An Anthology of Czechoslovak Literature/The Faithful Lover

by Fráňa Šrámek

For works with similar titles, see The Faithful Lover.

FRÁŇA ŠRÁMEK

(b. 1877)

The Faithful Lover

I BELIEVE I knew a man whose love was real.

He was gentle and proud, but not cautious enough; and that is how I got to know of the whole occurrence.

It began one Sunday evening in a suburban tavern, where the lower orders used to get tipsy. Six days of labour and misery were left outside the door, and it was for the seventh day to rejoice the heart. Yesterday was consumed amid liquor, and a piano announced that youth escapes, never to return.

And at one table sat a girl, who from dark, spirited eyes gave all men to drink, and there arose, as it were, almost a vapour from her, like the seething of springtide soil. She threw back her head and hot laughter dried upon her lips; she laughed for no cause, and there were moments when she was embarrassed by so much blood which surged into her face.

And suddenly she had a feeling as if somebody had taken her head in his white narrow hands, and forced her to look into two tenderly smiling eyes.

It was Mařan who was looking at her.

He was different from the other men; he had a gentle face, and a delicate smile, and Lina felt in great embarrassment.

It always seemed to her as if the other men said with their eyes that she was pretty, and that they wanted to kiss her and . . . and hug and crush her in their arms; she used to feel hot at these glances. But that was altogether quite easy to understand, and she was not angry with the men on that account; for really she did not know what else men could want of her. . . .

But these two eyes said something quite different.

For they also said that, but they said it as if in sorrow; as if it pained them to have to say it.

But that, of course, she did not understand. And she was annoyed at not understanding it.

She bent over towards her married sister.

“Look . . . that fellow’s eating me up with his eyes. . .”

So that he should know she didn’t care a rap for men with studious faces and solemn eyes. Yes, didn’t even care a rap. Girls from the suburbs don’t bother their heads with such nonsense. Nobody has pampered their sense of shame, and the mystery of women has been revealed to them amid coarse words and wanton, tickling laughter. And besides that, she, Lina, is a shrewd girl. She had learnt this and that from her companions where she worked. Every moment one of her companions would receive a present—a hat, earrings, something or other. . . . There was one who could even boast of a gold watch . . . and she isn’t particularly pretty either, is Anda . . . some men are really most free-handed . . . and . . . and for such a trifle, which, after all, is by no means altogether unpleasant. . . . And then, too, Lina has such a thirst in her blood, and wants to enjoy things very, very much; well, perhaps to-morrow or the day after, something pleasant would happen to her too. . . .

And she looked at Mařan, as if she wanted to tell him with her eyes: Yes, that’s Lina, my good fellow!

But she could not manage it, and her eyes did not succeed in escaping, nor could her long lashes contrive to hide her great confusion; it was as if Mařan were shaking red-hot coals on to her breast.

“I say, that’s dreadful, dreadful. . . .”

And Mařan pressed his friend’s arm tight. He was very pale and his eyes seemed submerged in painful depths.

His friend observed him and Lina with surprise.

“Do you know her?”

“No. . . .”

“Well, then . . . what’s dreadful?”

Mařan’s lips quivered as if his mouth were benumbed.

“Poor girl . . . she’ll have her human feelings abased a thousand times. . . .”

His friend seemed not to understand, and wanted to ask more questions.

But Mařan only waved his hand and paid.

Outside there was a wind-swept night, the flames in the gas-lamps were jerking like convulsive tongues in mute mouths, which cannot and dare not speak. The cold pierced to the marrow; one felt a desire to sigh like this wind. It was as though somewhere heavy showers of human tears had been falling. . . . And the pavement was wet with something like the sweat of a man lying in death-agony. . . .

His friend burst out laughing.

“What are you looking at, Mařan? The stars aren’t shining. . . .”

And Mařan repeated mechanically:

“The stars aren’t shining. . . .”

Suddenly he stopped and listened in the direction of the tavern from which they had come.

“Do you hear?”

“What?”

“Someone was calling for help.”

“Calling? I didn’t hear. Besides, that’s the business of the police.”

Maran seemed to be laboriously thinking about something.

“The police, the police. . . . If I were to go up to the first two policemen we meet, and say: ‘There’s someone in danger yonder . . . there’s a woman being made the victim of a crime,’ they’ll take her out to be crucified, and she’ll go with them singing, because they’ve made her drunk so that she should think she’s going to meet with pleasures and delights.”

His friend interrupted him with a dry laugh.

“Oh, I see! O, du Schmerzenskind . . .!”

