Our Grandfather (1887)/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V.
Grandfather, however, learned very soon what he had praised to the skies: he experienced very soon what is the character of these Flowers of Paradise, and learned by many an unpleasant surprise what it is to carry out the commands of a daughter-in-law.
Old people are slow to adapt themselves to new ideas. What they have once got into their heads is only abandoned by a difficult process, and grandfather had so thoroughly got it into his head that he had provided his home with an excellent mistress as to recognise that he was already in very truth too greyheaded to teach himself new views and new maxims. And so sometimes he reminded Terinka as if involuntarily of his grey hairs. But that scarcely availed him much. Terinka told him flatly that his grey hairs and the grey dog Vorjech, were one as dear to her as the other.
Here grandfather no longer smiled; tears trickled down his old face, and though his foot began somewhat to pain him, yet he hobbled out of the living room, across the threshold, to the farm-yard, and there retired under the old lindens, where he sat himself down on a bench. The starlings piped in their nests, and grandfather looked towards his house and reflected on all that he had enjoyed and suffered there.
There was enough to begin to occupy his thoughts. In the meantime Terinka ruled her household like a fine lady—like a very duchess. The servants had very often to harness the horses, and prepare the carriage, and the carriage rolled off to the town, whence she and Uncle John seldom returned before evening. It was not, indeed, possible; before she had completed all her commissions the day had flown like lightning.
But after this our young mistress always appeared in new clothes; aye, sometimes in several dresses the same day, and the servants guessed that in spite of this it was not she who wore all their master bought her.
Verily, with the servants she had a perfect torment, and if Terinka could have learned all they said about her, she would never have recovered from her vexation.
Thus, for example, they said, “Mistress has all her presents and dowry stowed away at a merchant’s in the town, you know; that’s why she drives there so often, you know—to bring it home bit by bit.” For example, she had all her dresses stowed away at his house.
But even at home our young mistress’ dresses out-did all rivalry.
Visits were, indeed, very frequent, not perhaps that grandfather’s own sons and daughters drove over there, but Terinka had uncles enough to fill up the calendar. These did not come all at once, but were good enough to relieve guard, not wishing to be in the way.
On these occasions there were dinners such as only occurred at festivals in grandfather’s time. And every one ate and drank to repletion.
At these feasts grandfather took care still at least to appear to be the host, and gave out that Terinka did it all at his own particular request, and he often consoled himself with the thought that he was not driven out of the house, because he helped to supply the table with drink and victuals. And how sedately Terinka always invited him to seat himself with them. It was enough to move his goodness when he scarcely knew whether he was to sit among them or not.
But he sat with them still.
And then when the relations went home, they could scarcely carry all the presents with which Terinka loaded them. Once a maidservant allowed herself to play a very untimely joke. Her mistress despatched her for a carpet bag in which to pack something for the Lord knows which of her uncles, and the maid brought a regular sack, saying she could not find anything else.
But besides all this there were other things to be observed in our young mistress.
When some one or other of her female relations paid her a visit the servants soon perceived that this relation wore a dress which no long time before their mistress had on new, and that when this aunt or cousin departed she invariably forgot that she had on her hostess’ gown.
Uncle John paid no attention to these littlenesses, he always acted according to grandfather’s wishes, and the instant our young mistress desired it he bade put to the horses afresh, that he might drive with her to the town where she laid in a fresh stock of things to be distributed at home.
They quite understood at the farm what driving to the town meant.
And Novak?
This worthy when he came to the farm, behaved as though he were part lord and master. To grandfather he scarce paid any attention at all, and merely said a few words to him, though grandfather would gladly have continued the conversation.
On the other hand he listened to our young mistress a full hour, while she related to him how she managed everything, what a torment the old folks were to her, and similar matters.
It would have seemed that Terinka certainly needed no one to establish her in household management, for she already gave evidence of her excellent capacities. But still the advice which Novak gave her was by no means to be despised.
