by Karel Čapek
Juraj Hordubal felt a deep satisfaction: You’d all turn and look at me, all you people here, if I began to tell you; people would rush from all over the train to look at a man who had three thousand dollars stolen in America. Yessir, that’s me. Juraj Hordubal raised his eyes, and looked round at the people; the fat Jewess pressed herself into the corner, the hawker seemed to be offended, and looked out of the window, working his jaws, and an old woman, with a basket on her lap, eyed Hordubal as if she disagreed with something.
Juraj Hordubal closed up again. All right then, it’s all the same, I needn’t worry about you; for five years I’ve not spoken to a soul, and I managed that. And so, Mr. Hordubal, you’re coming back from America without a cent? Oh, no, I had a good job, but I didn’t put my money in the bank again, you bet! In a box, sir, and the key under my shirt, that’s how it was. Seven hundred dollars I’m taking home. Well, sir, I would have stayed there, but I lost my job. After eight years, sir. Locked out, sir. Too much coal, or something. From our pit six hundred were given leave, sir. And everywhere and everywhere there was nothing but people being sent away. No job for a man anywhere. That’s why I’m coming back. Going home, you know. To Kriva. I have a wife there and some land. And Hafia, she was three then. I have seven hundred dollars under my shirt, and once more I shall begin to farm, or I shall work in a factory. Or fell trees.
And then, Mr. Hordubal, weren’t you lonely without your wife and child? Lonely? My God! But I ask you, I sent them money, and I kept thinking, this will buy a cow, this an acre of land, this something for Polana, but she’ll know herself what to buy. Every dollar was for something, And the money in the bank, that was enough for a herd of cows. Yess’r, and they pinched it from me. And did she ever write to you, your wife? She didn’t. She can’t write. And did you write to her ? No, sir, can’t write, sir. Ever since that Michal Bobok died I haven’t sent her anything. I only put the money by. But at least you telegraphed to her that you were coming ? What for, why, why waste money on that ? It would give her a turn if she got a telegram, but she won’t get it from he. Ha, ha, what do you think! Perhaps she thinks your dead, Mr. Hordubal; don’t you think if she hasn’t heard a word from you for so many years-? Dead ? A chap like me, dead! Juraj Hordubal blanced at his knotted fists. A fellow like that, what an idea! Polana is sensible, she knows that I’m coming back. After all, we’re all mortal; what if Polana is no longer alive ? Shut up, sir; she was twenty-three when I went and strong, sir, as strong as a horse—you don’t know Polana; with that money, with those dollars I kept sending her, with those she wouldn’t be alive ? No, thank you.
The hawker by the window scowled and mopped her brow with a blue handkerchief Perhaps he’ll say again: It’s so hot. Hot, sir! You call this hot? You ought to be on the lower deck sir; or below in the shaft for anthracite. They put niggers down there, but I stood it, yess’r. For seven dollars. Hello, Hordubal! Hello, you niggahs! Yes, sir, a man can stand a lot. Not horses. They couldn’t send any more horses down below to haul the trucks. Too hot, sir. Or the lower deck on the boat…. A fellow can stand a lot if only he can make himself understood. They want something from you, you don’t know what; and they shout, get into a temper, shrug their shoulders. Now I ask you, how could I find out in Hamburg how to get to Kriva ? They can shout, but I can’t. To go to America’s nothing; someone puts you on the boat, someone waits for you there—but back, sir nobody will help you. No, sir. It’s a hard job to get home, sir.
