# Our Grandfather (1887)/Chapter 2

CHAPTER II.
Betuska, daughter of Kubista, fed poultry. First came the cock and chose himself a few nice morsels, but the best he gave to one hen who was before all dear to him. The other hens clucked and said that she was his wife. But for all that the others were not idle either. They jumped on to Betuska’s hand, her shoulder, and into her lap, and complained to her as their good friend that the cock cheated them of their due by paying attention to only one of them, while after all it was they who laid all the eggs for the egg basket. Betuska was their judge; she cursed the cock for a reprobate and permitted the hens to take their corn out of her lap.
But these chickens were like children: order them with an affable countenance, and something for dainties and they do not desert you. Provided it kept coming they would most willingly have got all their food by themselves. Betuska called them to her with empty maws, and sent them away well primed. They hopped away clucking, sidled up to the cock, and kept on gabbling that they were not at all inferior to the cock’s wife. They knew thus much about her, and even hinted at her infidelity, until the cock himself ceased to peck, his comb swelled, and he measured them with a look such as a choir master gives to naughty choir boys.
​But, indeed, they were not long left to themselves. There flew down to them even the aristocratic birds who dwelt one story higher—there flew down to them the pigeons. Where there was something for the gullet the pigeons forgot about their exalted origin. Only one, a pouter, thereupon cooed something about ancestors, and how many of them used to wear stars. He himself, he said, was formed of better flesh, and better leaven than chickens and pullets, and only so far humbled himself as to eat with them, because he wished to show them honour. “Let ’em move out of his road,” said he, “that he might sit down in the first place and show ’em who he was.” And he took their chickens’ food out of their very beaks, like a regular brigand, as Betuska had nicknamed him. And even then he was not satisfied, but disputed until the chickens allowed him some scrap or another which he then ordered to be carried away to the pigeon cote.
This was about the year 1848: the chickens had not even then a notion of equal rights. They gave where they had anything to give, they always retreated out of the pigeons’ way, and the pigeons took where there was anything to take. Now, however, things are already different.
But the pouter pigeon fared ill with his boastings. Wherever the pigeons betook themselves thither the democratic sparrows betook themselves, and showed up the wisdom of the pigeon cote without mercy. One sparrow in particular, who to all appearance might have been an editor, smirked at the first nobility until they ran after him. But this did not distract him from his purpose. He described how they, the sparrows, all dwelt in perfect equality, ​whereas the pigeons settled by themselves, in order that they might look with scorn on other birds. “But a time must come,” said he, “when they will have to look out for another nest” and the like—briefly he smoked them.
The other sparrows pecked and laughed in full chorus, until they toppled over with their wings flapping against their sides.
But this clique, which wished to live at the expense of others, did not end here. Hither came also the proletarian hog, which routs in the earth and wallows in filth. At one side sneaked and lurked the cat, on the look out to see whether she could not arrest one of those impudent sparrows. Then came the geese and paraded like ladies in long dresses, and after them the little golden goslings, fresh and lively, but the geese so took them in hand with drill and schooling, that they turned out nothing but geese after all. Out of their holes the rabbits crept, and licked their lips and showed their teeth, but hearing the sparrows gasconnade, they got frightened and crept back again into their holes. Even the poetical butterfly also hovered here. But, of course, no one gave him a thought, for who could eat a butterfly?
Like a true sage, dog Danube behaved himself. Не constantly had for his aim an objective standpoint, frisked and sported in the sun like a Diogenes, and stretched himself idly like a very Sultan; but he had the intellect of a doctor of letters, only that he kept it all to himself.
And above it all shone the old sun, and the heaven smiled like the face of Betuska.
Betuska spent many a happy hour with her poultry, and, as it were, they completely understood each other.
She understood housewifery too, excellently, but the ​poultry seemed to grow dear to her very heart. So whenever she came to the farm-yard all hurried after her as if in procession. The sparrows gave notice on the eaves that Betuska was coming, and from time to time a cackling hen would exhort the rest to renewed efforts that they might at least approach their mistress.
The men might improve their master’s fields and meadows as they liked; to that Betuska did not oppose a single word; but also it never occurred to anyone’s mind to meddle with Betuska’s occupation. And the poultry would have stared with astonishment had any one dared to say that Betuska did not take good care of them, or if at any time he had wished to effect some reform in the farm-yard.
