself with the idea that she and 
 Bartos would dig a new grave, and then that she 
 could once more sleep in one. On the whole a 
 funeral was a considerable source of pleasure to her. 
 She saw plenty of people, she saw the priests, then 
 she heard them sing and weep and pray. These 
 funeral prayers became her own morning and even- 
 ing prayers, these hymns were her hymns, and from 
 the people whom she saw there she formed her 
 notions about human beings, and about the great 
 world. And so she always looked forward to a 
 new funeral, because it was something novel. 
 
 She looked forward to it also because she heard 
 new hymn tunes, and when the burial service was 
 over she sang what she had heard until the next 
 funeral, which perhaps brought her a fresh supply of 
 hymns. However as she heard at every funeral 
 " odpocinte v pokoiji verne dusicky," (Rest in peace 
 ye faithful spirits), this hymn became her favourite. 
 She did not know what these "verne dusicky" 
 (faithful spirits) were, but putting two and two 
 together in her head she had a notion that they 
 were those who slept in the graves. Whenever 
 she laid herself down to sleep, she said to herself 
 
48 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 in her inmost heart that she would be a " verna 
 dusicka." And sometimes when she had slept there 
 a long time she said to herself on awakening 
 " To-day I have been a long time a faithful spirit." 
 
 So then when Frank received her question whether 
 he had ever slept in a grave with so much astonish- 
 ment, she said " You have never yet slept like a 
 faithful spirit." And after a time she added " Stop, 
 and we will be faithful spirits together." 
 
 Frank however, of course, did not comprehend 
 the connection between these expressions ; however 
 they pleased him somehow ; when he looked at 
 Staza he felt as though he had to say " What thou 
 sayest pleaseth me. Why should I not wish to be 
 with thee a faithful spirit." 
 
 After digging sometime longer, Bartos enquired of 
 Frank how his grandfather had died, whereupon 
 Frank narrated about the clod of earth, about the 
 balcony, and how after this his grandfather fell dead at 
 his feet. This narrative was listened to by Staza 
 with great interest so that for a while she even 
 ceased to shovel out the loose earth, and looked 
 upon Frank as a man of mature wisdom, for had he 
 not had a grandfather who was very, very old, and 
 did he not lead about this grandfather even unto his 
 death. 
 
 " Good," said Bartos after a while, " we have now 
 come close beside thy mama." Thus was Frank's 
 grandfather's grave all but delved, and because 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 49 
 
 Frank saw that it now already fatigued Staza to 
 shovel out the earth from such a depth, he took her 
 shovel and said " Give it me. I also wish to do 
 something for grandfather." He stepped into 
 Staza's place, and shovelled out the earth. Staza 
 sat beside the grave, and looked to see whether he 
 was an adept. 
 
 And now it seemed to Frank as though the grave 
 was deprived of its horror with every shovelful of 
 earth which he flung out. So when Bartos said 
 ' Done ! ' Frank had already no wish to depart ; he 
 leant on his spade and said to Staza " So, then, come 
 to me faithful spirit ! " 
 
 Bartos shouldered his implements and paying no 
 further heed to the children, betook himself home. 
 
 " Do you know what ?" said Staza, " I will sow 
 clover on your grandfather's grave." 
 
 "Why? " inquired Frank. 
 
 " But dost thou not know ? And yet I know that 
 thy grandfather loved bees — he had so many hives. 
 Bees fly to clover, they will speed hither to grand- 
 father's grave, and grandfather will tell them the 
 message he wishes them to give to thee." 
 
 " Sow it ! " said Frank ; and now he longed for 
 the clover to overgrow the grave, and that the bees 
 might fly hither. 
 
 Then Staza sprang into the grave, seated her- 
 self in one corner, and Frank seated himself in 
 the other. 
 
50 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 " Thy mama has also clover on her grave," 
 suggested Frank. On this Staza grubbed with her 
 fingers in the direction where her mother lay, until 
 she came to the coffin, then she tapped upon it with 
 her finger and the mouldy wood gave out a droning 
 sound. 
 
 "To-day I shall sleep beside mama," said Staza, 
 and her eyes sparkled with delight. She had no 
 very clear idea of what a mother meant, but she 
 believed that it was a fine thing to sleep beside 
 mamma. And she had advised Frank to have the 
 grave dug in this spot for no other reason than that 
 she might get near her mother. 
 
 " Shall you sleep here all night ? enquired Frank. 
 
 " Why should I not ? AJ1 night I shall sleep 
 here and to-morrow also I shall sleep beside 
 mamma. 
 
 " Who was thy mama ? " asked Frank. 
 
 "Who was she ? " said Staza. " Why who could 
 she be when she was my mama ? " 
 
 This reply satisfied Frank, at all events if he had 
 tried all his life he himself could not have invented a 
 wiser one. 
 
 The sun set and the shadows lay upon the 
 cemetery. In the grave it was already dusk. 
 
 " Aren't you frightened Franky, " enquired Stara. 
 
 " Since it is in the grave in which grandfather 
 will have to be I am not frightened/' answered 
 Frank, but he was frightened all the same. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 51 
 
 " If you are frightened seat yourself beside me, 
 we will sleep together or we can talk," said Staza ; 
 and she at once made a place beside her where Frank 
 esconced himself without further invitation. 
 
 And they sat beside each other like two birdies in 
 a nest. 
 
 "If thou art frightened, I will lead thee home," 
 said Staza. " I am not frightened." 
 
 And now when Frank saw this little girl so com- 
 pletely without any fear, he said that he would not 
 be frightened either, and that he would, not go home. 
 At that moment he felt so fond of his new companion 
 that he could not bring himself to go home. He was 
 happier seated by Staza's side, and was with her in 
 the grave. 
 
 After a while the moon rose, and the whole 
 cemetery shone white like molten silver. The 
 moonbeams penetrated even into the grave,, all the 
 interior of the grave looked as though it had been 
 whitewashed, and when Frank looked at Staza she 
 was white also. Frank involuntarily nestled closer 
 to her, and Staza laid her sleepy head on his bosom. 
 
 Staza slept with ' maminka ' beside Frank, they 
 were together ' verne dusicky.' 
 
 Later in the night if they had not been asleep 
 they would have heard the tramp of feet approach 
 the cemetery, they would have heard a rapping at 
 the gravedigger's window, they would have heard 
 the voice of the gravedigger, and afterwards all 
 
52 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 these feet and different voices approach the grave. 
 But because they slept they heard nothing of it. . 
 
 Loyka, the peasant, it must be understood, when 
 the evening was already far advanced and no Frank 
 appeared at home, fearing some mishap, went with 
 Vena and a domestic in the direction of the 
 cemetery to see if he could not meet with Frank 
 somewhere or other. And when they failed to find 
 him, they went as far as the gravedigger's to make 
 enquiries about him. ' He was here until quite late 
 this evening/ said Bartos, whether he has departed 
 I know not, but it is possible that he is lying in the 
 grave.' 
 
 " In the grave ? " enquired Loyka with surprise. 
 
 " In the grave," replied Bartos with a peaceful 
 face, and he led them to the grave. " Look how 
 prettily they have fallen asleep together. If you 
 choose awaken him, but I would not awaken him if 
 I were you." 
 
 They slept like two birdies, and knew nothing of 
 what was going on around them. 
 
 " When he cannot sleep any longer with his 
 grandfather, he spends the night in his grave," said 
 Vena, "do not awaken him Pantata." 
 
 Loyka, however, was of a different opinion, and 
 awoke Frank, and this caused Staza also to awake. 
 The boy was drowsy, leapt to his feet, and looked 
 about him. Over the burial ground streamed the 
 white light of the moon, the crosses stretched forth 
 
On Condition : er Pensioned Off. 53 
 
 their gaunt arms, by the grave stood his father and 
 bade him come home with him. Frank did not at 
 once collect his ideas ; only he knew that he was 
 with Staza and that he was not at home. 
 
 " Let him be ; children are children," said Bartos. 
 
 " But I order him," shouted Loyka vehemently, 
 and wanted to jump into the grave. 
 
 " Softly, softly," said Bartos quietly ; and held 
 Loyka with his hand so that the peasant could not 
 stir a muscle. 
 
 " Here I am master — everything only by my 
 consent," and he did not allow Loyka to take a step 
 forward. 
 
 " I am master of the boy," said Loyka. 
 
 " So you are," said Bartos. " These children 
 consecrated with their breath the grave of your 
 father, and did you wish to desecrate it ? Are the 
 wrongs that you have already done him during life, 
 then, not enough ? " 
 
 These words smote Loyka's conscience. He 
 ceased from insisting further and in order, perhaps, 
 to escape from hearing the recital of his own past 
 deeds over the open grave, departed from the spot 
 without more words. . , 
 
 Now the children heard the steps and voices 
 receding; but being still frightened they once more 
 cuddled close to one another, and before very long 
 were again asleep, Staza on the bosom of Frank and 
 Frank having his hand entwined around her neck. 
 
 R 
 
54 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 When they awoke in the morning, Staza said ' If 
 only I had thee for a brother.' 
 
 Frank still held her head in his hands, and 
 said " Well, thou hast me for a brother, if thou 
 wishest." 
 
 Above the grave, folks say that truth is spoken, 
 these children were speaking in the grave itself, so 
 what they said was certainly the truth. 
 
 After this Staza shared with Frank her bread at 
 breakfast, shared her dinner and everything else, led 
 him all over the cemetery, taught him the airs which 
 she had learnt, and by evening they had more than 
 once sung together in a duet. And because on the 
 morrow his grandfather's funeral was to be, Frank 
 said that he would not go home at all that day, but 
 would wait until they brought thither his grand- 
 father, and for that one they would still be faithful 
 spirits. 
 
 Staza told him to pay attention and notice what 
 tunes were sung at his grandfather's funeral, and she 
 would learn them all by heart, then they would sing 
 them over again by the grave side until the earth 
 had been raked over his grandfather's coffin. 
 
 And when the funeral took place, that came to 
 pass which no one the least expected. For while 
 people thought that Frank would follow the corpse 
 with tears and miserable lamentations, Frank never 
 wept at all. And while they thought that Loyka's 
 wife, the peasant woman, would not shed a tear, she 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 55 
 
 sobbed and wept as though she were broken- 
 hearted, and looked as though she wished to tear 
 her hair. 
 
 The peasant woman thus conducted herself, be- 
 cause she wished to efface the impression left by her 
 previous behaviour. She deceived none, but she 
 fancied that she deceived them. 
 
 Frank and Staza listened what sort of hymns 
 were sung above the grave that they might learn 
 them afterwards. 
 
 When the funeral was over, Frank said " Now 
 that we are like brother and sister, thou must come 
 to us at Frishetts that I may entertain thee at our 
 house." 
 
 Staza went with him : he led her by the hand and 
 the neighbours pointed at Frank and said " Just look 
 at that boy : he went to dig his grandfather's grave 
 and out of that grave he is leading Staza." 
 
 The neighbours' wives said : " Look ! look ! he is 
 
 going about with Staza, with that she will be 
 
 just like her mother." 
 
 Frank said to Staza : " Staza, guess whom I love 
 better than anybody else." 
 
 " Who ? " 
 
 " Thee." 
 
 Staza said " I am so glad for thee to lead me 
 about that 1 could walk by thy side for ever. I 
 have never gone about with anyone before." 
 
 And they went about together before everybody. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 HE Loykas, man and wife, by the bedside of 
 their defunct parent, perhaps, left the im- 
 pression of being an avaricious couple. And cruelly 
 should we wrong them if we held them up to scorn 
 as avaricious. Avaricious they were only towards 
 the pensioner on their bounty, and in this they had 
 the common vice of perhaps a thousand of our 
 families. To be pensioned off — that was to be the 
 enemy of the property. That the pensioner and 
 father were one and the same person, did not 
 diminish the grave crime of being pensioned off by 
 a tax upon the farm produce. The pensioner effaced 
 the father, and the Loykas saw in their father only a 
 pensioner on their bounty. And granted that the 
 pensioner did them a good turn now and then — that 
 was his duty as a father ; but the Loykas did not 
 dare ever to do him a good turn — he was pensioned 
 off, and one's pensioner must be thwarted every way. 
 And yet the Loykas were not in this matter by a 
 single hair worse than many others ; I say it with a 
 sigh, but you find Loykas certainly in every second 
 or third village. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 57 
 
 It was not, then, a'variciousness ; it was the 
 relation between the peasant and the father who had 
 pensioned himself off. For in other respects the 
 Loykas had all the good qualities of the Czech 
 peasant. They were honest, affectionate, and 
 hospitable. From their farmstead no needy person 
 ever departed without aid. If a beggar had gone 
 through all the village and departed empty-handed 
 from every house, he went to the Loykas' certain of 
 being relieved. If strolling fiddlers or harpers came 
 to the village they stopped at the Loykas' as at their 
 own home, there they got their victuals, passed 
 several nights, and no one ever enquired when they 
 meant to be off. Ay ! the Loykas' had two chambers 
 specially set apart in the courtyard next to the coach- 
 house, and these chambers were open all the year 
 round ; any one who had no roof of his own might 
 take up his quarters in them. 
 
 And they were occupied all the year round, stroll- 
 ing musicians roosted there like birds of passage. 
 
 Tinkers tarried there till they had mended all the 
 Loykas' pots and pans and those of the whole of 
 Frishetts. 
 
 The kalounkar (tape pedlar) who walked from 
 Domazlik, and only occasionally went home for 
 goods, dwelt in the Loykas' chambers as though he 
 were at home with all his family. Sometimes he 
 was there several Sundays, got his victuals from 
 Loyka's kitchen, and had not even to say thank you 
 
58 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 forthem. So it had been all his life long. The kaloun- 
 kar' s grandfather and great grandfathers had received 
 hospitality there from the Loykas' — then how could 
 they refuse him a home there. Surely they would 
 call down the wrath of heaven upon themselves 
 should they venture to dismiss him. The kalounkar 
 (tape pedlar) was himself born there, his present 
 young family was born there, the old Loykas were 
 sponsors in baptism to the old kalounkar, the 
 younger Loykas were sponsors to the wee kalounkars 
 so now there was a family connection. The Loykas 
 would have felt ill at ease if at certain particular 
 seasons they had been without kalunkarand without 
 tinkers. Perhaps if their humble friends had not 
 been at their house, the Loykas' would have sent to 
 search the district for them. At pilgrimage times, 
 at festival times, or about the season of the village 
 gala — they must needs be at the Loykas' several 
 Sundays before the great event, and several Sundays 
 after it. So that, indeed, there were but few 
 occasions in the year when they were absent. 
 
 Besides the kalounkar who sold ribbons, the cloth 
 pedlar walked the district, and he had even his stores 
 at the Loykas'. On Monday he drew forth from his 
 chest various samples, beside cloth, all kinds of 
 kerchiefs and stuffs for dresses, then he waited 
 several days until Sunday drew nigh, or until the 
 vigil of the village gala, and then he shouldered his 
 pack and went. If it rained or if the weather was 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 59 
 
 threatening, he did not sally forth, and all that time 
 was an extra hand at table in common with the 
 other servants. 
 
 And many an occasion occurred, moreover, when 
 Loyka's hospitality was reckoned upon or missed. 
 People came to have their sieves mended or their 
 knives ground, and also people drove or walked 
 round by the Loykas' with their implements from 
 the field. 
 
 Thither also came people from the village, and 
 enquired " Is not the sieve maker here at your 
 house ? Is not the knife grinder here ? We wanted 
 sieves ; we wanted to have our knives sharpened." 
 Without fail the sieve maker appeared regularly 
 before harvest, and the knife grinder as regularly 
 before the village festival. 
 
 In those chambers beside the coach house reigned 
 life and jollity. There the conversation never flagged, 
 and in the evening even Loyka, the peasant, and 
 sometimes, finally, his wife would pay them a visit. 
 Here all that occurred in the district of general 
 interest was recapitulated. So that you might refer 
 to the Loykas' as to a well informed gazette. The 
 kalounkar (tape pedlar) and the cloth pedlar tramped 
 the whole district and had free access into every 
 family — who then could know more than the cloth 
 pedlar and the kalounkar ? 
 
 And then when a fiddler and harper came, there 
 was nothing for it but that he should play and sing 
 
60 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 over every song he knew of modern and of ancient 
 date, every event consigned to verse, songs of comic 
 character and sprightly pieces of music — then the 
 evenings were gay indeed. Hither, too, from the 
 village a few stray folk would come and form an 
 audience. Hither also Frank led his young com- 
 panion, with whom he esconsed himself somewhere 
 in a corner and listened. 
 
 The narratives which specially pleased Frank and 
 his parents, mostly dated from long winter evenings 
 which include the whole circle of the marvellous, 
 from fierce banditti to black dogs and white women, 
 so that the young people were half dazed with fright 
 if they had to find their way home across the court- 
 yard or across the village green. 
 
 Such was the hospitality of the Loykas' that they 
 became proverbial. And these same Loykas treated 
 their own father who was pensioned off upon a 
 reserved share of the field produce, so badly that he 
 did not even dare to draw water from their well ! 
 
 In these chambers was also a constant guest — 
 Vena, the general messenger, the half crazed man. 
 If the Loykas had told him that they did not wish 
 to have him any longer about the place, he would 
 not have believed that they spoke in earnest, so 
 thoroughly was he domesticated at their house. 
 
 Those chambers by the coach-house would no 
 longer have been themselves if Vena had not been 
 there. With him every one who entered them must 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 61 
 
 sharpen his wit, and from him every one must sub- 
 mit to receive some rebuff either spoken in jest or 
 earnest. With his so-called folly Vena provoked 
 much merriment, and by what he said in earnest he 
 raised the merriment a degree higher ; it is often the 
 fate of truth that we receive it with laughter. 
 
 And thus so many mouths were fed on and off the 
 estate that if Loyka, the peasant proprietor, had 
 shewn all these guests the door, he might have given 
 three shares of the produce as a pension to his 
 father and still have had enough for himself. But, 
 of course, such an idea had never even occurred to 
 anyone ; thus it had ever been on Loyka's farm so 
 long as he could iemember ; it had been thus all 
 through the life-time of his grandfather and even 
 earlier. And yet we have heard that Loyka, the 
 peasant, went to law about every quarter of wheat 
 with his own father. What congruity was there in 
 all this ? 
 
 All whom we have mentioned : the tinkers, the 
 family of the kalounkar, the cloth pedlar, the sieve 
 maker, the knife grinder, the fiddlers and the harpers 
 assembled at the Loykas' when Frank's grandfather 
 died, and they were there when Frank led Staza to 
 the farmstead. They assembled at his grandfather's 
 death as if they had been summoned. 
 
 The fiddlers and harpers considered it their duty 
 to present themselves to see whether their services 
 would be required. It was the custom in our 
 
62 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 districts to go by easy stages from the burial 
 to music, from music to lively music, from lively 
 music to a downright banquet, and from a banquet 
 to a debauch. Just as if at the funeral they had 
 been sad against their will, and required a lively 
 banquet quickly to counterpoise their weight of woe. 
 They took good care to keep sorrow at arm's length, 
 and must needs have something to divert them from 
 it. Or perhaps genuine sorrow is so rare and 
 portentous a thkig that it is necessary to give it a 
 fillup with a flourish of light music whensoever it 
 reveals itself. Or perhaps true sorrow is a super- 
 fluous thing, if we needs must lay our dead in the 
 grave with sighs and tears through which all the 
 time we catch the sound of instruments which are 
 tuning for a dance.' Or perhaps our sorrow is but as 
 a game of play from which we shake ourselves free 
 in a moment, and which with a dance is ended. But 
 at any rate such is the fact : after a funeral there 
 must be music, and music of a light and cheerful 
 sort. 
 
 So then the musicians came confident of employ- 
 ment, and the Loykas conscientiously and sedulously 
 completed all their preparations. 
 
 Before the funeral procession issued forth from the 
 door, Loyka's wife had already arranged her 
 kitchen ; fat beasts slaughtered the day before were 
 already in chops and quarters on the trunchions or 
 were frying on the hobs. Then Loyka's wife followed 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 63 
 
 the corpse, in order to cry her prescribed modicum 
 of tears, — to cry a good bottleful, and it was all just 
 as necessary and just as much belonged to her 
 sphere as the sauces and the sauer kraut. 
 
 After the funeral, then, Loyka's house wore all the 
 appearance of a festival. The guests who were 
 staying in the house and those who were invited for 
 the day sat down to a richly furnished table, which 
 in the form of a horse shoe occupied the whole of the 
 principal apartment ; the musicians seated them- 
 selves in the hall by the pantry, and after a few 
 moments everything was as merry as at a wedding. 
 
 It was a custom in the Loykas' family for the 
 males to marry late in life. Thus our defunct 
 centenarian had not married until well nigh his 
 fortieth year : Loyka, the peasant proprietor, not 
 until after his thirtieth year, consequently he was 
 now sixty and his wife fifty. Joseph, his eldest son, 
 was now about four and twenty — we know the 
 age of Frank. Loyka, the peasant, in contradis- 
 tinction to the vejminkar (pensioner) was called 
 young Loyka. But after the death of the hundred- 
 year-old-grandfather, Loyka, the peasant, became all 
 at once old Loyka, and his son Joseph was promoted 
 to the dignity of young Loyka. 
 
 Joseph seemed fully alive to the importance of the 
 day. He did not seat himself at table, but with 
 watchful eyes superintended and arranged the dishes 
 and liquors as they issued from the kitchen and the 
 
64 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 cellar, and in the dining room he attended to the 
 wants of all. 
 
 This did not escape the observation of those 
 present, and as soon as conversation became 
 general some of the neighbours turned to Loyka, 
 and remarked " Your son makes an excellent 
 hospodar." 
 
 " Ay, ay, and doubtless his kind father will not 
 leave him long to wait — and why should you grudge 
 yourself repose when you have so stout and goodly 
 a successor." 
 
 Loyka, the peasant proprietor, smiled self- 
 consciously to himself at these words, as though he 
 meant to say by that smile: — "Just wait a little, 
 and you will soon hear what I have determined in 
 my mind." 
 
 Then when Joseph came into the apartment look- 
 ing like a bouquet, and threw a glance around him 
 like a recognised commander, the neighbours again 
 said — 
 
 " So Joseph, my lad, you have but to look out for 
 a sweetheart somewhere, your father yonder says he 
 should like to have a daughter in his house, the 
 sooner the better, and his wife agrees with him." 
 
 " You are rather late with your counsels," sug- 
 gested another, " he hath pretty well selected 
 already." And at this the speaker winked at 
 Barushka, who sat near the middle of the table and 
 who, when these words were uttered, bowed her 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 65 
 
 head over her plate that people might not see her 
 face. 
 
 " Prythee, who'll have me/' enquired Joseph 
 airily, and at these words Barushka again raised her 
 head from her plate ; Joseph went out of the room. 
 
 After this some of the neighbours said almost in a 
 breath : — " Oh ! Barushka, pray, what makes you so 
 hot ?" 
 
 " I am not hot," said Barushka, and looked about 
 her with determination into which she had partially 
 nudged herself in order that, if possible, she might 
 still conceal what had now no further need of 
 concealment. 
 
 After this a burst of music was heard from the 
 hall, and in the dining room all laughed at what they 
 had said, and continued to say more like it. 
 
 When the music was over in the hall, Loyka, the 
 peasant proprietor, rose and posted himself with 
 some solemnity by the table. He wished to address 
 the assemblage. Just before he spoke he looked at 
 his wife, and when she nodded assent, he cleared his 
 throat and thus began : — 
 
 " Dear neighbours and neighbours' wives ! As to 
 us old folk," and here he pointed to himself, his wife, 
 and his neighbour Kmoch, the father of Barushka, 
 " we have quite come to an agreement. And so if 
 Barushka has nothing to say against it, we will 
 settle the day of the wedding, and you are all invited 
 to it." 
 
66 On Condition : ov Pensioned Off. 
 
 Here Loyka lapsed into silence : he looked all over 
 the assemblage to see what sort o£ effect his words 
 had produced. They had produced an effect. 
 
 "I could have told you so just this minute." 
 
 " Yes, God grant them happiness, they will make 
 a nice couple." 
 
 " Barushka is at ease now, she is not hot any 
 longer." 
 
 " And where is Joseph ?" 
 
 " Oh ! not far off, I warrant. Perhaps he is 
 listening somewhere." 
 
 One of the neighbours rose in order that he might 
 fetch Joseph ; the others made a place beside 
 Barushka, and when Joseph entered the apartment, 
 he was greeted with a hearty volley of congratula- 
 tions, and the neighbours who led him in pointed to 
 the vacant place beside Barushka, and said " There, 
 that is your place." 
 
 " We were surprised," said the neighbours' wives. 
 " Hitherto we never had the least suspicion," 
 but the}' had had a pretty shrewd suspicion all the 
 same, because they had already several times talked 
 the whole matter over at home, on the way to and 
 from chapel, on the road to and from market, on the 
 village green, and behind the barn. 
 
 Joseph seated himself beside Barushka, and when 
 silence again prevailed, he said " Oh ! Barushka, 
 prythee why not ? Since our parents wish us to 
 wed why should we not be man and wife," and after 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 67 
 
 this he imprinted a smacking kiss on her lips, so 
 audible indeed was it that every one yielded to an 
 equally audible fit of laughter. 
 
 " And people say there was no understanding 
 between them." 
 
 " The deuce ! they understood one another per- 
 fectly well." " Such a smacking kiss is not given 
 for the first time." 
 
 Glasses were now raised and were emptied to the 
 health of the young couple. 
 
 When afcer this they again sat down, Loyka, the 
 peasant, still remained standing ; not having yet said 
 everything he wished to say, he prepared himself 
 for a further continuation of his speech in a solemn 
 manner. As if at a secret signal a flourish of music 
 resounded from the inner hall, and then there was 
 complete silence throughout the apartment. 
 
 And Loyka, the peasant proprietor, began again. 
 " And, verily, on the following terms : The farm- 
 stead will be adjudged to you young people, and I 
 with my wife, look you here, will still be hospodar 
 for six years in it. But again, if that is to say we 
 grow tired of managing the estate as hospodari, we 
 shall leave you the entire management, and you will 
 give us for the term of those six years a quarter of 
 all the produce of the farm. Only after the six years, 
 shall we reserve to ourselves the pensioner's 
 (vejminkar's) portion, but there is time enough to 
 think about that." 
 
68 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 Now a pause occurred, and Loyka waited for a 
 reply. But no reply came : Joseph did not stir, 
 Barushka looked at her father, then at Joseph, and 
 the rest of the company looked at one another. 
 Loyka again took up the thread of his discourse. 
 " If you are not contented with the conditions I have 
 proposed, good. I and my wife, look you here, have 
 the right to manage the estate for six more years, 
 and only when those years are over need we discuss 
 the question of your marriage. If, then, we are 
 willing to grant the farm and house to you young 
 people now at once, reserving to ourselves the man- 
 agement for the six years, we do this for the sake of 
 you young people, because we know how you love 
 one another, and that you are already all in all to 
 one another." 
 
 Now Joseph rose to reply, and the answer was at 
 the tip of his tongue. " What you settle, dear 
 parent, must be held binding. How, then, could we 
 venture to prescribe to you how long you are to be 
 hospodar. Be hospodar as long as you like. Grant 
 that the farm be adjudged to us, permit us to espouse 
 one another, and all the rest will arrange itself in 
 the fear of God." 
 
