Our Grandfather (1887)/Chapter 1
OUR GRANDFATHER.
CHAPTER I.
T has often been said to me that rural life is not a happily chosen subject for a story: that in the country uniformity prevails in life, in customs, in everything; and that the persons of the rural drama cannot interest us because there is no variety in them. If any of my readers hold such views, I must request them to suspend judgment until the end of my story. It is indeed, possible that the narrative will take us along unfrequented paths where the form of life is not so stirring as in the town. But yet man in essence is an exact copy of the citizen, for man is always interesting in so far as he is human; and he appreciates his good fortune just as little in the country as in the town; at the same time I do not wish to constrain my reader’s judgment.
We were still “wee scraps” when our father took us to visit grandfather. Grandfather dwelt in a house about an hour’s journey from ours. It was, then, a great event when father told us we were going there. Very wisely, he used always to tell us the week before, and though, to be sure, we were restless enough at all times, and each day tore our clothes, we were sure to be good children for the whole week if he told us where we were going the week after.
So then it was that we were to go to spend St Lawrence’s festival with grandfather. This festival occurs at the beginning of August, when cocks begin to crow soon after midnight, and the sun still rises very early. But still earlier than those cocks did we children awake, and before the first cock had cock-a-doodled, we were already dressed; and before the first ray of sunrise had shown itself, we were already seated, smart and tidy, before the manse, on the doorstep, congratulating ourselves that we were going to spend the festival at grandfather’s.
Our parents slept in the room next to ours, and we had sneaked out so quietly that they had not the least idea of our secret preparations. How mother must have started when coming to wake us she found our bed empty and not a sign of us. We heard entreaties and outcries—mother ran from room to room, then about the courtyard, looking for us everywhere, at last even in the well, while we all the time nestled against one another like chickens, and scarcely breathed with fright lest mother should find us, and we, early as it was, should be punished, for there was already a great disturbance about us. And now it occurs to mother to look for us on the village green, to see whether she could find some trace of us. Opening the door she found us cuddled close together on the door-step. Mother almost smothered us with delight when she caught sight of us, and we told her that we wanted to set off that instant to the feast at grandfather’s.
“But you cannot go without breakfast,” said she, leading us back again, and glowing with delight, because her dismal fears were so soon dispelled.
What did we understand about breakfast just then? We would have set off if need be at midnight, and of course grandmother would have given us breakfast as soon as we reached her house.
We helped mother to prepare breakfast—blew up the fire like young blacksmiths, only that breakfast might be ready the sooner; burnt our tongues with hot coffee only that that we might the sooner have breakfasted; and in general conducted ourselves solely with a view to be off and away as soon as possible.
At last we are off.
Our father was a pedagogue. He never allowed our minds to flag, and kept relating things to us that we were just capable of understanding. He did not evade our questions in his answers, as we so frequently see done; and if we had gone on asking questions till doomsday, he would have gone on answering till doomsday.
And thus he made up a story for us—how that grandmother was already on the look out for us—how that she was coming to meet us as we never saw her do before, with a plate of cakes in one hand and a plate of red cherries in the other—red cherries, which are so scarce. Yet further did we picture grandmother to ourselves. She must have something also in her pockets—a doll, sugar plums, &c. And finally, how could it be grandmother unless she had brought something also in her lap? We certainly did not understand how she could carry it all; but if it was our grandmother she must be able to contrive everything.
And so also in every woman whom we observed in the distance, we saw grandmother approaching even with the plates, even with her pockets full of goodies. Although she was a quarter of an hour from us we saw to a hair everything, down to the least detail, just as if she was already present with us. She smiled at as, smoothed her grey locks, and just as she comes near to us takes us each by one hand and tells us what perhaps father did not the least know when we asked him. But what was our astonishment when in place of grandmother’s tranquil face, we saw another—cold and wholly unknown to us. No! Such a one we could never love, not if she had all her pockets full, and two plates in each hand.
And now father had to explain to us how it was that he failed to discern at a distance that it was not our grandmother, while we discovered it the instant she had come the least bit nearer to us, and yet we did not know half of what father knew? Then he began to excuse himself and to say that he had made a mistake; but that yonder, see, it really was she who was just coming on the hill top. Children are easily contented as soon as their mind finds some new object of interest. And thus even we ourselves discovered once more with all the force of youthful imagination grandmother’s tranquil face in the person who was approaching us.
But when even this person proved to be quite a stranger to us, father began to excuse himself, saying that no doubt her plates had fallen out of her hands in the village, and so that she had had to return to the house, and that no doubt we should see her as soon as we came into the village.
And certainly we did see her. Not, indeed, as we pictured her coming to meet us, but at home in the living room, about the oven. The first greeting put all questions out of our heads, and it was only after a few minutes that we asked her why she did not come to meet us before, and she told us that she was on the point of setting out to look for us when we entered the hall. But she placed cakes and ripe cherries on the table for us without delay, and we reconnoitred her pockets, in which there was always something ready stowed away for us.
While we were at our meal, she took into her hands a plate from the range, and wiping it with her apron, kept continually balancing on tiptoe, just as if she was going to dance. This sort of dancing made her appear almost a young woman, and you always seemed to see it in her face when she told you anything of auld lang syne.