Betuska had known Uncle John ever since the time when they first went to school. Even then the one tried to please the other as it might. If one child learnt its lessons well at school, it chiefly congratulated itself, because the other knew about it, and if Betuska was “mentioned” for good, Uncle John also tried his best to be mentioned that day also. If after school the boys played in a different place from the girls, Uncle John purposely let his ball roll to where the girls were playing, and he might be sure that Betuska would separate herself from her companions in order to give the ball into his hand. Thereupon she looked down, he pressed her hand, and the boys went on playing. Also Uncle John learnt to catch the ball like any other boy. He knew very well that not only the boys were looking at him, but that there were also two blue eyes watching, which sparkled with delight to see that he was the most skilful of the players. Even then the lads nick​named him Kubista’s boy. But Uncle John did not at all mind this; rather it encouraged him to say to them, “When I am not Kubista’s boy, then laugh at me.”
Betuska was about three years younger than Uncle John, consequently in her ninth year when he ceased to go to school. Bitterly indeed they missed each other at first, for they were like children who had grown accustomed to one another. And Uncle John when a-field often looked towards the school, and if Betuska was ever distracted in school time, it was only when her thoughts fled to the field.
But even then they saw one another sufficiently often though they belonged to different villages. These villages were only about a ten minutes walk apart from one another, and grandfather’s fields just bordered Kubista’s fields. Thus it happened more than once, that the cattle of both fed on the same clover, because the young shepherd had so much to say to the young shepherdess.
They grew like plants from water. When Betuska was fifteen and Uncle John eighteen he already did not know where to find all the pictures with which he would compare those lovely blue eyes; for the cornflowers appeared already pale and bleached. He did not know to what he should compare those beautiful thick raven locks; for night was seldom so black as they were. And Betuska could think about none else except him; for by day he smiled on her, and by night he was present to her dreams.
How he loved her! He never let her stir sickle when she came to cut clover, and he was anywhere near. He took her sickle and before she expected it, he was in full swing. Betuska meantime sat at the boundary, and told ​all about her domestic life, only pausing now and then to admire Uncle John’s manly figure and athletic attitude, as though he had painted it for her to look at.
Uncle John was now nearly grown up. He went to hear the music, and as he belonged to a wealthy farm he treated those also who were less well off. But when ever a new polka appeared the musicians must take it at once to Uncle John, so that next Sunday he and Betuska might show all the village how it had to be danced. And what a lovely garland hung before Betuska’s window on May day morning. It was certainly the best of all; for only such has the honour of being taken down by the boys, and of being carried round from house to house—and for the last two years this garland had been uncle’s giving, and had hung before Kubista’s dwelling.
Of course Betuska returned the compliment. As soon as Great Night (Easter) drew near she had already chosen her best egg, and no one on the day of the festival had so finely and delicately painted an egg as Uncle John. There was a tiny heart, and round it tiny leaves and flowers, so that Uncle John was sorry to have to crack such a beautiful egg, which afforded great pleasure to Betuska.
Perhaps this was the reason she so loved her poultry, for she congratulated herself all the year on having afforded Uncle John so much pleasure.
The parents thwarted not their two children, who could thus meet openly, for they did so with their parents consent and knowledge.
Old Kubista and our grandfather had been comrades since their school days. They also served together during the French invasion, and together bore all the hardships ​which that invasion brought upon the farmers. Moreover, one without the other would never undertake anything that they had not previously discussed together, and nothing pleased them more than to see their mutual predilection inherited by their children, and develop in these into true love.
Grandmother doated above measure on Uncle John, for he was the youngest son—who frequently gets a little spoiled. She it was who put into his hand all he had to give to Betuska, and if she had saved a few coppers in her household management she knew perfectly who would be pleased to have them.
But fortune began all at once to become overcast, so that perhaps it was never more destined to shine out clear and bright.
Kubista and grandfather were invited to the chase by the nobles and gentry—and they looked upon this as a special mark of distinction, for in those days even farmers scarcely knew the smell of powder, and if the father had not been a poacher the son would scarcely know how to load a gun, and where to pull the trigger.
But grandfather and Kubista were renowned all through the neighbourhood as good shots—granted, their hands shook slightly now—when they aimed with their flint-locks they never failed to hit. No considerable shooting party therefore took place in the neighbourhood without their being invited, and they always accepted the invitation with pleasure.