 Then Barushka rose, went to Loyka's wife, em- 
 braced her round the neck, kissed her hand, and 
 said " Pani mama, if you should wish to manage the 
 household until the day of your death, I will bear 
 you on my arm, and will love you above everything. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 69 
 
 Only let me be Joseph's wife and your daughter. I 
 desire nothing more." 
 
 These words tripped quite glibly from Barushka's 
 tongue, and no doubt came from her heart, and yet 
 she spoke them with a kind of forced energy as 
 though she was anxious that they should not miss 
 their mark. Loyka's aged wife pressed her to her own 
 bosom and embraced her, Loyka wiped away his 
 tears, and at the same instant the neighbours wiped 
 both their eyes and noses, because in all public 
 assemblages tears take this direct route to the 
 ground. 
 
 " Oh ! what a daughter that is," said the neigh- 
 bours' wives to her father Kmoch, " how well she 
 expresses herself, too ; you must love her, indeed, 
 you must. And how proud you must be to have 
 such a daughter." 
 
 " How could I fail to feel delight in her," said 
 Kmoch. " She takes after me : that is just as I 
 should have spoken." 
 
 Then Barushka also stepped up to Loyka, kissed 
 
 his hand, and repeated in somewhat different words 
 
 all that she had said a moment before to her future 
 
 mother-in-law. Here again during these reciprocal 
 
 endearments you might hear tears falling, only that 
 
 this time they were still more audible, because just 
 
 then a braying of instruments resounded from the 
 
 inner hall whereby the solemnity of the moment 
 
 gained a sort of official confirmation, 
 s 
 
yo On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 " Dear children," said Loyka, " so long as we 
 manage the estate, we shall also dwell here in the 
 principal house, and you will be banished for the 
 time to the pensioner's (vejminkar's) house, where 
 dwelt your grandfather. When we cease to manage 
 the estate we shall ourselves go into the pensioner's 
 house, and you will shift hither into the principal 
 building." 
 
 Barushka said " Dear parent, say no more about 
 it at present ; what you settle, that same must be ; 
 and were you to settle that we should take up our 
 abode for the six years even in the two chambers 
 where lodge your humbler guests, I would still bear 
 you on my arms." 
 
 At these Barushkine periods Joseph only smiled 
 and nodded as if to testify that he agreed with every 
 thing that Barushka had said. 
 
 There are people who give way to genuine weep- 
 ing as soon as they hear anything repeated in a 
 solemn manner, even though the words repeated be 
 wholly destitute of meaning to them. We hear 
 parents weep to whom their children repeat the 
 polite platitudes their instructor has taught them, 
 and which are quite unintelligible both to the parents 
 and to the children. We hear strangers and 
 members of a family weep at a wedding as soon as 
 a withered old parson begins to patter from a book 
 divers reflections and pious admonitions ; we hear 
 strangers, too, weep at a funeral as. soon as the 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 71 
 
 priest begins to recite Latin words which now-a-days 
 certainly no one comprehends. And so how could 
 all these good folk who were present have failed now to 
 give way to audible weeping at the announcement of 
 Loyka so solemnly pronounced, sanctioned by strains 
 of music, further affirmed by the protestations of 
 Barushka, reiterated with energy intelligently and 
 eloquently expressed. 
 
 So infectious was the sobbing and gulping which 
 occurred in the apartment, that there was not a 
 single eye which remained undimmed with tears. 
 Both Loyka and Loyka's wife wept, only two people 
 remained proof against this infection, and these were 
 Joseph and Barushka herself. 
 
 When what we have here described was all over 
 Loyka, the peasant proprietor, sat himself down by 
 himself, and then looked greatly exhausted. Just 
 as though he had toiled much and must rest himself 
 awhile. He held the table with both his hands: his 
 head sunk on his breast : his eyes stared vacantly 
 at his hands : his breast heaved stertorously. In 
 this posture he remained for a considerable space of 
 time without change and, save his stertorous breath- 
 ing, was like a statue. 
 
 From this strange reverie he was rudely disturbed 
 by Joseph, who bade clear away the table, because 
 the guests wished to have a dance. And so they 
 were to disengage the table from Loyka's hands 
 as best they might, and after this Loyka rose 
 
72 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 from his seat and roused himself from these his 
 thoughts. 
 
 In the inner hall resounded from harps and violins 
 the merry music of the dance, and in a brief space 
 of time, all who had any pretensions to youthfulness 
 were spinning in the waltz. Even old Loyka took 
 a turn, because Barushka came especially to him 
 and requested the honour of a dance. And then all 
 the rest of the company "stepped out from the circle 
 and allowed Loyka and Barushka to perform a solo, 
 clapped with their hands, snapped their fingers, and 
 laughed when they saw how frisky and active old 
 Loyka was, and how he in no respect fell short of 
 any of the young men there present. 
 
 And here old Loyka himself whistled like a young 
 man, as if he were celebrating his own wedding, 
 until all who were present were struck with astonish- 
 ment, who although they laughed with pleasure at 
 the sight of his youthfulness, still thought in their 
 heart of hearts that it was not quite in keeping with 
 Loyka' s age and character. 
 
 After a while the rest of the company were again 
 in the circle, this time Joseph also who had received 
 Barushka from the hands of his father, and now all 
 tootled and whistled, young and old. 
 
 Who would have said, if he had entered at this 
 moment, that these people were at a funeral in the 
 forenoon, and were now continuing the funeral 
 solemnities ? 
 
On Condition: or Pensioned Off.. 73 
 
 And yet there were two small souls who kept it 
 still in mind — Frank and Staza, who from the inner 
 hall among 1 the musicians, looked at all that was 
 passing in the dining room. 
 
 And so, during an interval, while there was a 
 pause in the dance and only the sound of whistling 
 was to be heard in the dining room, a kind of con- 
 sultation here took place between Frank and the 
 musicians, and before any one expected what was 
 toward, Frank and Staza struck up with the hymn 
 " Odpocinte vpokji verne dusicky." (Rest in peace 
 ye faithful spirits). 
 
 The musicians, fiddlers and harpers, accompanied 
 them. Staza's little voice penetrated like silver, 
 Frank's voice faithfully seconded hers, and then the 
 music accompanied it all — it was as though tears 
 were falling. 
 
 If you are well versed in tales of magic you will 
 recollect how all at once everything in a castle was 
 turned to stone. And thus at this song everything 
 was turned to stone in the dining room. Here 
 some one stretched out his hand to his neighbour 
 and the hand remained stretched out, here another 
 had raised his hand to tootle with it and the hand 
 remained raised above his head, and the tootling 
 died away in his throat. Here another wanted to 
 turn to his neighbour, he had not quite turned 
 towards him, neither was he altogether turned away 
 from him. And when Joseph wanted to drink with 
 
74 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 Barushka he proffered her his glass indeed, but the 
 glass remained in his hand, and the polite speech 
 remained unspoken. 
 
 Into the midst of all that whistling, tootling, and 
 babbling of tongues a knife had worked its way, and 
 smitten all with a sudden blow. Two childish little 
 voices had taken upon themselves to hew down an 
 ogre, and the ogre shivered and reeled to the ground. 
 A morsel of genuine feeling claimed a hearing, and 
 what was untrue and unnatural tumbled to pieces 
 like a house of cards. 
 
 The grandfather still had the last word to-day. He 
 spoke by the mouths of those children who con- 
 strained even the harpers and fiddlers to their cause, 
 and all that gay company in the dining room again 
 knew that it was the day of his funeral. Not gladly 
 certainly, but no one could say, I do not know it. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 FTER a brief space of time the Loykas 
 celebrated a wedding. The festivities passed 
 off at Kmoch's house — at the father of the bride's ; 
 after the feasting Joseph conducted his wife to his 
 homestead. And here the harpers and fiddlers who 
 had still remained there since the day of the grand- 
 father's funeral, played before the hall doors as soon 
 as the bride had entered the house, thus welcoming 
 her with a burst of triumphant music. How could 
 they do otherwise ? 
 
 But they soon found out their mistake. " Just 
 clear off the threshold, will you ?" said the young 
 mistress with such precision, that he whom it 
 touched did not venture to reply. 
 
 Still, all the same, one of the musicians ventured 
 to plead an excuse. " But our good old master 
 ordered us to play here," said he in exculpation of 
 himself and his companions. 
 
 " You lie ! " said Barushka. " Your good old 
 master never orders anything which I do not like. 
 Just be gone from here in double quick time." 
 
76 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 The musicians did not finish their performance, 
 nor did they finish what they had further wished to 
 say ; old Loyka stood as though a stream of hot 
 water was running down his back, and Loyka's aged 
 wife, had it not been the very day of the wedding 
 would, perhaps, have stoutly seconded her lord and 
 master. 
 
 The musicians did not finish their performance, 
 and trailed like draggled chickens . across the court- 
 yard toward the coach-house, and entered their two 
 chambers. 
 
 " And that is a pretty welcome," said they to one 
 another. 
 
 " Truly, she begins wondrous well," they 
 murmured. 
 
 " This is something new on the estate," they 
 added. 
 
 Loyka's aged wife still could not bring herself to 
 believe that the new bride wished so ruthlessly to 
 abolish on the very threshold of her new life what 
 had been for so long a series of years a speciality of 
 the family. " When you danced here at your grand- 
 father's funeral I did not think, Barushka, that you 
 were an enemy to music," said she with a certain 
 asperity. 
 
 " I cannot stand things where they are out of 
 place," replied Barushka with yet greater asperity. 
 Music is in its place at an alehouse, not at such a 
 farm as this. I could not endure to live under the 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. JJ 
 
 same roof with a pack of strolling scamps, with 
 whom one loses caste, because that class of menials 
 deems itself our equal. And a dubious light is 
 thrown on the management of an estate which 
 fosters vagabonds. 
 
 Here Loyka's aged wife recognised to her surprise 
 that a crisis had come, (lit : the sickle had come to 
 the grindstone) and that she must not easily yield. 
 
 " We hand over the estate to you in excellent 
 order, and it would be well if there were never any 
 worse things to complain of," said she. 
 
 " Still, for my part, I could not bear to live in a 
 building where everybody thought that he had the 
 right of entrance, just as though it was an alehouse. 
 Joseph will see to it that this rabble of vagabonds 
 does not take up its quarters here a night longer," 
 added the young bride with the same asperity. 
 
 " Joseph ? " said Loyka's aged wife, and it was 
 half an interrogation and half an asservation that 
 Joseph would do no such thing. She pronounced it 
 with a taunting smile as if she had said to Barushka 
 " You are quite mistaken in Joseph, I assure you." 
 
 "Yes, Joseph," said Barushka. 
 
 " Joseph see to it that the musicians be warned 
 off the farm who have been here all their lives," 
 enquired the elder peasant woman in the same 
 manner. 
 
 " What has been need not be always. There are 
 things which after a time go out of fashion." 
 
y8 On Condition: or Pensioned Off. 
 
 On this Joseph rose, and said " Pray, why should 
 I not tell them ? I will go and tell them at once." 
 
 Barushka looked at her mother-in-law as though 
 she would say " Now, what have you got to say. M — 
 and she smiled tauntingly. 
 
 " And this is the girl who was willing to take 
 me on her arms," thought the peasant woman to 
 herself, and all at once she seemed to stand on the 
 edge of an abyss. 
 
 And Joseph exactly, as though he and Barushka 
 had just finished a game of cards, quitted the 
 apartment and betook himself to the musicians. 
 
 " Will you be so good as to clear off at once from 
 here," said he. " My wife does not wish to have 
 people hanging about the place, and I do not wish 
 it either." 
 
 Here the musicians felt as if they had received a 
 severe shock. " Well, the Lord God reward you," 
 said they, collecting their instruments in order that 
 they might clear out, and they looked at Joseph as 
 though they did not yet know whether it was jest or 
 earnest. But it was earnest, for when they had 
 gone out across the threshold he did not call them 
 back nor when they crossed the courtyard, only the 
 dogs whined a sad farewell to their old friends who 
 went out by the gate on to the village green. 
 
 Joseph still remained by the gate until the 
 musicians were fairly out of sight. And here the 
 family of the kalounkar (tape pedlar), the cloth 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 79 
 
 pedlar, and all who were still present, looked at him 
 in a kind of uncertainty to see whether it affected 
 them also. 
 
 But Joseph did not leave them long in suspense. 
 He leered at their things, he leered at them, 
 and said " You must take it all away by this 
 evening." 
 
 And here the cloth pedlar and the kalounkar 
 looked at Joseph as though they would have said 
 " Art thou that Joseph who sat here beside us, and 
 listened to our story-telling." 
 
 And out loud the kalounkar said " I must entreat 
 you, dear Mister Joseph, to ask our good old master 
 and mistress to come hither that we may thank 
 them for all their kindness. We do not venture to 
 present ourselves in their apartments, and yet how 
 can we go away without bidding them adieu ? " 
 
 " There is no need, I assure you, I will give them 
 any message you may choose to leave." 
 
 Here the old kalounkar said, almost crying, 
 "Then tell them that the old kalounkar salutes 
 them a hundred times, and that he thanks them for 
 this roof which they have condescended to lend him 
 for so many years, and that he never supposed that 
 he would have to leave on the very day when he 
 thought that a feast would be toward.'. 
 
 " I will tell him, I will not forget," said Joseph, 
 cutting short further explanations, turned and went 
 into the principal apartment. 
 
80 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 And thus in a brief space of time were banished 
 from the estate after the musicians, the kalounkar, 
 the cloth pedlar, and the rest. At a moment 
 which is the sweetest in human life, at a moment 
 which every family scores in letters of gold on the 
 page of its domestic history — at that moment in 
 sorrow left this house several people who by right 
 of dear custom considered that it was in part their 
 home. 
 
 " Pray, where are the pedlar and the kalounkar 
 being banished," said old Loyka, seeing from the 
 window how they were trailing across the courtyard 
 with their wares. 
 
 " I have purged the chambers of them also," said 
 Joseph in elucidation. They were no better than 
 the musicians, they had no right to hang about the 
 place. If we young people have to take up our 
 abode in the pensioner's house we shall want these 
 chambers for ourselves, and not for all sorts of 
 underlings. It would be quite a sin if we were to 
 tolerate them any longer." 
 
 There cannot be a severer blow for an old man 
 than to hear his past life and actions condemned in 
 a single word ; and this happened when Joseph 
 declared Loyka's previous system of hospitality 
 to be a sin. And if there was anything praiseworthy 
 at the Loykas' it was, perhaps this, that their 
 courtyard opened freely to shelter any who wished 
 to enter it. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 Here Loyka, as he sat, so he got up, burning with 
 ill-repressed emotions, and said " How, pray, dare 
 you act thus when these ehambers are mine.' 
 
 " If you are so sorry for your poor lodgers, call 
 them back again," said Joseph with a mocking 
 smile." 
 
 " And so I will call them back ! Let one of the 
 servants go and call them back." 
 
 " The servants will go when I send them, dear 
 father," said Joseph with the same mocking smile. 
 " The estate is once for all adjudged to me, and I 
 think that the servants belong to me also." 
 
 " What is that ! " shrieked old Loyka. 
 
 " Come, come, there is no need to explain what 
 you know quite as well as I do ; the servants belong 
 to the estate, and the estate belongs to me." 
 
 " How so ? And can I not venture to dismiss a 
 servant if I choose," enquired old Loyka in just the 
 same sharp tones as at first. 
 
 " You can, just as I can take him on again if I 
 choose. If you send him away, perhaps I shall take 
 him on again, if he suits me." 
 
 " And how, pray, dare you act thus when I am 
 to be hospodar here six years longer ? " And for 
 this question he mustered all his self-importance. 
 
 " On my estate ? " enquired Joseph drily. 
 
 " On thy estate !" screamed old Loyka, and here 
 already his voice quivered with the welling tears. 
 " And so, perhaps, you will tell me after a while that 
 
82 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 I may drag myself off after yon musicians and 
 kalounkari." 
 
 " Prythee, father, reflect, I haVe never said any 
 such thing, although I cannot conceive how it is 
 that these harpers have managed to grow so dear to 
 your heart." 
 
 " May your tongue be turned to stone !" yelled 
 old Loyka in wrath and anguish. At that moment 
 he was scarcely to be recognised. He seated him- 
 self, and his tongue seemed turned to stone. He 
 wished to speak and revolved in his mind this or 
 that sentence, but all failed him, like a broken 
 bough. His speech was thick as -though he had 
 been drinking, and as though he had to babble 
 instead of speaking. Then he slouched, as we say r 
 ' a peasant's ell ' upon the table, leant his chin upon 
 his hand, opened wide his eyes, half laughed and 
 half wept at the same time, and said several times 
 to himself " So it has come to this ! so it has come 
 to this ! " 
 
 This altercation was sufficient for the first time. 
 Motes seemed to flicker before Loyka's old eyes, and 
 after a considerable pause, he said " Wife, lead me 
 to bed." He did not even trust himself to go alone. 
 
 And the young folks took up their abode in the 
 dwelling which had been previously occupied by 
 their grandfather, which was called on the farm 
 " the pension house " (na vejminku : i.e. on con- 
 dition), and to which we will give the same name; 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 83 
 
 the old people dwelt in the house they had 
 hitherto occupied, which was called the farm 
 house (na statku), and which we also will so 
 name. 
 
 In the farm house the Loykas were to be 
 hospodars for six years. 
 
 When harvest time drew near the farm-stead 
 filled with harvesters and harvest women. It was 
 gay in the courtyard below. Scythes and sickles 
 clashed, rakes were being mended, everywhere there 
 was a sound of hammering — just as if a clock was 
 striking in the courtyard. Old Loyka, who had 
 scarcely spoken five words since his son's wedding 
 day, grew young again at the season of harvest. He 
 was so accustomed to those two chambers by the 
 coach-house, he used always to find there some way- 
 farer with whom he gladly conversed, and since his 
 son's wedding day these chambers had been empty. 
 And it oppressed him to have no one to converse 
 with. But at harvest time the farmstead filled with 
 people, moreover, harvest men and harvest women 
 filled the two chambers, and so Loyka felt as though 
 he had come to himself again. Now once more 
 people went to and fro, the courtyard was full of 
 voices and the noise of preparations — so old Loyka 
 was once again contented. Often at early morning 
 he might be seen pacing to and fro the courtyard, 
 pleased with the flavour of his pipe, and with a 
 settled smile upon his face. 
 
84 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 During the few Sundays which had elapsed since 
 his son's wedding day several years seemed to have 
 settled upon his head ; to-day he felt as though in 
 the flight of time those few years had been recalled. 
 The harvesters and harvest women saluted him, 
 smiled upon him, conversed with him, enquired of 
 this and that, and old Loyka loved to converse. 
 To-day he had been talking since early morning, he 
 wished to compensate for the silence of several past 
 weeks. 
 
 The harvesters were glad to go and seek employ- 
 ment at the Loykas' ; here they halted first when 
 they came to the village — Loyka might choose the 
 stoutest of them all. Also to-day he made his 
 selection. Every harvester called him " pantata," 
 and that pleased him; it was evident, he thought 
 within himself, that they still accounted him some- 
 body on the estate, and that they maintained the 
 same behaviour to him as in times gone by. 
 
 In times gone by the harvesters were proud to 
 boast of their respect and reverence for the -Loykas. 
 "Where in all the neighbourhood was the harvest 
 home held so merrily as at the Loykas'. The 
 harvesters were proud of it, and used to pride them- 
 selves on account of it in comparison with other 
 harvesters. 
 
 " Well, pantata, this summer we shall have a 
 merry harvest," said one harvester. " A ne'w bride 
 in the house — she will help it out." 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 85 
 
 " Ay, ay, just so," said old Loyka, and perhaps he 
 did not exactly catch what the harvester had said, 
 for the smile did not vanish from his face nor did 
 he remove the pipe from his mouth. 
 
 " Since at harvest home we have to dance with 
 the mistress of the house, this year we shall dance 
 the summer out, having to tread a measure both 
 with your good lady and the young gentleman's 
 also," suggested another' of the harvesters. 
 
 "Ay, ay, just so," said Loyka, and went on 
 smiling ; for it flattered him to think that the 
 harvester had not forgotten his old mistress in the 
 dance. " But this summer we have no musicians 
 here," he added. 
 
 " And what of the musicians ? They trail off like 
 sparrows after grain," suggested the former harvester 
 again. 
 
 And again old Loyka felt flattered to think that 
 the harvester was not aware of the mode in which 
 th.e musicians had been banished from the farm. 
 "Just so, just so," continued old Loyka with a 
 touch of self-satisfaction. 
 
 After this he gave his orders where and to what 
 fields they were to go, and where they were to begin 
 to reap. When he had delivered all his orders, lo I 
 Joseph was at his side, and said " You will go to- 
 day to cut beyond the meadow." And it was 
 totally different from what his father wished them 
 
 to do. 
 T 
 
86 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 " How, pray, should they go beyond the meadows. 
 The corn beyond the meadows can stand two days 
 longer, but where I am sending them it cannot 
 stand a day longer," objected his father. 
 
 " And when they have to go beyond the meadows^" 
 said Joseph, as if he had not the least heard what his 
 father had said. 
 
 Here the harvesters stood uncertain in which 
 direction they had to quit the courtyard. 
 
 " Well, then, go beyond the meadow," said 
 Joseph's father with forced humility, not wishing 
 that they should observe how impotent his com- 
 mands had already become in presence of his son. 
 
 And so the harvesters went away to work in 
 accordance with the young hospodar's orders. After 
 this old Loyka said to the servants " You will stay 
 at home and make straw bands." 
 
 " There is time enough for making straw bands," 
 said Joseph. " Just go after the harvesters and help 
 them in the field." 
 
 Here again the servants did not know whether 
 they had to stop in the courtyard or go off to the 
 field. They looked from Joseph to old Loyka. And 
 Joseph, perceiving their indecision, said " Why do 
 you hesitate ? He that does not go to the field, let 
 him look out for his place." 
 
 After this the servants departed. 
 
 "And who will make straw bands," asked old 
 Loyka. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 8y 
 
 " Seeing that there is no great hurry," said Joseph, 
 " I think that you alone might manage to make 
 them." 
 
 " Be it so, be it so " ; said old Loyka with a laugh. 
 
 " And I have to make straw bands ? I have to be 
 like a day labourer ?" 
 
 "Like a day labourer? Surely you know that 
 we all buckle to at harvest time ? " said Joseph. 
 
 "Just so. But how pray ? Am not I then still 
 hospodar. Do you know, my dear son, that I never 
 did such menial offices ? " 
 
 " If you are not willing to work, good. It is easy 
 to see that you are but a half-hearted hospodar 
 when you shirk in this manner." 
 
 " It is the duty of the hospodar to act as over- 
 seer ; others can do manual work," explained old 
 Loyka. 
 
 " As for being overseer, that am I," said Joseph. 
 
 " And I am like the fifth wheel on a carriage," 
 exclaimed Loyka angrily. But Joseph, just as if no 
 words had passed between them, had already 
 departed and left his father with a swarm of thoughts, 
 so that he seemed to have his head full of drones and 
 wasps. After this the father looked to heaven, and 
 called aloud in an explosion of bitterness "Lord 
 God ! grant me some inspiration that I may make 
 this cruel son aware that I am his father." 
 
 " Drop a little rat's bane into his well," murmured 
 the voice of the irrepressible Vena. " Unless you 
 
88 On Condition: or Pensioned Off. 
 
 do so, he will soon close it against you as you closed 
 it against your father, and then you will never have 
 another chance of poisoning it for him, pantata. 
 
 Loyka scrutinised . Vena, and seemed half as 
 though he had heard half as though he had not 
 heard him. " Oh ! Vena," he said, " prythee tell 
 me how gall diffuses itself through the body." And 
 he took him and looked into his eyes as though he 
 expected from him a serious answer. 
 
 " Let me fool you only just once," sneered Vena. 
 
 " Prythee, boy, fool on," entreated Loyka in a 
 voice of humiliation that was almost pitiable. 
 
 " And why, pray, should I mix myself up in the 
 concern/' sneered Vena. " Of course your son will 
 do the business for you. How, pray, could he fail 
 to. do it for you when you are, after all, but a 
 pensioner on his bounty. You managed to fool your 
 own father, why then should your son not manage 
 to do the same by you ? But what surprises me is — 
 that in your son it begins so precious soon. You 
 put the fool's cap on your father later. But who 
 can change the course of nature ? Now-a-days 
 youth develops faster. Joseph, methinks, will have 
 done with you sooner than you had done with your 
 defunct father." 
 
 " Don't you know anything more to tell me than 
 that," enquired old Loyka. 
 
 " I do know," said Vena. " But there is nothing 
 in all that. You to talk about happiness, indeed. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 89 
 
 You, verily ! You will be hospodar six years longer, you 
 will dwell in the farm house, you are still master there. 
 Oh ! oh ! things will grow worse and worse until they 
 crack, and until you are mast-headed on yonder bal- 
 cony whence your father looked at the farm house, 
 because he did not dare to cross the courtyard." 
 
 As Vena said these words Barushka came out bear- 
 ing a message " from Joseph, you know, papa dear," 
 to the effect that during harvest time the old people 
 could take up their abode with her mother in the 
 pension house, and that the young folk would shift 
 into the farm house. "We have so much to do, and 
 it is so tiring to run to the pension house and then 
 back again to the farm," she remarked. After this 
 she marched off as though she had already gained 
 her father-in-law's consent to this arrangement. 
 
 " Look, look, yonder, pantata, the maids ■ are 
 already heaving you out of the nest," said Vena. 
 And forth from the farm house the maid servants 
 were already carrying Loyka's furniture. 
 
 " So ! you are to be shelved instanter " said Vena. 
 " See ! see ! I did think that they would have waited 
 a little longer. You did bear with your father in the 
 house a certain time. But youth develops faster 
 now-a-days. See ! see ! " 
 
 Old Loyka turned his eyes to the entrance hall. 
 " Dear Vena," he said, and took him by the hand. 
 " Come and help me, and let us make mince meat 
 of it all." 
 
90 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 11 That will be of small avail now; once you are 
 fairly out of the house, it will be hard to get back 
 again. You will have to go to law with your son. 
 Before judgment is given in your case, the six years 
 are out, and meantime you can be thankful for the 
 pension house. But, of course, you know how long 
 a law suit takes, for you were still at law with your 
 father while he was being buried. The one thing 
 you must pray for is that your son may have a son 
 again, and that this son may one day pay his father 
 out for your wrongs. But you understand all about 
 it." 
 
 " But come and help me ! " he took Vena by the 
 hand as though nothing would move him from his 
 determination. 
 
 " Come along ! come along ! pantata," said Vena, 
 holding himself in readiness. u I will catch hold 
 of your chests and cupboards lest they take flight, 
 and you shall lamm into them." 
 
 And old Loyka went into the entrance hall and 
 began to turn everything upside down, then he took 
 a chair in his hands and shouted into the inner rooms 
 " I will break his head who takes anything of mine 
 out of the house." 
 
