Our Grandfather (1887)/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV.
The corn which had sprung up in Spring matured to yellow spikes, and sickles converted the copious crop of the field into rows of sheaves. Boldly now over it wander grey-fleeced sheep after a piping shepherd; the cricket hops insolently about the boundary stone, the partridge with her young scarce hides herself from the searching looks of the pointers, and St. Martin’s summer hangs from stalk to stalk in glittering threads.
The breast of mother earth now needs the showers of the Spring—no young corn bursts from it to ripen into fruit—or if some tinge of green yet bedecks the field, it is but the memory of that which was, but which alas shall be no more.
And man is like the divine field of nature, capable of all—of passion, learning, puissant deeds, noble actions—happy is he in whom all ripens which germinated in his spirit of lovely and exalted.
But the spiritual sowing hath also its ill seasons, which though perhaps they do not shake the world can drive to despair him whom they encounter—can even perchance annihilate him. The spiritual sowing hath also its hailstorms, which splinter the beautiful, hopeful stalks, batter down what was destined to life, and so crush it, that what awakened in us hopeful delight is now but a source of pity and astonishment.
It is easily said—Betuska was buried. On a coffin adorned with garlands young men and maidens threw handfuls of earth, the gravediggers raised a mound, and parents spread over the grave fresh turf and adorned it with flowers.
But if by the grave closing over us everything else that was bound up with us could also come to an end, perhaps it were better it should die with us; but perhaps yet better it should live.
I am, in truth, in difficulties how to find words if I am to depict the spiritual state of Uncle John. Despair is little, and at the same time also much. He had moments when not the least anguish survived in his breast; hatred and wrath took its place, but he had moments also in which all this gave way to a horrible quietude, a sort of stupor, so that he could laugh with him who laughed, and curse with him who cursed.
And this before grandfather, who spoke but little with his son, and avoided his looks, which were full of reproach and horrible accusation, partly perhaps justified, but partly not so.
And at other times again, he went like a man crushed at heart, without will and feeling, chilled in all his perceptions, inaccessible to grief, and indifferent to pleasure.
Then he almost jested: he told grandfather that now he need not dread a hated marriage, and in general that affairs had turned out better than had ever been looked for.
Grandfather was now more afflicted than his son. The misfortune which he had caused to fall on the head of old Kubista, did not suffer him now to sleep more often than did the hatred which before he had felt for that trusty friend.
Even in his work Uncle John was like two different beings. Sometimes he did everything thoroughly and conscientiously; sometimes again he took no pains, and at times he did not work at anything for a whole day.
Once he came to the boundary stone which divided grandfather’s field from that of old Kubista.
Old Kubista was a-field. Uncle John went to him, kissed his hand, and said to him, “You know, Kubista, you only yet remain till death my father.”
Kubista’s tears fell fast. Without speaking a word he went home, and his people who worked with him a-field ceased in their work for the anguish which they felt with their honoured master.
Then uncle’s horses had a rest. He loosed them from the plough, and sat himself down alone at the boundary stone and thought—God alone knows of what; perhaps even be did not think of anything.
They brought him his dinner and he did not touch it. He sat till evening and perhaps would have sat even till next morning if Kubista had not gone back to the field and sat down beside him.
“I have not spoken to you about your daughter,” said Uncle John, as if between the time that Kubista departed and returned not a minute had intervened, “and trust me I am more intent upon reconciling myself with you than with my own father.”
“What avails hatred here. We know how you grew up together, and I, without her, might have been a happier father than as it is I am. Would that your father were now also happier than he has been hitherto.”
They spoke long together, and Uncle John in his presence unbosomed himself completely, as if he had seen in the father the spirit of poor Betuska—so he disclosed in his presence everything without reserve. He added that he desired but one thing, and that was that Kubista should recognise that he was worthy of his daughter.
And Kubista did indeed stand to him in place of a father, at least according to sorrow.