So then it was, once after a shooting party and the sportsmen had separated and were returning homewards, Kubista had just met grandfather, and forgot that he had ​yet one barrel loaded, which he did not wish to take home in that state. When he saw grandfather he aimed at him in jest, on a level with his feet, drawing the trigger. As I say, he did it in jest, but it was a jest very much misplaced, and perhaps we may even call it besotted. Grandfather could never have believed that the barrel with which Kubista aimed would injure him, for he must have known that it was only a jest of his faithful friend. But just then there came upon him a kind of pang and sudden panic, and though after that Kubista immediately turned the gun from him and fired in the air, in quite a different direction, yet it seemed to grandfather as though he felt the charge in his foot.
“You have done me an ill turn Kubista,” said grandfather, and caught himself by the foot.
Kubista fancied this was merely a jest and laughed at grandfather.
But grandfather from that time forth never looked on him again. No entreaty, no protestation of Kubista could affect a reconciliation. He so hardened himself in his heart that he would not be moved from the belief that perhaps Kubista had fired at that place.
They separated. After that grandfather had a restless night. He started continually, for he fancied that Kubista was aiming at him, and these visions repeated themselves even in his waking hours. Briefly, grandfather after some days became so restless that he felt his foot in actual pain, was laid up with it and never recovered the full use of the limb to the day of his death.
Then after he had lain awake many a long night there developed in him so intense a hatred toward Kubista that ​a year before he would have shuddered at the thought of. This hatred had no substantial foundation—at least none but what reason could overthrow. But just on that very account, grandfather reasoned too much about it, until he actually reasoned himself into his hatred.
Then to the general astonishment all learnt from grandfather that Kubista all his life had abused his friend’s kindness, had cheated him, and even now wished to make capital out of him and prey on him. Moreover, as soon as he was somewhat better, grandfather began to set real disputes afoot between himself and Kubista about a certain boundary stone which divided their fields, and he ordered to have his boundary stone pushed forward, thus continually pouring oil on the fire.
At the beginning every one still imagined that it was only a jest, and Kubista, least of all of them imagined it to be in earnest. But when there now began to come to him official notices, and he had frequently to present himself to the law court and there reply to questions about which he had never given a thought—then at last the affair assumed a more serious aspect and he began to think of effecting a reconciliation.
He actually did go to grandfather, but as soon as the latter saw him arrive in the courtyard he went off to his bedroom, locked the door, shut himself in, and nothing on earth would make him alter his mind. At this grandmother was in the highest degree distressed. She accompanied Kubista on his way home and urged him to pay no heed to things which originated solely from grandfather’s state of health, saying that she trusted that these troubles would pass over before their children were old enough to ​marry, for certainly her husband could not give them his blessing so long as his heart was so overflowing with hatred.
But in all this grandmother showed that she did not know grandfather well. Nothing in the world would induce him to give up an idea which he had once taken into his head and set his heart on.
So also he at once gave notice to Uncle John not to venture a single step in the direction of Kubista’s, and gradually to wean himself from all thoughts of a marriage with Betuska.
Such commands, however, are more easy to speak than to execute. While things went well Uncle John and Betuska met openly, and when this was no more possible their meetings were clandestine. Grandfather was not so inventive in his hatred as these young people were in their mutual passion. And had he been a hundred times more watchful his vigilance would have been in vain. Here was it once more demonstrated that nothing can strengthen true passion more than the stimulus of opposition, and if Uncle John and Betuska met often before, they now met oftener than ever. He could not wait for morning to see at least the village in which she dwelt, and when he was a-field he could have dragged evening down to earth that he might meet Betuska at the boundary of their field.
It must be confessed, however, that their passion manifested itself in a somewhat changed form. What before flowed on in calm delight like a peaceful streamlet, now dashed along like the same streamlet after rain. Heretofore they kissed like turtle doves; now they wept their fill; now they stifled kisses in sobs, and soothed their sobs with kisses. And all the time they protested that ​their passion was eternal, with hearts so sincere, so over flowing, that it never occurred to them that it could be doubted. Uncle John exhorted Betuska to constancy, and Betuska in fond despair protested that she would cease to breathe on the day when uncle should turn away from her. Here they came to the conviction that they were promised man and wife, that they were eternally predestined to make each other happy, and on this they built all their future plans.
When evening came and clover and corn fields were moist with dew, there fell and mingled with the dew, certainly more than one tear, from the blue eyes of Betuska. Then she said, poor thing, that it seemed to her that matters must take a bad turn, for she could not realise how she could figure as the dutiful happy daughter in a family where her own father was detested. Only the genuine love and affection which Uncle John felt for her could have succeeded in wholly quieting her, at least long enough to give her breathing time in her anguish.
