# Our Grandfather (1887)/Chapter 3

CHAPTER III.
About a week after this they had just sat down to supper at grandfather’s, when a certain man entered having first knocked at the door. Uncle John was not at table.
A knocking at the door is almost an event at a farm house, all the more so at grandfather’s, because the village lay far from any high road. Thus it occasioned no little surprise if ever a stranger stopped there to ask his way.
The neighbours here still lived almost in a state of nature. The slight stock of reading which they had learnt at school, would have been long ago forgotten had not the prayer books which they took with them to church on Sunday, been printed in plain black letters.
As for writing they remembered just so much that most of them could subscribe their names, he who could not manage it did not trouble his head about it, for three crosses set all right. Without these, indeed, they scarcely ever subscribed their names.
The learning which they called ready reading and running hand they considered to be the privileged possession of the nobility, while it was their business to look after tilth and pastorage.
A book never strayed into this village, and if one had wandered out of the road hither, it would have been like a deserted orphan. No one would have received it into his ​house, nor even given it a night’s lodging. The parents only bought those A B C’s, first and second part, which they called reading books. To give money for any other sort of book would have been to squander money godlessly. Even at grandfather’s the calendar formed the whole library; grandmother always put a large pair of spectacles on her nose to read it in winter, and its dog-eared leaves always sufficed just so far that it held out till St. Vaclav’s day (28th September) when it was changed for a new one.
Now, however, things are somewhat changed there, but not much.
It was fortunate for them that they possessed a good soil, for that was what specially affected them. At that time it had never occurred to any of them to improve their land; if it did not deteriorate, still it did not get better.
The furniture which ancestors had used came without change to their descendants, who in turn left it unchanged.
Even when a more enlightened age opened for our people they did not pay much attention to it here; it did not speak to them. This is the more curious, because in the surrounding parishes their neighbours comprehend everything that bears the name of progress, and in this respect stand in the van of all our peasantry.
It is plain enough, indeed, that not only the sea hath its islands: even human progress hath them, and only here and there where the sea is tossed by storms and wind, fall on these islands some benign drops, but only as it would seem by accident.
Then, as I was saying, a knocking at the door was here in reality an event, and grandmother started so that she trembled down to the hand in which she held her spoon.
​The man who entered the room saluted very obsequiously and was nothing but bows. Grandmother took against him immediately, at first sight, and specially repugnant to her was his cynical piercing eye. But he impressed grandfather favourably.
Grandfather was a strange man. Come to him and lay your grievance before him frankly and openly that obtained much; but let a man come obsequiously, fawn upon him, and praise him to the skies, and he obtained everything.
Grandmother must immediately lay yet another cover, and the new comer must sit down to table, which he did with many ceremonious excuses to the effect that he had once before been to our house.
All this pleased grandfather but it disgusted grandmother.
Grandfather asked who he was, whence he came, and the like. But Novak (for such was his name) so managed even in this that after many ceremonious phrases from their questions and his answers, they should learn little about him except his name.
A kind of secret horror came over grandmother as if this man had come to them as an enemy to the house, and she shuddered at every word he spoke as if it was measured out for their ruin.
After supper he began at last, and then grandmother at once recognised his colours.
“I’m told you have an unmarried son,” quoth he inquiringly.
“We have, we have,” answered grandfather, gasping for further questions.
​“Is he going to marry?”
“And who ever thought about that yet,” broke in grandmother, not being able to restrain herself.
“And who has thought about it if not we,” said grandfather, taking her up as if he wished to rectify what she had spoiled.
Grandmother said no more, and went out of the house, and there outside she told Uncle John who had come, and what was the matter.
What further conversation Novak had with grandfather is of no consequence, but so much as this is certain, that when he departed grandfather shook hands with him, as if he was his best friend, and promised himself the pleasure of more frequent intercourse.
When Novak inquired for grandmother she shut herself in the kitchen and would not even see him.
Uncle John did not trouble him to wait. The candle still burnt on the table, and grandmother was still stewing something at the hearth.
Grandfather told grandmother that he should like her to leave them alone, and that she should soon hear all about it. But he said this with an air of affability and grandmother obeyed at once.
In this affability of his there lay something very engaging so that in that moment grandfather was again like himself, and what he formerly used to be.
Uncle John was struck by it.
And he began like a diplomatist.
First about the work that had been done that day, then about what was to be done to-morrow, until he approached to the very threshold of what he had in mind.