Whenever Novak gave advice he took pains fully to express his meaning. He set down the old folk as dotards, who were already unsuited to the new times, and he complimented Terinka for her kindness to them. “You are kind,” says he, “indeed I must confess you seem to me too kind to them.”
And then we must remember that Novak was not by any means a man to leave the farm with empty pockets, nor was Terinka either likely to let him depart with them empty. She always perfectly understood Novak when he told her he was so glad to see her comfortably settled there.
And if Novak did not always carry off all he meant to take at once, of course he came the oftener, to carry away more than he could manage on a single journey.
Our young mistress had not too good health, and therefore the doctor often drove over to the farm.
But such visits cost money, and therefore Uncle John sometimes himself drove Terinka over to the doctor, to spare the cost of his coming, and to exercise the horses.
Certainly, very few people quite believed in our mistress’ delicate health, but still she had to spare herself on account of it. She did not venture to undertake any heavy work; she did not venture to walk much, or to exert herself, and Uncle John sometimes did not go to look after the field, because he was obliged to take care of his wife.
Doubtless by these devices Terinka advanced to the wished for goal.
On the strength of her delicate health she told Uncle John that she could not move about in the living room with sufficient freedom so long as the old people were there. And as the doctor assured him that her delicate health might last some time longer during which she would require rest, Uncle John one day put the matter clearly before grandfather, and the upshot of it all was that grandfather and grandmother were to be banished to a neighbouring room for so long as Terinka continued in delicate health.
This by itself was no doubt a trifling matter, for any one who knew the spare rooms would admit that they were spacious and clean. But still it rather stung grandfather when he was so summarily banished from the living room, in which for half a century he had experienced all the boons and ills of life.
His eyes were certainly slightly bedimmed, and he told uncle that he thought perhaps Terinka would find it more quiet in the spare room than where so many people were constantly coming and going; but Uncle John objected that opposition only made her worse, and that delicate women must be humoured.
Grandfather now recognised himself that his objections were trivial, and submitted to be banished with grandmother the more easily, the more urgently the young people laboured to effect his banishment.
On the whole the poor invalid was not so badly off. Grandfather, according to his custom, went to visit Terinka, and consoled himself with the thought that there would be so soon an end of all.
But it seemed all at once to occur to Terinka that he consoled himself with the notion that he would soon be reinstated in the living room. And so one fine evening after a warm day, she just reminded him that he had not yet gained his point. “For you know,” says she, “my indisposition might easily return.”
I cannot really blame Uncle John for any harshness towards grandfather; not at all. But he was indifferent to him as to everything else in general. For that man was yet to find in the world who could discover something that should console him. If grandfather had still had the stronger will, the son would have obeyed his father: as his wife had it, he obeyed her.
Perhaps he would have obeyed anyone, for it was wholly indifferent to him what he did.
Briefly, to which ever side grandfather looked he found himself completely deserted. His sons and daughters now rarely visited him, for the Terincine character was not too alluring. And how could grandfather open out his heart to them when it was all his doing, that he had almost forgotten even those of them who were yet living.
My father, on one occasion, did indeed delicately suggest that grandfather should pay him a visit, and if our house pleased him, that he should establish himself there But grandfather answered that after all he could not bear to die anywhere but at home.
And now, too, grandfather could not open his heart to grandmother, who complained of her daughter-in-law perpetually, and since grandfather had always from the beginning taken Terinka under his protection he felt that he must seem to do so still, for the sake of consistency.
And once when seated in the yard he tried to think of anyone to whom he could open out his heart; then, and not till then, he recognised that he was alone, alone.
Thus involuntarily his eyes fell on the grey-haired dog Vorjech, who stood there before him, looking up at his eyes and wagging its tail, for it was long since grandfather had noticed it.
So it occurred to him, as if by accident, how that Terinka had several times compared his head with the grey-haired dog Vorjech, and involuntarily he looked again into Vorjech’s eyes.
Vorjech seemed to understand him. He never stirred, and his eyes seemed to grow bedimmed and moist just as grandfather’s eyes did.
