# The Best Continental Short Stories of 1926/Golden Autumn

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GOLDEN AUTUMN
By MARIE MAJEROVA
My memory often carries me back to a picture of an ideally happy couple whom I met when on a visit to Czecho-Slovakia. They were the pastor and his wife of a little village called Zablati, which lies in a valley by a little river surrounded by distant mountains. The steeple of the little white church can be seen above the thatched roofs of the cottages, and near it is the house of the Protestant pastor and a small school, now deserted and fallen into dilapidation. The stream shines white in the sunshine as it gurgles over the clear rocks and on the bank the sails of the mill turn rhythmically and the yellow pumpkins are ripening in the sun amidst their thick green foliage. The smoke rises from the cottages standing amongst the fruit trees, where the evening meal is being prepared.
I was one of a party of four which included two women who lived in the neighborhood-Vivostchka, a poetess, and a woman politician-as well as Dacha, a baby girl of a year old. On arrival we went to see the pastor who lived in a small cottage. The two rooms looked onto the court and the old beams roofing the kitchen and cellar were dark and mellow with age. Our approach up the worn pathway of the sloping garden frightened the hens scratching in the soil and scattered them in all directions.
At our knock the pastor’s wife came to the door, hastily wiping her hands on her apron, for she had been preparing fruit for winter use. She was short and plump, very much like one of the popular Russian dolls made of blocks of carved and painted wood.
Though she had never seen or heard of us she received us hospitably; we were guests, and that sufficed. Even the rustic room had an air of welcome. However, we could see that she was embarrassed by the unexpectedness of our visit, for in a ​Czecho-Slovakian household all guests must be honored, be it only with bread and salt. We could see these thoughts in her troubled gray eyes, usually so calm and aloof from worldly things. How could she show us honor? What could she say to us? These things worried her, but nevertheless her face lost none of the dignity which a half century of life had graven upon it.
Little Dacha gurgled to herself whilst we talked casually.
“What a pity that the pastor is out.”
“Yes, he is with the old farmer amongst the birch trees.”
“And you, Madame, do you not care for walking?”
“No, not any more. You see, I’m not as young as I used to be.”
The old lady seated herself carefully upon the edge of a chair; perhaps in her youth she had been able to sink back into it, but now she was far too stout and looked like a small pear placed on the edge. Her plump cheeks ran into a double chin which rested upon her bosom, and her figure broadened out to her large hips without any visible waistline. On her gray hair she wore a fichu of black lace.
She continued to look bewildered, and her eyes roved about in an embarrassed fashion; she seemed like some little climbing plant that needed a support. We were afraid of wearying her and thought of leaving.
“Please don’t go until the pastor returns,” murmured the old lady. “You really must wait for his return. He would be so sorry to have missed you.”
She offered to show us the little church in the meantime, and, throwing a woolen shawl about her shoulders, she took a large key from the sideboard, and we all walked slowly towards the church.
It was five hundred and fifty years old. Here and there the framework was falling to pieces. Over the altar was a picture of the Good Shepherd with a young lamb upon his shoulders. In the chancel was a small organ with carvings colored by some village craftsman. A portrait of Martin Luther was to the right of the altar, and to the left was an engraving representing Master John Huss. The old sacristy had a moldy smell.
The old lady showed us a stone proving the antiquity of the ​cemetery. It was, we thought, the tombstone of one of the pastor’s predecessors, for we could see engraved on it in Latin: “Pastor of the Flocks of the Lord,” and an old, old date. We admired the church and promised our hostess to come back some day. Whilst waiting for the pastor’s return we strolled through the park of the castle.
Dacha and I listened while Vivostchka and the poetess explained to us about the Czech farmers who have become Magyarized and have renounced their own people. The lady politician gave her views which did not seem to interest Dacha very much; the question of farmers left her unmoved. And she was right—the future of the Czech people lies not with them but rather with her and children like her. I made no contribution to the conversation, and Vivostchka went on to tell us what she knew about the pastor and his wife. They had lived together in perfect harmony in the same presbytery for nearly fifty years, and the half-century had rolled by sweetened by their never-ceasing love. Having no children to think of they had never left the village where they were known as Philemon and Baucis, nor even moved from the modest presbytery where the will of God had placed them. Now they were peacefully living out the autumn of their days, their hearts warmed by the rays of love’s sun, which for them would soon disappear.
I thought of this immense flame which warmed these two souls so intensely that after all these years they still burned with the same fire; how powerful, how ardent it must have been to thus weld these two souls with such a solid link! How brilliant must have been its rays to blind their eyes to the rest of the world! How penetrating to have filled everything so that never once were their hearts empty and cold! The pastor must certainly have had other things with which to fill his life. Through the years he had guarded his flock, showing them the paths that led to God. Uplifted and animated himself by the divine fire, he had inculcated in the hearts of his spiritual children the love of country and of the language of their fathers, and to-day with a peaceful and satisfied eye he could contemplate his work amidst human souls.
But his companion, what of her? Oh, mysterious feminine soul! Had you no misgivings, when you, young and alone, iso​lated yourself in this presbytery which must have seemed enormous to you, a child of eighteen? What dreams came to you from the mountain peaks surrounding the little village? Did not a vague desire move you when, wandering through the huge rooms with empty arms, you saw the animals in the courtyard playing with their little ones? Did not sadness tighten your heart when you first felt your youth passing? Oh, mysterious feminine soul! What has life given you that you have remained so contented in your mountain home, in this prison formed by the four walls of the presbytery, held captive by the love of one man?
None of us could fathom this mystery. Perhaps when Dacha grows up she will understand.
We returned to the presbytery to find the pastor awaiting us at the door. What a surprise it was! The expression on his face was the same as that which we had noticed on his wife’s. Their figures were just the same shape except that he was on a larger scale, and they had the same troubled gray eyes.
He led us into the parlor as if we had been old friends, and about the room hung a mingled odor of coffee and smoke. He had just returned from his walk-he loved the birch trees in autumn! He asked us if we liked Czecho-Slovakia and kissed Dacha’s little hand and insisted on our sitting on the sofa because that is the seat of honor.
Conversation began and after a few introductory remarks we found ourselves engaged in more intimate talk. I looked at the pastor’s wife. Instead of the embarrassed and hesitating woman of a few minutes ago she was another creature, full of animation. At last she had found some one to lean on! She placed a little bowl before the pastor and others upon the tray and cut slices of cake.
“Would you like some milk, darling?”
“If you wish me to, dear heart,” said the pastor, caressing his wife’s hand.
Conversation continued. The soft Slovakian tongue seemed like music to us. Moved, I watched the elderly couple, who seemed like two lovers. It was not fifty years but five days that they had been married. The pastor turned towards his wife and ​the little old lady, busily engaged, smiled at him tenderly from time to time.
When later we left, accompanied as far as the road by our hosts, the pastor wrapped a shawl round his wife’s shoulders, murmuring gently, “Kata darling!”
While Vivostchka was admiring the birch trees and perhaps thinking of Tourgueneff; a verse of Pouchkine’s suddenly came into my mind:
“Où, dans quel lieu abandonné Oublieras-tu, mon pauvre fou? Les petits pieds, où êtes-vous? Où voulez-vous la fleur de Mai?”
As Philemon and Baucis stood waving to us at the crossroads we four modern women felt something of the bitterness of life. There was a woman who had solved its enigma. Despite all our questions we had forgotten to ask her the most important of all! But would she have known how to explain by what sun-lit pathway she had reached this glowing autumn?
In after years, whoever finds the tombstone of the pastor of Zablati will discover there two united hearts, even though they be not engraved by human hands.
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