IV
“YOU see, you see, dear child, what the fashions can do? How it fits you! What a tailor that is! However, it is your figure that really does it!”
Up to noon a golden light fell into the room. Everything looked neat and trim, as in a show-case. The glass and the frames of the pictures, the surface of the spinet, and the armchairs, shone with a pale gleam. Lucy was standing before the looking-glass, buttoning her new gown. The grey cloth and the English cut were beautifully becoming to her slender body. Her eyes were beaming (there is not a woman, reader, who could pass that moment with frosty calm!). The aunt shook her head, as she walked all around her and commented:
“Where are our old fashions! Where are those times! Vhere are those customs! I alone am left . . . and the scythe-bearer has forgotten me! . . .”
“Enough, Aunty, not another word,—you should be ashamed to talk that way!” Lucy threatened her.
“Well, may you wear the dress out in health,” the old lady laughed merrily, and from an old habit tapped Lucy’s ear.
In those few days she had found a new life through Lucy. Her soul was like one of those winding plants that grow only when they can climb up something stronger, a tree, a bush, or even a withe. They gently enfold it with their vines, leaves and flowers, running together with it into one inseparable life. A blow that is aimed at one, also reaches the other; with the death of the one, ends also the life of the other.
Even thus Lucy had attracted to herself that weak soul; she held the authority of a mother over the old lady. In the morning she combed her grey hair, put on her cap, and had to tell her what should be prepared for dinner. Every moment the sunt asked: “What do you say, Lucy?”
Lucy lived her new life with a vim. In that atmosphere she breathed freely and softly. If at times she thought of the olden days, she felt as though she had a horrible dream from a long bygone past. Indeed, it was hard to identify her with that “Lucy” of the ill-famed house.
There was one thing which annoyed her: Jiří. She saw him but rarely, a moment in the morning, at dinner, and sometimes in the evening. She never felt at ease in his presence. The more she knew him, the more she saw his emptiness. She disliked his wit, which he ostensibly employed to sparkle with; in his remarks there was a breath of that perfume which she had scented in her former impure life. She was always in a rage over the inconsiderate tones in which he addressed his aunt. She would gladly have thrown herself upon him, would have struck him with a clenched fist, would have choked him like a cat. . . .
Both were again sitting at their work. The old servant entered the room to announce the janitor, her basilisk eyes all the time measuring Lucy, who was bending over her sewing. The man stepped after her into the room, holding his cap under his arm. He hemmed, and his grey eyes rested upon Lucy,—a dumb terror made them bulge out, but only for a moment. Like a messenger of great things, he assumed a solemn pose:
“Madam, three times to-day a certain person has asked for our young gentleman. I got rid of him: ‘He is not at home.’—‘When will he be back?’—Said I: ‘I do not know.’ Then he kept asking for a young lady. I think he meant that one there . . . that young lady there. Madam, it is a dreadful thing I have come to see you about. It is a disgrace, a deception, a frightful sin that the young gentleman has perpetrated against you, madam! A fine guest he has brought into our honorable house! I know everything!”
The old lady grew suddenly pale: “Enough, enough! Not another word!”
But the janitor proceeded: “She is a fallen woman!”
“Out of here! And not another word!”
“I am only thinking of your honor. . . .”
“Out of here!” and trembling with rage, as he had never seen her before, the old lady fell to the ground.
“It makes no difference to me,” the guardian of the house mumbled angrily at the door. The wizened old servant hurriedly followed after him.
“Those servants,” stormed the old lady. . . . “But, Lucy,” she turned with a gentle voice to Lucy, from whose eyes large tears were trickling, “please don’t. I will have a talk with him. At heart he is a good man. You see for yourself, he means to protect me. He does not know the situation.” And she kissed her, and smoothed the hair over her temples.
“Yes, this way,” was heard the janitor’s voice behind the door. Some one entered. . . . Lucy’s blood curdled in her veins,—her father! . . . He looked around,—joy sparkled in his dim eyes,—they rested upon Lucy. Then he bowed to the aunt:
“Pardon me, lady. A sacred right brings me here, a father’s right to his daughter!” and he pointed theatrically at Lucy. “Yes, my child. . . .”
Just then the door slammed behind him, and Jiří, with burning face, flew into the room. The two women breathed sighs of relief.