​“You see, John dear,” he said, “when you reflect upon your life it has always been something sacred to me. Thou wert yet a little child when we two grey-headed folk wept over thee for joy to see what a merry little thing thou wert; so ready, too, to take hold of anything good. And thou wast worthy of the pride we felt in thee. Thou didst prosper in everything and wert everywhere well spoken of. I well believed that I was sowing good seed in thy heart. If it was not all good, forgive me, my will was good, and if all did not turn out as I expected, who is to blame for that? We always sow in hope that the harvest will succeed, but also it does not always depend upon ourselves. Sometimes the sky grows overcast, and when I ponder everything from thy young days it does not yet come into my head that thou deliberately desirest my affliction. Tears of joy and tears of affliction are two quite different things, and a father is hardly reconciled to weep in affliction over his son. What I have instilled into thee, impart again to thy children, but recollect that it is very sickening to be no longer obeyed by a son, on whom one has lavished every attention, and, indeed, I should not wish that thou shouldst ever experience it in thy children.”
Grandfather stood there almost meek and gentle. Even Uncle John felt that much, very much, of what had so long separated him from grandfather’s heart fell from him all at once. Those remembrances of early life, of that family union and that peace which had never been disturbed, awakened in him an eager longing to win back that peace which had been banished from their home as if by enchantment.
A man has moments when he slackens in his opposition. The harsher characteristics of those against whom we ​struggle disappear, and there emerge in place of them better sides to which we had been blind for many a long day. This relaxation of mind is, in fact, a pause, and in moments of repose a man makes plans. If in such moments he should all at once stand hand in hand with his opponent, perhaps he would then and there give his hand in reconciliation.
As I say these moments are moments of rest and reconciliation. Sometimes, however, opposition slackens in them only that it may afterwards exhibit itself with new force, and develop to a truly amazing degree.
Uncle John did now slacken in his opposition. Sometimes a child takes a weapon out of our hands which we would not have surrendered before for all the world.
Grandfather disarmed Uncle John by his moderation; he was meek and gentle as a child.
“Do you really think you cannot give up Betuska?” inquired grandfather, after a pause, during which he narrowly observed his son.
Grandfather’s voice almost quavered.
“Oh, father, have you called me to you only to demand this?” answered Uncle John, almost with anguish.
“Come, I did not wish to hurt your feelings, and you see that we separate in good part.”
Uncle John listened submissively.
“You think that Betuska really loves you.”
“As surely as I believe in God,” answered uncle.
“See, now, I do not wish to dissipate this belief. If you think you are acting rightly settle it with your own conscience. Only one thing I implore of you. If you are to undertake the farm you will require a wife who is a good ​manager. For my part I do not wish to detract from Betuska, or suggest that she could not undertake our household. But yet there can be no harm in looking elsewhere also, in order that you may compare. In looking elsewhere, you by no means fetter yourself, and if you are convinced then at all events you act from conviction.”
Uncle John saw what grandfather was aiming at.
“The Horakoffs, of Brizoff, begged us to send you to see them. I hear their daughter is pretty, and with expectations; if you do not like her you need not take her.”
“O, father, by everything in the world I implore do not tempt me so cruelly,” cried Uncle John with clasped hands.
“Nay, nay, I do not intend anything so bad as you seem to think. But about this one girl I pray you to listen to me, in order that I may see whether my grey hairs have yet any respect paid to them by you. Go then to see her. I leave your will entirely free. I do not the least fetter you; but only about this one thing, I pray you. If you are not suited there you may then do as you like. And if you still wish it you may then take—even Betuska.”
This last word grandfather scarcely pronounced at all—his voice was as it were broken.
But Uncle John did not oppose his will. It appeared to him that this road was open to him in order that by it he might win Betuska. A moment before he had not the least idea that he was so near the realization of what was the single wish of his soul.
Uncle John kissed grandfather’s hand, and grandfather felt that on it fell a tear. “I shall go there,” he said, and went out of the room.
​In appearance all was now again at peace at grandfather’s, and reconciliation, as it were, now drew them all to one another.
When Novak departed from grandfather’s he betook himself by a direct road to Kubista’s. I do not know whether he did this by an impulse of his own, or whether grandfather had given him some hint. But this is certain that Novak was so crafty that he managed to extort everything from grandfather which might have endangered the success of his conspiracy.
Such people do everything for the sake of gain, and from the like motives pervert young people to passion, worse than in the olden times they perverted the barbarians to faith.
At Kubista’s Novak again introduced himself as before with humble bows, flattery, and subtle speeches, and his eyes flashed from side to side like the sting of a wasp.
There is no need of the horse’s hoof, and of horns on the forehead for a man to think, speak, and act, like a very devil.