 At these words they ceased to carry his things out 
 of the house. Perhaps the sight of old Loyka some- 
 what softened them, and perhaps they deemed it 
 prudent to desist when old Loyka so passionately 
 set himself in opposition. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 91 
 
 Here Vena also took a chair, seated himself upon 
 it, and invited Loyka to sit down on the one which 
 he held in his hand, and said " Let us seat ourselves 
 at your house, pantata." 
 
 His master needed no second invitation, he seated 
 himself on the chair which he held in his hands, and 
 was once more silent. 
 
 "You see, pantata, you would not even have 
 known that you could sit down in your own house 
 if I had not told you so. When you do not know 
 where to dwell come to me and I will tell you," said 
 Vena. After a pause, he added, as though well 
 pleased with the thought to which he gave utterance, 
 " Indeed I am glad that we can sit at your house." 
 " But do you know what ? you would not the least 
 dare to go with me into the inner apartments." 
 
 "" \Vhat is that you say ? " and Loyka rose from 
 his chair. 
 
 " That you dare not go with me into the inner 
 room." 
 
 " We'll see about that," answered Loyka with 
 great vehemence. And he had already taken Vena 
 by the hand and said " Come, Vena, with me into 
 the farm house, thou art my guest there." 
 
 And they entered the farm house. 
 
 " Look, mama, I am bringing you a visitor," said 
 Loyka to his wife, without noticing Barushka, who 
 was present. " He is helping us to ballast the 
 furniture which the sweet Barushka finds so much 
 
92 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 in her way, that she allowed it to float out of the 
 house.' 5 
 
 Barushka paid not the slightest heed to her father- 
 in-law, and let fly straight at Vena. " Clear out of 
 the house, thou impudent rogue I It were indeed a 
 disgrace, if fellows like thee should be admitted even 
 into our best drawing room." 
 
 Loyka laughed. " Meseems, Vena, she doth not 
 appreciate thee. But seat thyself, boy, here by me. 
 You shall see, I will not let them bundle thee out 
 just as they are bundling out yonder packing cases. 
 Just seat thyself, thou art at my house. The dear 
 young folk have already made a clean sweep of a 
 good many things both from the farm house and 
 from the two chambers, but none shall dare to brush 
 thee off, no one, you understand, no one. 
 
 At this Barushka, turning to her father-in-law, 
 remarked " For my part I thought that we had 
 enough to do with one fool in the house ; but you, 
 pantata, must e'en bring in another one." 
 
 " So ! I am a fool ! possibly, young lady, possibly," 
 said old Loyka with a curse, took the chair on which he 
 was sitting in his hands and would, perhaps, have 
 hurried after Barushka and, perhaps, have struck 
 her a heavy blow. But at that moment he stopped 
 short, and said " No, just because we are at home 
 and she is our guest, I do not dare to forget myself." 
 
 For that time, at any rate, the old Loykas were 
 left in peace in their farm house. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OW occurred in the farm house a trying 
 period which it is a painful task to have to 
 chronicle. And it is the more painful, because in 
 the Loykas' farm may be seen a picture of a hundred 
 other farms in which similar scenes are enacted, 
 only slightly differing in their details. 
 
 It is, perhaps, the most painful thing for a writer 
 when in his pursuit of truth he has to delineate 
 nauseous realities. 
 
 Among all social questions there is, perhaps, no 
 single one which can elicit in men so profound a 
 sentiment of indignation as the question of the 
 vejminkar (pensioner). 
 
 We need not go beyond the confines of Europe if 
 we wish to discover slaves and slave masters. We 
 have them at home, each of us in his own village, 
 and what is more disgusting is that the son is the 
 slave master, the father is the slave ; and what is 
 still most disgusting, the law sanctions this relation, 
 approves it, ay, incribes it on the public rolls like a 
 commercial treaty. The greatest popular immorality 
 is carried on before our very eyes, nature debauched 
 
94 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 and trampled under foot, is distorted into what is 
 unnatural and monstrous. The law allows that sons 
 should take upon themselves the part of criminals, 
 and the sons wittingly, ay, hanging their heads in 
 shame the while, hasten to adapt themselves to the 
 criminal's vocation : custom and habit consecrate 
 the deed, and baffled nature loses here even her 
 power of speech. 
 
 But to our tale. The harvest home at the Loykas* 
 passed as gloomily as Ash-Wednesday. In the 
 farm house there was not a cheerful face, the old folks 
 shunned the young, the young couple avoided the 
 old ones. They never looked at one another if they 
 could help it, nor, if they could avoid it did they 
 speak to another. And if they did look at one 
 another or spoke to one another they neither 
 returned the look nor listened with the least 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Just as in years gone by the harvesters used to 
 gather eagerly to the Loykas', so this summer every 
 moment they spent here was a torment to them. 
 And they heartily thanked the Lord God when it 
 was all over, and they might go thence. " I do not 
 come here again," they said to one another. " Not 
 if I have to look for work I know not in • what 
 village." 
 
 It is true puncheons of ale were rolled into the 
 courtyard for their behoof, and they were given a 
 glass or two of rosolek, but not a single face dis- 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 95 
 
 played any affability either in looks or words. They 
 had said to their good old master, out of politeness, 
 that this summer they would have two mistresses to 
 dance with, and lo ! they had not one. The 
 harvesters and harvest women were glad when they 
 could disperse to their different homes. 
 
 And then when the harvest was over the relation 
 between the young and old people became further 
 strained, until it could be strained no further, and 
 the only question was when it would be altogether 
 sundered. 
 
 When after harvest the fields had to be put in 
 furrow, and old Loyka ordered the servants to go 
 to such and such a field, Joseph came, cancelled his 
 orders, and told them not to go where his father 
 bade them, but to go somewhere else. 
 
 When old Loyka bade them sow rye in this or 
 that field, Joseph bade them take the rye into a 
 different field, and sow wheat in the other. 
 
 If old Loyka told them to reap beyond the 
 meadow, Joseph vowed there was time enough for 
 the crops beyond the meadow, and so they were to 
 work in the field. 
 
 Thus things went on until at last the servants 
 paid no heed at all to old Loyka's bidding, but at 
 once questioned their young hospodar to see whether 
 he approved of their old master's orders or whether 
 he would wish to cancel them. Only what the 
 young hospodar ordered was a valid order. And 
 
g6 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 thus it came' to pass in the course of a very 
 short time that, although according to contract and 
 the letter of the law, old Loyka had reserved the 
 right of still managing the estate for six years, already 
 at the beginning of the first year his right of manage- 
 ment was snatched out of his hands, and Joseph 
 virtually became sole lord and master of the estate. 
 
 And what took place between the male portion of 
 the family, had its counterpart also in the relations 
 subsisting between Loyka's aged wife and Barushka. 
 No maid-servant whom Barushka did not wish to 
 have in the house was permitted to stay there, nor 
 would she have been had Loyka's aged wife moved 
 heaven and earth to retain her. And there was not 
 a maid-servant on the place who did not consider 
 Barushka as her mistress. 
 
 And so, then, the hospodarship was completely 
 monopolised by the young folk. Some points old 
 Loyka yielded for the sake of " divine peace," some 
 because yield he must, others because they were 
 taken from him — until, at last, no one troubled 
 themselves about his whims and wishes. And so 
 not six months of the reserved six years had elapsed 
 and old Loyka was deprived of all his rights of 
 hospodarship save the right to dwell in the farm 
 house ; and how secure, his tenure of the. farm house 
 had become we already know. 
 
 Old Loyka must have gone to law with his son at 
 every step if he had wished to maintain his position. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 97 
 
 When he wished to sell rye to the corn factor, he 
 became aware that Joseph had already sold it under- 
 hand, when he thought that some samples might be 
 left over the winter the merchant's agents came and 
 began to fill their carts with it, because Joseph had 
 sold it also. And so now i' faith I know not what 
 still remained to old Loyka to testify that he was 
 still master. 
 
 Such were the conditions amid which Frank, grew 
 up, and thus he began to feel ill at ease at home. 
 Everything there was altered and in confusion. 
 After his grandfather's funeral he had led Staza 
 about the courtyard and showed her where his 
 grandfather had once dwelt, and which was the 
 abode of the kalounkar (tape pedlar) and strolling 
 fiddlers — but now all must be re-christened. 
 
 Into those chambers he had conducted Staza when 
 he had invited her to the farm, and they had still 
 remained almost untouched since the banishment 
 of their previous occupants, here he and Staza could 
 still feel at home, just as when they seated them- 
 selves in a grave at the cemetery. Here they could 
 tell over to one another all the stories they knew, 
 and thus story-telling was still not wholly banished 
 from the farm. It had dwindled to the youngest 
 member of the family, and to a most modest audience. 
 
 Sometimes Staza was the teller of the story and 
 Frank formed the audience, at other times Frank 
 was the narrator and Staza the listener. 
 
98 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 The growing difference between father and son 
 had one advantage for Frank, if we can call it an 
 advantage, viz., that Frank was pretty well over- 
 looked by both of them, and being left to himself 
 might draw profit from this freedom. That is to 
 say he might so far profit himself, that he need 
 not be a witness of all that took place in the farm, 
 might wander at will through the fields, might go 
 to the cemetery for Staza, and lead her wherever 
 he chose. 
 
 We are not among those who think that home is 
 always the best place for children. On the contrary, 
 it is frequently the greatest blessing for a child if he 
 be freed from the fetters of home and be left to 
 mother nature and her relation chance, that they 
 may develop what home cannot impart, and what, 
 indeed, it often thoroughly perverts. 
 
 These children, at all events, found together away 
 from home what at home they had lacked. Nature 
 and chance lovingly made good to them the de- 
 ficiencies of home life. We mean by nature the 
 apparition of the heavens, and we mean by chance 
 heaven's divine providence, and we have two in- 
 structors with which few homes can be compared. 
 
 Staza took him with her to the cemetery, and 
 there they beheld face to face the serious side of life. 
 Frank took Staza into the fields and to the open 
 wold, and they recognised the smiles of the green 
 turf on the earth, the azure blue of the firmament of 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. gg 
 
 heaven, the laverock which fluttered like a singing 
 messenger from one to the other. 
 
 Staza led Frank to the cemetery whenever a new 
 grave was delved. There they heard from the lips 
 of Bartos the life history of the defunct, there they 
 squatted together, slept side by side, and were 
 "faithful little spirits." Frank again reconducted 
 Staza to the field when he found a new bird's nest, 
 when he had discovered any young quails, or when 
 he wished to show her how the partridges sit. Here 
 again he narrated to her the whole life history of 
 these creatures, so far as he knew it, and when they 
 sat by the hedgerow during the narration, it seemed 
 to them like fairy land. 
 
 Staza came for Frank whenever the bees winged 
 their way to the clover which bloomed on his grand- 
 father's grave, in order, as she said, that Frank 
 might see whether they were the bees from his 
 grandfather's hives. And then Frank sat beside his 
 grandfather's grave and Staza beside the grave of 
 her mother, and they were at home. 
 
 Then again Frank led Staza to the farmstead, to 
 those hives which were now his own, and they 
 observed in which direction the bees flew away and 
 whether they went to his grandfather's grave. Then 
 the two children settled themselves in the chambers 
 by the coach house, and burst forth into story 
 telling just as musicians burst forth into song and 
 melody. 
 
ioo On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 And to tell the truth these two chambers at the 
 Loykas' farm seemed steeped in fairy lore and ballad 
 history. He who stepped into them involuntarily 
 remembered things which he had here heard from 
 the musicians and from the kalounkar, and scarcely 
 had he seated himself before it all seemed to come 
 upon him so that he was compelled to relate it all 
 again. Something of this kind Frank and Staza 
 experienced when they went into the burial ground 
 and when they seated themselves in a fresh dug 
 grave. Even there on that little hillock into which 
 the grave was heaped some one seemed to sit with a 
 harp and to softly sweep the strings. 
 
 ■And somehow Staza so aptly interpreted it all, 
 that it seemed to Frank that never in his life had he 
 heard such sweet and reasonable discourse. 
 
 After that they consecrated with their visits every 
 hedgerow in the fields. And that spot where either 
 of them had narrated some particularly pretty story 
 was, in a manner, the source of that story. The 
 .circumstance that had been related was dear to 
 them, and so also was the spot on which it had been 
 related." Whenever they came to that spot a tender 
 feeling was awakened in their minds, as often as this 
 feeling was awakened within them, the place became 
 still dearer, until it was to. them like a consecrated 
 shrine, without masonry, however, and without 
 pictures. Many such shrines had they carefully 
 chosen, resting places and trysting places, fringed 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 101 
 
 with green turf, and above each bent a heaven 
 aglow with the sun's rays and saturated with its 
 smiles. 
 
 Sometimes they sat upon the graves like two living 
 monuments — cheerful monuments, however, and in 
 their young memory and on their young souls were 
 inscribed even solemn matters. And Frank was 
 flattered when Bartos, the gravedigger, made him 
 the auditor of his narrations ; it seemed to the boy 
 just as though the dead grandfather continued to 
 play his part in Bartos, it was too a certain mark of 
 distinction to be made the confidant of a man so 
 sedate and, moreover, the greatest athlete of the 
 county. 
 
 Sometimes again the two children sat by the 
 hedgerow among the rye like two quails, only that 
 they broke in upon the clicking music of the cricket 
 with human voices, and upon the buzzing of flies 
 and bees. And this specially delighted Staza, who felt 
 just as though she were at a concert, and as though 
 she must laugh and whistle, and press Frank's hand. 
 It was dull, though only at times, for a mind so very 
 young to be always yonder among the graves, and 
 Staza's feet grew tired of wandering about the prim 
 and sombre walks of the cemetery. But here where 
 everything made holiday, look whithersoever she 
 would, she likewise made holiday, just as when the 
 lenten season has passed the young sleeper awakens 
 with a glad hurrah. 
 
102 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 At first Frank did not at all comprehend why as 
 soon as ever Staza entered the fields she grew so full 
 of mirth and rapture. Her little eyes flashed play- . 
 fully, she tripped along and skipped about as though 
 she were on wires, her face joy itself, her words like 
 songs. Bnt it could not be otherwise — man was 
 not created to be exclusively sad and serious — gaiety 
 is just as necessary as the sunlight ; the young heart 
 of little Staza was a proof of this : unconsciously she 
 wished to compensate herself for all from which, 
 equally unconsciously, she had been hitherto 
 excluded. 
 
 But later Frank ceased to wonder at her gaiety ; 
 he also was himself saturated with it. When he 
 went to the cemetery for Staza all the way thither 
 he rejoiced beforehand at the thought of her enjoy- 
 ment, and looked forward to her skips of delight 
 and cries of pleasure, sometimes he half skipped 
 about himself when he thought how she would skip 
 about, sometimes he half began to carol when he 
 thought how she would sing and carol. 
 
 And so Frank began to acquire in the parish the 
 reputation of a vagabond who could scarcely be 
 tethered to his home, and we cannot gainsay the 
 correctness of this opinion, he was a vagabond, and 
 became more and more of one every day, so that 
 already he found very little pleasure in his home, 
 and was glad if only he could sneak away out of 
 sight somewhere behind the barn. Sometimes when 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 103 
 
 he went with Staza and they could not esconce 
 themselves in the two chambers by the coach-house 
 he turned away with her at his side, and they ex- 
 plored some choice nook outside the village. If 
 anyone had enquired of Frank what his home looked 
 like, he would only have described those two 
 chambers in the courtyard — nothing else belonged to 
 his conception of home, and no one was associated 
 with these chambers — neither father nor mother nor 
 brother. All that appertained to them was that they 
 were empty, and that he was in them and that Staza 
 was in them with him. 
 
 Later his parents wished to attach him to his 
 home, but it was already too late. They set him 
 work to do a-field, and there he went willingly 
 enough. But if he had to work in the courtyard, he 
 soon sought the easiest means of escape into the 
 country ; and when once he was out of doors and in 
 the country outside, any one might be sure of finding 
 him on the road to the burial ground, unless he were 
 hiding by the hedgerow or in some newly delved 
 grave. 
 
 And now even Joseph began to chaff him for his 
 vagabond ways, and his parents could not deny that 
 their elder son had some foundation for his sarcasms. 
 But we know very well that Joseph was always the 
 spoilt child of the house, and that Frank was the 
 fifth wheel of the coach ; and therefore Joseph's 
 oracular sentences carried no great weight with 
 
104 n Condition: or Pensioned Off. 
 
 them. And when Joseph told his father and mother 
 quite seriously that they were teaching Frank to be 
 a tramp, Loyka strictly enjoined upon his younger 
 son to stay at home and not to leave it any more. 
 
 But even these injunctions soon ceased to be 
 taken seriously. Frank obeyed for a day or two, 
 and after a day or two was already far away from 
 home without his parents paying any heed to him. 
 
 Old Loyka, indeed, already began to grow rather 
 blind to everything novel that originated around him, 
 and Frank's vagabond habits were something novel. 
 Moreover he himself was too much afflicted by the 
 relation subsisting between himself and Joseph, and 
 was too full of it, with the best intentions in the 
 world, to have much room left in his heart for 
 Frank. 
 
 And here we must say, once for all, that old 
 Loyka's power of resistance which had in some 
 respects so stoutly confronted Joseph's encroach- 
 ment upon its rights, now began in everything to 
 slacken at all points. He felt himself crushed and 
 broken, he already found but few sources of support 
 within himself, and thus he willed and acted only by 
 halves. Each new motive entered into him only as 
 it were by one ear, to vanish again immediately by 
 the other. And so it was that he ordered Frank not 
 to quit the house, as to whether his son obeyed his 
 orders or not, the father had already ceased to 
 trouble himself. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 105 
 
 And then one day in the presence of Frank was 
 enacted between the old folks and the young one of 
 those scenes which were already of as frequent 
 occurrence at the farm as the Lord's prayer in the 
 Church Service. For, one day, the kalounkar came 
 to the Loykas', not to be received there as a guest, 
 but only that he might look once more for old 
 acquaintance sake upon his old friend. And on this 
 occasion Frank saw that old Loyka wept and that 
 the kalounkar also wept. Then old Loyka invited 
 the kalounkar to stay with him in the two chambers 
 at least for the night. The kalounkar excused him- 
 self, till at last Loyka drew him almost by force 
 across the courtyard. But when he wished to open 
 the door there was no key, and when he asked for 
 the key he was told that the young hospodar had it 
 and, so they said, had locked the two chambers in 
 order that Frank should not introduce into them any 
 of the servants who had once been dismissed from 
 the house. 
 
 On this old Loyka commanded that the key 
 should be brought, but no one could find it. And 
 after he had thus waited a long time and had joked 
 freely in order that the kalounkar might not perceive 
 that he was no longer master on his estate, and 
 when still no one brought the key, Loyka turned, 
 caught up a cleaver from somewhere in the yard 
 and battered in the doors of the two chambers. 
 When they crackled, it seemed as if the whole build- 
 
io6 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 ing would tumble down, and when at last the doors 
 gave way and the two chambers were free of access 
 and Loyka stood like a conqueror at the threshold 
 leaning upon his cleaver, and shouted that he was 
 still master in his own house and so let his friends 
 make themselves at home — then, to his astonish- 
 ment, he became aware that he was addressing 
 people who were no longer there. For the kalounkar 
 was already far away from the courtyard, and Frank 
 had vanished with him. After this a discordant din 
 of voices reached his ears from the balcony above — 
 the voices of the young folks, to whom Loyka replied 
 throughout the whole dialogue from the courtyard, 
 frequently threatening them with the cleaver which 
 he held in his hand. 
 
 And this time Frank vanished from the farm for 
 good. When several days elapsed and he did not 
 re-appear, the Loykas thought that it was one of his 
 usual rambles, and that they need only send to 
 Bartos at the cemetery to enquire for him, and they 
 would get Frank home again. And when he still 
 did not come after several days they sent a message 
 to Bartos just to say that Frank had still not 
 returned. After this old Loyka went himself to the 
 cemetery, but when he saw the grandfather's grave, 
 he knelt beside it and prayed a thousand times for 
 forgiveness. He almost forgot exactly why he had 
 gone there. And it was Bartos who first reminded 
 him. " You are looking for Frank, I daresay ? 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. * 107 
 
 Certainly he is not at his home, for it is now a week 
 since he has been at our house." 
 
 It was exactly a week since Frank had quitted his 
 home. 
 
 "But I heard say that he had gone with the 
 kalounkar (tape pedlar), and that he was walking the 
 world with him," said Bartos to the astonished 
 parent. 
 
 " With the kalounkar ? Going all over the world 
 with him ? " said Loyka, repeating the words of the 
 gravedigger. 
 
 When he returned home he told his wife what he 
 had heard, and they despatched Vena to look for the 
 kalounkar and bring Frank home from him. 
 
 Vena departed and came back after several weeks 
 with the news that Frank had tramped it with the 
 kalounkar, but then, so it was said, he had met with 
 a harper, had quitted the kalounkar, and gone with 
 the harper. 
 
 "Dolt! idiot!" said Loyka, "then you ought to 
 have discovered the harper and brought back Frank. 
 And so begin the search again — the sooner, the better 
 — and without Frank do not venture near my 
 house." 
 
 Vena departed and found the harper, but Frank, 
 so it was said, had gone off with a fiddler and now, 
 doubtless, was once more with the kalendar. 
 " Pantata," explained Vena, " I should never have 
 ventured home again as long as I lived, for no one 
 
108 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 will find Frank again till the day of judgment. He 
 goes off with the people he meets, and we should 
 have to run the circuit for ever of all the wayfarers 
 who ever passed the night here, for it is with these 
 he roves the world. 
 
 Although it might have seemed that such news 
 would have not a little ruffled Loyka, such was not 
 the case. Hearing with whom Frank roved the 
 world, he in a sort of way reconciled himself to the 
 young renegade : " They dare not come to us, so he 
 has gone to them," reasoned Loyka ; this appeared to 
 be so certainly true that this truth even, in some 
 sort, gave him satisfaction ; at all events Frank 
 published to the world the fact that these humble 
 dependants were no longer domesticated at the 
 Loykas' ; at all events he, in some sort, incriminated 
 Joseph for having so ruthlessly stripped their home 
 of its previous mirth and jollity. 
 
 " He is not in bad hands," thought Loyka to him- 
 self, and out loud he said " The roving young scamp, 
 but I suppose he knows what a flogging he will get 
 when he comes home again." 
 
 But Frank knew nothing about a flogging and 
 returned home no more. Then more messengers 
 besides Vena were despatched from the farm, and all 
 returned with the news that where he last was heard 
 of, he was no longer to be found, and that they could 
 not track him further. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 fT drew nigh to Easter Day when old Loyka said 
 to his wife, " For my part I no longer wish to 
 be hospodar, but would fain retire altogether to the 
 pension house." 
 
 On this Loyka's wife said "And are almost five 
 years of our hospodarship to be so completely 
 cancelled. That would be just as though we were 
 to take flight from the farm house." 
 
 "And what are we in the farm house? Dost 
 think that we are still hospodars here ? " enquired 
 Loyka with a kind of angry fervour. And on this he 
 began to explain how Joseph began to take every- 
 thing upon himself. " And pray what value is set 
 upou you as mistress, I wish to know," he added. 
 And when he had said all he meant to say, he spat. 
 After this he added " Thou hast taught thy son 
 these manners, that spoilt pet of thine." 
 
 Loyka's wife felt the bitterness of this reproach ; 
 she was silent and furtively wiped away a tear, and for a 
 long time sought in vain for a reply. " At all events 
 it was not I who taught the young bride, and she 
 has corrupted Joseph," said Loyka's wife at last. 
 
no On Condition: or Pensioned Off. 
 
 That is as much as to say " It was I who chose 
 the young bride, and therefore I am to blame for it 
 all," said Loyka in an access of fury. 
 
 On this Loyka's wife was again silent, and 
 secretly wiped away a second salt tear. 
 
 Then Loyka paced twice up and down the apart- 
 ment. His head was bowed, his two eyes measured 
 his steps, his hands were lodged behind his back, 
 and the fingers of one hand tapped on the fingers of 
 the other. Then he halted in front of his wife, drew 
 himself up, and said " And do you know what is the 
 best of this pretty business ? That we both richly 
 deserve to be treated thus. But thou more than I, 
 because I only obeyed thee when thou didst hound 
 me on against my father. But now things are 
 reversed, fate has singled me out for punishment, 
 you are not worthy its attention." 
 
 Here Loyka's wife no longer stretched out her 
 hand to wipe away a tear, but said to Loyka, fling- 
 ing her words into his very face, " If thou thinkest 
 that it has come upon us in consequence of our ill- 
 dealing toward thy father — good, let us bear it ; for 
 my part I will not say thee nay, and I do not wish 
 to shirk my share of the blame, nor would I ever 
 shuffle it off myself on to thee." 
 
 " Well said, wife," responded Loyka, paced once 
 to and fro the apartment, and as he did so, muttered 
 " Let us bear it, let us bear it, if thou so wishest, 
 let us bear it, and let us begin from this very day. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. in 
 
 I, in sooth, have already borne it for a long time, but 
 since thou so wishest, let us begin from this very 
 day in earnest. But this I say to thee : whatsoever 
 comes to pass, pity me thou must not, neither will 
 I pity thee, that I think thou desirest not at my 
 hands.'' 
 
 On this he looked out of the window, and seeing 
 Joseph going across the courtyard, summoned him, 
 and forthwith again returned to the apartment. 
 " And so it is beginning already," said he, just as if 
 it was the eve of a kind of battle. 
 
 After a brief moment Joseph came, and here old 
 old Loyka was already seated by the table with some 
 solemnity, because such an act could not be com- 
 pleted without a certain amount of ceremony. 
 
 "I have summoned thee," began Loyka, "or 
 more properly speaking I have begged thee to come, 
 since I have already no more power to command, 
 and I know not whether thou would'st obey. But 
 I and thy mother, look you, desire to place the 
 hospodarship in thy hands and Barushka's. And 
 thou art aware that in the agreement we have 
 reserved to ourselves in case of such a contingency 
 to wit :' that we should quit the hospodarship within 
 the course of six years : — to be rendered to us by 
 thee a quarter of all the produce of the farm. So, 
 then, I ask thee in the presence of the Lord God, 
 wilt thou conscientiously fulfil thy part of the 
 contract ? " 
 
112 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 Joseph, at these words, merely smiled like a man 
 whose object is accomplished — an object which he 
 had long had in view. For I think the reader 
 will agree with us so far as this — that all the wrongs 
 which Joseph heaped upon his father only aimed at 
 making the hospodarship a burden to him, so 
 that he might voluntarily surrender it of himself. 
 And now his father surrendered it, voluntarily 
 surrendered it, be it understood, because surrender 
 it he must. 
 
 " Why should I not fulfil my portion of the con- 
 tract, and give you what belongs to you," said 
 Joseph. " It is understood, of course, that you will 
 also contribute a fourth part of all the outlay on the 
 farm. And if the produce is scanty, your share will 
 be scanty, too, and if the outlay be greater, then you 
 will have to contribute more. All just as the Lord 
 God blesses our undertakings." Joseph said all this 
 smilingly, and as he pronounced the last sentence 
 his lip almost curled, as though he said only in 
 different words, " I have you in a trap, dear father; 
 I shall give you just as much as I choose." 
 