“You wished?” Jiří asked him with a trembling voice, as he recognized him.
“I am the father of this girl, and you, sir, are that bold man who have dared to snatch her out of my care. . . .”
“Care?” Jiří cried in rage.
“Care,” said the drunken man in a persuasive bass. “We have different views of life, sir. What is honor? But an empty name. But to business. I was once a teacher, yes, sir, a teacher,—you are surprised? But to-day. . . . Fate can easily cast down a man. I will not, however, allow any one to trample upon my rights. . . . My daughter belongs to me. I have the points of law all at hand. . . .”
“Enough of this,” Jiří interrupted him with a sudden calm, smiling scornfully. He drew out his pocketbook, and pressed something into the hand of the drunkard.
Being disarmed, and at the same time tamed, he grasped Jiří’s hand.
“Sir, you are an honorable man, you are in sympathy with us,” his deep bass trembled with unexpected gratefulness, “I entrust my daughter to you. She is my happiness,—the Antigone of my misery. You, sir, will come to value her . . . Lucy, make a note of my good fatherly advice: esteem your benefactors! . . . Permit me,” this to Jiří, “to call from time to time,” and, inclining his head to him, he added, with a sly whisper: “My daughter may rebel, but the paternal authority will keep her within bounds.”
Jiří opened the door for him. The good father shook his hands, bade the old lady good-bye, and, threatening Lucy with his finger, went away.
Quiet, an oppressive quiet, took possession of the room. Jiří stepped to the window, and drummed the quick measure of a march upon the pane. He suddenly turned to his aunt, who was looking sorrowfully at Lucy:
“We will go into the country to-day.”
“To-day?”
“We will start right after dinner. Get everything ready. I have already ordered a coach.”
He had, indeed, ordered it. He had flown like an arrow out of the coffeehouse. A real hell was seething within him. They had been conversing. Some one remarked that Lucy had disappeared. Laughter. Questions rained down on Jiří. Just then a better sentiment took possession of him, just as if the glance of those blue eyes were resting upon him, and the maiden seemed to him purer, higher, better than all the company around him. He told them the truth. He spoke with fervor and conviction, from the depth of his soul. There was a burst of Homeric laughter. Sly Jiří! What a mantle! How cunningly he had done it all! He had taken her under his roof, had given her at home his simpleminded old aunt for a Cerberus, to whom he ranted of the penitent Magdalen with her untainted soul, in order to revel secretly in her beautiful, youthful body! What a sly fellow! What a sly fellow!
Jiří gave his word of honor that he spoke the truth. He was answered with renewed laughter. His blood boiled: he called them rascally good-for-nothings, fools, and people without honor. He would forever turn his back upon their society. And he went home. On his way he hired a coach. He seized upon a journey into the country as a saving anchor. . . .
Pale, and breathing heavily, Lucy rose from ber seat. Whole sentences were on her lips, but she only said: “Do not go. I shall go myself!” She fell back into the chair with the whole weight of her body. She did not weep, nor speak. Her eyes were fixed somewhere in space, as if she wished to reach something that was escaping her. The old lady went up to her. Jiří spoke more sternly: “Nonsense! We will go!”
Reader, how futile are our intentions! I had planned to sketch with epic calm a few pictures from the life of common, every-day people,—and behold, I must confess that my hand is trembling, my eyes are somehow moist, and the darkness of vain, barren anxiety is upon my soul. Against all serious rules I push myself forward in place of my puny heroes.
A recollection. . . . Reader, suddenly a picture of my distant home rises in my soul. Under my window are the noises of Vienna, the steps and the conversations of the passers-by, and the din of the tinkling tramway,—but I see a road, far, far away. It leads out of Prague. A broad swath of dust winds through a sea of green fields, cuts through a few small villages, now goes down, now again rises. Here it turns, there it goes straight, like an endless strip of cloth, and it runs and runs, until at last it appears in the horizon as a narrow, grey ribbon. . . . The telegraph posts hum their monotonous song. . . . The rattle of the wagons that pass over it in slow, measured steps resounds afar. . . .