Novak did not inquire for the daughter, for he at once recognised Betuska, when her mother signed to her to put bread and butter on the table.
“Thank you, kindly, I will not eat; in fact, I have just risen from table.” And here he mentioned the name of grandfather, and said he had dined with him.
He was not at fault in mentioning grandfather’s name. By so doing he so far constrained Betuska at least to his purpose that she wished to listen to him. Passion is not particular about the messenger, but is very observant of the message.
​Then Novak began jestingly to speak about betrothals, and weddings, and what a grand wedding had but lately been arranged by him, and how people thanked him where ever he went, and said he was like a father to young people; and indeed they almost everywhere called him father; and he ran on in the like strain about good deeds of his own that would have been sufficient to make a man glorious to the third generation.
“Oh! ho! little daughter,” he said, as if it slipped his tongue, and blinked at Betuska’s mother in a particular way which is vulgarly called “tipping the wink.”
Her mother smiled slightly, and Kubista said “Come, Betuska, what do you say to that.” But he said it in a jesting tone of voice, and not as though he had anything in his mind.
“I have a husband on hand,” said Novak, and thereupon he snapped the fingers of his right hand, “of regular habits, comme il faut, spruce as a cedar, and with plenty of these.”
And he slapped the pocket in which his money jingled.
“Perhaps I might bring him to you next Sunday,” said Novak aiming straight to his purpose.
Betuska, seeing that he really meant something stayed in the room, and with imploring eyes looked at her father and mother.
“Come, come, you know,” said Kubista, “that might have been; but then you know, that cannot be, for there is a certain hitch in the affair.”
Could anything in the world have surprised Novak?
Novak put on an expression of countenance just as if he wished to say that he thought as much all along, but his ​eyes darkened with a peculiar venom, and around his mouth just such a sneer formed itself as though he wished to say frankly, “How I pity you for trusting him.”
And out loud he said—
“Perhaps some family friend, eh?”
“Possibly something of the kind,” answered Kubista.
“Hm!” sneered Novak. “There is a hitch in this affair also.”
All thought that Novak alluded to the well-known relation of old Kubista to grandfather, and paid no further attention to what he had said.
But Novak perceiving that they failed to catch his real drift, put on a fresh grimace, as though he had hit upon just the right trump.
“For John is making friends somewhere else.”
“That is a lie!” cried out Betuska, enraged at the light manner in which he spoke of Uncle John, and her face flushed scarlet.
“Lie, or no lie,” continued Novak, “I cannot know everything; still less, for that matter, can a young school girl. But next Sunday John is off to Brizoff on a visit to the Horakoff’s.”
“You lie in your throat,” cried out Betuska again, and trembled all over. The storm of passion which then for the first time came in a kind of paroxysm, did not allow her time to find any other defensive weapon. But at the same time her countenance reflected all the indignation she felt at the lightly spoken words of Novak.
Betuska went to her mother, laid her head on her mother’s shoulder, and gave way to a bitter fit of weeping.
Sobbing she reproached her parents for suffering any one to speak—any godless miscreant.
​Kubista loved his daughter above measure. He did not permit Novak to say any more in that daughter’s presence, but at the same time, for the sake of her mother, he wished to test whether the matter had any substantial foundation. He took Novak by the hand, went out with him into the parlour, and then cross-questioned him at considerable length.
The end of the interview was this, that Kubista told Novak not to come to his house again, and as to the visit of that youth to which Novak had pledged himself—that nothing more must be said about it.
Novak excused himself with many fresh bows and obsequious speeches, without retracting a word of what he had said. He begged them to forgive him for having come. “My intention,” says he, “never was to disturb your domestic tranquillity—indeed, I assure you I came with the purest intentions.” And when he had said everything that he meant to say he departed.
But now they had to comfort Betuska. She reproached her parents for confiding their anxiety about her to any one, though it broke her heart, and for having more regard to strangers than to their own daughter. The poor girl was only quieted when her parents assured her that they did not believe anything that Novak had said in their house.
Betuska met Uncle John about two days after this, in the evening, at the fatal boundary stone of grandfather’s and Kubista’s fields.
Uncle John noticed at once that she had been crying, and asked her the reason of it.
Instead of answering Betuska burst out into a fresh fit of crying, and tears, hot as the anguish in her heart ​trickled over her poor face, testifying to the measureless disquietude of her soul.
The more Uncle John questioned her the more she sobbed. He refrained from further attempts, and kissed her face with so much warmth that her tears fell afresh over it.
When this struggle had somewhat subsided in her she began to bewail the misfortune of their parents’ mutual estrangement. She augured nothing good from this, and for some time she could not rid herself of a certain presentiment which foreboded misfortune. Even a stranger began uninvited to meddle with their affairs, and who could say but his sole business was to separate them.