Grandfather was slightly lame of one foot, and he always sat in an arm chair, having this foot on a low stool. He wore the old-fashioned Bohemian dress of Manchester velveteen; this he always had new at festival time, and never ceased to wear it until a new festival again changed it for another suit.
As this dress was always of a black colour it contrasted very strongly with his greyness. He always wore his hair cut short in front, but long behind, so that it hung down over the collar of his velveteen camisole.
We only concerned ourselves with grandfather when we had completely done with grandmother. Then only we went to him, told him about what we had learnt at school, who of us could make the best whistles, who won at ball, and similar things, at which grandfather always smiled. After that we all of us got a few coppers for sugar plums from him, and all at once it seemed to us that even grandfather had something in him which pleased us children, though it was something totally different from what we liked in grandmother. But now we have already had quite enough of indoors. Hurrah then for the farm yard!
Grandfather had a large farm, and in the farm yard was more than enough of things we were longing to have a look at. Here we crept into the stable and observed how that the white mare had got well; then again how that the dun cow had a little straw laid under her; immediately after this we visited the rabbits and chivied them all over the court; then we explored the pigeon cote, the granary, the hayloft, even the summer house, and before an hour had elapsed, we had made such friends with the grey haired dog Vorjech that he performed a quite unique somerset for our benefit, and at the same time we put him through tricks which no one on the whole farm had given a thought to all the past year. And now the rest of our relations also gathered together—uncles, aunts, their children, and so on. We kissed the hands of all our older relations: this ceremony being repeated at every fresh arrival and called forth from each uncle a few coppers for goodies. We took it for granted that we only kissed their hands to shew them that they must carry small change at festival time.
After this we young people immediately divided into two camps; the girls to themselves, that they might inspect one another’s dresses, and to see how they had their hair plaited; and we boys to ourselves, that we might take counsel about things of greater dignity.
Then began a comparing of notes as to who knew of any nests, how many eggs the chaffinch lays, how the partridge makes its nest, what nestlings hare yellow beaks, and what the nightingales’ eggs look like. Some of us knew also already of cuckoos’ nests—aye even of pies’ nests, and such among us were worthy of special admiration.
Next in order came bird traps, which all of us knew how to make, and how proud was he who had already caught most birds, and how very high and mighty he who had succeeded in catching a tom-tit! By doing this he had proved that he was a master of trapmaking, for the tom-tit will creep through the smallest crevice in a trap.
Grey-haired Vorjech also listened: and so we caught him by both ears and put him through tricks I had taught him here before the others had yet arrived at grandfather’s.
This made us lively. After a little time we released Vorjech, and began to wrestle with one another.
In this way each had the best opportunity of showing what he had learnt since last festival, and which of us was “captain.”
If sometimes on these occasions a smarter blow than usual fell, or if blood showed itself, that was no great matter. Besides, we knew that if the battle became serious our papas’ would soon appear on the threshold and read us a homily, although we were allowed special freedom at festival time at grandfather’s. And even if all our papas’ had come with the warmest proofs of paternal affection, we knew that grandmother would take us under her wing, and indeed at festival time our consciences were very accommodating.
After battles people usually make peace that they may drub one another afresh, but in a different manner. So also did we. We ceased blood letting and divided ourselves into two camps to compete in notching pennies against a wall. This game diverted us most of all, for it touched our pockets and our livelihood. And he who lost most was very glad if he had not vexed his father too much in the previous battle, for uncles don’t give coppers twice and so father must make up deficiencies.
Having then quite exhausted in the forenoon all the amusement the farm-yard could furnish, we were not at all sorry when grandfather summoned us to dinner. On this occasion he always presented himself in company with his sons, our uncles and fathers, and reviewed us, his grandchildren. He who had a bruise concealed it; he who had lost sidled up to his father, and he who was safe and sound continued to play with Vorjech.
We distributed ourselves in the corners of the room and sat in silence. But even our fathers did not carry on the conversation, and grandfather who was a confirmed smoker, continually ruffed away at his pipe, and did not seem to wish to notice us. Grandmother hovered about the kitchen range, plates and spoons jingled, and we increased the clatter with our forks. But she wouldn’t so much as smile at us. A child has an instinctive feeling about the sort of look she wore. He very soon discovers when it is in earnest, and when it is feigned, and thus we children had no need to ask questions in order to discover that something very much out of the common was brewing at the old folks’.
After a short time grandfather said, “Come, set the dinner on the table.”
Grandfather, be it understood, always nagged at grandmother. Grandmother began to excuse herself, saying that supper was not so easily served up as he seemed to think, that she had still this and that root to peel, and soon grandfather began to puff his meerschaum yet more frequently, and smoked until he almost vanished from our eyes in a cloud of tobacco.
Father was wont to say that this augured nothing good with him.
After this they began to talk about one thing and another, but through it all it was evident that they only talked for the sake of talking, and such conversation never succeeds, because it does not come from the heart. All of them had some topic continually in his mind, which he kept trying to lead up to, and on that account kept saying “yes,” and nodding and answering in a formal manner, until all again languished.
