Three Novels: Hordubal, Meteor, an Ordinary Life

by Karel Čapek

  “Hi,” cried Juraj, “is that you, Misa? Well thanks be to God!”

  Misa said nothing, he only stared.

  “You don’t know me? I’m Hordubal.”

  “Ah, Hordubal,” said Misa, without surprise; why should he be surprised.

  “I’ve come back from America.”

  “What?”

  “From America.”

  “Oh, from America.”

  “Whose cattle are you looking after, Misa?”

  “What?”

  “Whose cattle are they?”

  “Oh, whose cattle. From Kriva.”

  “So, so, from Kriva. Nice beasts. And what about you, Misa, are you all right? I’ve come to have a look at you.”

  “What?”

  “Well, to have a look at you.”

  Misa said nothing, he only blinked his eyes. One’s not used to talking up here. Hordubal lay down on the grass, propping himself up on his elbow, and he began to chew a piece of grass. It’s a different world here, you needn’t talk, it’s not necessary. From April till September, Misa watches the herds here, he doesn’t see a soul for a week at a time—

  “And what, Misa, have you ever been down there on the plain?”

  “What?”

  “Have you been on the plain, Misa?”

  “Oh, on the plain. No, never.”

  “And up there, on the Durnoj, have you been there?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “And there behind that hill, you haven’t been there ?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  So you see, and I—I’ve been as far as America; and what have I got for it ? I can’t even understand my wife—

  “There—there are other pastures there,” said Misa.

  “And tell me,” inquired Juraj, as he used to when he was a boy. “What was that log hut in the wood?”

  “What?”

  “That log hut, there in the wood.”

  “Oh, that log hut.” Misa thoughtfully pulled at his clay pipe. “Who knows? The robbers wanted to build a fortress there, they say. But who knows ?”

  “And is it really haunted there ?”

  “Oh, that,” said Misa vaguely.

  Hordubal turned over on his back. It’s fine here, he thought to himself; what’s going on down there below?—already you yourself don’t know. People swarm there in the farmyard, they get in each other’s way, it’s a wonder they don’t go for one another like cocks; till your tongue aches because it itches so much to shout out—

  “Have you got a wife, Misa?”

  “What?”

  “—whether you have got a wife?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  In the plain there aren’t clouds like these; the sky’s empty there, but here—like the cows on the clearing; you lie on your back and mind them. And it’s as if they were sailing, and you were sailing with them, sailing away somehow, strange that you are so light and can soar with them. Where are they going, these clouds, where are they off to in the evening ? As if they melted away, but can anything vanish like that ?

  Hordubal leaned on his elbow. “I wanted to ask you, Misa—do you know a herb for love ? So that perhaps a girl might fall in love with you?”

  “Oh,” murmured Misa, “I don’t need that.”

  “Not you, but someone else might.”

  “And what for?” inquired Misa, indignantly. “There’s no need.”

  “But do you know such plants?”

  “I don’t.” Misa spat out. “I’m no gipsy.”

  “But you know how to cure people, Misa, don’t you?”

  Misa said nothing, he only blinked his eyes. “You don’t know what you’ll die of,” he said suddenly.

  Hordubal sat erect with a throbbing heart. “Do you think, Misa, that … soon?”

  Misa blinked thoughtfully. “Oh, God knows. Does a man live long ?”

  “And how old are you, Misa?”

  “What?”

  “How old are you ?”

  “Oh, that I don’t know. What’s the good of knowing?”

  Ba, what’s the good of knowing ? Juraj murmured; what’s the good of knowing ?—say, what’s Polana thinking about ? Down there a man torments himself with it; but here—well, think what you like, my dear, if you were happy you wouldn’t think. It’s strange, how far away everything is from here, so far, that you feel homesick. A man feels—as if he were looking on himself as well from a great height, as he runs—about the yard, gets angry, and worried, and all the while he’s just a little ant, irritated, not knowing how to get out.