Whenever they saw one another a-field they always came together, and their first salutation was dedicated to the memory of Betuska.
Only sometimes uncle came here alone, alone and then complained to heaven and earth, fell on his face, and drowned his grief in tears. Aye, he could not see this place without shuddering, but his eyes in vain sought the village, to see whether Betuska would come from it, to make all clear to him as none else could.
Coming home again he was so variable that neither grandfather nor grandmother could understand him.
Sometimes indeed quite affable, and at other times again he shut himself within himself like a monastic in his cell.
He did not speak much with people, and if he spoke he touched on matters entirely indifferent, so that it might appear to others as if this misfortune had not so very deeply affected him.
Sometimes also he jested with them—even cruelly. He said “So! I told you to laugh at me when I was no more Kubista’s boy. Laugh now, you have a right to do so.”
And he began himself to laugh, as though he wished to give them a taste for laughing.
Who saw him thus found his taste for laughing with him soon gone.
And after that again he was so leaden-hearted that grandmother felt grave concern about him, lest, perhaps, he should attempt his own life. Meek and gentle sometimes like a child, and sometimes again he dealt out his words as though he would speak daggers.
“You know excellently how to take care of children,” he said to grandfather, “not only of your own but even of Kubista’s—for you have taken care of Betuska better than he himself did. No one could have provided for her better. Faith ’tis quite a peculiar talent when a man can so prettily blast another’s happiness.”
Grandfather was scared at these words. There lay in them an enormous weight of accusation, and yet they were pronounced with as much coldness as if he had said, “My pipe has gone out.”
Grandfather, however, did not dare to evade the charge implied, but began to consider how he might divert Uncle John to other pursuits. He sought counsel of grandmother, but with her he did not succeed very well, for she told him curtly, that he had already shown how clever he was at managing, so then let him manage again according to his own sweet will.
Grandfather began to feel himself veritably isolated. At home all avoided him, and indeed he avoided others more than they avoided him. He then began to drive out to his sons and married daughters, but there also he did not gain much help. None of them was willing to take upon himself the responsibility of advising when matters might turn out badly—for they knew grandfather well.
And after all what advice could they give? Even could they have disentangled his eager confused questions as easily as he entangled them, grandfather would still not have wanted any of their advice. He always knew best himself the author of the confusion—if he could not find the clue who was to find it. When therefore he returned home from these visits to his children, he felt his own desolateness even more strongly than before. He had no one to whom to unburden himself and was an object of pity like all the rest.
It is said “Paint not the devil upon a wall or verily he will appear.”
In fact, grandfather began to hanker after Novak, and when Novak appeared quite unexpectedly, grandfather felt it almost a blessing to have him to converse with.
Novak well knew that he would find it no jesting matter with grandmother, or with Uncle John. He did not come to grandfather at the house, but managed to call him behind the barn, where stood in about seven rows the huge ancestral lindens, in whose shadow he rested as on a feather bed. To their branches had migrated, at some time or other, a family of starlings, and because the place pleased them had settled themselves there, and multiplied to an innumerable colony. Here it was “chiff-chaff” all day long, and if the old ones flew away, why then the young ones piped.
Here then Novak awaited grandfather, and when grandfather told him that he thought the weight on his heart grew lighter, Novak said he knew of a remedy, but it must be taken at once if it was to have any effect.
Grandfather, however, had been starving for want of advice, and he enquired what the remedy was. Novak answered without circumlocution “Your son must get married.”
And at once he had so many reasons for it at the tip of his tongue that grandfather’s head went round.
He said that Uncle John dissipated his energies by reflections which afflicted him, that his looks and thoughts fastened only on women, and that what the women altogether had so long failed to effect a single woman would effect if he could be brought acquainted with her.
Grandfather thought all this supremely wise, and wondered at himself for not thinking of it before, and as for Novak, faith he was a man more sensible than a doctor of law.