And Juraj Hordubal nodded his head, then it nodded by itself, heavily and listlessly, and Juraj fell asleep. The fat Jewess by the window turned up her nose; the old woman with the basket on her lap and the offended hawker glanced at each other knowingly: Oh, oh, that’s what people are like now: like cattle—
CHAPTER II
WHO’S that there, who’s that on the other side of the valley? Look at him; a gentleman, wearing shoes, perhaps he’s an engineer, or something like that, he’s carrying a black box, and trudges up the hill—if he weren’t so far away, I’d put my hands to my mouth and halloo to him: Praised be to Jesus Christ, sir, what’s the time? Two minutes past twelve, my friend: if you weren’t so far away I’d shout and ask whose cows you’re minding, and then perhaps you’d point and say: That with the white patch on her face, that red and white, that one with the star, that roan, and this heifer belong to Polana Hordubal. Well, well, my lad, they’re nice cows, a pleasure to look at; only don’t let them get down to Black Brook, the grass is sour there, and the water’s foul. Just think of that, to Polana Hordubal; and before she’d only got two cows; and what about it, boy, hasn’t she got some oxen as well ? Good Lord, and what sort of oxen, from Podoli, with horns spreading out like arms; two oxen, sir. And any sheep? Both rams and ewes, sir, but they are grazing up on Durna Polonina. Polana is rich and clever. And has she got a husband ? Why do you wave your arms about like that ? Polana has no husband ? Oh, what a stupid fool; he doesn’t recognize me, the man; he shades his eyes with his hand, and stands staring, staring as if he were a gate-post.
Juraj Hordubal felt his heart thumping right up in his throat; he had to stop, and catch his breath, ahah! ahah! It’s too much, it’s so sudden, it makes him shake like a man who has fallen into water: all of a sudden he’s at home, he only stepped over that stony gully, and it overwhelmed him on all sides: yes, that gully was always there, that blackthorn bush was there, too, and even then it was scorched by the herdsman’s fire; and again mullein flowers in the ravine, the road vanishes in the dry grass, and in the dry thyme, here is that boulder grown over with bilberries, gentian, junipers, and the border of the wood, dry cow droppings, and the forsaken hay-hut; there is no America any more, eight years have vanished; everything is as it was, a shiny beetle on the head of a thistle, smooth grass, and far away the sound of cow-bells, the pass behind Kriva, the brown clumps of sedges, and the way home, a road trodden by the soft steps of mountain men, who wear home-made shoes and have never been to America, a road smelling of cows and of the forest, warm like an oven, leading into the valley, a stony road, trampled down by farm animals, swampy near the springs, bumpy with stones; oh, Lord, what a fine footpath, as swift as a brook, soft with grass, crumbling with stone chips, squelching in the hollows, curving under the trees in the wood: no, sir, no clinker sidewalk that squeaks under your boot, like they have in Johnstown, no railings, no hosts of men tramping to the mine, not a soul anywhere, not a soul, only a road leading down, the stream, and the sound of the cow-bells, the way home, dropping downwards, the little bells of the calves, and beside the stream the blue wolf’s bane—
Juraj Hordubal descended with long strides: What difference does a box make, what difference do eight years; this is the way home, it just takes you along, like the herd returning at dusk, with full udders, ting-tang from the cows, and the little bells of the calves: why not sit down here and wait till dusk, come into the village when the cow-bells are ringing, when the old grannies come out on to their doorsteps, and men lean on the fence: look, look, who’s coming here ? Why me—like a herd from the pasture—right into the open gate. Good evening, Polana, even I am not returning empty.
Or no, wait till dark, until God’s cattle have gone, until everything has fallen asleep; then knock on the window, Polana! Polana! God in Heaven, who’s there? It’s me, Polana, so that you are the first to see me; glory to God! And where’s Hafia? Hafia’s asleep; am I to wake her? No, let her sleep. God be praised.
And Hordubal quickened his pace still more. Oh, Lord, a man does move when his thoughts run ahead of him! You can’t keep pace with them, never mind how much you stretch your legs; your mind runs away in front, and has already reached the rowan-trees at the edge of the village, sssh, geese, sssh, and you’re already at home. You ought to make a sound like a trumpet: where are you all, see who’s coming, the American, tram-tara, you do gape, boys, hello! And now silence, here we are at home, Polana is in the yard beating out the flax, to steal up to her, and cover her eyes—Juraj! How did you reco
gnize me, Polana? Glory to God, to think that I couldn’t remember your hands!
Hordubal ran along the gully, unconscious of the box in his hand, there where all his America was packed up, the blue shirt, the Manchester dress, and the teddy-bear for Hafia. And this here, Polana, is for you, material for a frock, like they wear in America, a cake of scented soap, a handbag with a chain, and this, Hafia, is a flash-light, you press this button here, and it lights, and here I’ve got pictures for you which I cut out of the newspapers—ach, lassie, I had lots and lots of them, for eight years I kept saving them up for you, any I came across; I had to leave them behind, I couldn’t get any more into the suit-case. But wait, there are lots of other things in the box!