  A great peace fell on Juraj, so great that it was like a pain. Look at him, such a rough and strong fellow, and he sighs, sighs under the burden of relief. Ah, I shouldn’t like to get up yet, and take it down into the valley, and how about not liking: I couldn’t. To lie silently, silently, so that it gets straightened out; to lie like this for days, perhaps for weeks, and wait till it falls into place; let the sky turn round, let the ox put his head down and sniff, let the marmot peep, is it a stone? it’s a stone, and hop on it to sit up and sniff. With his hands spread out Hordubal lay on his back. There is no Hordubal, or even a Polana—only the sky, the earth, and the sound of the cow-bells. The clouds melt away, and nothing is left behind, not even as much as when you breathe on the glass. The ox thinks what a struggle he has, and it is only cowbells from afar. What’s the use of knowing ? Gaze. God gazes, too. What a big eye, peaceful like the eye of a beast. The wind, as if time itself were flowing and roaring; where can it all come from ? And what’s the use of knowing ?

  Evening came on, and Juraj began to descend, he went over the clearing, and slipped into the wood, with long and light steps he walked; the burden of peace had already settled into place in him, and he need not even think of it. All right, Polana, all right, I shan’t run about under your nose any longer, the yard is too small for two of us. I shall find a job somewhere, and if not, I shall sit up here, and wait, wait till the evening. Why not—does a man live long ? Why, I ask you, should two little ants get in one another’s way ? there is so much space that you don’t even understand where it all comes from; and I—even from a distance I can look. Praise be to God, there are hills enough from which you can see your home. You can crawl as far as the Creator’s collar, and look down at yourself. Like the clouds, rise—and dissolve, like breath.

  Already the cow-bells could be heard, but still Hordubal sat on the thyme-covered baulk with a bunch of strawberries in his hand, and looked down on the new red roof. The farmyard, too, could be seen like the palm of a hand. To take Hafia there, and show her. See here, Hafia, isn’t it like a toy ? In the yard a small bright little figure emerges, and stands, stands. And there, see, from the stable a dark little figure comes out, goes up to her, and also stands still. And they don’t move—like toys. Ants would wave their feelers, and run about, but men—are more mysterious: they stand next to one another, and nothing happens. What’s the good of knowing ? thought Hordubal, but it’s strange that they stand so long, so motionless; one’s uneasy—it’s dreadful that they stand so motionless. And was it peace, Juraj, that you brought with you from up there? The heaviness that knocks you down ? You have had too much of something up there, and it’s sadness; you spread your hands out, and now you carry a cross. And those two there below stand, stand—ah, Jesus, if only they would move at last! And then the bright little figure tore itself away, and went in; the dark one stands, doesn’t move, and, glory to God, already it’s gone.

  Hordubal returned with a bunch of strawberries—he had nothing but that little bunch, and yet he forgot it in the yard. Four people at the evening table; he was almost on the point of beginning—I saw some deer, Hafia—but he didn’t say anything, words stuck in his mouth like pieces of food, Polana ate nothing, as pale as if she were carved out of bone, Stepan scowled over his plate, screwed his face about, crushed bread with his fingers, suddenly threw his knife down, and ran out as if he were choking.

  “What’s the matter with
uncle Stepan?” murmured Hafia.

  Polana said nothing, she gathered the plates from the table, so deadly pale that her teeth chattered.

  And Hordubal took himself away to the cows, the bald-headed one turned her head towards him, until her chain rattled. What is it, master ? Why do you sigh so loudly ? Eh, bald one, what’s the use of knowing, what’s the use of knowing ?—but it’s heavier, heavier than a chain. Up there we could make our bells ring, you and I—what space there is, there’s space for God there, too, but among men it’s close, two, three people, bald head, and so close together! can’t you hear their chains rattling?

  CHAPTER XI

  THAT night Manya got drunk, like a beast; not in Kriva, but away at Tolcemes, at the Jew’s; he fought with the other fellows, and he used his knife and got stabbed, they say, who knows; towards morning he returned, swollen and sore, and now he sleeps it out in the stable. The horses ought to be watered, thought Juraj, but I shan’t meddle with your affairs. If I’m not to talk to them, all right; look after them yourself. And Polana—like a shadow, better not see her. Well, things are in a state. Hordubal frowned. What is one to do ?