“Dear Vorjech, we are then discrowned,” said grandfather, “we are completely alike.”
And Vorjech whined, sprang up, and finally laid himself down at grandfather’s feet. Thenceforward Vorjech followed at grandfather’s heels. Grandfather had, indeed, sunk very low: not only in mind; even in his dress this was apparent. Hitherto he had had his suit of velveteen clothing new at least at every annual festival, but now it was long past festival time, and grandfather had not yet changed his suit of clothes for a new one.
Perhaps it never once came into his mind. But during that time he pondered more frequently on his previous life. He saw that everything was not well done as he did it.
His previous hardness now melted into meekness, and then he saw that everything was not well done as he did it. He had been often in fault.
In this, his isolation, he began seriously to look out for some one who could understand him. But let him turn the pages to whichever side he would, every name was erased and everywhere only emptiness.
Nor again, were the servants such that he could converse with them. Our young mistress took the greatest pains to show them that they were not to obey grandfather. If he ever gave them any order Terinka bade them do just the very reverse, and that purposely.
The servants soon saw how the land lay. They laughed outright at grandfather, did not obey their mistress, and each one acted according to his own inclination.
And so our household was managed strangely—passing strangely.
Grandfather now at times even began to reflect that after all he had not a trustier friend than Kubista. It came to him that he had wronged, cruelly wronged his friend, and this sense of pity yet further increased his spiritual weakness.
More than once he even thought that it would be well to give the hand to Kubista. He thought that it would be a far better action than any he had hitherto performed, and that it would be perfectly in keeping with self-respect if he were to make the first step.
It occurred to him that hitherto he had never distinguished himself by any particularly good act, though he was originally capable of everything, and to reconcile himself with Kubista would be at least a beginning, may be also an end. He felt that it would be better to weep on Kubista’s bosom than to lament alone, and to the empty air.
He was already too weak to bear all that he had brought upon himself.
Thus he more than once found himself looking in the direction Kubista used to come and meet him, and if Kubista had really approached, perhaps he would have fallen on his neck, and with lamentations have implored his forgiveness.
Kubista did not indeed appear in that direction, but fate decreed that they should first meet one another in a different place.
It was Sunday, and grandfather decided to go to church early in the morning. It was not perhaps because he found little to console him at home that he went in better time than the rest, but because he walked slowly, for his foot had latterly been again more painful, and then he said he liked to be in time. So at least he said.
And he hobbled to church, in point of fact, before the bells had ceased to chime, and then as the church was still locked, he went to look at the church-yard.
He had not been there for a long while. He could not indeed remember how long since.
Many changes there were. Many a new cross had been added, and of those mounds which he remembered fresh more than one was overrun with turf of many years growth. Many again were newly dug. Which was to be for him?
On that solitary grave who knelt yonder? That face was known to him, though it aged to unrecognition.
It was old Kubista. He knelt on the grave of his daughter Betuska, and prayed for his daughter.
Grandfather felt all his hatred suddenly collapse; all the better sides of old Kubista came to mind, and he was touched with pity for his unfortunate friend when he learned to realize how unhappy he had himself become.
He did not know how it happened, but he knelt beside Kubista at the grave, and with a quavering voice pronounced the words “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.”
To Kubista it was the most joyous awakening out of prayer. He took grandfather by the hand, pressed it, and said, “Aye! we have committed many errors.”
Kubista knew not hatred, and it so touched him to see grandfather kneeling beside himself, that he forgave his friend frankly, and from the bottom of his heart.
They sat by Betuska’s grave, and Kubista asked grandfather what had led him thither.
“I came here to choose some place or other,” said grandfather. “Among the living I have one no longer, and I see that I am already a burden to them.”
“Things have not succeeded with us,” said Kubista, but without reproachfulness, only pronouncing the whole truth. “We ourselves have taught friends by our example to desert one another, and now we find ourselves deserted. John even now but seldom comes here, and so I must tend the grave alone. But I will never desert Betuska, and when I have no more power to walk, I will lay myself down beside her.”