Novak, however, reasoned according to his trade, and if he had been a butcher he would have recommended that uncle should eat plenty of meat. Had he been an innkeeper he would have recommended plenty of beer. Being a go between in love affairs, he recommended that uncle should wive.
And all at once he knew everything about a bride in prospect, and described her in such glowing colours that Horakoff’s daughter at Brizoff vanished before her, and was not fit to reach her water at table.
Grandfather thought that he had won “terns,” and he had no need to trouble himself further about anything; for Novak took upon himself all trouble and eased grandfather’s mind by promising that Uncle John should conform to everything.
After this grandfather himself took Uncle John in hand. After suitable circumlocutions, he asked him, as if casually, whether he yet thought of marriage, seeing that his parents were growing old and could not manage the household much longer.
“And why not then?” said Uncle John, as if in good humour, “then I shall have obeyed you in everything.”
Grandfather was quite accustomed to his biting sentences, and already sometimes failed to feel their incisiveness. But here, at any rate, he had at last managed to know what he wished to know. He thought, then, that he must be contented with the reply.
And in reality the business began to make satisfactory progress, and before anyone expected it a letter came to the house. Uncle John was, moreover, so resigned to grandfather’s wishes, that grandfather must have been delighted with him.
Whether Uncle John read this letter I do not know, but certain it is that when grandfather told him he must write a reply, Uncle John told him he had an answer all prepared.
And the messenger took a letter from him to his intended bride, only that it was the same which he had brought from her to him.
Grandfather must have had satisfaction in seeing how everything succeeded—and he had it.
When after several days, the evenings began to close in, a wedding was already openly mentioned, the servants continually agitated the matter, and after some days even the poultry at Kubista’s talked it over.
Old Kubista’s head spun round.
Now even Novak began to present himself openly at the farm, and when Uncle John greeted him affably enough it followed that the last stumbling block was quite removed. He flew from the bride to our farm, and thence to the bride elect like one possessed.
It was a wonderful message which Novak carried to the young lady. When he asked Uncle John what proposal he should take to her, Uncle John referred him to grandfather, and in reality grandfather was as well able to compose a marriage proposal as if he had been going to take a wife himself.
Things went on a-pace.
All unexpectedly one morning grandmother got a command from grandfather to see how many calves were ready for the butcher, what number of fat pigs, how many geese were fit to kill, and she herself was to see to the poultry, for the marriage was even at the doors.
Novak ran to the registry office; put out the banns; briefly, Novak had a matter to settle, and he succeeded in it.
Only one thing was still wanting. Uncle John had not as yet made the acquaintance of his intended bride. That indeed was a very trifling hitch. Still it was all in the day’s work that Novak should put that matter straight also.
Novak, then, must bring them together. He must put the matter before Uncle John in all its different aspects until the latter assented to it.
He might very well have spared himself his pains, for Uncle John scarcely listened with one ear. So much, however, he understood of it all as this, that next Sunday he was to pay a visit to his intended bride, and was to order the servants to have the carriage as smart as possible.
When Novak further assured him that he would be thoroughly satisfied with everything, uncle answered, “You see that I am always satisfied as it is.”
Grandfather took a fresh lease of life, and even his foot ceased to pain him; he walked to the farm-yard with Novak, under the lindens, and again from the farm-yard to the house. He was more active than Uncle John.
Grandmother did, indeed, often look into uncle’s eyes thus inviting him to confidence, that he might unbosom himself to her, for she felt, as no one else could, that what she had heard from grandfather, Novak, and others, could not be his genuine desire and will. A kind of terror fastened itself at her heart.
But Uncle John only looked at her from time to time with anguish, and that was all his answer. At other times he was inaccessible to all. No one could find the key to his soul; perhaps at times he could not even find it himself.
Sunday came, the vehicle was prepared, the horses harnessed. They went for Uncle John, but they did not find him. Grandmother could scarcely speak for terror and surprise, and if she could have concealed the truth from grandfather, she would not have told it for the whole world.