 Old Loyka certainly perfectly well understood that 
 his son led him thus to a kind of chasm, and now 
 said to him " Leap ! •' He felt it but too well, even 
 some motes danced before his eyes, even his head, 
 went round a little. But sometimes a man, in 
 presence of very important events stands as it were 
 blindfold, if not actually blind : he knows that he is 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 113 
 
 standing above an abyss, but still he says " I leap !" 
 and he leaps. 
 
 " Why should we discuss the matter further," 
 said old Loyka, " it is all made out and signed in 
 the lawyer's books, and that is the agreement. What 
 is there written is valid." 
 
 " Undoubtedly," said Joseph, and again his lip 
 curled. 
 
 " I had further reserved the right to us old folk," 
 continued Loyka, " of dwelling in the farm house 
 during the remainder of the six years and during 
 that time Frank was to mess with you young 
 people." 
 
 " That is hard lines for the estate," said Joseph 
 again, just as if he wished to show that he was but 
 trifling with his father, and that he had long ago 
 preconcerted everything in his own mind. " No, 
 no, that will not do at all. To manage the estate 
 from the pension house in which we can scarce 
 turn round will not do at all, and I am sure that as 
 hospodar you will recognize as much yourself. As 
 to Frank it will be time enough to settle who is to 
 feed and lodge him when we have him at home 
 again. For I certainly am not going to carry his 
 victuals after him when I have no notion where he 
 is." 
 
 And thus old Loyka was practically chuzzled out 
 of both his conditions, and felt little inclination to 
 impose others. " And so you think we must be 
 
114 @ n Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 banished to the pension house," he said, but 
 only in order to make a remark. " Well, if you 
 think so we will be banished to the pension house," 
 he added. " Dost hear, aged wife of my bosom, we 
 are banished — ousted." And he said it in a tone of 
 voice which implied " Misfortune begins from this 
 moment." 
 
 Loyka's wife had turned away, and did not 
 answer. 
 
 On this Loyka stepped close to his son's side and 
 began to speak again somewhat ceremoniously, as if 
 to mark the importance of the present step of which, 
 however, he was no longer master. " Thou seest, 
 Joseph, thy mother : look at her. Her hair is 
 already streaked with grey, just as my hair is 
 streaked with grey. Thou wilt be hospodar here 
 now, and if thou thinkest that thou canst safely 
 wrong me, th}' father, the Lord God forgive thee. 
 But look that thou dost not wrong thy mother. She 
 has suffered much for thy sake, she has loved thee 
 all too dearly, and therefore wrong her not." 
 
 At these words Loyka's wife wiped her eyes (if it 
 is possible to say so) outloud ; that is to say she 
 sobbed all the while as if she wished to demonstrate 
 that her son had already frequently done her wrong, 
 Loyka was meek and mild, and Joseph did not 
 answer. 
 
 Only after a pause, Joseph enquired : " Then 
 when would you like to shift your things ? " 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 115 
 
 " Well, what thinkest thou, aged wife of my 
 bosom, when are we to be banished," enquired old 
 Loyka. 
 
 " Well, if it has to be, perhaps the sooner it is 
 done the better/' said Joseph's mother, thinking at 
 the same time that her son would say that there 
 was no need of shifting just yet. 
 
 " As you will," said Joseph. " I will send the 
 servants at once to help you to remove your things." 
 He turned the matter in this way, so that he might 
 still appear in the light of a dutiful son. 
 
 " Send them, Joseph, send them," said old Loyka, 
 and on this Joseph departed. 
 
 But old Loyka did not tarry for the servants. He 
 at once began to drag from the wall chests and 
 drawers, and to remove the chairs from their places 
 by the table, and all in as much haste as though an 
 enemy was approaching and everything had to be 
 cleared out of the way within an hour. 
 
 Then came the servants into the apartment to 
 assist ; but old Loyka thanked them with a kind of 
 mock reverence for their zeal, and requested them to 
 send Vena to him who would help him best, and 
 would also season his work with some wise saws and 
 maxims. 
 
 So, then, Vena came, and scarcely had he appeared 
 in the doorway before he exclaimed : " See, see, 
 pantata, might you not just as well have let yourself 
 be ousted that day when your son had got you half 
 
n6 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 turned out of doors. What work we had to set all 
 straight again — and all in vain. But if it must be 
 so, then the Lord God help you." 
 
 Old Loyka paused beside a chest, and said 
 " Prythee, how sayst thou ? It seems to me that 
 thou dost completely pity me ?" 
 
 " Pantata," answered Vena, " I do pity you. I 
 pity every one as soon as he is pensioned off. I ever 
 jeered at you when you evilly entreated the pen- 
 sioner on your bounty, and I pitied him, your own 
 father, while it went on. If I could have re- 
 membered how your father played the hospodar, I 
 should have pitied the pensioner on his bounty, and 
 if I live to see Joseph pensioned off, I shall begin to 
 pity him, and I shall give it his successor — perhaps 
 his son. Oh ! ye peasant proprietors ! how ill you 
 regulate your affairs. Come move out of the way 
 old tea-chest," he said, turning abruptly towards 
 Loyka, as though he meant him by this expression. 
 
 " Pray, what do mean by that, 3 ' said Loyka, and 
 nudged himself into a certain amount of good 
 humour and tried to smile. 
 
 " I mean by that, that you are the principal piece 
 of furniture which hampers Joseph here, and that if 
 you would walk off to the lumber room all the rest 
 might be permitted to remain," sneered Vena. 
 
 " Listen, aged wife of my bosom, listen to this 
 sapient Solomon. So long we have had him in the 
 house and never knew his worth. We have to be 
 
On Condition: or Pensioned Off. 117 
 
 banished the farm in order to duly appreciate his 
 wisdom. Without our banishment this well of 
 wisdom would have been forever sealed. Ha ! ha ! 
 and so I am the principal piece of furniture," laughed 
 old Loyka. " And, pray, what have you got to say 
 of my aged wife yonder." 
 
 " She requites you for your young days of court- 
 ship. Then you were always following after her, 
 now she follows after you. But do you know what 
 is a sad thing." 
 
 " Well, what," enquired old Loyka. 
 
 " That it is only grey-headed eld which tramps it 
 to that dog kennel which you call a pension house. 
 It were better to begin more timely when a man is 
 yet stout enough to bear his ills. But for an old 
 man to take up his wallet and go a-begging — fie ! " 
 
 " How am I going a-begging ? " retorted Loyka, 
 and here he felt as though he were dying of im- 
 patience to hear a little more. 
 
 " You ? God protect you ? In your family begging 
 and being pensioned off are one and the same thing. 
 And in order that I may prove to you that even 
 without begging you can steal a march upon your 
 son, intercede with him in my behoof that I may not 
 be expelled from those two chambers by the coach- 
 house. For, if not, you will not have a single living 
 soul in whom to confide your sorrows." 
 
 " So, then, you think, Vena, I shall want some- 
 one in whom to confide my sorrows." 
 
n8 On Condition: or Pensioned Off. 
 
 " That you will, pantata, that you will. I know it 
 from your own poor father. When he suffered most 
 at your hands, and got a sight of me it was 
 just as though he had bitten honey. Oh ! You have 
 no idea at all how I sweetened his life for him. I 
 was more than sauce and seasoning," said Vena 
 proudly. 
 
 " Listen, aged wife of my bosom, this affects your 
 credit in the kitchen," laughed old Loyka. 
 
 " It .affects you both, pantata," said Vena, quickly 
 correcting him. " But, of course, you will soon 
 understand it all yourselves. When your dinner is 
 brought to you up aloft yonder without salt or sauce 
 or seasoning, neither your son nor your son's wife 
 will salt or sauce it for you ; then you just call down 
 the back stairs ' Oh ! Vena, come and be our sauce 
 and seasoning ! ' And I shall understand all that you 
 have need of. Only, prythee, guarantee me those 
 two chambers, or verily it will go hard with you." 
 
 " The two chambers ? If I had to take thee with 
 me aloft into the pension house, thou should'st 
 never quit the estate, Vena," answered Loyka 
 sententiousiy. 
 
 " I have your word, at all events," said Vena, 
 thanking him. " So now we may proceed with your 
 banishment. I thought it important to insist upon 
 the matter of my two chambers, because it is 
 possible that to-day you will march across yon 
 courtyard for the last time in your life." 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned, Off. 119 
 
 " And, prythee, how may . that be I should 
 like to know, thou sapient Solomon ? ". asked 
 Loyka. 
 
 " As thus. If you have not in your written agree- 
 ment reserved to yourself the right of walking across 
 your son's courtyard, who knows whether he will 
 permit it. You will have to creep along the roof 
 like grimalkin when she goes to the witches frolic," 
 and Vena laughed. 
 
 " It is not necessary to put such things into a 
 written agreement," said Loyka, with a kind of 
 angry fervour. 
 
 " Oh ! of course not, of course not, seeing that 
 what stands in the written agreement is never 
 carried out, the less there the better. Your own 
 father never dared to draw water from your well, 
 and I think his right to do so was reserved in the 
 written agreement." 
 
 " It wasn't," cut in Loyka. 
 
 " Oh ! it wasn't ; then see here. No doubt of it 
 you have it in your agreement that you may draw 
 water, but have forgot in the same agreement to 
 reserve to yourself the right of walking across the 
 courtyard to fetch the water. But do you know 
 what, pantata, if it comes to that, I will carry you 
 across the courtyard on my back, for then no one 
 will be able to prove that you walked across the 
 courtyard, and as for me I have still the right to 
 carry on my back what I please." 
 
120 On Condition: or Pensioned Off. 
 
 " Thou art all salt and sauce, boy, sauciness and 
 seasoning," said J^oyka to cut short the conversation, 
 and for a moment his breast heaved as though he 
 was on the point of weeping. But after all nothing 
 came of it except laughter, only that behind 
 this laughter that weeping was quite apparent : 
 tears and weeping looked through a curtain of 
 laughter, and whoever saw it felt little disposed to 
 laugh. 
 
 And so they were banished from the farm house. 
 Loyka and Loyka's wife cast a last lingering look 
 over that apartment where from their youth until 
 now they had tasted all the sweets and sorrows of 
 life, and which they were perhaps leaving for ever. 
 On some estates a beggar has easier access to the 
 farm house than the vejminkar (pensioner). And if 
 he goes there once in a way, even his step, even his 
 look seems to sicken everyone — without careful 
 fostering, his inclination to repeat the visit soon 
 languishes. 
 
 " There is only one thing I am sorry for," said 
 Vena, when the greater part of the furniture had 
 been already carried out before the threshold. " And 
 that is that there are no longer any musicians at the 
 farm — how they would have beguiled our transit to 
 the pension house ! Those were the times ! When 
 at a touch of those strings everything was tootling 
 and jigging on the farm, and even sorrow put on a 
 smart frock ! : ' 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 121 
 
 " Dost think those musicians remember me ? " 
 enquired Loyka, who to-day, as he had been for 
 some time, was as it were held a prey to a sort of 
 childish meekness. 
 
 " Do I think they remember you ? They put you 
 into popular songs. The song of the vejminkar (pen- 
 sioner) will be given at every market in the district, 
 and then they will point to Frank as a living 
 witness of the truth of the ballad. And the kalounkar 
 and the rest of them will equally testify to its truth. 
 And so, then, the Lord help us on our way without 
 music since there is none to be gotten. Well-a-day, 
 I should have been glad to have seen one thing. 
 That is I should have liked to see you either laugh 
 or cry, for in heaven, 'tis said, tears and laughter 
 are worth just as much as music. But there is no 
 laughter in you, and crying is not worth while." 
 
 Thus the Loykas were banished from the farm 
 house in sorrow, which they sought to screen with 
 laughter, but did not much succeed. 
 
 In the meantime, the young folks were shifting 
 their quarters in a very different frame of mind. 
 Yonder from the pension house, the servants were 
 dragging down furniture of all sorts, and laughter — 
 genuine laughter — accompanied every step. Joseph 
 looked as though he had been polished for the 
 occasion. Barushka was just as if it were her wedding 
 day. Their every step, their every word betrayed 
 that they were the victors, that the old people were 
 
122 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 vanquished and subjugated. Learn it ye aged ! ye 
 are vanquished and subjugated ! Here every shadow 
 of tenderer feeling was out of place, Barushka and 
 Joseph had won a preconcerted game, and the player 
 who has won is always the only one who laughs. 
 
 Even Kmoch, Barushka's father, had already 
 received intelligence that they were shifting into the 
 farm house, and already betook himself thither and 
 helped the young folks to laugh. He went to old 
 Loyka and with a sleek smile expatiated on the 
 wisdom his friend had shown in this step. " You 
 know," says Kmoch, " the hospodarship should 
 always belong to the young folk who have energy 
 and versatility ; but old people, you know, ought to 
 rest, they deserve a brief breathing space before they 
 go hence " and more to the same effect. 
 
 Old Loyka at this speech collected a few words 
 as we collect out of our pockets a few spare 
 kreutzers wherewith to rid ourselves of a beggar. 
 " I had already firmly decided upon this," said he, 
 " and, what is more, I never alter my mind." 
 
 " I trust not, indeed," said Kmoch, "for what end 
 will it serve to change your mind yet again." 
 
 " He thinks, I beg his pardon, pantata Kmoch 
 thinks that only from to-day you have grown wise 
 enough to know from its beak where the chaffinch is 
 sitting and how to sprinkle salt on the hare's tail," 
 put in Vena. " It is dearly bought praise, pantata, 
 when you must deprive yourself of a farm house to 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 123 
 
 get the reputation of being a wise man. As soon 
 as the sacrifice is made, then all goes well, then all 
 men praise you who haven't a notion after all why 
 all the fine estates are in the market." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " said Kmoch, turning 
 angrily to Vena ; "a pretty notion : a fine estate in 
 the market. I must say, pantata, you have 
 harboured a very impudent gang of servants here, 
 and glad I am that the young folk have made a clean 
 sweep of them." " As for thee," said he turning 
 again to Vena, " thou art not hammered on to the 
 house with a nail nor glued there with mortar so as 
 to be irremovable." A pretty notion. " His fine 
 estates in the market ! " 
 
 " For all that you will not oust me just yet," said 
 Vena proudly. "I and your good gossip Loyka 
 have made a compact, and I am not to . venture to 
 leave the house, and if it comes to that he goes and 
 I stay here. Isn't that true ? " said he, appealing 
 to Loyka. 
 
 Nothing was left for Kmoch but to disdain to 
 carry on the conversation further which, indeed, he 
 did : only he still hinted almost involuntarily that 
 Loyka ought not to lower himself with such a man. 
 
 This provoked Vena. " Not lower himself. If no 
 one had picked you out of the mire, you would never 
 have passed for so much. Only do not imagine that 
 I do not see -through you. I know you by heart, 
 carry it off how you will. Look you ! you have got 
 
124 ]l Condition : or Pensioned Off 
 
 your daughter on to a farm just as if a servant had 
 made his daughter a queen, and now to-day my lord 
 has a hundred tastes to sit on the throne himself 
 also. Not lower oneself, indeed ! " and similar 
 things said Vena, though now Kmoch no longer 
 heard them. He had again departed to the young 
 folk where they looked on the world with a different 
 pair of eyes. 
 
 It seemed as though only to-day the new mistress 
 celebrated her entry into the farm house. As it fell 
 out, so it fell out. Hogsheads of beer were rolled 
 into the courtyard ; rosolek was produced, the 
 servants were invited to it, drank, whistled, laughed, 
 and sang, so that even people from the village 
 collected about the courtyard, placed themselves in 
 the gateway, and some even posted themselves in 
 the courtyard, just as on the day when the news of 
 the death of Frank's grandfather lured them hither, 
 and they had talked to another about the life of the 
 deceased. 
 
 They came just as if to-day there was another 
 corpse at the farmstead, and it was old Loyka who 
 was being buried in the pension house ; perhaps he 
 was not much unlike, not much better off than a 
 corpse. 
 
 To-day it seemed as though the farmstead of the 
 Loykas had regained its old appearance. For a 
 good year or more the neighbours had disaccustomed 
 themselves to come to the farm as they used to come 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 125 
 
 in times gone by. To-day, just as though the word 
 had been passed round, they were all here, in order 
 to be witnesses of Loyka's banishment from the 
 farm house. Did they come to soothe or to pity 
 him ? 
 
 And by something more than accident the 
 musicians had also gathered here in order to cele- 
 brate the memory of the day. But you may be sure 
 that they did not place themselves on the side of 
 the noisy, laughing youth, but beside the two 
 silent old folk and endeavoured to open their hearts 
 by strains of melody and cheerful songs. They 
 posted themselves beside that time worn furniture, 
 beside which sat the time worn Loyka and his time 
 worn wife. Here they played and sang, as if con- 
 scious that they did so for the last time, as if to-day 
 they would fain pay off a debt long due, and would 
 show their gratitude once more. 
 
 And thus the personality of old Loyka was, as it 
 were, completed. On one side stood Vena, in whom, 
 as it were, were embodied his bitter moods. On the 
 other side stood the musicians in whom, as it were, 
 were embodied all the gentleness and gaiety of his 
 mind. Each formed, as it were, a single wing, and 
 on these wings Loyka felt himself for the moment 
 resigned to rest. 
 
 " It comforts me, lads, to think that you do not 
 quite forget old Loyka, it does indeed comfort me," 
 said Loyka to express to them his gratitude. " Truly, 
 
126 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 it does indeed comfort me. Only that now I have 
 no place for you as formerly, and my heart is but 
 poor accommodation. But come, lads, let us be 
 merry, let us celebrate this one little day that it may 
 never drop out of our recollection." And old Loyka 
 showed his old self once more. All his old hospi- 
 tality emerged in him in its full vigour and in full 
 self-consciousness, and thus his old friends could 
 still recognise face to face the image of his former 
 self, pure and uncorrupted. 
 
 And when people standing by the gate and in the 
 court saw him thus, their old courage came back to 
 them, the young lads insinuated themselves thither 
 where the music sounded, where the cheery songs 
 were hummed and chanted, and thus old Loyka for 
 this one day had still the consolation of seeing that 
 every one was on his side, and that the young folk 
 had not a single living soul except the servants to 
 take their part. 
 
 This aspect of affairs pleased him ; just as if the 
 blood of his young days circulated through his veins, 
 just as if it all depended on him how long the merri- 
 ment should last, just as if he was not the least aware 
 that Joseph by a single nod could make an end of all. 
 
 But we must add that Joseph did not by any such 
 nod make an end of all. He pretended to see 
 nothing of it at all, and was for all the world like a 
 gamester who, having won, also throws a few 
 kreutzers under the table for luck's sake. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 127 
 
 Moreover, with all his faults, Joseph was not so 
 foolish as not to perceive that he would give general 
 offence if he was to-day to thwart old Loyka. On 
 the contrary, it was his cue to make the whole 
 village believe that after all the new vejminkar 
 (pensioner) was really not so badly off, and that evil 
 was the tongue which asserted anything else. It 
 was his cue to let the whole village see what peace 
 and comfort were reserved even for a drivelling father, 
 to let them see how true was the announcement of that 
 father's dotage which had been made publicly and 
 privately, and to make them feel how much he had 
 suffered from it. 
 
 And so, then, to-day on the farm were two sorts 
 of gaiety : one like the fire flickering in the embers, 
 and that was the gaiety of the old folk ; the other 
 like a fire just emerging from the faggots, and that 
 was the gaiety of the young folk, and the one sort of 
 gaiety — the gaiety of the old folks was extinguished 
 that very day. When evening spread itself above 
 the patriarchal acres and above the farmstead, and 
 the musicians were departed thence and the old folk 
 crept into their isolated hall, to their pension house, 
 it seemed to them as though around them and with- 
 in their heart yawned a mighty void which could 
 not be filled by any sounds of earth. No expansive- 
 ness of heart was possible, and every hearty 
 expression died away upon their lips. And when 
 they glanced fearfully around, it seemed to them as 
 
128 
 
 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 though the spirit of the aged grandfather entered 
 into them, and said "lam freed at last from these 
 torture chambers, ye have entered into them." 
 
 The other gaiety, the gaiety of the young folk, 
 lasted long into the night, and when they stepped 
 into the hall of their farm house they seemed to 
 hear even the walls re-echoing with mirth and 
 jollity, and they had but to lightly hint their will 
 and all was full of merriment. And they did hint 
 their will : and it was as though the tutelary deity of 
 the place threw wide the doors, and said " Ye enter 
 here omnipotent; so, then, tarry not, but enter." 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 fffyTHEN Frank learnt that his parents dwelt in 
 the pension house, he began to yearn for 
 home. To his shame, be it said, not for the sake of 
 his parents to whom he had already become dis- 
 accustomed owing to his fondness for his grand- 
 father, but for his own sake, because he longed to 
 see once more a spot where he had fashioned for 
 himself in company with his grandfather so special 
 a mode of existence that he fancied on the whole 
 estate there was nothing to be compared with it. 
 
 As we know, Frank at present tramped the world, 
 and, indeed, in the true sense of tramping. But it 
 is much stranger that his parents should have per- 
 mitted him to tramp abroad, aye, that later they 
 wholly ceased to search for him in order to forbid it. 
 From the beginning old Loyka had learnt that he 
 walked about with the kalounkar, the fiddler, or the 
 sieve-maker — let him walk with them, thought 
 Loyka to himself, to be sure, even at home he was 
 constantly with them when he was not with his 
 grandfather and it did him no harm. He was rather 
 pleased to think that the kalounkar, the musicians, 
 
130 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 and the others still preserved a kind of predilection 
 for the farm, paying back to the son the hospitality 
 they had enjoyed from the father. Then again he 
 heard about his son that he was with a certain 
 gamekeeper, and that he was happy in the woods 
 and ravines, and when the gamekeeper sent word 
 that Frank behaved well with him, Frank was 
 suffered to remain. Then a forester saw Frank at 
 the gamekeeper's house, and hearing that he was a 
 son from Loyka's estate, said : " So you must come 
 and stay with me as well," and then Frank advanced 
 just like a vagabond, having been a vagabond at the 
 gamekeeper's, in course of time he became a 
 vagabond at the forester's. 
 
 And here in these woods it seemed as though he 
 had found once more all that he missed at home. 
 When he found himself in some rocky haunt over- 
 shadowed by pine trees, all the fairy stories stood 
 before him, just as if he were seated at home in one 
 of those chambers by the coach house, until he even 
 felt himself involved in horror, until even a panic 
 seized him in that chilly dusk of the woodland, just 
 as at home when at even they narrated about white 
 women, about black- hounds, and about accursed 
 personages. 
 
 When a panic seized him, he laid foot to shoulder, 
 sped out of the wood across the fields and to the 
 cemetery, shouted to Staza, and then led her away 
 that she might hear with him what he had heard 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 131 
 
 before alone. On the way he had already prepared 
 her for what she was to expect, that, as he said, she 
 might not be too much startled. And on the way 
 through the fields they visited various hedgerows 
 and their try sting places, and here they had already 
 lost half their fear and on their way through the 
 wood there was no need to penetrate to its rocky 
 haunts, not at all, they took the path by the out- 
 skirts of the wood, or perhaps amused themselves at 
 the keeper's house, and so lost the other half of 
 their fears. 
 
 And this expedition into the wood was for Staza 
 something unutterably charming and wonderful. 
 From Bartos, the gravedigger, she heard how robbers 
 fell upon him in the woods and how he defended 
 himself. From Frank she heard how a panic seized 
 a man when he retired to its rocky wildernesses. 
 And when she came thither with Frank, she saw 
 trees like giants, she heard the murmur as of a 
 mighty river, she felt the breath of flowers, she felt 
 the chill of the woodland, her little soul opened and 
 something of the great unknown entered into it. 
 It was not so smiling nor so clear as the white light 
 of day which she saw from the cemetery, but it was 
 just as majestic and inaccessible, so that she sat be- 
 side Frank silent and, as it were, full of reverent 
 awe. 
 
 Neither the one nor the other knew how to express 
 it all, but they knew so much as this — that in their 
 
132 On Condition: or Pensioned Off. 
 
 inmost soul was a sort of language which explained 
 it all. Once Staza said that they would sing; and 
 they began to sing 
 
 " odpocinte vpokoji verne dusicky." 
 
 (Rest in peace ye faithful spirits), but scarcely had 
 they pronounced the words before Staza burst into 
 tears, and when she was quieted it seemed to her as 
 though she heard organ tones above her ; then she 
 said that never in her life, not for the whole world 
 would she dare to sing in this place again. And it 
 seemed to the two as though she had expressed her- 
 self as follows : In the fields there is a presence 
 which inviteth to the dance and singing, but here in 
 the woodland there is a presence which inviteth to 
 silence and attentiveness, because it would fain tell 
 its own story. 
 
 That no doubt was the difference for Staza 
 expressed in the most general terms. But otherwise 
 she here entered into a new world, and still it 
 appeared to her as though it was a world akin to the 
 one she knew before. True, when she and Frank 
 came out of the graves or from the graves them- 
 selves into the fields, gaiety, potent even to excess 
 and delight seized upon her spirits, her soul soared 
 aloft with the very skylarks, and fluttered into 
 the blue of heaven and the clear transparent ether. 
 But when she came hither into the wood she partially 
 felt as though she were in the cemetery among the 
 tombs and at home. Just as though she was actually 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 133 
 
 seated in a spot which might be called a cemetery, 
 a grave. But with all its closeness, it was so 
 magnificent and so beautiful, with all its dusky 
 twilight it was so open and so free that her soul, 
 although it had them not, yet felt on itself a kind of 
 pinions, so that it fluttered and was carried aloft and 
 even took Frank's spirit with it, so that both 
 fluttered together. 
 
 Again it was otherwise, when they ceased to 
 listen to the murmur of the woodlands, when they 
 ceased to look at all that grandeur, when before 
 their soul the ha-haing of that organ was mute, and 
 trivial things emerged — things easily comprehensible. 
 Here was the call note of the cuckoo, here a butter- 
 fly, a beetle, a fly. Here Staza again found speech, 
 here words came to her; at sight of these trivial 
 things she again found herself, and here she would 
 in a little time have again given way to dancing and 
 singing. 
 
 So then this world was to Staza strange, new, and 
 
 yet extremely welcome. Although Frank used to go 
 
 for her, and so ought to have been her guide, she took 
 
 upon herself the role of cicerone and played. her part 
 
 famously. She led Frank from tree to tree, and 
 
 every tree was like the resting place of some pretty 
 
 conceit. What she and Frank failed to find when 
 
 roving through the fields, seemed to find a voice 
 
 among these gnarled trees, as though it called aloud 
 
 "Then it is just so." 
 w 
 
134 ® n Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 Each of our two vagabonds went into the wood 
 with a different object, and only when the mind of 
 the one went halves with the other in all that they 
 found in the wood, could the mental picture of the 
 woodland within them be said to be complete. 
 Frank heard every bird, saw every bird, heard every 
 murmur, saw the squirrel and the hare, heard the 
 foot of the wild goat crunching the gravel, and con- 
 fided to Staza all he perceived. He was like the 
 visible ear of the wood, and in his head the wood 
 was, as it were, depicted down to the very song of 
 the birds and the sound of the wind among the 
 boughs. His eye was constantly in the crowns of 
 the trees, constantly on the watch, constantly follow- 
 ing something. All this time Staza was continually 
 exclaiming " Look at that primrose! Look what a 
 beautiful sweet briar ! Here I still smell close at 
 hand the last violet of the spring ! Look what a 
 grey coat of lichen that pine tree wears, and how 
 silvery white is yonder birch ! And see here are 
 wild strawberries. Here the whortleberry is in bloom. 
 This place we must remember. And here is a 
 plant which I have planted on maminka's tomb ; it 
 is the tearlets of the Virgin Mary (the wild red pink). 
 Look how the wild nut trees are covered with cat- 
 kins," and similar things she said. 
 