“What a piece of work the supper takes to-day,” said grandfather again after a pause.
“You always have something to complain of,” answered grandmother, and kept bustling about the kitchen grate.
“To be sure, let him learn to come in time,” said grandfather, and began again to smoke furiously.
“It is just to-day you are aware that he is not coming; on other occasions you scarcely trouble yourself about him,” answered grandmother.
“Let him hang about your neck like a spoilt child,” said grandfather contemptuously.
“After all he is my son, and if I do not stand by him you certainly will not stand by him,” she answered.
It was only then that we children noticed that we had not seen Uncle John. And about him the matter was.
Uncle John was two and twenty years old—of an age then when a young man is generally on the look out for a bride, particularly if he has the prospect of a farm, and grandfather’s farm was already as good as John’s.
At this moment a servant from a farm in the neighbouring village came and saluted.
“Welcome, welcome! Krejza,” said grandfather. “What is it you have brought us?”
“Young Mister John sends to say that he will not be at home to dinner; he has stopped with us for dinner,’ said Krejza, giving his message.
“Tell him if you please, Krejza, that if he doesn’t come to dinner to-day he need not come home any more,” said grandfather, almost perfectly coldly.
“Oh! no; don’t take any message, there is no need. Why shouldn’t he stay there for dinner,” interposed grandmother.
“Because I do not wish it. Only be so good as to give my message just as I have told you,” said grandfather yet more precisely.
Krejza departed.
My father and uncles began to excuse Uncle John.
“Well, well, I know what I am doing,” answered grandfather curtly. “So now set on table; who is not here, perhaps will be more punctual another time.”
Supper was served. Grandfather generally said grace aloud before beginning; but to-day it would have been more a curse than a prayer.
It was a strange repast. No one relished talking and no one relished eating either. To us children it seemed as if we sat at table more for penance; and if we had only known how to do it, we should have fled pell-mell to the court-yard without caring a straw for the victuals. But both fathers and mothers when out visiting take a particular pride in their children behaving well at table. But just now it seemed to us that we dared, verily, ten times more boldly dance a hornpipe than sit quiet and well behaved at table.
After we had been seated thus about half an hour at table Uncle John entered the room.
All rose and greeted him in a friendly manner, but everything was carried on constrainedly, or rather with a kind of indescribable fear as if behind each greeting lurked a dagger. Only formal inquiries were made as to how he was, what he was doing, and so forth. Uncle John answered drily; on his brow was something like spite, and he fixed his eyes on the ground, and would not look at us. And then when we children greeted him he made no response to our salutation, and it never occurred to us that we could possibly have got from him any coppers for goodies.
He sat at table. Grandmother gave him soup on a plate, but Uncle John did not touch it.
“Lord save us,” said grandfather, with the short laugh which was natural to him, “and well-a-day! When a man cuts his mutton elsewhere he looses his appetite for what he gets at home.”
“Particularly with the seasoning one gets at home,” answered Uncle John, and leant his head on his hands.
Grandfather after that was silent, but his hands trembled. Indeed, he cut some meat and the knife slipped on the plate.
Grandfather certainly did not look at uncle, but all the same he saw what uncle was doing.
“Did you learn to sit slouching thus at Kubista’s,” he said after a while, as if indifferently.
“I cannot always be here merely to be stared at by you,” said Uncle John, as he got up from the table and left the room.
It was well that he left the room, and happy for him that grandfather hobbled on one foot. Grandfather was not aware certainly that he held a knife in his hand, but sure enough he would have hurried after Uncle John with the first thing he got hold of. And perhaps he would actually have run after him had not the bystanders withheld him.
Grandmother trembled all over, but she saw that speaking would be of no avail. But for us children the sitting was over so to say, just as if the word had been passed round, we dispersed in flight to the farm-yard, and troubled our heads no further about what was doing in the dining hall.
We just caught a glimpse of Uncle John as he passed out by the gate.
In the afternoon we went to spend the coppers we had collected from our uncles at the Hostinets k poutavé Babê (hostelry sign of the Pilgrim Grandmothers). Boys with plenty of goodies trouble themselves about nothing in the whole world. But for me I saw very well how Uncle John ordered song after song, and how he drank and danced more than anyone at the Hostinets.
In the evening everyone poured out of the alehouse—children first of all, after them the music, after the music Uncle John, accompanied by a bevy of gay young men, and last of all the old women. Uncle John, be it understood, would have the musicians accompany him home, a thing which even the richest and wildest young men seldom do except in the morning.
As it was in the evening the whole village was afoot, Uncle John whistled, and the musicians had to accompany his whistling. Before grandfather’s house stood all his guests. Grandfather trembled all over.
“And now play till they hear you in the neighbouring village at Kubista’s” cried Uncle John, and whistled till they became alarmed about him.
They had to lead grandfather away lest he should forget himself and injure uncle, and they had to humour Uncle John somewhat in order to quiet him. The musicians were well paid with drink-money; these went back to the hostinets and the people after them, but this affair which I am relating just as it happened was already in everybody’s mouth.
They led Uncle John away to bed. And they locked fast his door that grandfather might not discover where his son slept.