Servants ran hither and thither to look for Uncle John. Even Novak, whose mind was bewildered, and whose countenance paled at the unexpected turn things had taken, set off to search; even grandfather himself looked where he could, calling out and searching, not without fear.
But it was not so bad as that. They soon found Uncle John, at the very boundary stone of grandfather’s and Kubista’s fields. They found him with his face to the ground, in tears and protestations. Without witnesses he poured out laments to heaven for his affliction, and burden of misery, seeking the comfort which he found not among men.
They did not venture to disturb him. They returned home and mentioned to grandfather where and how they found him, adding that he would return by himself.
And uncle soon returned. Not with tears in his eyes, but with a smile on his face, and cold in mien.
To those who saw him in his previous state but a moment before, that smile must have been capable of a strange interpretation.
Uncle John dressed himself and they drove off. On the way Novak repeated very much about his previous performances, about bridals and marriages, until Uncle John bade draw up at an inn that he might have a glass to encourage himself.
And he drank enough to encourage him. They then drove on. Uncle was still in a courageous mood when they alighted, and Terinka, his intended bride, presented herself on the threshold, while in the meantime her father greeted his honoured guest.
It is true that Uncle John was merry enough. It was no secret even to the Brezinoffs where this merriment came from, but they did not look too nicely at that. Only let a young man have courage what matter whether it comes from the heart or the pewter.
And old Brezinoff took further care that it should come so long from the pewter, that it reached the heart at last.
Uncle John jested, pinched Terinka’s cheek, and Novak winked slily at Brezinoff, who merely smiled in reply.
Uncle John asked Terinka, whether she wished to have him for a husband, adding that he had been sent to ask her to be his wife, and he said this without circumlocution.
Terinka blushed becomingly and then responded also becomingly.
Briefly Uncle John made good progress. He was yet shouting on the road as they returned home long after nightfall.
In the house then at grandfather’s it was now a matter of certainty that there would be a wedding; the banns were sent at once to the parson and a day fixed on which the guests were to assemble.
Grandfather strongly insisted upon there being a large gathering of guests present. And Novak went with the young folk all one day the round of the neighhourhood to invite the whole of it.
Several hogsheads of beer were ordered at once from the brewery, and from Prague were brought about four dozen of the choicest rosolek for the ladies.
The wedding then was prepared.
And when it came everything went off according to the programme. The bride wept, as did also her parents, and when they brought her to grandfather’s she had with her about a score of relations.
Evil tongues, and on such occasions some tongues never fail to be so, ran on in this wise:—
“All these relations are instead of furniture, you know; for the bride has not much of that, you know; and if it is a long time coming, that doubtless is because they want to get it cheap to the farm. But how odd! ’tis always such a long way off, you know; and after all ’tis possible the relations have brought it in their pockets.”
But at grandfather’s things went merrily enough. Grandfather was in his element. He at once made friends with all the bride’s relations, and told them all about his own history. Some of these relations were indeed rather distant relations of the Brezinoffs, but that did not signify.
Grandfather showed them everything, conducted them everywhere, and walked so easily that even his foot seemed well again. He paid them so much attention, aye, each and all of them, that the remainder of his sons and daughters were scarcely welcomed. He did not allow himself to converse with his own children, for to-day he had new, more honourable guests.
These were, indeed, convinced that they had found capital quarters for Terinka, but it a little vexed grandfather’s own sons that they could not put in even a single word; and they dispersed long before evening, when grandfather led the new relationship a-field. They did not shake hands with grandfather at parting, they said to-day doubtless he would not miss them—and grandfather did not miss them that day.
The festivities lasted until the third day, for grandfather was most anxious that the whole neighbourhood should talk about it. He thought that he must needs do something, for latterly such wonderful rumours were afloat concerning the sayings and doings of all of us at the farm, that now verily seemed a fitting opportunity to demolish all such rumours at a single blow.