He stood with legs apart, stretched out his open hand towards Mařan and said with cynical solemnity:

“Well, I’m game. . . . A word’s enough. Speak, and I’ll save her.”

Mařan’s whole face was filled with a kind of terror; his eyes grew rigid with an extraordinary dread.

Suddenly he turned away with an abrupt movement and departed without a word. His friend tried to catch him up. But Mařan began to run away. ****** A few days later there was much laughter among the girls.

“And he kissed your hand?”

“Yes.”

And Lina drew up her whole body in a theatrical manner.

“Yes, here. . . . And he said that, that . . .”

But she could not remember what it was he said; so she told them something else.

“He said he’d like to kiss me on a place where nobody had kissed me before. . . .”

“Hi, hi, hi!”

“Ha, ha, ha!. .”

The whole premises reeked with laughter, like a cheap perfume.

“Just fancy, a place. . .”

“Well, after all, with Lina it could still be managed, I mean a place like that. But Anda . . . or Betyna, say, if a young man was to ask them for such a thing, they’d really be dreadfully puzzled. . . .”

“But if she was to think hard, Lina could tell them . . . what’s happened to her innocence. . . .”

Lina felt the blood rushing into her face; but she kept her control and curled her lip in an impudent blasé smile.

“Hm, she’s not so babyish as . . . as . . . Betyna, for instance, to keep a list of all the men who’re a bit forward . . . or to remember the numbers of the rooms in such and such a hotel, where . . . Yes, and let them bear it well in mind, Lina’s too careful about those kind of things. . . .”

She said it quite steadily; there seemed hardly any doubt that she had had such highly coloured experiences.

But Betyna grew indignant.

“Just fancy, how soppy. . . . And that’s what the fathead said to you. Come, let’s hear. . . .”

“No, Lina won’t tell. . . .”

“Look at that now, she won’t tell. Well, I only hope she won’t be taken down a peg or two before long.”

But Lina said no more. Somehow she felt almost sad. Two eyes were looking at her, and these two eyes were full of sorrow. No, he mustn’t look at her like that, it upsets her. Let him go to the other girls, to the educated, dressed-up creatures, if he wants to carry on as though he had toothache; perhaps they like that. She was fond of life, and didn’t know why she should be sad. And, anyhow, let him laugh too. She’d tell him that in the evening. He must laugh or. . . . Yes, she wouldn’t let herself be bored to tears. . . . What’s he got to do with her soul? Why didn’t he talk about her lips? Suppose he wanted to kiss her that evening. . . . Oh, she’d be glad to hold out her lips to him, and . . . and . . . if he wanted more? Well, yes . . . he’d have shining eyes, and she’d throw her arms round his neck. . . . If Betyna had an idea of how she had lied a moment ago, and of what an inexperienced girl she really was. . . . Two eyes were looking at her, and she felt as if her heart were sweating a blood-like dew. . . . But those were not eyes like Mařan’s. Two shameless, slimy eyes with a dark, muttering desire in them. . . .

And in the evening, when he waited for her, she told him about it.

—That he was always sad, and never said anything nice to her.

—Well, if that would please her. . . .

—Hm, she. . . .

For an instant or so she hesitated.

—She didn’t like sad people.

—Indeed? But she should believe him when he vowed to her by all that was dearest to him in the world, that he would so much like to be jolly, if only . . . if only she did not make him so sad.

—She? Well, did you ever . . .

—Yes, she . . . Did she know that she was threatened by a great danger?

—No, she certainly didn’t.

—If he could stand with open arms in front of all the pitfalls to which she was blindly hurrying. . . .

—What? Pitfalls? No, she simply couldn’t understand it. . . .

She looked round at all the men they met with, and she kindled her eyes at their glances. She offered herself to them all, as if he were not there.

He wanted to say something, but his tongue grew numb with anguish. His mouth was full of suffering and shame, like a lump of black bread soaked with tears.

It was not until they reached the house that he said to her:

“Perhaps after all I don’t love you much, or else I’d probably kill you. . . .”

It seemed to him as if it were not he who was speaking; so strange was the sound of his voice.

Yes, perhaps he had not spoken at all, for her face was quite calm.

There was nobody in the street; his heart began to babble foolishly.

“Why don’t you like me?”

“I do like you.”

She said that without reflection or hesitation, with such horrible composure. So simply had she managed to settle “this business.”

Mařan understood; it was terrible. ****** Sometimes when he used to wait for her, and she was already coming towards him, he would have liked to run away.

