Three Novels: Hordubal, Meteor, an Ordinary Life

by Karel Čapek

  ‘Well, give me the dibs,’ replied the heir of thirty millions, ‘and tell the old man that I wish him a real long life while he’s waiting for me.’

  The anarchist clapped her hands enthusiastically.

  The respectable solicitor playfully shook his fat finger at her. ‘You, you, don’t you turn our young friend’s head. Let him enjoy himself, that’s all right, but nothing more, do you understand?’

  The girl stuck her tongue out at him; but the benevolent solicitor beamed and warmly pressed the hand of the prodigal son. ‘My dear, dear friend,’ he said touchingly, ‘we shall all look forward to your speedy return.’

  The prodigal son was eighteen then; until his coming of age he roamed about as is the way of young people, that is, he himself wouldn’t be able to say how, and to whom he chiefly owed the money for it. Of course: Paris, Marseilles, Algiers, Paris, Brussels, Amsterdam, Seville, Madrid, and back again to Paris. As far as he was aware, with the breaking up of the family his father had lost all his inner inhibitions and plunged pathologically into making money, and into miserable senile stinginess. God bless him, it will be a pile of money that grows up there! Exactly on the day when he came of age the miserable pittance stopped. The prodigal son became furious: ‘Do you expect me to crawl back on my knees? Not on your life!’—He tried to work; but strange, not until he began to work did want and misery oppress him, and when he tried to return to his former easy way of life, it wasn’t the same any longer, he already carried some mark that made him suspicious of poverty. Then he took to a girl who was ill and had lost her job. He was sorry for her, and wanted to help her; he wrote to his father’s legal friend that circumstances had arisen in which for a short time he needed a couple of thousand francs. He got to the centime as much as the journey cost from Paris third class, and with it a letter that his father was willing to pardon him if he showed that he wanted to work sensibly at home, and so on. It was really only then that he clenched his teeth, with no blithe swagger any longer, and he said to himself: ‘I’d rather peg out with hunger.’

  The former Mr. Kettelring, sitting on the beams at Port of Spain in Trinidad, almost grew frightened. He said it aloud, as he had done then, but now he shook his head.”

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  “THE former Kettelring saw it now in an astonishingly clear light: If he had been genuinely and honestly poor, he would certainly have settled down somewhere; he had not lacked opportunities. Perhaps a book-keeper in Casa Blanca, or in Marseilles as a commercial traveller in mother-of-pearl buttons. But just realize, if you please, that I’m actually heir to thirty, forty, fifty millions, or as many as the old fellow has sucked up in the meantime; how am I to have the patience or resignation to argue with a blustering vulgar market dealer over the sale of twenty dozen buttons ? At times he was seized with the absurdity of his position, he couldn’t take it seriously, but he wasn’t up to haggling with a sweaty and eager face for a couple of francs or pesetas; suddenly it was clear in his eyes that he was only playing at it, or something—people were offended, and from time to time he himself let off steam with an escapade so provocative that nothing was left but to change his post as quickly as possible. The former Mr. Kettelring remembered it with a certain relish. I didn’t make it clear for you, you boobies, and perhaps even to-day your mugs are bitter and dry with rage when you remember that impudent bounder who treated you in this and that with so much disrespect, and then—Good-bye, please lick my shoes.

  But on meditating over it—after all it was so half-unreal, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t get rid of the feeling that in some way it was only provisory, and didn’t really happen, but only as a matter of chance, and tentatively. The only thing real was that spite which led him on through thick and thin, and especially the thin; even in the utmost misery those millions were within his reach, easy to grasp, if only he had wished to end it all. Well, he could let them tinkle in his pocket when he took a stroll in the street, an individual without domicile or employment, his eyes could smile maliciously at all people who got out of the way of a suspicious-looking tramp, if only they knew who he was! Millions in his pocket, and he wouldn’t even buy them a glass of beer. Five coppers in your pocket, and you can buy a red rose. It was in fact a perpetual occasion for jeering occupation; he mustn’t forget the wild delight with which he first began to beg; it was on the Rambla in Barcelona amidst swarms of sparrows—how that old lady, with a rosary round her hand, looked terrified at the fellow baring his teeth, ‘Por Dios misericordia, señora.’

  The former Mr. Kettelring rubbed his forehead. No, I couldn’t have borne it if it had been—real; but it was, you know, a kind of game with the unreal. As if I were trying to see how long I could stand it before I stretched out my hand, and begin to cry for help. The thrilling agony of standing on the side of the pavement and looking hungrily at the most beautiful and splendid women—only to say the word, and you would be mine, but now, of course, you won’t even look at me, you beasts. That beautiful rage, that liberating scorn of everything. Yes, of course, of what is called morals as well; for there are the virtues of the poor, and the virtues of the wealthy, but there are no morals for the lousy ones who don’t want to get rich. And they don’t let themselves become attached to one place, the rascals. Not speaking of the ties of family, and customs, it is property and being dependent that makes one settle, and a man who doesn’t mind misery, or care for money, is like a balloon without anchoring ropes, and ballasts, and he is led where God permits and the devil blows. Yes, wandering is certainly madness, it is a derangement of the property centres, something like losing one’s sense of stability. And so reel about, you fool, if you can’t help it—