 It is evident that Staza's mind was attracted to 
 colour, to flowers, to variety. And if the birds skipped 
 and hopped in Frank's mind, in Staza's blossomed a 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 135 
 
 whole parterre, the loveliest colours mingled together, 
 rivulets streamed off from blue forget-me-nots, 
 and fringed themselves with blackberries. 
 
 And if the soul of Frank was full of sweet sounds, 
 the soul of Staza was garlanded with flowers. And 
 when they paced the woodland, one gave to the 
 other ; Staza gave to Frank flowers and colours, 
 and Frank gave to Staza singing and melodious 
 sounds. 
 
 But they also penetrated the rocky wildernesses and 
 ravines of the woodland, and lingered there awhile. 
 Only that Staza especially thought that it would be 
 too much to sit there every day, that it would oppress 
 her too heavily. Because in that ravine there was 
 not any sound to be heard, everything was, as it 
 were, embedded in silence, and if a step rustled it 
 startled you. The rocky walls stood narrowly opposed 
 to one another : if they had had hands they could 
 have stretched them out and shaken them. And 
 these rocky walls rose high into the air : high aloft 
 the merest vestige of blue sky bent above them in 
 a tiny narrow strip ; all the rest of the sky was 
 banished from the view. Moreover sometimes a 
 large bird appeared high above it all with a strange 
 whistling note which startled you as much as when 
 a footstep rustled. 
 
 What was it at home in the cemetery, compared 
 with this huge grave ! If she had ever felt oppressed 
 in a grave (but she never did feel oppressed) she had 
 
136 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 only to sit upright or stand and she saw in a moment 
 all the surrounding world : all the other graves, the 
 ruddy-painted cross with the white iron figure of the 
 Christus, the whole sky, and her cheerfulness was at 
 once restored. But here ! if you felt oppressed, 
 standing upright was of slight service to you. You 
 must go quite away, and yourself cause a kind of 
 rustling with your own footsteps, a kind of crunch- 
 ing of the gravel, which here was the source of so 
 much trepidation. 
 
 And then a little pebble sometimes rolled over the 
 rocky wall, and you could hear above measure dis- 
 tinctly its every tap again the rocky angles of the 
 stone. Or sometimes a lizard, sunning itself, let 
 fall a morsel of earth, and this, crumbling and rolling 
 down, rustled in a quite mysterious manner. Some 
 times a puff of wind carried a leaflet hither from the 
 beech trees which grew yonder above the ravine, 
 and this leaflet quivered and fluttered in the air as 
 if it trembled and dreaded to take the final plunge. 
 Here every feeble whisper became a voice. 
 
 Sometimes when they were seated here they had 
 not the least wish to utter a word. A word here 
 was re-echoed from the walls of the ravine, the walls 
 themselves spoke their own language, and it was in 
 a manner cheery enough — but you could not bear it 
 long. Here they generally uttered their thoughts to 
 one another only in whispers, seated side by side in 
 order that they might not infuriate those walls. But 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 137 
 
 more than once it happened that even those walls 
 themselves began to whisper. For the pellet of 
 earth falling over them and fraying to pieces was 
 also a whispering, and the leaflet falling from above 
 and trembling was also a whispering, and such 
 unexpected whisperings made the children pause 
 abashed, and so many a time they broke off in the 
 middle of their conversation only listening, looking 
 at one another, and holding one another by the 
 hand. 
 
 They oftest trusted themselves to converse aloud 
 when the woodland above them yonder also carried 
 on its own conversation, when the wind unloosed its 
 mouth, and when those organ pipes which Staza had 
 first heard in the woodland had their bellows full 
 distended. Then a word was easily spoken, even 
 the walls no longer seemed to spy upon them, 
 having too much to occupy them in the hurly-burly 
 of the woods above them, even the pebble ceased to 
 whisper, nor could you hear the rustling of the lizard 
 or the dropping of the morsels of soil. Then only 
 articulate sounds uttered outloud could withstand 
 the din, and thus also Frank and Staza conversed 
 aloud. 
 
 Here and there the brambles trailed over the 
 rocky walls in every kind of amicable embrace. In 
 places the mullen's tall stem shot upwards as if with 
 some definite aim. " I have got so far at all events," 
 it seemed to say. At one of the corners of the rocky 
 
138 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 wall clung a single unlucky briar bush — clung in 
 such a way that it could neither ascend or descend, 
 but hung clinging in mid-air above a perpetual abyss. 
 More fortunately fared a single birch above it which 
 grew symmetrically upwards, and striking its roots 
 into several crevices of the rocky wall maintained 
 itself on its giddy platform. 
 
 But one sound was here which never languished 
 and continually sated the ear with its gentle music. 
 From one end of the rocky glen bubbled to the 
 surface a spring of water pure as silver and our 
 ravine offered to it its own lowest parts, in which the 
 spring might arrange its water courses, and here it 
 arranged them most tranquilly, like a good house- 
 wife. Where it suited best, it had fishes eyes (a 
 plant), where you least of all expected it, it had 
 strawberries stowed away, and where only that was 
 possible it had some bush, in order that it might be 
 a mirror to the bush. 
 
 And this streamlet greatly tranquillised the savage 
 wildness of the ravine. - This streamlet seemed to 
 make a charming chamber of that rock-bound tomb, 
 achamberwhich especially entertained and welcomed 
 Staza. And so when Frank said " Let us go to the 
 ravine," Staza at first remembered only its blank 
 walls of rock with their scanty blackberry bushes, 
 the wild sweet briar, and the long lank birch tree, 
 and then she felt as though she must try very hard 
 to be brave enough to go. But soon after this she 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 139 
 
 remembered the water sporting with itself and 
 babbling in its channel far below, and how here it 
 lingered by a stone, here frolicked with a bush, and 
 here streamed off from a whole colony of forget-me- 
 nots — and then she needed not to be invited a second 
 time, and after this Frank heard at once the words, 
 " Well, then, let us go to the ravine." 
 
 And this ravine was like another church to these 
 children. As we know, they had their own little 
 chapels first in the fields, by the hedgerows, not far 
 from the nest of the quail. Here in this ravine they 
 had a new church, substantially different from yon 
 other, and yet in many respects not at all dissimilar. 
 The difference was perhaps this — that yonder by the 
 hedgerows and in the fields the mind expanded and 
 soared aloft, but here gathered itself into its own 
 depths. The similarity then lay in this that both 
 there and here the soul gained strength and courage 
 and other qualities of the like nature. 
 
 So now the life of these two young souls began to 
 bestir itself. It began in the grave, it leapt forth 
 among the fields, and here in the woodland it 
 paused and listened. There where life ends their 
 life began, there where life unfolds in germin- 
 ating ears of corn beneath warm summer rays of 
 light, their life carolled gaily, and here in the ravine 
 and woodland where life has a couch of quiet 
 dreams, their pilgrimage was reminded that it must 
 return again to the graves. 
 
140 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 Once Staza said to Frank " Now that you lead me 
 into the fields and woodlands," I sing but seldom 
 among the graves at home. Do you know why ?" 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 " Because I am thinking how I may be with thee. 
 Often and often I have begun to sing, but then it 
 has occurred to me that I would far sooner be with 
 thee, and that it would be better than singing. Once 
 I wished to sing at maminka's grave, and just then 
 I heard thy call at the wicket gate, and I went just 
 as though thou had'st been maminka." Then said 
 Frank " and do you know why I so continually run 
 from place to place ?" 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 " I am seeking at all times where thou would'st 
 like to be, and when I have found a place I show it 
 thee, and then I cease to rove abroad. But I know 
 that thou would'st not be happy at our house, and 
 therefore I do not lead thee thither." 
 
 " And where hitherto hast thou been happiest," 
 enquired Staza. 
 
 " With you in the cemetery." 
 
 " Then I shall be happy there also, " said 
 Staza. 
 
 " And also I like to be at our house, but in the 
 pension house where grandfather lived," said Frank. 
 " And so my parents stay there now." 
 
 "I should like to be there also," said Staza, 
 " only that thy brother ought not to live there." 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 141 
 
 " My brother is there no longer," said Frank, 
 " he is at the farm house, and my parents are at the 
 pension house ; they are there just as my grand- 
 father used to be, and I should like to see the place 
 again." 
 
 It was true that Frank began to yearn for home, 
 never more to quit it, for he thought that nothing 
 could compare with the delight of dwelling where 
 his grandfather had once been, that is to say, in the 
 pension house or at the cemetery. 
 
 And so they went home, and the sun had already 
 set when they came to Frishetts. When they set 
 foot upon the village green a large number of people 
 stood there and all were talking and pointing in the 
 direction of the Loykas' house. Here Frank in- 
 voluntarily called to mind the people who came to 
 the farmstead on the day when the funeral bell was 
 tolled for his grandfather, and they were almost all 
 the same people, and Vena was among them. 
 
 Frank and Staza halted, concealed themselves 
 behind the trunk of a large linden and listened. 
 Something said the mayor, something said the 
 sexton Vanek, something said Vena, and the rest of 
 the people filled up the gaps with questions. 
 
 " They have driven him out, they have worried 
 him out of the pension house," said Vena. "Truly 
 they did well : was he not old ? Had he not given 
 everything to the young folks ? Had he not stinted 
 himself for them ? Had he not passed sleepless 
 
142 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 nights for them ? and for them toiled at his estate — 
 and this is his reward !" 
 
 " And how could they drive him out of the pension 
 house," enquired a neighbour. 
 
 " How could they drive him out ? Thus, look 
 you, they could drive him out. They said to him 
 " leave the pension house/' and it was so. When 
 do you peasant proprietors say anything else to your 
 vejminkar (pensioner) " sneered Vena. 
 
 And now the mayor began to elucidate matters. 
 Sundry relations came to the young Loykas', to spend 
 the day, then for two days, but after that they did 
 not wish to leave the farm at all. And in order that 
 the young folk need not have them constantly on 
 their hands, Joseph Loyka's young wife went herself 
 to the old folk and asked them whether they would 
 object to being removed into the two chambers by 
 the coach-house, and allow her relations to occupy 
 the pension house. On this old Loyka asked if she 
 had anything more at heart ? and whether she knew 
 what it was to be banished to those two chambers — 
 and by what sort of people they had previously been 
 occupied. On this Barushka said that she did know, 
 and that since the musicians whom he was so fond 
 of had previously dwelt there well enough, perhaps he 
 also would do there well enough, and that if he felt 
 lonely and out of spirits he might invite the musicians 
 to share the rooms with him. On this old Loyka 
 went to his son and asked him whether he knew 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 143 
 
 what the young mistress of the house had just been 
 saying. " I do know," replied his son, and repeated 
 to his father everything which the father had heard 
 from Barushka, because the young people had agreed 
 between themselves what Barushka should say to 
 the old man. 
 
 " Well, and what dost thou think of it all, my son," 
 enquired old Loyka. 
 
 " I think the rooms would suit you admirably," 
 said the young hospodar. " You see, of course, that 
 I could not put my wife's relations there." 
 
 " And so I am to dwell there with Vena," laughed 
 old Loyka. 
 
 " As you please. But for my part I think that it 
 would be an excellent opportunity of ridding the 
 house of Vena altogether." 
 
 Just as the neighbours had reached this point, 
 they heard a banging of doors at the Loyka's house, 
 and from the gate ran old Loyka with dishevelled 
 hair. The moon shone over the village green with 
 its first rays, Loyka ran direct to the neighbours 
 there assembled. 
 
 11 Neighbours, for the love of heaven, I implore 
 you, lend me a match," he shouted. " In all the 
 house I cannot find one little match wherewith to 
 kindle the roof above the head of this son of mine !" 
 shouted old Loyka, and kept constantly feeling in 
 his pockets to see if there was anything like a match 
 in them. 
 
144 ® n Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 It was quite an awful spectacle to look upon the 
 poor old man, and yet more awful to listen to him. 
 
 None of the neighbours answered him. 
 
 " What, then, will none of you lend me one little 
 match ?" shouted Loyka. " Oh ! fie ! the shame of 
 it. I lent to each one of you whoever came to me 
 at any time ; without usury I lent to all. Who 
 of you can say I ever refused to lend him what he 
 wanted. If any one needed stock I lent him live 
 stock. If any one needed a team I lent him a team, 
 if any wanted harvesters I lent him harvesters, and 
 now I want a match from you and ye will not lend 
 it me. And on this he cursed all his previous 
 neighbourliness. 
 
 It was evident to everyone without further demon- 
 stration that old Loyka's mind was unstrung. Some in 
 their compassion took one another by the hand, some 
 began to show their pity by shedding tears. The 
 mayor stepped up to him, and said " Pantata, per- 
 haps, if you were to lie down you would get over it 
 in sleep." 
 
 But old Loyka replied instantly. " I thank you 
 for your good counsel, excellent man. Do you think 
 that I could lay me down in the chambers by the 
 coach-house ? I might. Why should I not ? When 
 the musicians and the tinkers and the kalounkar lay 
 there, why should not I lie there also ? But I know 
 why I cannot lie there — because it would break my 
 heart," and at these words he struck his old breast 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 145 
 
 with his fists as though he would break it in 
 pieces. 
 
 Again the mayor seized his opportunity, and said 
 " You need not sleep there, pantata, give me your 
 hand ; I will lead you to our house, and you 
 can choose for yourself the bed which you like 
 best." 
 
 " True, that might be," said Loyka as if he came 
 to himself a little. But immediately after this he 
 added with a bitter laugh, " But think you sleep 
 would visit me, there, either ? If Loyka passed a 
 night in the village outside his own estate, could he 
 also sleep ! He could not sleep ! I thank you 
 respectfully kind neighbour. But hence I will not 
 stir. If no one is willing to lend me a match, the 
 devil is in it, if I do not tarry here until the Lord 
 God sends a fiery brand from heaven upon the 
 farmstead of my son ! " 
 
 And he raised his hands to heaven, and cried 
 " Oh ! Lord God, a little of thy fiery brimstone and 
 thy name shall be exalted for ever and ever." He 
 cried aloud like one of the prophets of the Old 
 Testament, until horror encompassed every one 
 who listened to him. 
 
 Then again he .spoke, turning his face to his 
 neighbours. " The Lord God heareth not, and that 
 because I equally inflicted wrong upon my own 
 father — only that I never drove him to the dog 
 kennel. Only when my own father has forgiven me 
 
146 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 and prayed for me, will the Lord God send down 
 brimstone," and he sobbed aloud. 
 
 Again said the mayor " Take it not so to heart, 
 pantata, perhaps your son will grow wiser, and all 
 will yet be well." 
 
 " Not take it to heart ! Already it is late, dear 
 neighbour, already it is quite pitch dark in those 
 chambers, ay, it is dark there in broad daylight." 
 And here it seemed again as though he once more 
 came to himself a little. 
 
 And not long after this he said " I know what 
 would do me good for this one day, and where I 
 could sleep. If some one would lead me to the 
 burial ground to the grave of my father. But where 
 is there any to be found to lead me thither. There is 
 not one." 
 
 " If you wish it, pantata, we will go atonce," said 
 Vena. " I will conduct you thither, I will stay with 
 you there as long as you please." 
 
 " So be it, so be it," said Loyka, and laughed, and 
 looked from one to another and in fact allowed him- 
 self to be conducted by Vena in the direction of the 
 cemetery. Almost all that group of neighbours 
 followed him at a few paces distance, and accom- 
 panied him to the outskirts of the village. 
 
 And Loyka went with Vena to the burial ground. 
 
 But close behind them, even to the burial ground 
 itself, went two small souls in great sorrow and 
 tribulation : they were Frank and Staza. 
 
IES^JR\^Jsw/Jk 
 
 
 ~llp^ 
 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 GAIN the moon shone out, when they came 
 to the cemetery, just as long ago when Frank 
 and Staza first passed the night in his grandfather's 
 grave. And because the cemetery stood on an 
 eminence there at times stole over it a warm breeze 
 in whose breath the white iron figure of the Christus 
 rattled upon the ruddy cross, several of the lesser 
 crosses clattered with their arms, and sometimes 
 creaked on its hinges a rusty little door, behind 
 which lay concealed the inscription above some dead 
 man's bones. 
 
 This clattering of the arms of the crosses, the 
 rattling of the Christus and the creaking of the rusty 
 doorlets was the only unrest which the dead gave to 
 view — how little was it all compared with that with 
 which they had so tormented one another in life ! 
 
 Besides this, however, a breeze also ran above 
 the graves and stirred the tall grasses and here and 
 there a flower ; but this unrest was scarce strong 
 enough to be perceived, ay, rather it resembled the 
 faint breathing of a child or the mere echo of a sigh. 
 
148 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 As we knowfromthebeginningof our story that tinsel 
 music in which the Christus indulged was not over 
 attractive towards nightfall, and people took to flight 
 before it as if an enemy were in full pursuit behind 
 them. But of those who came hither this evening 
 none paid any attention to it ; perhaps they did not 
 even hear it, because in their inmost hearts resounded 
 an unrest far more fierce, more discordant, harsh, so 
 that they fled from it into this strange harbour of 
 refuge. 
 
 And hereupon, old Loyka, as soon as they had set 
 foot in the cemetery, embraced with one hand 
 that ruddy wood of the cross, and raising the other 
 on high and fixing his eyes upon the white iron figure 
 of the Christus, began to lament his fate, to call 
 aloud, to curse, to pray, and to prostrate himself at 
 the same time. " Thou martyred head," he cried, 
 "thou hast suffered much, but thou had'st not a son 
 to cut out thy heart piece by piece — I suffer more. 
 Thou had'st no home, but because thou never had'st 
 a home, thou knowest not what it is to be forced to 
 leave a home, a home which I proffered to every one 
 who needed it, and now I have not even so much 
 as I proffered once to others — I suffer more. Thou 
 wert young and vigorous when thou didst suffer, but 
 thou had'st not hair streaked with grey and wrinkles 
 on thy face, thou hast not suffered when the feet long 
 to faint and flag, and must tramp on — I suffer more ! 
 But thou didst voluntarily undergo thy torments, 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 149 
 
 mine are the punishment of my sins — yonder in that 
 grave sleeps the witness of my words and of my evil 
 deeds — I suffer more ! And I but now entreated 
 Thy Father about some fire that he would send it as 
 he sent it upon Gomorrah, and he heard me not — 
 what is there still left for me to suffer ! " 
 
 After these words, pronounced with immeasurable 
 anguish, a silence fell on everything in the cemetery 
 as though it would accentuate Loyka's bitterness — 
 the white iron figure of the Christus clanged upon the 
 cross from time to time — perhaps it did not wish with- 
 out reserve to adapt itself to this train of thoughts. 
 
 On this Vena said " If you would have allowed 
 yourself, pantata, to be nailed to a cross like the 
 Lord Christ, look you there, you never need have 
 been banished from your home, and for my part I 
 believe that Joseph would have helped you up if you 
 had requested him." 
 
 Loyka having bewailed and lamented his fate, now 
 felt relieved, at least those thick clouds broke and 
 dispersed in which till now his thoughts had been 
 enveloped. But it was only for a moment. And in 
 that moment he sank down by the cross, embraced 
 •the foot of it, and perhaps he wept. But this did 
 not last long. He looked up to the heavens, ran 
 his eyes through the myriad stars, and seeing the 
 moon in the full splendour of its rays, suddenly 
 laughed aloud, laughed without words, and so 
 continued to laugh. 
 
150 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 Vena, gazing in the same direction as Loyka, said 
 " Pantata, that tiresome little moon tickles me too 
 under the nose with its rays ; for my part I can hold 
 out no longer, but laugh I must." And he laughed 
 too. 
 
 " Nay, 'tis not that lad," said Loyka. " But I 
 am so glad that I have found a comrade. Look at 
 him, he hath no home either, and never in all my 
 life had I observed it until to-day. To-day a holy 
 spirit has quite illumined me ; to-day I know it, just 
 as if I had walked the sky with him. Look ! look ! 
 every night he must hie up yonder through agues 
 and nipping blights, and that pleases me. Only I 
 should like to know whether he also had an estate, 
 whether he gave it to some Joseph, and so now is 
 pensioned off ! Look at him ! look at him It 
 pleases me to think that we are two, I here on earth, 
 and he yonder in the sky — and as it seems to me 
 they are no better off yonder in the sky than we here 
 on earth." 
 
 And he laughed on. Then he stood up, and look- 
 ing towards the pilgrim moon, said " Stop and let 
 us take note how fast he gets over the ground, to 
 see if he is good on his feet. And here he looked up 
 at the moon, just as though he were reckoning its 
 footsteps, and laughed aloud. From this laughter 
 went forth a greater horror than from the clanging 
 Christus or from the clattering branches of those 
 crosses which spread around. 
 
On Condition: or Pensioned Off. 151 
 
 As we know Frank and Staza followed Loyka 
 at a distance hither to the cemetery. Even now 
 in the cemetery they kept several paces apart, 
 so that Loyka had no notion of their presence. 
 When Frank first heard his father on the village 
 green, he was half bewildered, and knew not what 
 was happening, and understood nothing of it all. 
 When he here heard him pray that strange prayer 
 by the cross his flesh crept and he shivered, for so 
 much he understood of it all as to perceive that his 
 brother Joseph was the cause. But when he heard 
 his father laugh so wildly, he could bear it no longer, 
 but gave way to an uncontrollable flood of tears. He 
 had never so wept since the death of his grand- 
 father. 
 
 This time Staza was beside him and feeling ill at 
 ease might also have given way to tears, because 
 crying is infectious among children. But Staza had 
 hitherto never associated with children, Frank was 
 her single companion, and so what would have 
 equally constrained another child in her place to cry, 
 had on her a different effect. She saw and heard 
 weeping in plenty at the cemetery, but at the same 
 time she saw and heard how the rest of the people 
 mingled singing with the weeping. And thus this 
 sequence of ideas formed itself in her little soul. 
 Old Loyka beside the cross appeared to her like the 
 corpse, which Vena had brought to its burial. Frank 
 appeared to her like those who wept over the corpse 
 
152 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 — consequently she must be one of those who sang 
 above it. And, indeed, no sooner had Frank began 
 to cry, than she began to sing 
 
 odpocinte v pokoji verne dusicky 
 Kralovstvi nebeskeho dedicky. 
 
 (Rest in peace ye faithful spirits of the dead ; ye are 
 inheritors of the heavenly kingdom). Both'Staza's 
 singing and Frank's weeping were one and the other, 
 as it were, in tears. But in both was interwoven 
 something which it is impossible to express in words. 
 Anyone who had seen and heard it would have 
 shuddered, and been cut to the heart. In the 
 cemetery waved the warm night wind, in the 
 heavens hung the moon, by the clattering cross 
 stood a despairing father, and at a little distance by 
 another trembling cross knelt Frank who wept 
 aloud, and Staza who wept in singing the words of 
 which exhorted all to peace. 
 
 Old Loyka, somewhat roused by this from 
 his own sombre fancies, turned and listened. He 
 seemed as though he were on the watch, as 
 though he sought out for himself some new 
 pathway, and now was deliberating whether he 
 should take it. 
 
 " Dost hear, Vena ? Dost hear ? " said he to 
 Vena. " I once heard that melody in the hall of our 
 house ; but there were harps with it." 
 
 The reader will recollect that it was during the 
 dance after the funeral of Frank's grandfather, that 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off, 153 
 
 Frank and Staza suddenly sang the song from the 
 hall to the sound of harps and violins. 
 
 " Dost hear, dost hear it," he again repeated after 
 a pause. " For my part I had no notion the song 
 was so merry a one when there were harps with it. 
 And it would seem that to night there are no harps 
 with it." 
 
 There were no harps with it, to be sure, but all 
 the same it was accompanied by the audible weeping 
 of his own son. 
 
 " And it pleases me to find' that they know it here 
 in the cemetery. Prythee, lead me to those musicians, 
 and let them play on. And if they do not wish to 
 play, tell them that you are from Loyka's farm, and 
 then of course they will play, for they will remember 
 Loyka although he rules his home no more." 
 
 And he went with Vena several steps in the 
 direction of the singing and crying, where Frank 
 knelt sobbing and Staza knelt singing. When he 
 came to them, Frank embraced his knees, and cried 
 " Papa ! Papa ! " Staza was silent. 
 
 " Papa ! " said Loyka. " I might have known 
 that they would recognise me here. Where they 
 are skilled in singing and playing, there they know 
 old Loyka. So halloo ! and play something lively 
 that I may have a dance here." And this poor old 
 man here in the graveyard struck an attitude as 
 though he would caper about, and as though he 
 were ready for a fling. 
 
154 O n Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 And here Frank falling upon his knees continually 
 embraced his father's feet, and sobbing piteously, 
 exclaimed " Papa ! Papa ! " 
 
 " Why dost thou clog my feet like a moist clod of 
 earth, when I wish to dance a measure," said Loyka 
 to Frank, whom he did not recognise. " It is a 
 disgusting habit, and looks as though thou had'st 
 come to me for alms." 
 
 "Papa! Papa!" cried Frank. 
 
 " Ah ! I know thee now. I recognise thee now. 
 Thou art the ghost of my son Frank, and walkest 
 here in the cemetery. But thou art not Frank. He 
 tramps it with the musicians, whom they chivied 
 from my house — and that pleases me." 
 
 " Papa, it is I, "cried Frank. 
 
 " Thou art not he, because thou hast no harp with 
 thee. Look you there is no harp here, so you will 
 not persuade me. But if thou wert a worthy ghost 
 thou would'st lead me to my Frank, I would gladly 
 see him and those musicians with whom he tramps 
 the world, and I would tramp it too/' 
 
 " I will lead you home, Papa/' cried Frank. 
 
 " Thou shalt not lead me thither ; for me, I want 
 no home. But I want to leave home far behind, 
 like my son Frank. I want to tramp it with the 
 musicians, that they may compose a song about it, 
 and may point to me on. the market places and say 
 that I am he, I am that old Loyka who dares no 
 more have music in his house, because his son has 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 155 
 
 banished it hence, and so I must follow the musicians 
 even to the market place, because I have not where 
 to entertain them at my house. Will you lead me 
 to them ?" 
 
 " I will lead you to them," said Frank at 
 random, without knowing what he said or why he 
 said it. 
 
 " That pleases me," said Loyka, " and inasmuch 
 as the way will be a long one, we must rest ourselves 
 here yet a little space." 
 
 And they seated themselves on the graves, as if by 
 accident old Loyka and Frank on the grandfather's 
 grave, Staza on her mother's grave ; Vena stood. 
 
 But at this point another character appeared on 
 the scene, and when he had posted himself near 
 them, said " Pray, who at this late hour, here 
 disturbs my lodgers. I have guaranteed them rest, 
 and will not have them molested." He said it 
 heartily, and with a certain humour. It was the 
 gravedigger, Bartos. 
 