And here already, thank God, the road crosses the brook; no iron bridge, only stepping stones, you have to jump from one to the other, and balance with your arms; ah, there by the roots of the alders we used to catch crayfish, with our trousers rolled up, wet right up to the shoulders; and is the crucifix still there at the bend of the road? Praise be to Jesus Christ, it is, leaning over the cart-track, soft with the warm dust, and smelling of cattle, straw, and corn; and Michalcuk’s orchard fence must be here; yes, here it is, grown over with elder and hazel as it was then, and tumbledown as it used to be; glory to the Lord, now we are in the village, safe and sound, Juraj Hordubal. And Juraj Hordubal stopped: Why the deuce has the box suddenly become so heavy, just to wipe the sweat off, and Jesus Maria, why didn’t I wash myself at the brook, why didn’t I take my razor out of the box, and the little mirror, and shave at the brook! I must look like a gipsy, like a tramp, like a robber; what if I go back and wash myself before I let Polana see me ? But you can’t do that now, Hordubal, they’re looking at you from behind Michalcuk’s fence, behind the ditch with burdocks a child is standing still and gaping. Shan’t you call to him, Hordubal ? Shan’t you shout, hello you, are you one of Michalcuk’s ? And with a patter of bare feet the child took to flight.
Why not go right round the village, thought Hordubal, and come home by the back way? What an idea! They would rush at me: You there, what are you up to ? Get off down the road or you’ll be beaten! What’s one to do, I must go right through the middle of the village; oh, God, if only that box didn’t weigh so much! The face of a woman at the window behind the geraniumst sunflowers gaping at you, an old woman pours out something in the yard, as if she had eyes in her back, the children stop and stare, look here, look here, there’s a strange man coming, old Kyryl works his jaws, and doesn’t even raise his eyes; once more stab to the heart, God be with us, and with bowed head we pass through the homestead gate.
Oh, you booby, how could you make such a mistake! Don’t you see that this isn’t Hordubal’s wooden hut, stable, and barn made of logs ? it’s a real farm, a brick building, with slates on the roof, and in the yard an iron pump, an iron plough, and a set of irron harrows, why a proper farm; quick, Hordubal, disappear quickly with that black box of yours, before the farmer comes and says: Now what are you looking for here ? Good afternoon, didn’t Polana Hordubal once live here ? I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what I’ve done with my eyes.
Through the doorway Polana emerged, and stopped dead, as if turned to stone, with her eyes staring, and she pressed her hands firmly to her breast, as she breathed quickly and in gasps.
CHAPTER III
AND then Juraj Hordubal didn’t know what to say: he had thought out so many opening phrases, why was it that none of them would do ? He won’t put his hands over Polana’s eyes, he won’t tap on the window at night, he won’t return with the cowbells tinkling, and with words of blessing; but dirty and unkempt he rushed in. Well, what wonder if a woman gets frightened ? Even my voice would be strange and stifled—Lord tell me what I can say with such an inappropriate voice!
Polana drew back from the entrance; she stepped back—too far; oh, Polana, I could have slipped past—and murmured with a voice which was hardly a voice, and hardly hers: “Come in, I—I’ll call Hafia.” Yes, Hafia, but before she comes I should like to put my hands on your shoulders, and say, Well, Polana, I didn’t mean to frighten you; thank God, I’m home at last. And see, see how she’s furnished the house: the bed’s new, and deep with feathers, the table’s new, and heavy, sacred pictures on the wall; well, my lad, even in America they don’t have it better: the floor’s made of boards, and geraniums in the windows: you are a good manager, Polana! Very quietly Juraj Hordubal sat down on the box. Polana is clever, and she knows her way about; from what you can see you would think that she owns twelve cows, twelve or even more—Praise be to God, I didn’t toil in vain; but the heat in the mine, my God, if you knew what a hell! Polana did not return; Juraj Hordubal felt uneasy somehow, like someone quite alone in a strange room. I will wait in the yard, perhaps I might wash in the meantime. Ah, pull my shirt off, and pump cold water over my shoulders, over my head, and hair, and splash about with the water, and neigh with pleasure, ha! but that would hardly be the thing to do, no, not yet, not yet; just a drop of water from the iron pump (there used to be a wooden coping here, a bucket on a pole, and that deep darkness below, and how damp and cool it felt when you leaned over the coping) (and this is like America, where the farmers have pumps like this) (with the full bucket into the cowshed, and water the cows till their muzzles shine with dampness, and they snort loudly), with a drop of water he moistened his grimy handkerchief, and wiped his forehead, hands, and neck. Ach, ah, that’s nice and cool. He wrung the handkerchief out, and looked round for somewhere to hang it. No, not yet, we’re not at home yet; and he pushed it, still wet, into his pocket.