  It was hot, hot as if it were going to thunder: nasty flies, oh, what a vile day! Juraj slouched into the orchard behind the barn; but even there somehow—What is there to do here ? Only the nettles smell, and why are there so many broken pots here ? such gipsy rubbish—Polana’s like a shadow: she stays somewhere inside the house, and nothing—God be with you; but you know it’s hard for a man here. Hordubal uneasily rubbed his moist neck. Well, the storm will come, Stepan ought to cart the hay home—

  He climbed over the fence, and made his way round behind the village, to look at the sky, what it was like. The village from the back—as if you looked at a table from underneath, all wood and framework, as if nobody saw you, as if you were playing hide and seek with the whole world; just fences, and burdocks, savoys eaten with caterpillars, here a refuse dump, hemlocks, thorn-apples, and gipsies, gipsy huts behind the village—Juraj halted, and hesitated: oh, God, where am I! Polana is alone, Stepan unconscious in the stable … Hordubal’s heart began to thump. Devil take the gipsy! She just sat on the ground, old crone, dreadful, combing a child for lice.

  “And what would you like, sir,” the gipsy woman croaked.

  “Gipsy, gipsy,” shuddered Juraj, “can you make a love potion.”

  “Ei, I can,” the gipsy woman grinned, “and what will you give me?”

  “A dollar, an American dollar,” Hordubal burst out, “two dollars—”

  “Wah, you carrion,” the gipsy woman cried, “for two dollars, look here, you can’t couple a dog for two dollars, you can’t even charm a cow—”

  “Ten dollars,” whispered Hordubal in excitement, “ten, gipsy!”

  The gipsy woman grew calm at once. “Give them to me,” she commanded, stretching out a dirty paw.

  Juraj’s fingers trembled as he rummaged feverishly for the money. “But make a good charm, gipsy, not for a night, not for a month, not for a year-So that the heart grows soft, the tongue loose, so that she will be glad to see me—”

  “Hi,” the gipsy murmured, “Ilka, make a fire!” She rummaged in her bag, her hands were hooked and wrinkled like a bird’s claws. Ah, what a shame! The sky is growing wilder, there will be a storm. Make it, gipsy, make it well—Eh, Polana, look where you’ve taken me!

  The gipsy prattled, throwing pinches from her bag into the little cauldron; it smelt vile; she mumbled something, shaking her head, and making charms with her claws. It was terrible for Juraj. Let me fall down on the spot! This for you, Polana, for you, only you—What a crime!

  Juraj ran home, carrying the charm, he ran, the storm was coming. The cows were trotting with their load of sheaves, children scampering home, the dust rose in columns. Perspiring freely Hordubal opened the little gate leading to his home, he had to stop and lean, his heart throbbed, that for you, Polana. And suddenly from the stable the three-year-old ran out, stopped, neighed, and galloped to the gate.

  “O-o-o!” shouted Juraj, waving his arms to stop him. Polana ran out from the house. The horse was up on its hind legs, it spun round, dashed round the yard, with its head high, and its back pressed down, and it dug its hooves into the ground.

  And where has Hafia got to ? She ran across the yard to her mammy, squealing with terror, and fell… Polana shrieked, and Hordubal gave a roar. Oh, wooden legs! Why don’t I dash forwards-? And then from the stable Manya flew, his white sleeves fluttered, the horse reared itself up, and to its mane a man was hanging, he tore at the horse, eh, you don’t shake him off, like a wild cat on its neck. The horse sprang away, shook its head, threw its back up; bang, Manya was on the ground, but he clung to the mane, kneeling, and tore at the horse. And only then did Hordubal’s legs untie themselves, and he ran for Hafia. The horse dragged Manya over the yard, but Stepan now dug his heels in, and pulled, pulled at the mane. Hordubal pressed the child to his breast, he would have liked to carry it away, but he forgot—such a sight it was; the man and the beast. Polana’s hands were on her heart. Then Manya gave a high-pitched laugh, neighed like a horse, and galloping and jumping he led the snorting stallion into the stable.

  “Now, take the child,” said Hordubal, but Polana heard nothing. “Polana, do you hear, Polana?”

  For the first time Juraj put his hand on her shoulder. “Polana, Hafia!” She lifted her eyes. Ah, have you ever had such eyes before, have you ever breathed like this, with your mouth half open ? How beautiful you were—and now it’s vanished.