 " Good man," said Loyka, "we seek alodgingfor 
 the night, and if you will let us be here, you can seat 
 yourself beside us." 
 
 Before Bartos had stepped up to the group he had 
 heard who they were, he recognised Loyka and the 
 children by their voices, and by listening a few 
 moments had soon understood what brought them 
 thither. He therefore wanted no explanation, and 
 at once adapted himself to the situation. 
 
156 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 " If that is all your trouble," said he in the 
 same voice, " you can remain here as long 
 as you please ; but it will not please you 
 very long, I fancy," and he seated himself beside 
 them. 
 
 " So, so, so, so," muttered Loyka, as was his 
 custom when some process in his ideas had to be 
 emphasised. 
 
 " What thinkest thou, old friend, who has suffered 
 most, I or Jesus of Nazareth." 
 
 " You, pantata, and that because none of us know 
 what you have yet to suffer, although you have 
 already suffered much." 
 
 At these words Loyka started, because it was just 
 as though they had been chosen out of his own soul, 
 and he had rather expected contradiction. 
 
 " But I do not want to suffer any more, lad, and, 
 if you know, pray tell me what I am to do." 
 
 " I know one thing you might do," said Bartos. 
 " If you were to lie down to rest in these chambers," 
 and here he pointed to the graves, " all would be 
 over, but you have no right to them yet, nor dare I 
 enclose you in them. However I will tell you what 
 you should do. You want nothing but to divert 
 yourself a little." 
 
 " Exactly what I thought myself," said Loyka. 
 " You speak like a true doctor, and if I should listen 
 to you yet awhile, I know not whether good might 
 not come of it." 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned, Off. 157 
 
 " And we will manage it thus. To-morrow I lead 
 you into a neighbouring village to the house where 
 Frank is living. There are the fiddlers and the 
 harpers, and we can fling up our heels in a hornpipe." 
 
 Even this idea was one which seemed to have been 
 borrowed from Loyka's own mind, and Bartos did 
 indeed borrow it from Loyka ; because, as we know, 
 a moment before Loyka had expressed his desire to 
 have a dance before this unseen witness. 
 
 " The further I listen to thee, the more convinced 
 I am that thou art a mighty sage," said Loyka with 
 evident satisfaction, and it was plain that the 
 gravedigger had struck exactly the right chord. 
 
 " But inasmuch as we shall have a debauch there, 
 we must rest ourselves before we set out on our 
 journey. We must sleep, for we have not slept at 
 all for several nights," continued the gravedigger. 
 
 " Thou mightest stand and preach in the pulpit, 
 good man," said Loyka, highly delighted at what 
 the gravedigger had said. By his vague discourse 
 the gravedigger had in reality probed Loyka to the 
 quick. And Loyka hearing that repeated from 
 another's mouth which a moment before he had 
 been the only one to long for, and thus having the 
 object of his own wishes freshly paraded before his 
 mind, felt relieved. His words and expression 
 were deprived of that sickeningly painful cast which 
 a short time before had driven Frank to weeping and 
 Staza to song. 
 
158 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 The two children now nestled close together, and 
 looked on like birdies from a nest at what was pass- 
 ing before them. They did not understand, but it 
 had not any longer so much horror for them. 
 
 " If thou thinkest that we ought to sleep," said 
 Loyka, "as though he were still replying to the 
 recommendation of the gravedigger, " it will be best 
 to lay us down and sleep," and hereupon he 
 immediately made as though he would lie down. 
 
 " When you were married, pantata, I was at your 
 wedding," said the gravedigger. " And when the 
 deceased, your father, quitted you for the pension 
 house, he said ' If at any time you are too much 
 harassed to sleep at home, come to me, you will 
 sleep beside your father.' And to-day, you have come 
 to him, pantata, and will sleep soundly." 
 
 His father had in reality said this on that long 
 passed wedding day, and now the son came for the 
 first time to sleep beside him. A son already grey- 
 headed, to sleep beside a father who was no more 
 among the living. 
 
 " Only go on, go on, and tell me about it," en- 
 treated old Loyka, and fitful dreams were already 
 weighing down his eyelids. Yet a few words he 
 pronounced as if in assent, for Bartos began to 
 narrate to him the story of his own young days, and 
 how he had performed such and such feats, but after 
 a while the gravedigger observed that he was speak- 
 ing to Loyka who already had fallen asleep. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 159 
 
 Vena remained beside the sleeping Loyka. Bartos 
 took Frank with him into his house, and told him to 
 speed early next morning to the village about which 
 he had spoken correctly enough, then he himself, like 
 a night watcher, went out from time to time into the 
 cemetery to see how Loyka fared. 
 
 The next day they followed Frank to the abode of 
 the musicians. We must here say without conceal- 
 ment that Bartos had devised a kind of popular 
 remedy for Loyka's sick spirit. Whether it was 
 destined to succeed or not we cannot however state 
 at present. 
 
 In the village they found Frank already arrived. 
 There also they found the musicians whose loss 
 Loyka had so much deplored. The whole party 
 collected at the alehouse, and the musicians played 
 and sang,. Bartos taking special care that everything 
 should be gay and lively. A rumour of what had 
 occurred at the farmstead had already outrun them, 
 and consequently everyone knew it was the afflicted 
 Loyka who in this manner compensated himself for 
 the loss of his home. 
 
 It was a piteous spectacle to look on the old man, 
 and to see how his mind, restless enough without 
 this soothing medicine, gloated over the well-known 
 strains of the harps and violins. He sat and listened. 
 The expression of his face was serious as if he were 
 lost in thought, and not a word escaped his lips. The 
 whole time he did not move a muscle, his eyelids 
 
160 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 never winked, his lips appeared as though they could 
 not open. One would have thought that the music of 
 his old friends would have stimulated him to mirth or 
 tumultuous grief. But it was not so. Excitement 
 seemed to hold the spiritual part of him in equipoise 
 — and he was completely tranquil through it all. 
 
 Frank stood the whole time by the side of his 
 father, who was seated. Old Loyka held him round 
 the waist with one hand, and with the other stroked 
 his face and head. And this he did the whole time 
 without speaking or making any other movement. 
 Only Bartos had straitly charged the musicians in 
 no way to recall his thoughts to his home. 
 
 When it seemed to Loyka that they had played 
 long enough, he rose and said to the musicians very 
 gravely M I thank you, comrades, and as far as in 
 me lies, I will requite you. But go not to our 
 son's farmstead, there I will never dwell again. I 
 have determined to make a home just as the whim 
 seizes me. Here I can invite you to me at any 
 time. Here the people are good and honest, and no 
 one says "No! act differently." I have been too 
 long at home, you know, — on the farm, 'tis seldom 
 I have quitted it, and so this has come to me that I 
 must quit it, I must look about me and go a little 
 into the world to learn how the world wags else- 
 where." 
 
 And more he said to the same effect. On this he 
 departed from the village with Frank, the musicians 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 161 
 
 following after him and playing through the village 
 and even when the village was left behind. Aud 
 then they went into other villages, and there much 
 the same occurred. Only that Loyka marched into 
 those other villages at the head of a band of 
 musicians, so that the village was immediately in an 
 uproar, topsy-turvy, and with its feet in the % air. 
 People ran out of their houses on to the village 
 green, gathered round him in a group, and said to one 
 another " It is Loyka from Frishetts: he is pensioned 
 off, and so, see ! he has gone mad." 
 
 Soon a rumour spread all through the country 
 side about Loyka, how that he walked from village 
 to village with an escort of musicians, and scarcely 
 had they finished sayingso, when lo ! Loyka announced 
 himself by well-known strains of music. And when 
 the people ran together on the village green and 
 collected round him, he paused, and said " Hearken 
 to what I will preach unto you." 
 
 On this he delivered a kind of sermon, showing 
 forth how he had passed the night in sufferings, how 
 he wandered with the moon, how that the moon 
 wandered in the sky and he wandered in the world, 
 and how he arose with the first dawn, and how the 
 foxes had holes and he had not where to lay hjs head 
 like the Son of Man. 
 
 He even walked about the market places and 
 spoke to people and implored them only not to send 
 him home, and he would repay them for everything. 
 
1 62 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 Doubtless some laughed, some who knew him 
 well pitied him. And many only pretended to 
 pity him. 
 
 Then again he also walked with the musicians, 
 and when he came into some village and stood on 
 the green, he enquired whether they had any 
 vejminkar there that he might have a look at him ; 
 or said he " Let the vejminkar be brought to me on 
 the green, and we will come to an understanding 
 about everything." And more to the same effect. 
 Soon old Loyka belonged to the roving figures of the 
 neighbourhood about whom people talk or do not 
 talk, whom we half laugh at and do not laugh at, 
 who add a peculiar feature to those districts much 
 as the eagle adds a character to the woodland 
 above which it wanders lonely, and above which 
 it utters from time to time a cry which pierces 
 to the bones. 
 
 And so Frank led his father to all the places with 
 which he had previously become acquainted through 
 his own vagabond's mode of life. 
 
 In some places, too, the respectable portion of the 
 citizens came out to meet them, inviting old Loyka 
 for friendship sake into their houses, for, in truth, 
 Loyka had been the best known and most highly 
 respected man of the neighbourhood. But Loyka 
 never accepted such invitations, though modestly 
 thanking his friends for all their kind intentions. 
 " I never go on to any farmstead," he would say. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 163 
 
 " I thank you, neighbours, most respectfully. Leave 
 me any place where there is no farmstead, and I 
 have enough for my poor wants." 
 
 If there was a cross anywhere on the village green, 
 Loyka posted"himself beside it, and when the people 
 began to flock around him, he pointed to the 
 Christus, and said " Here ye behold him/' and then 
 he pointed to himself, and said " and here ye behold 
 me." " He yonder bore his cross only once to 
 Calvary, but I bear mine continually. But the 
 hangman's servants martyred him, me my own son 
 martyred because I gave him my estate." 
 
 At other times again he cried " Wherefore do ye 
 wonder that I go from village to village ? Here ye 
 behold a man crucified upon a cross ! he also 
 wandered about in the world and no one hindered 
 him. Why do ye hinder me." 
 
 Also Frank led his father away into the woodland, 
 and once a fiddler whom they happened to meet at 
 the outskirts of the wood accompanied them to the 
 well-known ravines. Never in its life, perhaps, had 
 that rocky glen entertained such a fantastic group as 
 it did that day, and, perhaps, never in their lives did 
 such tones reverberate from its rocky walls as did 
 that day. 
 
 Even old Loyka felt as though he were seated in 
 the chambers by the coach house at his home, and 
 listened to the old, old, stories. Only that on this 
 occasion it was Frank who narrated his youthful 
 
164 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 experiences in that ravine, in which he pointed out 
 where the wind-hover was wont to hang suspended 
 in the air, where the brambles trailed, where hung 
 the clinging sweet brier, and where the streamlet 
 bubbled in which those blue flowers flourished. And 
 the fiddler played ; and it was all so strange to those 
 rocky walls that one after the other they repeated it 
 all, as if they gloried in their ready memory, and as 
 if they wondered what it was all about. 
 
 And then at last there fell upon the place, after 
 the playing and the story-telling, a silence like the 
 grave. When the birch tree, safely anchored by its 
 roots above them, stirred, even old Loyka heard it, 
 and looked to see what it was. When the lizard, 
 sunning itself by the bushes in the warm sunlight, 
 let fall over the rock a fragment of pebble or a crumb 
 of earth, Loyka looked to see what had happened 
 there above his head. And when in the centre of 
 the ravine a leaflet was whirled along tremulous and 
 fluttered like thought itself, Loyka glanced upward, 
 and wondered " Whence art thou ? Where, I wonder, 
 did they treat thee like myself ?" 
 
 And then it came to pass that his eyelids drooped 
 wearily, and he fell asleep. When he awoke he 
 would no more hear of going into the villages, he 
 would no more hear of the musicians, and said he 
 fain would come hither oftener. He could come 
 here as often as he chose, because the woodman at 
 whose house Frank had been staying for some time, 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 165 
 
 now welcomed Frank's father also as an old and 
 well-known acquaintance. And Frank led him into 
 this ravine every day, here every day he slept most 
 comfortably, and when he awoke he seemed always 
 as though he found a portion of himself which he had 
 lost. 
 
 It almost seemed as though Bartos' device was 
 destined to succeed, at all events, it partially 
 succeeded. But it still failed of its full effect, be- 
 cause Loyka would not hear of returning to his home. 
 But at the same time he would not hear of strolling 
 through the villages anymore. 
 
 People had already ceased to say in telling his 
 story that he was wandering through the. villages. 
 Now they said that he wandered in the woods. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 LD Loyka continued to be a constant figure of 
 the district surrounding Frishetts. If any- 
 one from the neighbourhood or from abroad had come 
 there and enquired what novel or peculiar event had 
 happened there, he would have learnt that they had 
 there a vejminkar (pensioner) belonging to a large 
 estate and with a large pension, but who would not 
 dwell on his estate, and roved about even in the 
 woods and dwelt in the cemetery with the grave- 
 digger Bartos. 
 
 " You have here a strange and ludicrous thing,'* 
 he would hear said : for people frequently regard 
 what is strange as also ludicrous. " Perhaps he 
 would sooner allow himself to be nailed to a cross 
 than to return to the farm in which his son is 
 hospodar. Some years ago he was just a little 
 touched in the head and walked with a band of 
 musicians from village to village — what a peasant it 
 is ! Now he is a little more reasonable ; only no one 
 can persuade him to go home — the fool ! " 
 
 " And has he been long thus," the stranger would 
 perhaps enquire. 
 
On Condition: or Pensioned Off. 167 
 
 " Already a good many years. His wife dwells in 
 the farm house, and about her Loyka says ' Let her 
 stop there, she merits it.' 'Tis a strange and 
 ludicrous affair." So Would run the discourse of the 
 native of the place. 
 
 And so we see that even over his sufferings several 
 years have flown and, before we had expected it, we 
 are several years older, and with us Loyka and 
 Frank and Staza and all the rest. 
 
 During this time, it is true, Joseph importuned his 
 father to return home. He despatched servants 
 after him with the assurance that he never dreamed 
 his father would make such a fuss about the two 
 chambers by the coach house and take the matter so 
 seriously, and that if only he would return he might 
 dwell in the pension house unmolested. But the 
 servants who were sent with these messages never 
 succeeded much, because on these occasions old 
 Loyka behaved as though they wished to hale him to 
 the butcher's, stuffed his fingers in his ears, and took 
 to flight. Moreover, at times, he sent strange 
 messages to his son, though it is hard to say 
 whether the servants delivered them just as he gave 
 them. 
 
 But old Loyka took so violent an aversion, even 
 to the servants from the farm, that if he came to a 
 village, his first question was whether any one from 
 Frishett's was on the watch for him. And if he 
 tarried several days in a village he posted guards 
 
168 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 here and there, that he might timely take to flight 
 if the servants ventured to approach. 
 
 And it happened on one occasion that the servants 
 from the farm entered several villages close upon his 
 heels, because the young hospodar had charged them 
 with a message in which he declared that he would 
 no longer be held up to the eyes of the world as a 
 villain, and have his name bandied about from mouth 
 to mouth as that of a God-forsaken reprobate. 
 
 Here old Loyka fumed furiously. " Only let him 
 come himself and I'll show him how I hold him up 
 to the world as a villain," said he, and from that 
 time forth he avoided the villages and dwelt most 
 willingly with Bartos at the cemetery. 
 
 I know not how it came about, whether Joseph 
 took the message to mean that he was to come 
 personally to his father, but so it was that he came 
 to the cemetery, and all the servants with him who 
 had ever been despatched after his father with any 
 message. No sooner did old Loyka become aware 
 of their approach than he was almost beside himself, 
 and locked himself into the charnel house among 
 the shin bones and skulls, only that he might see no 
 one and need not have to speak to any one. 
 
 Then Joseph called in a loud voice in the cemetery 
 to his father, bidding him come forth and return 
 home ; ay, he swore that he himself would not return 
 home without him, that he would no longer endure 
 to become the bye-word for a God -forsaken reprobate 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 169 
 
 among the populace, and that if his father refused 
 he should be dragged home forcibly. 
 
 "And how do you mean to accomplish it," en- 
 quired Bartos, who had appeared during this scene 
 on the threshold of his dwelling. 
 
 " I shall have the doors forced," responded 
 Joseph. 
 
 " How so ? " enquired Bartos, calmly. 
 
 " Oh, you know all about it," said Joseph to 
 Bartos, " It is you who are the cause of all this, and 
 I will suffer it no longer. It is you who purposely 
 retain my father in your house to make capital out 
 of him. It is you who are purposely coupling my 
 brother with that young vagabond " 
 
 Further Joseph did not proceed in his harangue. 
 
 "What is it you called Staza ? " Bartos asked 
 Joseph, and at the same time uttered a yell so 
 menacing that the servants who were with Joseph, 
 recoiled several paces. But scarcely had Bartos 
 pronounced the words before he had already gripped 
 Joseph under the armpits, swung him into the air, 
 and balancing him like a racquet ball, continued, 
 " I'll, pound every one to a jelly who dares once to 
 say such a thing." 
 
 And from the way in which Joseph turned 
 deadly pale in Bartos's hands and impotently shook 
 and shivered, it was evident that he believed the 
 gravedigger to be in earnest, and about to fulfil his 
 threats to a tittle. 
 
170 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 But Joseph, in his own impotence, began to pluck 
 up a bolder spirit when he contemplated his servants, 
 and no sooner had Bartos once more dropped him on 
 to the ground than he shouted to them to force the 
 doors of the charnel house without further hesitation 
 and to drag out the aged Loyka. 
 
 "And, prythee, why not? Prythee, why not?" 
 observed Bartos, in a voice again perfectly calm, 
 as if a moment before he had not threatened to make 
 a jelly of a human body. And he posted himself 
 before the doors of the charnel house. 
 
 " Cleave the doors asunder ! " commanded Joseph, 
 seeing that his servants did not wish to have any- 
 thing to do with the business. " A souterkin of beer 
 to the man who cleaves them open." 
 
 And when the servants made a rush in right 
 earnest to get at the doors, Bartos, as though he 
 had heard nothing of what Joseph had said, merely 
 stretched out his two hands and said, " Cave ! " and 
 already two of the servants lay on the ground 
 blubbering, as though they had come to order their 
 own graves to be delved. The rest of the servants 
 wavered in their charge, and then suddenly turned 
 and fled at full speed by the shortest road out of the 
 cemetery. 
 
 Joseph began to jeer and threaten them. 
 
 " Everything is not to be had for a souterkin of 
 beer," said Bartos, and laughed or rather smiled 
 tauntingly. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 171 
 
 " But it will be had all the cheaper," said Joseph, 
 "when Ibring half the village again you, you will 
 pipe in another strain." 
 
 " Do not bring them," said Bartos, and. continued 
 to smile tauntingly. 
 
 " When I report matters at the bureaux " 
 
 " Report it not, report nothing, unless you would 
 report your own precious doings," said Bartos. 
 " But, of course, if you think it right, bring them, 
 report it all', only, you just sleep upon it and I will 
 sleep upon it too." 
 
 " But I tell you it is notorious how you encourage 
 his vagabondage, how you cause disunion in the 
 family " 
 
 "Ay, ay, peasant, you have it well off by heart ; 
 hut let me tell you, that if half your village comes 
 with all its bureaux, they will retire hence just as 
 your own servants retired a moment since. And so 
 it is I who cause disunion in families. Behold 
 yonder doors before the charnel house, and think 
 whom they conceal. So it is / who cause disunion 
 between him and thee. I, forsooth, was that notable 
 son who lowered his father beneath the meanest of 
 his servants, who shortly after commanded him to 
 dwell in a stable, who baited him until he had baited 
 him out of house and home, who deprived him of 
 head and of reason, oh ! I pray you just bring hither 
 your village and the whole squad of officials. I 
 will enlighten them in your presence as to what a 
 
172 On Condition : or Pensioned Off, 
 
 notable peasant thou art, who, in place of a heart, 
 hast planted in thy bosom the gross peasant's cor- 
 ruption and art a wicked son because thy father is a 
 pensioner on thy bounty ! " 
 
 Such and more to the like effect said Bartos, and 
 hereupon pressed Joseph, with his body, out of the 
 cemetery. There was little need to use pressure, 
 Bartos was only making sport of him, but it was all 
 the worse for Joseph, because he felt what a ridicu- 
 lous figure he cut before the servants, and before 
 Bartos, and his humiliation appeared to be intoler- 
 able. But there was no escape from it. He must 
 e'en quit the cemetery with his message undelivered 
 and must see to it that he did not fairly take to flight, 
 which would have been more ridiculous than this 
 measured retreat, during which, Bartos, at least, 
 allowed him so much apparent liberty, that he 
 appeared to be retiring of his own free will, and so 
 Joseph had nothing for it but to recoil with threats. 
 
 And being now in a towering passion he resolved 
 to fulfil these threats. When he had returned to 
 Frishetts he collected his neighbours and others, and 
 summoned them to go with him for his father, whom 
 Bartos was detaining in the charnel house, and 
 whom he refused to let out. 
 
 Certainly this announcement wore little the appear- 
 ance of truthfulness, because they knew Bartos too 
 well to believe him capable of doing anything of the 
 kind. Nevertheless Joseph contrived to persuade 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. . 173 
 
 them to go with him, partly out of curiosity, to 
 see what would happen, partly because they thought 
 that the father and son might yet be reconciled, now 
 that the son made such a point of it ; and an affair 
 of such importance was worth the trouble of a man's 
 being a witness to it. 
 
 And so they trailed out of Frishetts, and Joseph 
 at their head, towards the cemetery, so that they 
 had the appearance of a procession of people carry- 
 ing some one to the grave, whereas they went for a 
 man in order to bring him from the grave and back 
 to his own home. • 
 
 When they reached the cemetery the neighbours 
 remained in the rear, Joseph advanced to the dwell- 
 ing of the gravedigger, and shouted " Bartos, now 
 we are here, so let out my father." 
 
 Bartos issued from his house, which had also a 
 door into the fields, halted in front of the threshold, 
 and seeing in reality half the village at Joseph's 
 back, enquired jestingly " Are ydu come to pay me a 
 visit, neighbours ? I am delighted, I am delighted, 
 but you must only come one by one, because men do 
 not enter these precincts all at once." 
 
 " We are come for my father," said Joseph. " I'll 
 teach thee, thou son of a spade, that I know how to 
 keep my word." 
 
 " For your father ? You have him there," 
 said Bartos, and pointed vaguely all over the 
 cemetery. 
 
174 }l Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 " Open the charnel house, gravedigger," said 
 Joseph imperiously. 
 
 " It will not be necessary," answered the grave- 
 digger. " Yonder is thy father," and he pointed to 
 the great ruddy cross by which stood old Loyka with 
 dishevelled hair, holding in his hand a human shin 
 bone which he had picked out for himself in the 
 charnel house, and looking from one to the other of 
 those who had approached the cemetery, as much as 
 to say, " If any one comes near me I will break his 
 head for him with this shin bone." 
 
 All started back who saw it, even Joseph started. 
 That grey-haired sire among the tombs, holding his 
 left hand around the great cross on which hung the 
 old white iron figure of the Christus, and in his right 
 hand a human bone, seemed standing there the 
 defender of the dead against whom the living had 
 come in battle array. 
 
 " What went ye out for to see," began old Loyka 
 in the words of Scripture. " A notable son who 
 promised in presence of you all to bear me on his 
 arms, and then waved me to those chambers which I 
 had reserved for beggars, and bade me dwell there. 
 Behold him, yonder, he is among you. Or came ye 
 out for to see a father bereft of sense and reason who 
 long ago invited you to the feast, danced with you 
 and made you merry. Behold me here, I stand 
 beneath the crucified Jesus, but I have no more to 
 spend on feasts, nothing remains to me save this 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 175 
 
 bone, and none of you have much appetite for 
 that. Surely, you do not believe that old Loyka 
 has ceased to be hospitable ? Oh, I could feast you 
 freely, but you would spurn my dainties, saving 
 such of you as are like me, pensioned off on a son's 
 bounty, and his son and his son's wife have meted 
 out to him for his portion two chambers which were 
 reserved for tinkers and pedlars — but you know 
 it all." 
 
 Among the neighbours who had come thither was 
 also the mayor, and he said " Pantata, you would 
 not have to dwell in those chambers. Joseph 
 promises you that he will not meddle with you in the 
 pension house." 
 
 "Ha! Ha!" laughed Loyka, "and so you be- 
 lieve him, do you ? This man who went against me 
 like an enemy until he had stripped me of every- 
 thing ! Of my rights of hospodarship, of my respect 
 with the servants, of the love of my children, and of 
 this last span of earth on which I had laid my head. 
 If he were to stretch out his hand to this cross, 
 and lay it here in the side of the martyred Jesus, 
 I would say to him " thou liest." 
 
 On this no one spoke more. The neighbours saw 
 that it would be in vain, and Joseph perhaps said 
 nothing, besause he saw that every further step he 
 took only the more incensed his father. Only here 
 and there among themselves the neighbours ex- 
 changed a few desultory remarks. 
 
176 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 And after awhile Loyka began to speak again 
 almost meekly, as though he were fit to cry. " What 
 injury have I done you, my neighbours, that ye have 
 leagued yourselves against me with yonder fellow. 
 I always avoid you all, I do not get in any one's way? 
 I do not beg anything at your hands, I creep away 
 like the field mouse beneath the hedgerow, for many 
 years ye have not heard my voice, I suffer and am 
 mute ; what do ye find so sickening in me that you 
 come to the cemetery against me as against a savage 
 beast." 
 
 This speech excited the neighbours compassion* 
 they felt that they ought not to have yielded so 
 easily to Joseph's summons, and that old Loyka 
 deserved more consideration at their hands than that 
 they should have allowed themselves to bustle off as 
 to a spectacle : just as when we wish to see some- 
 thing which is not to be seen every day. Even 
 Joseph felt too well that he had invited them to play 
 an ungracious part, and therefore used his best 
 endeavours to turn their attention from his father 
 and himself, and to concentrate it upon the grave- 
 digger : on whom he thought it high time to be 
 revenged ; and he began to talk as though it was 
 Bartos alone who hindered his father from returning 
 home, and here he began to threaten his neighbours 
 with the anger of the bureaux if they did not 
 aid him in rescuing his father from the power of 
 Bartos. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 177 
 
 On this occasion Bartos rid himself of Joseph by 
 a sarcasm, and this sarcasm was more properly a 
 very serious blow. " I had not thought," he said to 
 Joseph, "that you would offer yourself as village 
 messenger to the bureaux so long as we had Vena 
 for the purpose. But it is all of a piece with the 
 rest of your hospodarship. You bow the messenger 
 out of your house, and turn messenger yourself — 
 before I die I still expect to see you turn kalounkar 
 (tape pedlar)". 
 
 Bartos, as we know, had never far to go for an 
 answer, and generally had the laugh on his side. 
 Thus it came to pass that everyone lost who measured 
 his strength with him even before he was ready him- 
 self with a suitable retort. Having heard Bartos 
 say his say, people did not wait to hear how his 
 adversary would defend himself : they were convinced 
 that every one who began a dispute with Bartos 
 would be worsted either by fisticuffs or some smart 
 repartee. 
 