When on the third day all drove off, grandfather began to settle the bride in the farm-house. Uncle John, indeed, scarcely paid any attention to any one, consequently his part must be played for him by grandfather.
Grandfather had always taken so much pains to bring all this about, that it was not possible for him all at once to renounce all participation in it.
He had enough to do. Ere he had shown the young mistress everything that appertained to her household duties several days had elapsed.
And yet Terinka had excellent capacities. She remembered everything at once and adapted herself to everything with facility, so that after a short time it was soon shown who now ruled in the farm, and who obeyed.
As I have already said, grandfather had spared no pains to get the farm this mistress, and now that he had obtained her, he took still more pains to fix her there for ever, and to make every one obey her absolutely.
Grandfather was now happy—at least he thought so.
I cannot say, however, that Terinka was really a very welcome guest at the farm.
Grandmother was constrained in manner towards her, for a kind of trepidation continually affected her, though she could not hit upon a name for it. Her thoughts always lost themselves whenever she tried to conjecture whether Uncle John was now happy. When she wiped the plate with her apron, she also wiped more than one tear from her eye, and few saw her then balance herself on tiptoe, and dance according to her ancient wont.
Nor was Uncle John by any means an example of how conjugal affection may make of two people one spirit, causing them to feel with one heart and to think with one mind.
Uncle John did not change in anything to speak of after his marriage, except that he became somewhat more indifferent. He seemed as though he had determined, by the punctual fulfilment of his father’s wishes to show grandfather how those his wishes had brought misfortune not only on his son, but also on the whole household.
And so it was.
He obeyed grandfather most exemplarily, and since grandfather had no other wishes save those that Terinka expressed, he more particularly obeyed his wife in everything.
Grandfather, then, very diligently himself took his daughter-in-law in charge, so that his presence should make up for every deficiency in other quarters. He himself now contrived and did for her everything for which she had the least fancy. Aye, he even looked into her eyes as a stargazer looks at the heavens in order to conjecture what would please her and what would elicit a smile from her, for that pleased him beyond measure.
The servants whispered that there was a new mistress, and this lady was imperious and proud, and in a louder voice they declared to the other servants that she was hasty and unobliging, and that there was more wanton wastefulness in the household management than had ever been before.
All day long he spoke of nothing but Terinka. He praised her every movement, her every step. Every gesture seemed to him so becoming that more than once he pronounced her to be the most perfect woman in the world.
The household secretly, and indeed openly, laughed at his eulogiums; and grandmother sometimes felt almost vext. Uncle John assured him that he was right in everything.
Wonderful it was where grandfather found all the expressions for heaping praise after praise upon her.
But even grandfather at last grew tired of calling her the best woman in the world, and he named Terinka his Flower of Paradise, which he had long been seeking for his house.
“Yes,” he cried, “she is our happiness, and our ornament, in whom we all grow young again.”
And Terinka was indeed a Flower of Paradise. She expanded in all directions, every place was full of her. Every one was made to feel her influence.
Already she had not space enough in the rooms which were orginally allotted to her, and she expanded even into the living room, which grandfather had reserved for himself and grandmother.
Grandfather did, indeed, always, and in everything, give way to her only that she might be content, and he told her that she had only to order what she pleased, and that all her orders must be carried out.
So Terinka began to give her orders in earnest. Once she declared to Uncle John, in the presence of grandfather and grandmother, that “old gran” disgusted her because she had always to be looking at his diseased foot, and she suggested that it would be better if he were banished out of the living room.
This fell like a thunderbolt.
But grandfather laughed it off, for he supposed it was only jest, though, on second thoughts, it occurred to him that it was a curious mode of jesting.
Grandmother stood aghast, and Uncle John said nothing.
He always heard from grandfather a hundred times a day that everything which Terinka ordered must be carried out—that Flower of Paradise.