I see a little boy hurrying over it . . . happy little man! He is hurrying home for his vacation. Behind him lies the dreary series of days, before him, eight weeks of bliss, and the boy weeps with joy as he sees the sparkling spires on the church towers he knows so well . . . I know that face . . . I see by its faint resemblance that it is myself sixteen years ago. . . .
No, reader, I will not write here an elegy on my bygone youth,—it was only a sigh, and enough of it. Here, in this abominable place one has, indeed, nothing but sighs and recollections.
The coach passed Vysočany. It slowly ascended a serpentine road. The two ladies protected themselves with parasols against the burning rays of the sun. Jiří was sitting opposite them, his hat pulled down over his brow, and leisurely smoking a cigarette. Lucy had just taken off the heavy veil from her face, and her blue eyes looked timidly around her.
The coach was still climbing the hill, Towards the left towered, like a phantom in some weird story, grey Prague, shrouded in thick smoke. At the right lay the open plain. Burning through the pure air, the gleaming light of the sun trembled upon it like fleeting gold. All the colors were fresh as if the country had been newly washed.
Parallelograms of many hues ran, narrowing down, to the very edge of the horizon. The railroad track, roads with diminutive rows of trees, brown hills, villages that seemed to be drowning in the verdure of gardens, farther away dark-blue forests, and still farther, blue summits, lightly breathed upon the background,—a mere airy curtain,—an idyllic panorama, over which white cloudlets softly swam in the azure vault of heaven. Invisible sky-larks sent their gladsome shouts into the clear heights. On both sides of the road sounded the drummings of hosts of insects. The voices of men, the neighing of horses, the sharp click of whips now and then reached them from afar. The air was intensely redolent with intoxicating freshness. . . .
Lucy was looking fixedly into the distance,—her eye did not take in the details, but her soul imbibed its full import, and felt the whole summer day within itself. Under its influence her spirit bent in indolence, but she felt blissful,—it was the feeling of an animal that after a cheerless, cold winter is warmed by the hot swn. She did not recall what had lately happened, nor thought what would come in the future,—but, compressing her long eyelashes, she kept on looking and looking. . . .
Reader, only a woman knows how to live a real life! For her there is no past; only at times there flashes an old picture through her spirit, while feeling is wisely silent. For her, too, there exists no “to-morrow,” except when it is to bring her a happy moment. A woman knows how to be happy. To us, happiness is a flighty dream, a flash of light. Her delicate nerves seize the flighty dream, the gleam of light, and gourmandize on every atom of it. A yielding and soft soul lives on that dream and light, like a flower whose leaves turn their whole surface towards the rays of the sun. If it is uprooted and transplanted, it at once sends its roots into the new soil, and with its leaves drinks the sun, the sun. . . .
The coach reached the summit of the hill. All around lay the expanse of a level country. At both sides of the road stood the grain in greyish-green waves. There the rape seemed to shine with its ducat hue. In the straight-drawn rows of beets and potatoes stood laboring people; they shaded their eyes with their hands, conversed with each other, and looked into the road.
The horses began to trot. An endless avenue of chestnuts, full of pyramidal blossoms, lay before thern, as if opened for their reception. A pleasant, greenish shade fell into the carriage. The old lady looked at the country through a black lorgnette. The shade refreshed her. She saw Říp, and Ještěd, and Milešovka, familiar villages about her, and familiar roads, and she pointed them all out to Lucy. Thus they travelled on, the sunshine now and then beaming on their faces.
Lucy began to talk: she spoke of her childhood, and of the country, where she had lived,—happy recollections bubbled up unbidden in her soul.
Jiří was silent. Only, from time to time, he complained of the heat, the gnats, and the small flies. He took off his hat, wiped his forehead, yawned, and continued smoking. His soul was like a house from which people had just moved: no object, no picture, no voices, no motion,—only a wearisome calm. . . .
They travelled on. A village. Again the road. Again a village. A small pond. A mill nearby. Off the road grew some small trees, cherry and plum trees. They travelled on.
Suddenly the old lady pressed Lucy’s hand. Two rude towers, whose gilded cupolas sparkled like two stars, appeared on the horizon.
“We are at home now,” she whispered.
There came a flash like lightning in Jiří’s eye, then he yawned again until the tears came to his eyes.
The horses began to trot faster, without being urged on by words or whip strokes, as if they felt the goal of their journey to be near.