  Wait, there’s something there that ought to be looked into. No, it was just mooncalf stupidity. In fact, no—well, say silliness. At the time I was something on a boat, that was in Plymouth; in the evening we used to sit on the Hoe, under the striped lighthouse, with a girl from Barbican. Such a thin, tiny English woman—she was seventeen. She held my hand, and tried to point out the good way of life to a big rotten sailor. The former Mr. Kettelring’s teeth chattered. But that was almost like … like … when Mary, Maria Dolores, held my hand, and wanted to bring me to myself! O God, there are signs in life that we don’t understand. The former sailor gazed aghast into the black water, but he saw a blue, transparent evening on the Hoe, the red and green lights of the buoys, and the distance, Christ, that nice, even distance. She held my hand, and whispered quickly, ‘Promise me, promise me, that you’ll be good—and that sometime you’ll settle here.’ She worked in some kind of a factory. To tell her about those millions within my reach, wouldn’t it have been like the Thousand and One Nights ? It had been on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it somehow in a hurry and with too much effort. She kissed him good-bye furtively and clumsily, and he said, ‘I shall come back.’

  That boat went to the West Indies, and he had never gone back.

  So, and now he was there, having arrived in good health, and that was all—No, that wasn’t all, prompts some severe and undeviating voice. Do you remember what followed—Well, what would follow; I ran away from the boat, that was there on Trinidad, just there at Port of Spain, wasn’t it?—Yes, and what next, what came after that ?

  Then I went downhill; when once a man begins to go downhill, it’s too late to stop. How far down ? Out with it—Well, I was a docker in the harbour, and a tallyman who ran about with papers in his hands—and nothing further? I was an overseer over the negroes at the asphalt lake to see that they didn’t even wipe off the sweat with the back of their hands—And there was something else, wasn’t there ? Yes, I was a waiter on Guadelope, and in Matanzas, and I served mulattos with cocktails and ice.

  And nothing worse than that ?

  The former Mr. Kettelring covered his face with his hot hands, and sighed. Let it be, there was something to say for it. It was revenge, it was revenge that they let me fall so low. To make it clear, I gloated over my abasement. You b
easts, you beasts, here you have it, stick your millions down your throats; all of you look what the only son and heir of a millionaire looks like!

  Yes, let’s look into it.

  Yes, look into it: he was being kept by a mulatto; so now you know. He loved her passionately, and touted for her among the drunken fellows, for the most perverse of them all, and he waited outside for his share.

  So that’s how it was—The former Kettelring’s head fell low on his chest. In the cafe a Yankee was sitting, and I grinned idiotically: ‘Can I, Sir, take you to a beautiful girl—beautiful—’ the American turned crimson, and sprang up, perhaps he couldn’t bear this ignominy of the white man; then he struck me in the face, on this cheek—A red spot appeared on the former Kettelring’s face—He threw on the floor a creased five-dollar note, while they pushed me into the street. I came back for those five dollars, and I crawled on the ground like a dog.

  The former Kettelring raised his horrified eyes. Will such a thing ever be forgotten?

  Perhaps in the end, try, try to forget.

  Yes, I drank like a beast, and yet I couldn’t forget; I reeled, and I didn’t know where and which way—along the path like the milky way, between the bougainvilleas in flower.

  Yes, yes, there; I heard a revolver bark, and somebody ran and knocked into me. And then, then, at last, I forgot it all.”

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  “THE former Kettelring sighed with relief. So—now it’s all out, and do what you like, you can’t make it any worse. And see here, even when I crawled on all fours like a dog I didn’t give in, it didn’t cry inside me. Enough, I’m giving up, and this is my return, begging for pardon, my homecoming. I only drank, and howled over my degradation. It was … in fact… some sort of a victory.

  And you will give in.

  Yes, now I will give in, and gladly, God, how gladly! If they wanted me to spit into my face, or crawl again on all fours, I’ll do it. I know why. It’s for her, for the Cuban’s daughter.

  Or for getting the better of old Camagueyno.

  Shut up, it’s a lie. For her sake it is. Didn’t I tell her that I should come back, didn’t I give her my word of honour ?

  Your word of honour, pimp, pimp!

  Yes, and perhaps even a pimp; if only I knew who I am. What do you want, a man is complete only when he is defeated. Then he realizes that it is unmistakable and real, that it is an undeviating reality.

  The defeat.

  Yes, the defeat. It is an immense relief to be able to give in; to put your hands on your breast, and give in—

  To what?

  To love. To love, in defeat and humiliation—a man knows then what love is. You are no longer a hero, but an insulted and battered pimp; you have crawled on the ground like a beast, and yet you will be dressed in the most beautiful garment and a ring will be put on your finger. That is the miracle. I know, I know that she is waiting for me; and now I can go to her. Christ, I am happy!

  Happy, really?

  Immensely happy, it freezes me—feel, feel how my cheeks burn.

  Only the left cheek. That’s the blow burning on it.