 And so the neighbours gave way even here to quite 
 audible laughter, looked at one another, turned right 
 about face, took their way to Frishetts, and on the 
 way smilingly observed that Joseph wanted to be a 
 village messenger or a kalounkar (tape pedlar). 
 
 Joseph then was far from successful on this 
 occasion, he not only became hateful to his neigh- 
 bours for the want of respect which he had shown 
 towards his father, but he became still more an 
 
178 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 object of ridicule, and that was a thing he dreaded 
 very much indeed. 
 
 But yet he did not despair. 
 
 And now as soon as ever his pair of heels had 
 crossed his own doorstep, the children on the village 
 green began to play at being messengers and kalouh- 
 kari (tape pedlars); when people met each other their 
 discourse was of messengers and kalounkari. He even 
 heard it amongst his servants. Even when he stood 
 up in chapel, all at once a bee seemed to buzz past 
 his ear and he heard a whisper about the kalounkar 
 (tape pedlar) and messenger. He heard it even 
 when no one was saying anything about it, but that 
 was seldom. When he went into the alehouse 'he 
 imagined people there had just ceased to speak about 
 kalounkari, and when he desired to return home he 
 hesitated, because he felt sure that as soon as his 
 back was turned they would begin to talk at once 
 (though they had ceased in his presence) about the 
 kalounkar. 
 
 Bartos' witticism flew from Frishetts all over the 
 neighbourhood. Joseph heard it a-field from the 
 labourers, he heard it on the highroad, from the 
 road mender, who all of a sudden exclaimed with a 
 sigh, " Ah ! heavens, when will the kalounkar (tape 
 pedlar) come this way again ; I should like to buy 
 of him a bit of ribbon, mine is quite worn out." And 
 the road mender, at these words, laid down his 
 hammer and ceased to break stones and looked at 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 179 
 
 Joseph. Perhaps, even in any case, he would have 
 looked at him as he passed, but, at any other time, 
 Joseph would have scarcely heeded him, under 
 present circumstances the man's look galled him. 
 
 And thus he saw and heard mockery everywhere, 
 whereever' he showed himself. Moreover, his evil 
 destiny contrived that a kalounkar should come 
 about this time to Frishetts, who, not daring to put 
 up at the Loyka's, spread out his wares on the village 
 green. Hereupon, when most of the people had formed 
 a circle round him came Vena and said, " How dare 
 you venture with your tapes and ribbons on to our 
 village green when- we have our own kalounkar in 
 the village ? " 
 
 Those who stood in the circle greeted these words 
 with boisterous merriment, indeed, with acclama- 
 tions ; the children ran about the green squeaking 
 " kalendar," in shrill trebles, and the boldest of them, 
 went before the Loyka's farm-house and yelled 
 " the Kalounkar is here, we ourselves are playing 
 at kalounkar," and every brat wanted to be a 
 kalounkar. 
 
 This affair, apparently so trivial, reached such a 
 head, that Joseph no longer cared to leave his house 
 and, in fact, never left it. Vena, standing on the 
 village green, cried to all newcomers who went past 
 Loyka's farmstead, " None are allowed to enter there, 
 and the peasant proprietor daren't venture out — just 
 come here — here are nice ribbands for you." 
 
180 On Condition : or Pensioned Off, 
 
 This affair, apparently so trivial, infuriated Joseph 
 to such a degree, that he never spoke with any one 
 in the village. He felt that he could not speak with 
 them. Loyka's farm became the butt of every saucy 
 ribbald witling, even a kind of comic song circu- 
 lated under the name of the " Kalounkarska/' or 
 " Lay of the Kalounkar, ,, and when any of the 
 musicians straggled into Frishetts and began to 
 show off his skill on the village green, all the full- 
 grown lads flocked round him and wanted him to 
 play the " Kalounkarska." A little later every 
 melody became the " Kalounkarska" if Joseph was 
 within earshot. And they all began to play the 
 " Kalounkarska," one 'after the other, although they 
 had been singing quite different songs till then. 
 
 And so it came to pass that one day Joseph went 
 to his wife and said, " Barushka, it is impossible for 
 us to hold out any longer in Frishetts, I shall sell 
 the farm and we will emigrate elsewhere." There 
 was no sign of hesitation, he meant it in earnest, nor 
 did Barushka by any means endeavour to divert him 
 from his purpose. So then, let him find a purchaser 
 and Joseph Loyka would decamp from Frishetts. 
 
 Not long after this the good folk of Frishetts 
 whispered to one another that the kalounkar wanted 
 to decamp. Vena one day delivered on the village 
 green a complete disquisition: How, even this 
 kalounkar, who showed the door to every real 
 kalounkar, was now every day peeping out of that 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 181 
 
 very door, how he had already all his wares in his 
 pack and how they would soon have to drum him 
 out of the village to his own tune. 
 
 At that time, it so fell out, that Bartos, the grave- 
 digger, came into Frishetts to pay a visit, and went 
 direct to the house of the mayor. 
 
 " I have friends with us just now. Do. you come 
 to take their measure — eh ? " said the mayor. 
 
 "Not exactly that," said Bartos, " but I could 
 wish to take my spade in hand to clear a certain 
 something out of the way." 
 
 " Well, seat yourself, seat yourself," said the 
 mayor. 
 
 And Bartos began : — 
 
 " You are Frank's guardian, my dear mayor." 
 
 " I am, I am," admitted the mayor. 
 
 "And the money which Frank inherited through 
 his grandfather you gave to me to stow away." 
 
 " I did, I did, you do not, perhaps, want me to 
 take charge of it again. That would be a pretty 
 business. What could I do with it, pray, at my 
 time of life ? And, pray, where could it be better 
 stowed away than at your house." 
 
 " I do, indeed, wish. you to take charge of it again. 
 It is well stowed away at my house ; but it is dead, 
 like everything else that lies there ; and this money 
 must not lie dead." 
 
 "And how do you mean to bring it to life, my 
 
 dear Bartos." 
 z 
 
1 82 • On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 " Well, thus. I have heard that Joseph desires to 
 sell the farm." 
 
 "And you are the cause of that, my dear Bartos." 
 
 " I am, and I am not. Only tell me this. Does 
 Joseph wish to sell ? " 
 
 "And did you wish to buy ?" 
 
 " Not I, but you, mayor, are to be the purchaser." 
 
 " Oh ! so I am to buy Loyka's farm." 
 
 " You, as Frank's guardian, with Frank's money, 
 and for Frank. If there is not sufficient, you can 
 advance the money, or a debt might remain on the 
 estate. Frank is young and can economize. Be- 
 sides this, he has his younger son's portion on the 
 estate. That would accrue." 
 
 The mayor began to reflect. " Hum ! It would 
 accrue : perhaps it might be done." 
 
 " If only he wishes to sell ? " 
 
 " That I could find out from him. I could, in- 
 deed, invite him to our house ; but now, no one can 
 entice him out of his own at any price — of which 
 you are the cause. ' I could go to him myself." 
 
 " No, no, mayor ! no, no ! He must send for 
 you. We must so contrive, not that we should 
 seem bent on buying the farm, but that Joseph 
 should seem bent on selling it." 
 
 " Not in vain do they call you a ' sapient grave- 
 digger,' " said the mayor, flatteringly. 
 
 But, frankly, my dear Bartos, I do not as yet see 
 your drift." 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 183 
 
 Bartos was glad that he had hit upon something 
 which no one else had hit upon before, and that the 
 mayor had said in so many words, that his (Bartos) 
 more elaborate design eluded his penetration. 
 
 " It is as follows," explained Bartos. " Old 
 Loyka will not return to his estate. Of that you are 
 convinced ? " 
 
 " Of that I am convinced," repeated the mayor." 
 
 " That is to say, so long as Joseph is on the farm," 
 continued Bartos. 
 
 " So long as Joseph is there ? " said the mayor, 
 interrogatively, as though he again failed to grasp 
 the scheme of the gravedigger. 
 
 " Then my idea is this. Might not old Loyka re- 
 turn to his farmstead if Joseph was there no more." 
 
 " If he was not there ? That pleases me. That 
 might be'." 
 
 " And if everything else there was re-arranged just 
 as it was wont to be in times gone by — Loyka to com- 
 mand the servants ; in the chambers by the coach- 
 house mirth to reign as in the days of old ; Loyka 
 to dwell in the farmhouse and be hospodar, both in 
 name and reality ; Frank, voluntarily, to be sub- 
 servient to his wishes, whereby, we should make a 
 good hospodar of Frank. Do you not think that in 
 this manner old Loyka might yet recover his health ?" 
 
 This proposal pleased the mayor. 
 
 V If he did not recover, what .help ? We should 
 have done what we could. At all events Frank 
 
184 On Condition : or Pensioned Off, 
 
 would gain a constant occupation and all pretexts 
 would be removed from old Loyka for tormenting 
 himself further/' 
 
 " Gravedigger, the more I reflect about it, the. 
 more I like it. And for my part, I am almost con- 
 vinced that Loyka will recover." 
 
 And the mayor rubbed his hands and said to 
 Bartos, "You would be the cause of this also." 
 They so contrived it that Joseph Loyka sent that 
 same day for the mayor, and came to terms with 
 him about the price of the farm, which the mayor 
 bought in his own name. A few days after the terms 
 of the agreement were made out in writing, and soon 
 after the gravedigger brought Frank's money, which 
 in great part defrayed the cost of the farm. 
 
 And here the Mayor desired that Bartos should 
 also sign his name as a witness to the agreement. 
 But Bartos absolutely refused his signature, fearing 
 lest Joseph might hear that he was the cause of it 
 all and might yet revoke the agreement at the last 
 moment — a notion which was not altogether devoid 
 of foundation. 
 
 And so it came to pass that Joseph decamped 
 from Frishetts, not being able to support the ridicule 
 which assailed him on an estate where he could 
 support no one near himself — not even his own 
 father. He sneaked off without giving his neigh- 
 bours one farewell embrace, as though he had never 
 in his life been on intimate terms with them. He 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 185 
 
 sneaked off in the early hours of the morning, when 
 he thought that every one was still asleep, and he 
 could consequently most easily elude the mockery 
 and taunts of the village — the last taunts and 
 mockery. 
 
 He eluded them for that day. He migrated to a 
 distant quarter of the country where people knew 
 him not. But taunts and mockery were raised like 
 dust behind him when it was learnt how he had 
 eluded them. The " kalounkarska," which they 
 had intended to sing at his departure was now sung 
 by the irritated youths of Frishetts through the long 
 hours of the evening, and before the farmstead long 
 into the night. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 fN the cemetery at Bartos' house, consequently 
 with Staza and the gravedigger,were Frank and 
 old Loyka. They conducted together their modest 
 household, Frank busying himself about the man- 
 agement of all outside the house, and Staza 
 devoting herself to domestic duties. 
 
 Frank and Staza had reached an age, when life 
 wishes to burst forth in the song of the skylark. 
 Where such an eye directs its gaze, the bud unfolds, 
 the rose blossoms. The sky is draped in a garment 
 of transparent blue, every star hath its own language, 
 every ray of moonlight brings a message down to 
 earth. The earth is draped in a garment of green, 
 and this green is full of hope, the birds sing songs 
 about it, the leaves of the wood murmur about it. 
 The garish light of day trenches far upon the depths 
 of night, and night with its own golden speech of 
 dawn trenches far upon the day itself. The young 
 heart reels between waking and dreaming ; presenti- 
 ment and uncertainty contend about it, the presenti- 
 ment of joy above which there is none ; uncertainty 
 which is half a certainty because the world is so 
 fair. 
 
On Condition: or' Pensioned Off. 187 
 
 Once Staza sat upon the grave of her mother: she 
 did not sing " Oh rest in peace," either to her mother 
 or to the other dead. But she felt weary and 
 oppressed, she knew not why, and then she inter- 
 preted the oppression to be sorrow for never having 
 known her mother. And she would most gladly 
 have delved a fresh grave beside her mother's grave 
 and laid herself in it, not by any means as a corpse, 
 but that she might again tap at her mother's coffin 
 and tell her something which she had not yet 
 breathed even to herself. 
 
 At this moment came Frank to her, and when he 
 stood beside her, he was for the first time at a loss 
 for a word. Everything that he had said to her 
 hitherto seemed insufficient. He wished to say 
 much more and therefore said nothing. 
 
 The dawn of life shot its crimson streamers before 
 him, he had his soul full of spring, full of sap and 
 beauty, and when he wished to express it all, he 
 cast his eyes down to the ground and his tongue 
 seemed parched with a long drought. He had his 
 soul full of sunlight, and when he wished to 
 reveal it in its full brightness, he had tears in 
 his eyes. 
 
 And when he had stood thus a long time and 
 could not find anything to say, and yet wished to 
 say something — he found nothing else but the 
 enquiry, " Oh ! Staza. and so thou dost not sing 
 any more." 
 
1 88 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 Staza quivered at these words, glanced up at him 
 and then looked on the ground : glanced up at him 
 with a gleam in her eyes which he had never seen 
 there before, with fervour so that her bosom was 
 expanded and was penetrated by it. And when she 
 glanced down to the ground, she did not raise her 
 eyes any more, but from the heaving of her own 
 bosom it was evident that this gleam of light and 
 fervour had elevated her whole existence. 
 
 Frank was melancholy ; what he had said did 
 not satisfy him, and he could not think of anything 
 else. Even Staza was melancholy, because she 
 could not find anything to say at all : but after a 
 brief pause she threw herself at full length on the 
 grass, a deep sigh escaped from her bosom, and then 
 she quickly rose to her feet and without casting one 
 glance at Frank, ran lightly away. 
 
 Perhaps she at last told her mother what she 
 wanted to say. 
 
 Frank scarcely ventured to glance at her as she 
 ran away, and still less ventured to ask himself the 
 question why she ran away. And he sat down 
 exactly on the place where she had been seated a 
 moment before, only that he looked toward the 
 wicket-gate and then called to mind how he had 
 come to the cemetery the first time with the measure 
 for his grandfather's grave. And then he called to 
 mind how he had slept in his grandfather's grave, 
 and how he and Staza had nestled together. And 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. i8g 
 
 all at once he started as though something had 
 stung him in the heart. 
 
 And now Staza and Frank avoided one another, 
 or more properly they sought one another but when 
 they ought to have found one another they did not 
 find one another, and when they found one another, 
 they were melancholy and sought one another once 
 more. They, who had grown side by side, like two 
 flower stems, only now became conscious that they 
 were side by side, and began to separate from one. 
 another, in order that they might yearn for one 
 another's presence. 
 
 When at even Staza worked in the living room, 
 certainly Frank was not there, and wandered some- 
 where under the window or outside the burial ground, 
 in the fields, perhaps, even in the woods, God knows 
 where. And if Frank was in the living room, Staza 
 would rather have laid her down beside the charnel 
 house than have been at the same time in the same 
 room with him ; and again she glanced into his eyes 
 which were so clear and fervent. 
 
 And yet again, sometimes, when by accident they 
 met one another, it seemed to them as though there 
 could not be in the world a greater happiness than 
 such meetings, so that they measured time by them, 
 although they dwelt under the same roof. 
 
 When Bartos, the gravedigger, observed what I 
 here relate, he said to Frank, " You will not sleep 
 another night at our house, Frank, you will go to the 
 
igo On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 farm; the farm is your own, and requires a hospo- 
 dar without delay. 
 
 And now it seemed to Frank as though Bartos 
 had announced to him some dire misfortune. Frank 
 begged not to be dismissed to the farm until the 
 morrow. But Bartos said, " You go there at once, 
 just as you are, without saying a word to anyone." 
 
 " Not even to Staza ? " asked Frank. 
 
 " Not even to Staza," said Bartos. 
 
 And so Frank departed that same day without 
 saying a word to anyone. 
 
 When several days had elapsed, old Loyka said 
 " I wonder where Frank is roving ; 'tis several days 
 since he has been at home." " I have not seen him 
 now for several days," said Bartos, " I know not 
 where he is roving." I know not whether this 
 answer contented Loyka, but certainly it did not 
 content Staza, who was now constantly on the 
 watch to see whether Loyka or Bartos would begin 
 to mention Frank. 
 
 She would gladly have enquired a hundred times 
 in the hour what had become of him, and yet she 
 never summoned courage to ask even once. 
 
 " I wonder why Frank doesn't come," said old 
 Loyka, after several days. 
 
 " I wonder he does not come," said Bartos. 
 
 And it was the only thing she heard of him for 
 several days, and yet she always watched with im- 
 measurable anxiety for the occasion when Loyka 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 191 
 
 should again enquire for his son. Once Loyka asked 
 Staza herself whether she knew where Frank was* 
 " I do not know," said Staza, and after this she once 
 more seated herself on her mother's grave, buried her 
 hot face in the clover, and doubtless told her mother 
 to the very end what that other time she had only 
 just begun to speak about. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Bartos went to the mayor, and 
 both together went to the Loykas' farm, and advised 
 Frank how to manage his estate ; instructed him, 
 worked with him, and were always ready with 
 friendly counsel. 
 
 Once Bartos came home and said to Loyka, " I 
 know at last where Frank is." 
 
 At these words Staza grew red and white several 
 times in the same minute, just as though some one 
 had announced to her that she must from that 
 minute suffer some dire adversity. 
 
 " Frank is at home with his mother, who is sick 
 unto death and longs for you to come and visit her," 
 exlaimed Bartos. 
 
 " I go to the farm ! " began Loyka, vehemently. 
 " To your wife, who is sick unto death," put in 
 Bartos. And here old Loyka was, for that day, 
 completely metamorphosed. He did not speak a 
 word, leant his head on his hands, turned over in 
 his mind various plans and looked another man. 
 
 " So you think, Bartos, that I have to go 
 to the farm," he asked, as if on the brink of 
 
192 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 some final determination which he specially 
 dreaded. 
 
 " I think that you ought to go. If you wish it, 
 I will conduct you," said Bartos. And here the 
 matter was half decided. 
 
 What a wholly different effect it had upon Staza. 
 How gladly, without any hesitation, would she 
 have run to the bedside of the invalid, how gladly 
 would she have watched there, how gladly would 
 she have tended her. How instantly would she 
 have left everything that she might be present where 
 there was most need of her. No one invited her, 
 and she would have sped like the wind. The grave- 
 digger invited Loyka, and Loyka prepared himself 
 to go, as though he was preparing himself for his 
 own death. 
 
 " How many years is it since I have been on the 
 estate," asked old Loyka, still undecided. 
 
 " Oh, many a long year," said Bartos. " In the 
 meantime your son has grown up and is like a 
 nosegay — 'tis a pleasure to look at him." 
 
 At these words Staza let fall everything which 
 she held in her hands, and for a long time was at 
 cross purposes in all she did. She poured water 
 from the ewer into the basin until it overflowed. 
 When she observed this, she wished to wipe it up 
 with something, and emptied the salt seller into the 
 water imagining it was something she had forgotten 
 to salt. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 193 
 
 That evening, Loyka and Bartos wended their 
 way to the farm, at Frishetts, which Loyka still 
 supposed to be in the possession of Joseph. It must 
 have been a very crushing pilgrimage for him, for 
 let Bartos begin any topic of conversation, Loyka 
 did not listen to him, but remained shut up in his 
 own sombre reflections^ and at intervals he heaved a 
 heavy sigh and said in a constrained voice, "Well,, 
 then, this is my last journey." Bartos did not tease 
 him to converse. Moreover, they had to rest at 
 every boundary stone, and the walk, which under 
 ordinary circumstances, was easily accomplished in 
 half an hour, was prolonged to a full hour. And 
 then each time they sat down Loyka said, " My 
 Lord and Master, I go to the Mount of Calvary." 
 
 But with this great oppression which overpowered 
 Loyka, all traces of that tempestuous spirit which 
 had oftentimes shaken his whole inner man, seemed 
 to have disappeared. He went as though the road 
 was one which it was impossible to avoid — he went 
 exhausted and oppressed, but still he did not turn 
 aside. 
 
 When they reached the Loykas' farm it was 
 almost dark. Loyka seated himself exhausted by 
 the abutment, beside which long ago Frank had 
 wept for the death of the grandfather. And as he 
 sat by this abutment, he spoke in a voice of forced 
 meekness. " Bend, proud knees, and entreat my 
 son to permit me to cross his courtyard. Hands 
 
194 ® n Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 clasp 3 r ourselves in prayer and entreat my son to 
 open that gate for so many years barred against me. 
 Enter his doors, ye words, and entreat and implore. 
 For surely it is not possible that I must stifle even 
 my words. Then forth, oh ! stubborn thoughts, 
 and learn humbleness ! My son Joseph ! " said he 
 raising his voice, " lo ! thy, father stands at thy 
 threshold, only prythee, promise me one thing, by 
 word of mouth and before witnesses, that thou wilt 
 not set that dog upon me which long ago fawned 
 upon me and which I fed with my bounty.'' And 
 more to the same effect. 
 
 At times it was like praying, at times like 
 weeping, at times like affected humility, at times 
 like reproach. 
 
 While he sat thus and Bartos stood beside him, 
 the sound of harps and violins issued from the court- 
 yard, and several vocal melodies were wafted to 
 their ears. Old Loyka was silent, raised his head 
 and looked round about him. He listened. He looked 
 round about him to see where he was sitting, and he 
 listened to find out whence the music came. He 
 saw that he was seated by the gates of Joseph's 
 farm, and that the music resounded therefrom. 
 
 " Whither have you led me Bartos ? " enquired 
 Loyka and rose to his feet, for he could not trust 
 what he had heard and seen. 
 
 "And you said that my wife was sick unto death," 
 he further enquired. . 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 195 
 
 "So I said." 
 
 "Why are they playing music where some one is 
 sick unto death ? " enquired Loyka. 
 
 " If music can play after a funeral, why should it 
 not be played before the funeral ? Did not the 
 music play the whole day, when they brought out 
 your father for me to bury ? " 
 
 Loyka mused awhile and was silent. After this, 
 Loyka said of his own accord, " Let us enter." 
 
 He opened the gate, remained standing in the 
 gateway and listened. The music played on. 
 
 Here Loyka said, " They have not yet loosed the 
 dog upon me and I cannot hear one barking. The 
 music played on. 
 
 Then they stepped into the courtyard, and old 
 Loyka said in a much milder tone of voice than be- 
 fore, at the abutment, " look in wonder on me all you 
 who here in days gone by craved a hospitable 
 shelter. Did any of you come here so humbly as I 
 come this day ? Had any of you to stoop to such 
 servile entreaties as I have stooped to ? Oh, how 
 could I come more humbly than I come this day ? " 
 And the music played on. Loyka listened and said, 
 " I have not yet heard the baying of the hound." 
 
 And when he had said this he perceived that the 
 music and the singing were in the chambers beside 
 the coach-house, and now there was the chattering 
 of many voices. He saw and heard feet approach- 
 ing, and not looking up to see who it was, he bowed 
 
196 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 his body to the ground and cried, " If thou art my son 
 Joseph, oh ! I pray thee only do not drive me away 
 for this one day. For the sake of my aged wife, I 
 implore thee, for the sake of thy mother, who bore 
 thee, and whose only fault was that she loved thee 
 all too well, and now is sick unto death. I promise 
 that I will depart again as soon as she is dead if I 
 survive her death." 
 
 And more to the same effect. It was Vena who 
 approached him and said, " I welcome you, pantata, 
 to your own farmstead." 
 
 Old Loyka drew himself up, looked round about 
 him and listened. Afterwards his eyes rested on 
 Vena. " Thou art Vena," he said, " / know thee. 
 What has brought thee here ? Thou went wander- 
 ing from here." 
 
 " Now I am here again, pantata, and we are ex- 
 pecting you," said Vena. 
 
 " Expecting me ? And who are those yonder 
 playing." ' 
 
 " The harpers, fiddlers, and singers. Of course, 
 you know them all," said Vena. 
 
 " And what do they want here ? " 
 
 " They are expecting you." 
 
 " Expecting me ! Well, well, well, well." 
 
 Then he took Vena by the hand and said, 
 " Thou wise man, do not trot me out to make a 
 fool of me, and tell me, is it safe to cross the 
 courtyard ? " 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 197 
 
 " I am sent for you, pantata, and I have to con- 
 duct you wherever you please — to the pension house 
 or the farmhouse ; but our good old mistress is in 
 the farmhouse, and, therefore, I might perhaps have 
 conducted you to the farmhouse." 
 
 " Ha ! then, lead me to the farmhouse, said Loyka, 
 and he said it just as though he had by this con- 
 firmed his own death warrant, which it was im- 
 possible now to avoid. And, even as the wretch 
 condemned to die, just before his death, dares to 
 implore some favour for himself, so old Loyka im- 
 plored — " You hear, Vena, I am going into the 
 farmhouse ; but, first, lead me yonder, to the 
 chambers by the coach-house, that I may gaze upon 
 those spirits who there await my spirit." 
 
 And he hung on Vena's arm, and Vena led him to 
 the spot. When they caught sight of him a flourish 
 of trumpets rang forth. Then the family of the 
 kalounkar came out upon the doorstep, the cloth 
 pedlar, several tinkers, and in a word, all whoever 
 just then were lodging under that roof, and all said, 
 " We welcome you pantata ; we have already been 
 expecting you." And when old Loyka hardly recog- 
 nised those figures by the scanty light of a candle, 
 his head went round, so that he scarcely attended to 
 what they were saying. 
 
 "Vena, let me not stay here any longer. Good 
 lad, now I have seen it, now lead me to the farm- 
 house. 
 
 AA 
 
198 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 When he departed, a flourish of music again rang 
 forth, and Loyka, staggering, and leaning upon Vena, 
 reeled towards his house. And when he was already 
 not far from the threshold, he said, " Only bend 
 thyself, proud tongue, aud pray. Harsh words, 
 swaddle yourselves in silk, be soft and meek, be very 
 meek and soft, ay, as soft as the droppings of birds ! 
 And here already some one stood on the door step 
 and said, " I welcome you, tatinka ; we have been 
 expecting you.'* 
 
 He who pronounced these words was not Joseph ; 
 it was Frank. 
 
 And here motes seemed to flicker before Loyka's 
 eyes, and after a minute or two, Bartos, Vena, and 
 Frank carried him into the farmhouse. 
 
 They laid him on his bed, for the strain upon 
 his nerves had been too great, and he had fainted. 
 He breathed. He opened his eyes for a moment 
 and closed them again immediately. He fell 
 asleep. 
 
 After so many years he again slept under his own 
 roof, and slept in the farmhouse. 
 
 It was already pretty late on the following day 
 when he awoke; and when he awoke, he looked 
 fixedly at the ceiling as if he was trying to call to 
 mind how it used to look. Very much that had 
 occurred seemed to him like a dream. As yet, he 
 could hardly manage to assure himself that he was 
 not still asleep. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 199 
 
 And when his eyes ranged from the ceiling and 
 sought the objects that were nearest to him, here 
 stood, here sat in the apartment, his wife, Frank, 
 and Bartos. Loyka greeted them with a prolonged 
 stare, but did not utter a word. He only gazed at 
 them. 
 