He was frightened at something about which her eyes could not keep silent; yes, there was no doubt that the dreadful thing had already happened, and her eyes would be full of slippery laughter.

She came; evening was in the streets, and the people were all somehow white beneath the gas-lamps; even she was white, but with dark flames in her eyes and with a red thirst on her lips.

“You’ve been so long coming to-day. . . .”

She laughed.

But this laughter of hers might have some meaning; this thought beat on his mind like a whip, and the whole street together with Lina laughed in his face.

He was unhappy to the point of committing some folly.

“Perhaps someone kept you back———”

“Maybe.”

And again that laughter.

It burnt upon his tongue; he had to speak.

“You were at the theatre the night before last?”

“Yes!”

“And after the theatre. . . .” He suddenly stopped speaking, and hastily began to turn up the collar of his overcoat.

A moment passed before he attempted to continue, but his mouth uttered only a kind of moan.

He laughed oddly and coughed for a moment.

“I’ve caught a cold, you know . . . and it makes talking difficult.”

And again he coughed for a moment. Then he said in quite an unusual voice:

“You must have a lovely body. . . . I’d like to sleep with you.”

He bent down to her, his face twitched, and he kissed her on the neck.

“That’s the way to do it, eh? Even I know a thing or two, ha, ha. . . .”

Her gait began to sway, there was something urchinlike in her, and her lips pouted as if for a soft whistling.

And Mařan clapped his hands, clung to Lina’s arm, got into step with her and tried to walk just as swayingly.

“And it’s a good thing. . . . It’s sensible and everything else is silly. . . . What does it matter who kissed you the night before last? Or last night? I shan’t ask and I’ll kiss too. . . . And you’ll like him and me as well, eh? You’re a sensible girl, Lina, a very sensible girl. Perhaps there’ll be a third one to-morrow, and you’ll like him too, ha, ha. . . .”

He again kissed her on the neck, and laughed oddly: then he said hoarsely:

“Will you come to see me on Sunday afternoon?”

She did not even think it over, but nodded assent. She simply nodded assent. There was no need to think anything over; it was quite natural, and she nodded assent.

A kind of stammering sound stirred in his breast.

It seemed to him as if he ought to be glad, very glad; but his heart was full of shame and humiliation. ****** I already knew Lina—Mařan had previously introduced me to her. My own view of myself is that I am not altogether exacting in my attitude towards what is known as feminine virtue; that is my own view, and possibly it is right. There have been women who deceived me; I smile indulgently when I recall it. There are a number of women whom one can hardly expect to be faithful; I know from experience that with some of them it is quite impossible. And there are men who want a woman to be faithful to them; then they should not go to women who cannot achieve it. And Lina? It was awkward that Mařan should have fallen in love just with her.

And so it was a Sunday afternoon in March. A marvellous day that made the heart ring. The breeze was like a fluttering kiss, and the sky sloped down into the streets like a hanging blossom. The streets babbled, the warmth increased to intoxication, I stood before the house ready to spend the whole afternoon rambling about. There must have been a garden near by, and in the garden a blackbird was twittering. The street was full of noise, but you could hear the blackbird. I listened to the blackbird, and the sun fondled me with veils of light; my heart tingled as if stroked by a woman’s fluttering tresses.

And as I stood there, Lina came by. I greeted her; and where was she going? To Mařan.

“Where?”

“To see Mr. Mařan.”

It was a fine spring day; I felt happy and would have liked to press this girl’s hand; she said it so without embarrassment, with such full relish, that she was going to her lover such a thing as that is certainly stronger and lovelier than virtue.

From some upper window a small piece of paper was thrown out it fluttered and wriggled about in front of our eyes, fell right between us, and we both clutched at it.

Our hands touched, and without knowing why, we both held each other’s hands and laughed exuberantly, without reason, like little children; she held the piece of paper in her hand and I had to force it open. Our fingers became entangled, the people looked round at us, and my heart bowed down to her half-open, wanton lips, my heart was full of springtide and full of some fervid entreaty.

At last I caught hold of the paper and that made me laugh all the more.

On the paper was written three times vertically in pencil: yes, yes, yes.

Yes, yes, yes! A fervid affirmation to someone.

To whom?

The sun was aiming all his rays at my breast, and these rays glowingly affirmed: yes, yes, yes!

And I did not know why, but without having any special intention in my mind, I said:

“Won’t you come up with me?”

It seemed as if she were just a little surprised; anyhow, her eyes expressed a kind of wonderment.

But my heart bowed down to her lips and breathed its fervid entreaty upon her face.

At last, yes, she would come up.