  “Nothing happened to her,” she mumbled as she carried the sobbing child into the house.

  Manya emerged from the stable, he wiped the blood from his nose with his sleeve, he spat blood from his mouth. “It’s all right now,” he said.

  “Come,” muttered Hordubal, “come, Stepan, let me bathe your head.”

  Stepan snorted with delight under the stream of water, and splashed cheerfully and copiously. “But that was a job, wasn’t it?” he prattled in a lively tone. “The little stallion got rattled, mister, that’s why he was so wild.” Manya showed his teeth, he was wet and dishevelled. “Ei, he will be a stallion!”

  Juraj wanted to say to Stepan: Well, you are a champion, you did do it well; but among men—there’s no need. “There will be a storm,” he murmured, and strolled away behind the barn. In the south the sky was heavy; storms which come from below are never good. The little stallion got rattled, and one can’t even move one’s legs to save the child. Maybe I’m already-old, Polana, or what. Strange, my legs were like wood, as if charmed.

  Lord, how dark! It began to thunder. The gipsy woman made a charm, and see, the little stallion got rattled; and I didn’t catch hold of the horse’s mane, nothing, only shuddered, and gaped. I, no, but Stepan did. Why shouldn’t he, he’s young ? Ah, Polana, Polana, why did you look so, why were you so beautiful!

  And already it was there, there; the storm—like a frightened horse it ran, sparks from under its hooves, neighing. You don’t catch hold of the horse’s mane any more, your legs won’t let you, they falter. You don’t spring, don’t yell; Stepan does. Damn, it’s a miserable charm from that gipsy: the little stallion got rattled, and so. And you think: That’s all for Polana. So why didn’t you spring at the horse? Polana would have looked with her hands on her breast, and her eyes—as never.

  Juraj blinked his eyes, he didn’t even feel the warm drops on his face. The sky was rent, crashed, and rattled; Hordubal crossed himself hurriedly, and felt an urge to run for shelter. No, not yet, first throw the gipsy woman’s charm into the nettles. And then with a jump under the shed and watch the storm.

  CHAPTER XII

  WHERE else would he be? He had crawled behind the barn, to think. For instance, he thought: Well, let’s admit that I’m old; but I ask you, how does it happen? You live, you feel nothing, you are the same as yesterday, and suddenly—old. As if somebody had bewitched you. You don’t catch hold of a frightened horse by the
mane any more, you don’t fight in the pub any more; you pick up the child instead of catching the horse. And to show you, once upon a time even I fought in the pub, gloriously, with Geric, in fact, ask Vasil, Polana. And suddenly—old; Polana’s not old.

  Well, then, perhaps I’m old. To pick up a child is also good. Eh, Polana, I could show you—for instance, what a farmer I am. You could live like a lady, maids to do the work, and you only shout: Hi, Maryka, feed the hens; now then, Axena, water the cows. It’s true they stole three thousand dollars of mine, but I still have seven hundred, we might start on many things. Ah, my dear, I wasn’t in America for nothing; young, not young, at least I’ve learned how and what in the world. And that it doesn’t pay to keep cows, they say, and such-like things. What about it, you must know how to sell. In America, say—there a farmer doesn’t wait till the butcher comes; he goes himself to the town, and makes a contract; so much and so many times a year, so many and so many churns of milk a day, all right. That’s how it’s done. I ask you, why shouldn’t it do here as well? Buy a pony and a cart—sell your horses, Polana, I want a pony that you can talk to—and drive to town. Well, the American knows his way about, he didn’t go abroad for nothing; he takes home a belt full of money. And then the neighbours would come—Could you, Juraj, sell for us a couple of geese in the town ? Why couldn’t I, but not like this, with only one goose under my arm; but fifty, a hundred geese a week—I should make coops, off with a load of geese to town. That, my friends, is how business is done. Or wood for burning, fifty loads of wood. Potatoes—in wagons. Look at Hordubal, what ideas he’s brought back with him from America! And even you, Polana, would say, Juraj is clever, no youngster could be more active; Hi, Maryka, Axena, take master’s boots off, he’s back from the market. And what have you been doing all the day, my dear? I looked after the farm for you, scolded the servants, and then, well, I’ve been waiting, Juraj, for you.