Certainly the poultry noticed more than once, that Betuska did not show them the same predilection as formerly. She spread their chickens’ food, it is true, but she did not talk to them: she remained pensive, and if her eyes had not been bedewed with tears, the chickens could not have the least conjectured why she was thinking of anything except themselves.
The chickens were also from this time most troublesome, and judgment fell upon them. They hopped on to her, fed themselves in her lap, and lodged mutual complaints against one another, till Betuska fairly drove them from her. The cock had a perfect torment with them.
​But at our house, at grandfather’s, it seemed as though contentment was completely banished to some foreign land; it scarcely appeared there once a month, seldomer than the toyman, who stopped to ask whether we wished to buy aught of his wares. Grandfather remained obdurate, and at last no one dared to mention the name of Kubista. Moreover, it ended at last in Kubista winning, to grandfather’s great grief, one side of the disputed boundary. Then every hope of reconciliation was at an end. He did not wait until some one began to talk about Kubista. No, he began himself; in every way and on every occasion looking out for some pretext to abuse his late friend. He said that Kubista had bribed the officials, and by this had put the climax to his dishonesty, and that all his whole life, he had been thinking of nothing but how to cause him trouble and expense.
This stubborn immobility had something morbid, not to say spasmodic, in it, which was the more obvious to all because it was quite inconsistent with grandfather’s age and his grey hairs.
Grandmother more than once wished to take upon herself the rôle of peacemaker. And then she reproached grandfather, telling him that he was greatly in fault to give himself to be so blinded in his old age by wrath, and that it became him now least of all when both he and Kubista stood with one foot in the grave.
But this only exasperated his anger to the highest degree. He upbraided her, telling her that she had no affection for him; that she stood up for a man whose affection for himself was shown by his own lame foot; that she depraved Uncle John by her fondness and ​partiality; that she ought never to have permitted him to begin those visits to Kubista’s, and more to the same effect. Then no excuses were of any avail. Grandmother did not venture to remind him that he himself had once approved of their son paying court to Betuska.
And now grandfather became hardened not only against Kubista, but also to some extent against grandmother, and against his own son. He vowed that their only wish was to hurry him to the grave in order that they might conclude a match to which while living he would never give his consent. Aye, that he would even disinherit his son by will if he ventured to espouse the daughter of Kubista. Let the gentlemen at the office cancel this will or not, possibly they might, for Kubista had a happy knack of bribing, still he never swerved a hair’s breadth from his fixed determination.
In this state grandfather was an object of pity, but not less so grandmother and Uncle John. Uncle John avoided his father where and how he could. Already he had given up coming to supper, and always urgently entreated grandmother to lay his meals somewhere in his bedroom. No doubt grandmother did so, but she had thus to bear alone the weight of grandfather’s displeasure. Though what burden would not a mother bear seeing that by so doing she alleviated the distress of her own son?
Sometimes it happened that grandfather did not see Uncle John for several days, so that he could not give him orders early as to how to arrange his work, and where to go in the field, and more than once grandfather had to look for his son in the field to consult with him about the farm. Once one of the servants was so ill-advised that one ​evening when grandfather inquired for uncle, the servant replied. “He! Why he sleeps soundly at Kubista’s, to be sure.”
It was well that grandmother heard this. She scolded the servant thoroughly, and in order to prove to grandfather that the man had lied grossly, she led him to the summer-house where Uncle John now made his bed and had already gone to rest.
Grandfather bade grandmother leave him alone with their son. She immediately complied, but did not go far, for she dreaded lest grandfather should do some injury to his son.
But it was not so bad as that then.
Uncle John did indeed affect to be asleep, but when he heard that grandfather desired to speak with him he sat up and grandfather beside him.
“Listen, John,” said grandfather, “to-morrow is the festival, do this for my sake, stop at home to-morrow for the festival that it may not appear to our guests, at least, that we cannot agree.”
Uncle John objected that really on the morrow he had settled with Betuska to go to church with her, and perhaps she would fall ill if he did not keep his word.
Whereupon grandfather said, “Oh! well, I shall see whether you have yet any affection left for me, for I shall not speak to you twice.”
Uncle John did not reply to this, and grandfather left him.
The next day was the festival about which I have narrated from the beginning.