I led her up the stairs into my room, as if from the street outside I had gathered up the spring breeze and were carrying it home.

I could swear that I had no special intentions; it just occurred to me at the moment to invite her in, to show her my room, to listen to her laughter in my room, and to make all the objects there more festive and cheerful by letting her springtide gaze wander over them.

I asked her to take off her hat, and she took off her hat.

I sat down opposite her, and half closed my eyes at the warm breeze which was wafted from her.

Many books were scattered about on the table, and that filled her with astonishment.

“What a lot of books. . . . And do you learn from all of them?”

“Whatever made you think that? Why, I’m a notorious idler. Besides, it seems to me that I know everything.”

I suppose I hardly looked like a man who knew everything, and she laughed.

Her laughter made my blood too thick and red, I suddenly did not know what to say, and my mouth was full of a dumb sweetness.

I did not know what I was saying, but I only heard her rather muffled voice.

“Look how my hands are trembling; they would like to pluck flowers. . . .”

And again her laughter. And my blood thick and red.

Outside the spring was eagerly affirming yes, yes, yes!

“And my lips are trembling too, look; they want to kiss your mouth. . . .”

And she offered scarcely any resistance. . . . ****** “I’ll see you out. Where are you going now?”

“Why, I told you . . . to see Mr. Mařan?”

My head grew cold, something was hurting my forehead. My face must have looked stupid with astonishment.

“Why, I told you. . . .”

“Oh, yes, yes . . . I remember . . . I only. . . . But tell me, you’re fond of Mařan?

“Well, that’s . . . you know. . . .”

But she did not say what it was, she only shrugged her shoulders and left it at that. That’s how it was. . . . Yes, I understood. . . .

The March sun was shining, but my heart was suddenly cold. Behind the bright and pleasant faces of people there seemed to lurk deceptive purposes.

I bought Lina a bunch of violets.

“In gratitude for the delightful visit . . .” I said, with an ugly laugh. I knew that I was unjust, but I gave an ugly laugh.

I reflected for a moment; my thoughts were so bitter.

“But I’d like to ask you a favour, Lina. . . . Of course, my kisses have left no traces, I’m not so romantic as that; but, still, I’d rather you didn’t go to Mařan to-day. I don’t know how to put it . . . but judge for yourself. It’s not far short of dishonesty; better fight shy of it. . . . You see, I know Mařan . . . after what’s happened . . . well, to put it briefly, don’t go to-day, anyhow.

She was utterly unable to understand it, but at last she agreed.

We parted, and I went to Mařan myself.

It was foolish, but I went as one who had an evil conscience.

His face grew horrified as I entered. He probably thought it was Lina.

“It’s you?”

He did not even ask me to take a seat; he crouched down again in a corner of the settee, and lapsed into silence.

I started talking, only for the sake of saying something.

“The sun is shining, and you’re moping at home. . . .”

He looked at me as if he did not understand and remained silent.

After a moment he asked:

“What’s the time?”

“About four. . . .”

“Four, you say?”

He suddenly fixed his eyes upon me with a kind of violence and said in a parched voice:

“It’s too late now. . . .”

My head again grew cold, and my forehead hurt me, but I managed to ask:

“Were you waiting for someone?”

“Was I waiting for someone?” he asks, was I waiting for someone! Kick me, kick me like a dog, if every vein in my face doesn’t tell you and betray to you that I was waiting. . . .”

His whole face gleamed strangely.

“Oh, how I have waited! I kissed the threshold there, so that she should come in over my kisses. . . .”

His voice gave way; he only whispered:

“You know, Lina was to have come. . . .”

He jumped up from the settee, stood in front of me, and laid his hands heavily upon my shoulders; his face glowed with extraordinary enthusiasm.

“And she has not come. And you think I’m cursing her for not coming . . . you, you fool! She’s spotless, that’s why she hasn’t come. She promised, and her promise was a punishment for my impudence. Jirko, I begged of her like a lackey: Come to me . . . to my room, ha, ha, come and to think that I wasn’t strangled for letting such words pass my evil lips. But she hasn’t come. She has punished the lackey, with her pure, spotless radiant soul she had blinded his eyes. I’d gratefully sacrifice all my blood in return for that. . . .”

I quickly withdrew before his enthusiasm.

Yes, I remember, I really ought to go to So-and-So; how could I have forgotten it?

And I went. Or rather I fled.

Sometimes, when we talk about love, I say: I think I knew a man whose love was real. But as I say it, I twist my lips oddly. . . .

Glory of Life (1903)