Uncle John consoled her. He succeeded after this natural explosion of a sensitive soul, for Betuska was so shy that she did not dare to mention a single word about Novak’s visit and what she had heard from him. She was in her heart of hearts convinced that it was all a scandalous lie, and only trumped up by gossips in order to separate them. And yet this conviction paved the way to fresh tears, just because it failed to find words to express itself.
Uncle John encouraged her to be patient. Nothing he said could occur even the least to dissipate their mutual trust and confidence. Next, as to the relation in which their angry parents stood to one another he thought they might soon hope to see an end of it. For grandfather—his father—had just begun to show himself much more amenable to reason, much more conciliatory, than he had ever done before. Let interlopers say what they liked, for himself he meant to show them by deeds what he ​thought of their speeches, and by that means, certainly, check all unbridled gossip.
Twilight had already gathered, and the scent of mown clover and meadow land was wafted over the fields, while birds winged their way to a neighbouring coppice, there to spend the evening and the night according to their wont.
Betuska seemed to be already quite easy in her mind.
Only as it were involuntary she hinted that she was looking forward to next Sunday, and glanced up at uncle’s eyes to see what he thought of it. But Uncle John seemed as if he had not paid much attention: at first he was slightly abstracted, then he smiled and kissed Betuska.
And Betuska was soon as she had been before; she even jested a little,—aye, even hinted that next Sunday she should put on a new dress, which she hoped uncle would like, and think suited her.
After that Uncle John hinted, only as it were involuntarily, that on Sunday he would not be at home.
A pang went to Betuska’s heart, but she made as though it were a laughing matter to her.
“Certainly I cannot guess where you are going,” she said, half jestingly.
“And perhaps I don’t mean to tell you,” said Uncle John, and pressed her hand more warmly than before.
“I will guess in what direction you are going,” and she guessed, pointing with her hand in different directions, until at last she pointed as if by accident in the direction of the place where uncle was to go on Sunday.
“Come, come, I will tell you no more,” said uncle, and kissed her mouth to prevent hearing any further questions.
​But Betuska now apparently meant to have her own way. She said she could never bear to await Sunday for she would not dare to be looking in the direction of the place whither uncle had to go.
Uncle John now slightly hesitated, for he was afraid of occasioning her superfluous anxiety. He already consoled himself in fancy by picturing how on his return he would communicate his message to her, and tell her how he meant very soon to take her home with him to his own farm, with the words, “You see, in this farm, you are mistress, and my wife. I am merely going for a walk to Brizoff,” he said, and as if to make up for his reticence, he added, “I must do it to please my father.”
Betuska had heard enough: more she did not wish to know. All the blood in her body crowded to her heart, and in that heart resounded something like the tolling of a funeral bell. But she never let it appear. And this was the fault, just as though she thought that Uncle John had not been perfectly sincere with her. She smiled, but her lips trembled. She would perhaps have soonest burst out crying, but already tears refused to flow. But she concealed it all in the presence of Uncle John. While he conducted her home she jested, and when he gave her a kiss at parting she returned it as warmly as if she wished to empty all her store of affection, and had no more cause to think of a future day.
Just as they separated she said almost jestingly that she wished him success at Brizoff.
Sunday came and Uncle John set off to go to Brizoff just at the same time when people were setting out for church. Thus among others he met Betuska, who was ​dressed in her new white dress, but even her face was dressed in a new dress: it was paler than ever before. Betuska long held Uncle John by the hand, and begged him in a voice almost painful to hear, to forgive her if she had ever wronged him in anything, “For,” she said, “I am going to church to-day, and would gladly be reconciled with all.”
These words struck Uncle John to the heart, but he felt himself happy beyond measure.
Then she said that she would wait for him in the evening so he must return pretty early. And when they had bade one another adieu, Betuska looked long after him, until he vanished behind the nearest hillock.
The whole afternoon she waited at a spot on the road to Brizoff. Already early the shades of evening settled over the fish pond, while she waited for uncle. The stars came out and the moon rose, and uncle yet came not. Betuska knelt on the bank, looked up to a firmanent full of light and beauty, looked down to the waters in which all that beauty and all that light were reflected; she yearned for that beauty and prayed for her lover.
Her parents already missed her from home, and went to seek her. They found her, but Betuska belonged no more either to them or to herself. The waves on the margin of the pool frolicked with her dress, raven locks emerged for a moment above the glimmering water, her white hands were clasped in prayer, the beautiful mouth breathed no more.