“Here’s your father, Hafia,” Hordubal heard someone say, and Polana pushed towards him a girl of eleven, with shy, pale blue eyes. “So you’re Hafia,” murmured Hordubal in embarrassment. (Ah, God, a teddy-bear for a big child like that!) and he wanted to stroke her hair, just with his fingers, Hafia; but the girl drew back, she squeezed herself against her mother, and kept her eyes fixed on the strange man. “What do you say, Hafia?” said Polana harshly, giving the girl a push from behind. Oh, Polana, leave her alone—what if a child does get frightened! “Good evening,” whispered Hafia, and turned away. Juraj suddenly began to feel queer and his eyes filled with tears; the child’s face danced before him and grew dim, but, what’s that—eh, oh, nothing, but I haven’t heard ‘good evening’ for so many years. “Come and see, Hafia,” he said hurriedly, “what I’ve brought for you.”
“Go, you silly,” said Polana, giving her a push.
Hordubal knelt down before the box, Mother of God, everything has got messed up during the journey! He searched for the electric lamp. Hafia will be astonished! “So you see, Hafia, you press this button here, and it lights.” But what’s wrong, it doesn’t want to light; Hordubal pressed the button, turned the little thing round and round, and became filled with sadness. “What’s wrong with it ? Ah, perhaps it’s dried up inside there where the electricity is—you know, it was so hot on the lower deck. Well, it did shine brightly, Hafia, like a little sun. But wait, I’ve got some pictures for you. Now you’ll see something!” Hordubal fished from the box cuttings from the papers and magazines which he had placed between a few articles of clothing. “Come here, Hafia, this will show you what America looks like.”
The girl writhed with embarrassment, and looked inquiringly towards her mother. Dryly and severely Polana motioned with her head: got Timidly and unwillingly the child shuffled towards the tall, strange man. Oh, if only you could dash out of the door and run, run to Marica Zofka, to the girls who there behind the barn are rolling a pleasant little puppy into a pillow—
“Look, Hafia, look at these ladies—and see here, see how these people are fighting with each other, ha, ha, what? That’s football, you know, a game they play in America. And see here, look at these big houses—”
Hafia’s shoulder was now touching his, and timidly she whispered: “And what’s this?”
A wave of pleasure and emotion ran through Juraj Hordubal: See ho
w the child is getting used to me already! “This … you know, this is Felix the cat.”
“But it’s a pussy,” objected Hafia.
“Ha, ha, of course, it’s a pussy! You are clever, Hafia! Yes, it’s … a sort of American tom-cat, all right.”
“And what’s he doing?”
“There … he’s licking a tin out, do you understand ? a kind of milk tin. It’s an advertisement for tinned milk, you know.”
“And what does it say?”
“That… that’s something in American, Hafia, you won’t understand that; but look at these ships,” said Hordubal, quickly turning the conversation. “I sailed in one like that.”
“And what’s this?”
“They’re chimneys, you know? These ships have a steam engine inside them, and at the back there’s a kind of … er … propeller …”
“And what does it say?”
“You can read that some other time, you know how to read, don’t you?” said Hordubal, turning away. “And this here, you see, two cars ran into each other …”
Polana stood on the doorstep with her hands folded on her breast, and with dry, unblinking eyes she looked round the yard. There in the room behind two heads were bent together, a man’s slow voice tried to explain this and that. “That’s how they do it in America, Hafia, and here, see, I once saw this myself,” and then the voice halted, faltered, and murmured: “Run, Hafia, run and see what mammy’s doing.”