Grandfather did in reality feel himself elevated, ennobled, and good—perhaps for the first time in his life. He wished he had still the strength of youth that he might set everything to rights just as he had reconciled himself with Kubista.
Kubista now stood his friend once more. He often visited him behind the barn under the lindens, and seated there on the grass they lightened each other’s sorrows.
The starlings in the trees had much to say to one another, but still they had exhausted themselves ere these neighbours of “auld lang syne” turned homewards again together.
Grandfather also little by little adapted himself to his fate. He hardly ever complained the least, but learnt to look upon his present circumstances as if they had been so all his life, and were not amenable to change.
He seldom went now to the living room to see his daughter-in-law; nor did it ever occur to him that he might yet be reinstated there. Indeed, it would even have been a source of grief to him if he had been recalled thither. It had been a hard struggle to disaccustom himself to that room, but now it seemed to him that by being established there he would also put on all his long past frailties.
Terinka was at times thorougly out of health. She was sallow, little inclined to move about, and more like a specimen preserved under a glass case than an animated being. Uncle John did not experience much pleasure in her company; however, he did not look for much pleasure of this kind. Even the child which was born to them, and which Terinka always dressed in the finest clothes, awakened in him no special delight. ’Twas seldom he even smiled at it.
Sometimes he would follow grandfather to his pension house to talk over old times, but what they said on these occasions was of trifling value. It touched upon topics of merely general interest.
I used to go pretty often to visit grandfather at a later period, particularly during the summer time. I knew where his gardens and shrubberies were, and thus made straight for him, for grandfather in summer time was head gardener.
Grey-haired Vorjech was there his inseparable companion. He always stood in front of his kennel and growled when he observed me, for he could not remember my face. Grandfather basked in the sun, scolded Vorjech for not knowing me, and welcomed me with immense satisfaction. Sometimes I also found old Kubista with him.
When I asked him how he felt, he only smiled and said—
“Ah! well a-day! I am not now what I used to be.” And in these words lay all his confession; his whole life—everything.
And then, when I described to him what went on in Prague, at school and elsewhere, he forgot for very pleasure everything else in the world. He would not let me leave him, and I had to give him an account of everything I had heard and seen. It seemed as though a new world unrolled itself before his eyes. He always said by way of supplement, “Ah, well, Pepik” (so he had named my father) “knows how to bring up children—he did not learn it from me.”
It was once more St. Lawrence’s Festival, and I was already in the bloom of manhood.
It was holiday time and I had just written to my parents to say that I was going to grandfather’s for the festival, where I hoped they would meet me, and then after the festival we could return home together.
Just then memories of early days and our visits to grandfather and grandmother, came upon me with uncommon force. I felt as though I were their own child, and with all a child’s fondness for them. I saw before my eyes grandmother as my childish fancy had pictured her on a charmed height. I felt the immeasurable delight which had always drawn me to her, and that unrest of youth which made us yearn to get the earliest possible glimpse of her wrinkled face. Grandfather had questioned me with special interest the last time I had seen him, and so I had already collected quite a medley of things of which I wished to give him an account. I thought with satisfaction how he would listen, and I felt happy in anticipation at the idea of causing him once again a few moments of simple pleasure.
As I was thus musing, a letter came from father, in which he gave me to understand that I was not to go to grandfather’s for they had buried him that very day, and he explained that he could not inform me about it sooner because he himself only got the news on the very day of the funeral.
I am not sufficiently versed in medical science to say what disease he died of. But he suffered only a very short time.
I am told he was buried most sumptuously, and Uncle John when they came to the church-yard, knelt first by the grave of Betuska, and only then turned aside and threw on grandfather’s coffin three handfuls of earth.
It was the last touch of poetry in uncle. From that time forth he became what people call a well-regulated man.
Later they laid Kubista next Betuska on the other side. Thus kindly mother earth lulled to equal rest those who made havoc of each other’s lives.
And those who still abide on earth, still make havoc of each other’s lives.
FINIS.