  No, it’s not a blow. Don’t you know that she kissed me on that cheek ? Yes, kissed, and damped it with her tears, don’t you know? Everything is redeemed—as if it had cost so little pain! But what longing I had, and the hell I went through, that terrible work—was all for her.

  And that blow?

  —Yes, and that blow was for her, too. That the miracle could take place. And I shall go to her: she will be waiting in the garden as she was then—

  —And she will put her hand in yours.

  For God’s sake, don’t mention her hand! One says hand, and already my fingers and chin tremble. How she took me then by the hand—I am thinking of her smooth fingers, stop! stop!

  Are you immensely happy?

  Yes, no, wait, it will pass. Damn these tears! How is it possible that a man can love someone so absurdly! If she were waiting for me there—there at that crane, I should be horrified. God, how far, when shall I reach her! And if I held her by the hands, by the arms—God, how far!

  Are you happy, then?

  Nonsense, don’t you see that I may go mad! When shall I see her ? First I must go home, mustn’t I ? I must bow my head and beg for pardon. I must stand for a name and a man; and then again over the sea. No, but that’s impossible. I shall not be able to endure it, it’s impossible, such a time!

  That you would go first to her, and tell her-?

  No, I can’t do that, I mustn’t, that’s not right. I told her that I shouldn’t come for her until I had a right to. I mustn’t disappoint her. I must go home, first go home, and only then—I shall knock at that gate as one who has a right to knock. Open, I am coming for her.

  The black policeman who for a long time had been watching the man talking to himself and waving his arms about, drew nearer. Eh, sir!

  The former Kettelring raised his eyes. ‘Do you understand,’ he said quickly. ‘First I must go home. I don’t know whether my father is still alive, but if he is, God knows, I will kiss his hand, and say, bless, father, bless, thy prodigal son who was glad to eat the husks thrown to the sows. I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son. And he, the old miser, will be pleased, and will say: This son of mine was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found. So it’s written, brother, in the Scriptures.’

  ‘Amen,’ said the policeman, and wanted to go away.

  ‘But wait, that means, doesn’t it, that the prodigal son will be pardoned? His profligacy will be pardoned, and his piggish hunger, and that blow will be wiped away. Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him, and put a ring on his hand.’ The former Kettelring got up, and tears were flowing from the eyes. ‘But I can only guess that my father is alive, and is waiting for me in his old age to make out of me a rich man and a miser as he was himself. You don’t know, you don’t know what the prodigal son gave up. You don’t know what he sacrificed—But no, she is waiting; I will come; Mary, I will come back, but first I must go home.’

  ‘I will take you, sir,’ said the black policeman. ‘Where are you going ?’ ‘There,’ and with his hand he pointed across the sky, to the horizon where silent lightning flashed.

  I am obsessed by the idea that he did not return by boat; travel by boat is too tedious and soothing, its tempo is not brisk enough. I went to the air companies to inquire if there is a connection by aeroplane to Trinidad. It seems that there is a regular air line from Europe to Natal, and from there to Para; but they could not tell me if there is any further connection by air from Para to Trinidad, or to any other place in the Antilles. It is possible, and I assume on no other grounds that Case X chose this quicker route. He had to choose it because in the end we have seen him fall head first, enveloped in the flames, to reach the end of his journey, like a meteor, with the most terrible speed. He had to fly with his impatient eyes fixed on the horizon; the pilot sitting motionless as if he were asleep. Oh, to give him a whack on the back of his head to wake him up and make him fly faster. And from one aeroplane into another, deafened and dulled by the roar of the engines, only conscious of one thing, of the haste. At the last aerodrome, almost within sight of home, that rattling train of speed suddenly stopped short. They could not fly, there was a storm. He raged with foam at his lips. You call this a storm ? You dogs, you mangy dogs, if you knew what the hurricanes down there are like! Alright, then a private aeroplane, whatever it costs; and once more that convulsive, mad agony of impatience, clenched fists, and teeth set into the lace handkerchief—then the end: whirling, flames, the smell of naptha, and the black lake of unconsciousness which closed thickly round him.

  Dear doctor, I should like to pay you the honour, and sketch you, your honest and broad shoulders bent over the dead body of Case X. I saw you by the bed, and yet I can’t visualize you very well. Please don’t object if once more I break away from plain reality. I shall place by his bed that hairy, not ve
ry agreeable fellow; he holds the patient by the wrist, and bends attentively his cocksure, bristly pate. The pretty nurse can rest her eyes on those blond feathers, for she is up to her ears in love with the young doctor. Ah, to run through them with my fingers, and tear, comb them through, gently like breath—The young fellow raises his head. ‘I can’t feel his pulse. Fetch the screen, sister.’ ”

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  THE surgeon finished the manuscript, and mechanically he straightened it up so that no page was out of place.

  The old specialist came to see him. “It’s a pity you didn’t come and have a look at the post-mortem. An interesting case. That man had gone through a lot—I should like you to see his heart.”

  “Big?”

  “Big. Do you know that they’ve already got some information? A telegraph from Paris. It was a private aeroplane.”

  The surgeon raised his eyes. “Well, and?”