 And when his eyes wandered to the door he saw 
 several of the servants standing there, one of whom 
 said, " We await your order, pantata, where we are 
 to go and plough." 
 
 Old Loyka again turned his eyes towards his wife, 
 his son and Bartos, and said, "tell me nothing: if 
 it is a dream, let me dream on." And to the servants 
 he said, "go and plough beyond the meadow, I will 
 come and see how much you have worked." 
 
 When the servants had gone, he again looked 
 towards his son and said, " and Joseph allows you 
 to be here ? Does he allow me to be here also ? " 
 
 " You are at home, Papa," said Frank, " and we 
 will never leave it again/' 
 
 " At home ? Prythee tell me nothing whatever 
 until afterwards," and he rubbed his forehead. After 
 a while he said to his wife, " They told me you were 
 sick unto death." 
 
 " Now she is well again," said Bartos. 
 
 When Loyka got upon his feet he enquired, " may 
 I venture to walk about the room." 
 
 " About the room, the courtyard, in the fields, 
 where you please." answered Frank. 
 
200 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 Loyka smiled and walked about the room, and said 
 as he did so, " It is all a very well concocted plan, 
 but I am already old, why should I not allow myself 
 to take a few steps in a room which was once my own." 
 
 " It is yours, so long as you are pleased to stay 
 in it," said Bartos. 
 
 " Good lad, I must trust you, although I do not 
 know yet whether you speak the truth." And Loyka 
 looked out of the window at the courtyard. 
 
 " I wonder who that is standing in the court- 
 yard ? " he said, " If I am not mistaken it is the old 
 harvester." 
 
 " He has been already waiting two days to see 
 you and to have a talk with you," they said. 
 
 " Well let him come and say his say," responded 
 Loyka, " I always gladly talk with him." 
 
 They called to the harvester and he came. " I 
 am come to you, pantata, to enquire whether you 
 will require the services of the old harvester this 
 summer ? Because they are ready to engage us in 
 Caslavska, and I said that we would go if our old 
 pantata Loyka did not require our services." 
 
 ''Have you spoken to the young folk," enquired 
 Loyka. 
 
 " They told me that everything depended on you," 
 answered the harvester. 
 
 " Well, if they said that to you come all of you to 
 our harvesting. To be sure, where else would you 
 go, when we need your services here." 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 201 
 
 " We will be here on call early to prepare our- 
 selves," said the reaper and took his leave. 
 
 Old Loyka turned to his friends and said, " I 
 know very well that Joseph will not be pleased, but 
 why should I not exasperate him a little ? Just let 
 them come. Of course, I shall still employ them." 
 
 After this he said, " Still Joseph does not come 
 hither to drive me away ? " 
 
 " He is not coming," said Frank. 
 
 " Then if he is not coming, let me go into the 
 courtyard," and they led him into the courtyard. 
 
 In the courtyard the servants of old Loyka saluted 
 him, called him ' pantata,' and, in general, behaved 
 towards him very respectfully. Old Loyka inspected 
 the field implements, inspected the house and was 
 evidently well pleased. 
 
 He went to the chambers by the coach-house, 
 there all was just as it had been in his time. The 
 family of the kalounkar, only a few inches taller and 
 perhaps with one or two additions to its numbers ; 
 the cloth pedlar, a little shrunken, and the harpers 
 and fiddlers with the same instruments, only that 
 perhaps, they too, were already a little shrunken. All 
 welcomed old Loyka with smiles and pretty speeches, 
 and one of them said that now all was once more 
 just as it used to be in the old days. 
 
 Then they begged Loyka to come and sit down 
 with them. After this they began to relate about 
 things past and present, and what changes there 
 
202 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 had been, and old Loyka felt as though someone 
 was planting a new heart in his breast and in his 
 head the song of the laverock once more resounded. 
 
 Then the old kalounkar said, " I think, pantata, 
 if you would be so good as to suffer us to stay here 
 sometime under this roof, that the Lord God would 
 reward you for it on the other side." 
 
 Old Loyka said, " When I see you here I can 
 believe that I am here — just as if you had been my 
 roots and I could again anchor myself here by you. 
 
 They were in very truth his roots, and old Loyka 
 anchored himself here by them. 
 
 After this his neighbours from the village came 
 and welcomed old Loyka. They declared that they 
 were interested about the construction of some 
 public gardens, and that they only waited for his 
 advice before beginning to lay them out. 
 
 In a word, every one treated old Loyka just as 
 though there had never been a period when he was 
 a fugitive from his home, just as though this day 
 was a continuation of the brighter happier days 
 of old. Not, perhaps, that Loyka should no more 
 remember what had been. By no means. He 
 very well remembered that but yesterday he was a 
 wanderer in the world, but at the same time there 
 emerged in him to-day a fresh consciousness that, 
 perhaps, there might be an end of this wandering. 
 
 And so Bartos' plan succeeded. Those spiders' 
 webs which had obscured old Loyka's mind, dissi- 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 203 
 
 pated themselves of their own accord, and he every 
 day visibly convalesced. Once more he took his 
 walk every evening to the chambers by the coach- 
 house, and himself invited the inmates to converse 
 and sing. " Be merry, lads, be merry," he used to 
 say. 
 
 And the old life began again at the Loykas'. 
 That farm was now once more just as people had 
 known it all their lives. Old Loyka so far con- 
 valesced that he threw off several years as though 
 they had been a few heavy sheaves of corn ; so that 
 at last his friends ventured to tell him the whole 
 truth, both about what had happened to Joseph, 
 how he had sold out of the farm, and how the farm 
 was bought for Frank, and how being still young, 
 Frank begged that he, Loyka, should manage it for 
 him. Ay, he so far convalesced that sometimes he 
 would say, when he paid a visit to the chambers, 
 " So, my lads, tell me the story of old Loyka when 
 he was a wanderer in the world." 
 
 " Ah ! well, he was always very merry through it 
 all," so they. began the story, and that was the only 
 part where they did not tell him the whole truth, 
 because they knew how greatly pleased he was that 
 people should think he had been merry in the height 
 of his misfortune. 
 
 They even told him that the illness of his wife 
 was a mere pretext in order to coax him home again, 
 and that it had succeeded. 
 
204 
 
 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 " Ah ! well," said old Loyka about his wife, " she 
 suffered quite enough poor thing when she was here 
 by herself. 
 
 And thus old Loyka got himself home once more. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 X^ffiTHAT more have I to relate ? 
 
 jr\v Frank again began to rove away from the 
 farm, and of course they knew to a hair whither he 
 went. But it was not true exactly as they thought 
 it : that is to say, when he went to the cemetery 
 he went with a heavy heart as in the old days when 
 he carried hither the measure for his grandfather's 
 grave. And now he carried thither a kind of 
 measure, the measure of his own heart — was it that 
 he would order a grave for it. By no means. In 
 order that he might lay it in a heart softer than any 
 dust and sweeter than any flower. 
 
 And yet indeed the path was as toilsome as if he 
 were going to bury his heart in the grave. Enchant- 
 ment seemed to murmur around him and shot about 
 his path in the mist and the clear weather : his 
 heart beat with a presentiment of rapture, and his 
 hand vacillated — so it will be to the end of the 
 world. 
 
 When he came to the cemetery he posted himself 
 by the wicket gate, as on that day long past, and 
 gazed eagerly. And he saw the great ruddy cross 
 
206 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 and on it the white iron figure of the Christus, then 
 lesser crosses, then graves without crosses, some 
 green, some flowery, some half sunk in the ground. 
 . And there was in that cemetery something vast 
 and incomprehensible, something that we can never 
 analyze, something vast as a sea, chilling as winter's 
 ice and snow. But to-day the breath of winter did 
 not issue from its gates, rather a portion of the 
 spring seemed to hover over that dwelling place of 
 the dead. 
 
 When he stood by the wicket-gate, he waited and 
 everything for which he waited, could emerge from 
 the grave-digger's humble abode in the person of 
 Staza. 
 
 Staza tripped forth just as on that day long past, 
 but how different. It was not a child who hopped 
 even over the graves like a small bird, or a butterfly. 
 It was a pensive, blooming maiden, a rose, which 
 blossoms on a single bush, there to glisten and 
 then fade. She walked with her head bowed and 
 seemed as though she would fain water those graves 
 with her tears. And she was infinitely charming. 
 
 Frank had opened the wicket-gate a hundred 
 times, and to-day it seemed as though he knew not 
 how he could ever enter by it. When he thought 
 that Staza might observe him, he retreated and only 
 peeped furtively through the bars. And he saw 
 Staza who was the self same Staza whom he had 
 led about the whole neighbourhood, and who yet 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 207 
 
 was not the same. At least it seemed to him 
 as though he saw her to-day for the first time, 
 and as though he had to speak to her for the first 
 time. 
 
 Staza seated herself on her mother's grave, and 
 her eyes rested on the white iron figure of the 
 Christus on the ruddy cross. 'After a moment or 
 two she whispered rather than sang, " odpocinite 
 v pokoiji verne dusicky." (Rest in peace ye faithful 
 spirits ! ) 
 
 But she did not finish her song. Something 
 seemed to snap it asunder half-way, the second half 
 remained unuttered. 
 
 And here Frank felt constrained : just as if he 
 ought to finish in tears what Staza had left incom- 
 plete in her song, just as if he wronged her by his 
 silence. 
 
 He posted himself before the wicket-gate in order 
 that she might see him. 
 
 '• Oh J Staza," he said. 
 
 Staza rose from the ground, and half joyously half 
 pensively approached the wicket-gate. 
 
 " I welcome thee, Frank/' said she. 
 
 " Oh ! Staza will you open it for me," said Frank. 
 
 Here Staza said archly, " Have you so soon 
 forgotton how to open it ? " 
 
 " I have not forgotten," responded Frank, " but I 
 have no longer the right unless you allow me." 
 
 " You have it open ! " said Staza. 
 
208 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 " Oh ! Staza, I am come to ask your hand in 
 marriage," said Frank after a short silence. 
 
 " You have it here ! " said Staza and gave her 
 hand to him. 
 
 What need of more ? What need of elaborate 
 circumlocutions in order that the heart should speak 
 truth ? 
 
 The heart of those children knew of no such cir- 
 cumlocutions, it spoke thus, and therefore spoke 
 sublimely, nobly, and solemnly, because it spoke 
 the truth. 
 
 " I wished to have thee for my wife, and I did not 
 know whether thou wert willing to be my wife, and 
 that fretted me," said Frank. 
 
 " If you had not come for me, I should have 
 had to think where Bartos should delve a grave. 
 And I had already chosen a spot. Where else 
 than yonder, and she pointed towards her mother's 
 grave." 
 
 And both their hearts heaved with feelings different 
 than a moment before : the sentiment of unexpected 
 bliss exhausted them, and bliss is burdensome 
 before we are accustomed to it. 
 
 They took one another by the hand and went into 
 the little house to tell Bartos what they had just 
 told one another. 
 
 " I wish to have Staza for my wife and am come 
 to speak about it," said Frank by way of salutation 
 when they entered. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 209 
 
 Bartos measured Frank from head to heel and 
 said, "Good, Staza go away." 
 
 When Staza was gone, Bartos said, " You know, 
 I suppose Frank, that Staza is a child not born in 
 wedlock." 
 
 " But all the same, a child," responded Frank. 
 
 " That she does not know, neither do I know, nor 
 perhaps does anybody know who was her father." 
 
 " Is there any need to know it/' enquired Frank. 
 
 "That people will talk about this and will say, 
 'Look! there goes Frank Loyka arm in arm with 
 his wife/ and they will laugh at her origin." 
 
 " Why should a man trouble himself about an 
 origin ? " 
 
 " Every one thinks his or her origin the important 
 thing and acts accordingly." 
 
 " And do they mend matters thereby/' 
 
 " They do not. But it goes against them when it 
 comes about as in her case. 
 
 " And was she created against the will of the 
 Creator ? " 
 
 " That I do not know; but if you wish to have 
 her for your wife you ought to be told about it." 
 
 " I see no difference between her and others, and 
 what I see is that she is dearer to me than all the 
 world, let her origin be what it may." 
 
 " Good ! call her ! " 
 
 And Bartos himself called Staza. " You have 
 led one another by the hand," he said, "lead one 
 
2io On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 another by the hand lor all your life." And this 
 strong man who had not his equal, at these words 
 well nigh gave way. 
 
 After this he said " I found thee, dear Staza, long 
 have I had thee with me, and now Frank has 
 claimed thee. What have we to do ? He has a 
 greater right to thee than I have. He is young and 
 loves thee." 
 
 At these words Staza threw herself on Bartos' 
 breast, and there sobbed out her great happiness, 
 wept there also her thanks to him for being a father 
 to her and her sorrow at leaving him. 
 
 " One thing more, oh ! Bartos," said Frank. 
 
 " What, pray ? " 
 
 " You know that my parents dwell in the farm 
 house and will dwell there with me for many a long 
 year, let us hope ; the pension house is therefore 
 empty, will you not settle there and be our neigh- 
 bour — mine and Staza's ? " 
 
 At these words Bartos again measured Frank 
 from head to heels and said, u I pensioned off! No, 
 dear boy. Here I am lord and master, and am little 
 skilled in accepting pensions or returning thanks for 
 them. It is possible that you would like to have me 
 there. But we cannot tell, and I should never 
 manage to pry into your eyes every day to see 
 whether you still liked to have me there. Do you 
 think I shall be low-spirited here alone. I have a 
 large family, as yet I have never felt oppressed or 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 211 
 
 low-spirited among them. Who knows ? Perhaps, 
 I shall be needed here. The next time some father 
 flies from his son's harsh bounty and knoweth not 
 whither to turn, he will come to Bartos. And what 
 would he do if he did not find me here ? " 
 
 Frank was silent. It was evident he deemed that 
 Bartos judged him harshly. 
 
 " Do not be angry, boy," said Bartos. • " Possibly I 
 shall come and visit you from time to time, to see 
 how you treat your father. Do your best to show 
 yourself at once a good hospodar and a good son — 
 of that I must be first assured. Promise nothing. 
 Even your brother promised and would have deprived 
 your father of reason. I do not trust you little sons, 
 because your fathers make themselves dependent 
 upon you. But promise me one thing, invite me to 
 your, wedding/' 
 
 All was so unanswerably true which Bartos 
 had said, that Frank did not utter a word in 
 reply. 
 
 " Do not be anxious about me," he added. "Now 
 Staza must be the dearest object of your care." On 
 this he kissed Staza and kissed Frank, and so the 
 betrothal ended. ' . 
 
 What they wished to say to one another, and 
 what they had said to one another how simple it 
 was ! . How entirely the outcome of souls already 
 united, and yet, before they had reached the goal 
 of speech they had to undergo all the pleasing 
 
212 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 lapses, doubts and problems of lovers — true passion 
 follows no other course. 
 
 And now they both enjoyed the most charming 
 rambles together. They led one another by the 
 hand and went to visit those hedgerows, those 
 bushes, all the haunts where their childish hearts 
 had beat beside the quails. They visited their little 
 chapels, in which as children they worshipped their 
 Creator with the laverock. Everything was the same 
 and yet it was all different. On every hedge was 
 more green and more glitter ; the air seemed more 
 alive with singing ; every laverock piped a more 
 fervid lay; every whisper of nature was more touching. 
 
 And so everything was different, but it seemed as 
 though only now all nature manifested itself in its 
 true essence, which none understand who have not 
 looked upon the world with an eye enlightened by 
 true love. Even Staza was different ; even Frank 
 was different. When they looked at one another 
 they seemed to catch a glimpse of each other's souls, 
 of something inexhaustible and eternal. They seemed 
 to catch a glimpse of each other's soul and in their 
 eyes gleamed the light of eternal blessedness, beau- 
 tiful as the glory of a Saint ; in their eyes gleamed 
 the truth of eternal rapture made more beautiful by 
 tears. Each of them was different, each seemed 
 endued with angels' wings, to flutter round the 
 other ; each of them was more exalted, and their 
 thoughts were like prayers. 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 213 
 
 Staza's love was not the least appreciably less 
 fervent, less genuine, less holy because she was a 
 child not born in wedlock. The divine breath hath 
 not such narrow instincts as we poor humans. Only 
 let the heart be right and the divine breath does not 
 enquire what was its origin. The Son of God was 
 a child not born in wedlock, and the divine love did 
 not grow cold on that account, the divine love 
 accepted him for its own Son. It is only we poor 
 humans who, in our littleness, grow cold and shame- 
 faced at the thought of a base origin, and yet the 
 origin of us all is from no other source than from 
 that eternal love from which every grain of wheat 
 germinates, who threw that grain of wheat, for 
 whose delight it germinates to maturity — wherefore 
 should we trouble ourselves about that ? 
 
 What more have I to relate ? 
 
 About three o'clock one afternoon the sexton, 
 Vanek, strode across the village green of Frishetts 
 with the great key in his hand in the direction of the 
 chapel. 
 
 Those who stood at the window and saw him did 
 not ask one another whether there was a fire or 
 whether some one was dead. They knew why he 
 went to the chapel just at that hour, and only said 
 to one another " So it will be at once." 
 
 And here they walked out in front of their farm 
 houses, and seeing neighbours lounging about the 
 other farms, took a few steps towards the centre of 
 
 BB 
 
214 On Condition : or Pensioned Off, 
 
 the green, and saluted each other just as they had 
 spoken at home — " So it will be at once." 
 
 All were dressed in holiday attire, even their faces 
 were in holiday attire, the whole village* was in 
 holiday attire. Down the middle of the village 
 green were posted branches of may with pennons 
 streaming, the whole forming an arcade which 
 stretched from the Loykas' farm to the chapel. 
 Even the Loykas' house itself was smothered in 
 pine branches and looked as spick and span as on a 
 high festival. 
 
 On this occasion Vena again marched with a 
 basket in his hand, he had rosolek in the basket, 
 and poured out and gave to drink to any one who 
 desired. On this occasion he was in good humour 
 as though he was going to be wed himself. He 
 poured out the liquor very briskly and continually 
 invited the good folk to drink " now to their health, 
 neighbours !" 
 
 " How, then, do you greet your new mistress, 
 Vena," they enquired. 
 
 " I greet her well," said Vena, " and verily I say 
 as thus, look you, " The Lord God grant you as 
 many little dears for me to carry across the green 
 as there are flasks here ! That's how I greet her ! " 
 
 " And how many may that be," said the neigh- 
 bours laughing. 
 
 " How can I tell until you have drunk out the lot," 
 said Vena, and constantly invited them to imbibe. 
 
On Condition : ov Pensioned Off. 215 
 
 To look at him you would have said it was Vena's 
 own bridal day that was being celebrated. And 
 nothing would have embittered his gay humour, 
 only one question from neighbour Kmoch, Barushka's 
 father, vexed him. " How many wagons are required 
 to bring home Staza's marriage portion," he enquired 
 with a very saucy leer. 
 
 On this Vena vented his brimming choler in these 
 words " You have not wagons enough to carry home 
 a single one of her good qualities. So you want to 
 be sarcastic do you ? What do you know, ye peasant 
 proprietors, of the essentials of a happy marriage ? 
 You barter your daughters on the market place to the 
 man who makes the highest bid. ' A crown ! two 
 crowns ! ten crowns ! twelve crowns ! ' — those are 
 your daughters. And so you would sneer would you ? 
 He who throws down most of the dross is the heaven- 
 sent husband. And then you shrink into your pension 
 house when you have accomplished this feat of won- 
 drous wisdom, and how many wagons are wanted to 
 carry your pensioner's portion ? I would undertake to 
 wheel you away, portion and all, on a hand barrow/ 
 
 Here Vena had worked himself into a frenzy, so 
 that he did not know when he ought to conclude his 
 declamation, although we must add in conclusion 
 that all the neighbours condemned Kmoch's ill-timed 
 question. 
 
 " She will not be such a one," continued Vena, 
 " that her father must wander through the 
 
216 On Condition: or Pensioned Off. 
 
 market places like a beggar, because they 
 tormented him under his own roof. There will be 
 no need that the vejminkar should make his last will 
 before she sets foot in his house, because afterwards 
 he will be worried out of his five senses. And with 
 such good qualities as she possesses Staza will need 
 many wagons to carry all easily." 
 
 Perhaps Vena would have declaimed at yet greater 
 length had not the march of events deadened the 
 effect of Kmoch's insolent remark. 
 
 From the cemetery, whither Frank had driven to 
 claim his bride, his best man rode at a gallop, and 
 said that the happy pair would be at the village in a 
 trice, that old Bartos had joined their hands by the 
 graves of Staza's mother and Frank's grandfather, 
 and said " Your love grew out of the grave, may it 
 last beyond all graves." 
 
 At this moment Vanek began to ring the bell in the 
 chapel, and outside the village resounded the riddles 
 of well-known fiddlers, who were assisted by musicians 
 from the whole surrounding district. 
 
 The neighbours on the village green flocked into 
 the green arcade which formed an alley as far as the 
 chapel, and awaited the young bride and bridegroom, 
 only Kmoch turned away in another direction. 
 
 Here I must touch off a good side in the neigh- 
 bours of Frishetts, namely, that they awaited the 
 young couple in perfect good faith. Frank, by his 
 behaviour towards his father, had so firmly installed 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 217 
 
 himself in their esteem that nothing could shake him 
 in it. We cannot indeed disguise the fact that with 
 all of them it somewhat ran counter to their ideas of 
 what should be when he chose for his wife an 
 illegitimate orphan, for in these matters no one was 
 better or worse than his neighbours, and everyone 
 said secretly to himself, " For my part I could not 
 have done it." But as it was Frank who did it they 
 made their peace with him, and as it was Staza who 
 was the object of his choice they made their peace 
 with her as well. 
 
 And so the happy pair were escorted by such a 
 goodly company as ne'er was seen before in Frishetts, 
 and a festival was celebrated the like of which few 
 a short time before ever expected to see again 
 originate from Loyka's farm. People collected on 
 foot and in carriages from all parts of the neighbour- 
 hood — not only in honour of Frank's bridal day, but 
 also in honour of old Loyka's recovery, who had for 
 so many years wandered among them without health 
 and without mind. 
 
 What more have I to relate ? 
 
 Beside the coach house in the two chambers the 
 legends and ballads of old times, which had been 
 banished for so many years, took root once more. 
 And Loyka's courtyard beamed like the face of a 
 happy listener. 
 
 If we wish to take a peep for a moment, we can 
 
 do so. The farm is again free of access to everyone : 
 bb 2 
 
2i8 On Condition: or Pensioned Off. 
 
 the cloth pedlar and the family of the kalounkar 
 have made themselves quite at home, tinkers come 
 for a night's lodging, musicians often turn aside 
 thither, and listeners, male and female, come from 
 the village to hear them play. 
 
 Again Frank listened to the song or the story in 
 these chambers, and lead Staza thither — how well- 
 known and beloved wherever they are seen ! 
 
 And, if we wish, we can take a peep at Loyka 
 sometimes in the morning when the servants are 
 preparing themselves for their work afield. 
 
 Old Loyka with his pipe in his mouth promenades 
 about the court, inspects the implements, and the 
 servants salute him with " The Lord God give you 
 good-morrow, pantata." 
 
 Old Loyka thanks them. " As God wills, my 
 children," says he. 
 
 " Are we to go to-day to work in the meadow, 
 pantata." 
 
 " Have you asked your young master ? go where 
 he tells you." 
 
 " He said we were to ask you." 
 
 " Well, well, then go to the meadow. But always 
 ask your young master.'' 
 
 " Look, here he comes." 
 
 And here Frank comes forward. " What do you 
 think ? Must they go to the meadow ? " 
 
 And Frank knows so many reasons why they must 
 go to the meadow and nowhere else, that old Loyka 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 219 
 
 is all smiles, to think that he is still competent to 
 manage the estate. 
 
 " Well, well," he adds, " then go to the meadow 
 to be sure." 
 
 " Then Stazicka (little Staza), as all on the farm 
 call her, comes and says that they must go to break- 
 fast. Old Loyka chucks her under the chin, and 
 looks into her sparkling eyes. " Good child, good 
 child," says he. Then he lets go her chin, and takes 
 her by the hand. This very day come a year you 
 will not come for me alone, little Staza." 
 
 " Why should I not come for you, papa." 
 
 " Tut : come, of course you will, but with my 
 grandchild in your arms." 
 
 On this little Staza blushes, and thinks to herself, 
 full of fond anticipation " This very day come a 
 year." 
 
 Or suppose we pay them a visit, come a year, at 
 harvest. The harvesters once more make the 
 farm their first halting place when they go a" 
 harvesting, and old Loyka promenades among them 
 with pipe in mouth. 
 
 " I come from the young pantata," says the 
 spokesman of the harvesters, " in order that 
 you should select us yourself, pantata, because 
 you know us now as he says ; and I also think it is 
 best." 
 
 " Well, well," says old Loyka, " how could we 
 fail to know one another after so many years." 
 
2 20 On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 
 
 And after this he chooses according to his taste, 
 and as seems best. 
 
 " This summer we shall have a merry harvest," 
 says the harvester. 
 
 "This summer! so I believe you. And when 
 Staza leads off the dance for you ! Such a 
 mistress has not been seen on the farm as 
 Stazicka." 
 
 " She is a worthy mistress, pantata. Once Annette 
 came here with us — you know, pantata, mnuh ! her 
 only fault is she does not know how she came into 
 the world. And women being but women, they 
 would not endure her among them. ' How, then, is 
 it her fault,' said your little Staza. " We do not drive 
 away an animal when it nestles against us, in what 
 is Annette worse than an animal ? And as you 
 know, pantata, she took her as nurse to your pretty 
 grandchild." 
 
 " Just so, just so," smiled old Loyka. 
 
 But the whole farm was quite on foot when there 
 for a time came on a visit the gravedigger Bartos. 
 " I begin to be aweary among the dead," said he, 
 " and since the living like me, I gladly come awhile 
 among them. Well, and you like to have me with 
 you ? " 
 
 And it was a wonder they did not carry him on 
 their shoulders, that is to say, if they could have 
 borne his weight. And as they could not do this, 
 they all hung upon him. Frank and Staza and the 
 
On Condition : or Pensioned Off. 221 
 
 little fellow which Staza took from Annette that she 
 might proudly exhibit it. 
 
 " Why am I made so strong, I wonder," Bartos 
 would say, " if I may not fling you off." And he 
 pretended jestingly to drive them before him that he 
 might free himself from them. But it was worst of 
 all when he prepared to depart. Here even old 
 Loyka fastened on him, and all held him, that he 
 should still remain with them. And here Bartos, 
 the gravedigger, for a time feigned to chivy them 
 away, just as though he would shake them off. And 
 we must say what then happened, seldom happened 
 — it being the only occasion when the Herculean 
 Bartos succumbed. Frank, Staza, Loyka, and the 
 little boy overpowered him, and sometimes the little 
 boy alone prevailed. 
 
 " Well, well," laughed old Loyka, and then when 
 at even the musicians came there was in the farm' a 
 most charming idyll. 
 
 Long had they sought this idyll, long had they 
 wandered in search of it, but they found it at last. 
 And this idyll ends as it began — 
 odpocinte v pokoji 
 
 Finis. 
 
JOHN SAMPSON, PUBLISHER, 13, CONEY STREET, YORK. 
 
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