# Three Stories/On Condition: or Pensioned Off/Chapter 12

CHAPTER XII.
HAT more have I to relate?
Frank again began to rove away from the farm, and of course they knew to a hair whither he went. But it was not true exactly as they thought it that is to say, when he went to the cemetery he went with a heavy heart as in the old days when he carried hither the measure for his grandfather’s grave. And now he carried thither a kind of measure, the measure of his own heart—was it that he would order a grave for it. By no means. In order that he might lay it in a heart softer than any dust and sweeter than any flower.
And yet indeed the path was as toilsome as if he were going to bury his heart in the grave. Enchantment seemed to murmur around him and shot about his path in the mist and the clear weather: his heart beat with a presentiment of rapture, and his hand vacillated—so it will be to the end of the world.
When he came to the cemetery he posted himself by the wicket gate, as on that day long past, and gazed eagerly. And he saw the great ruddy cross ​and on it the white iron figure of the Christus, then lesser crosses, then graves without crosses, some green, some flowery, some half sunk in the ground.
And there was in that cemetery something vast and incomprehensible, something that we can never analyze, something vast as a sea, chilling as winter’s ice and snow. But to-day the breath of winter did not issue from its gates, rather a portion of the spring seemed to hover over that dwelling place of the dead.
When he stood by the wicket-gate, he waited and everything for which he waited, could emerge from the grave-digger’s. humble abode in the person of Staza.
Staza tripped forth just as on that day long past, but how different. It was not a child who hopped even over the graves like a small bird, or a butterfly. It was a pensive, blooming maiden, a rose, which blossoms on a single bush, there to glisten and then fade. She walked with her head bowed and seemed as though she would fain water those graves with her tears. And she was infinitely charming.
Frank had opened the wicket-gate a hundred times, and to-day it seemed as though he knew not how he could ever enter by it. When he thought that Staza might observe him, he retreated and only peeped furtively through the bars. And he saw Staza who was the self same Staza whom he had led about the whole neighbourhood, and who yet ​was not the same. At least it seemed to him as though he saw her to-day for the first time, and as though he had to speak to her for the first time.
Staza seated herself on her mother’s grave, and her eyes rested on the white iron figure of the Christus on the ruddy cross. After a moment or two she whispered rather than sang, “odpocinite v pokoiji verne dusicky.” (Rest in peace ye faithful spirits!)
But she did not finish her song. Something seemed to snap it asunder half-way, the second half remained unuttered.
And here Frank felt constrained: just as if he ought to finish in tears what Staza had left incomplete in her song, just as if he wronged her by his silence.
He posted himself before the wicket-gate in order that she might see him.
“Oh! Staza,” he said.
Staza rose from the ground, and half joyously half pensively approached the wicket-gate.
“I welcome thee, Frank,” said she.
“Oh! Staza will you open it for me,” said Frank.
Here Staza said archly, “Have you so soon forgotton how to open it?”
“I have not forgotten,” responded Frank, “but I have no longer the right unless you allow me.”
“You have it open!” said Staza.
​“Oh! Staza, I am come to ask your hand in marriage,” said Frank after a short silence.
“You have it here!” said Staza and gave her hand to him.
What need of more? What need of elaborate circumlocutions in order that the heart should speak truth?
The heart of those children knew of no such circumlocutions, it spoke thus, and therefore spoke sublimely, nobly, and solemnly, because it spoke the truth.
“I wished to have thee for my wife, and I did not know whether thou wert willing to be my wife, and that fretted me,” said Frank.
If you had not come for me, I should have had to think where Bartos should delve a grave. And I had already chosen a spot. Where else than yonder, and she pointed towards her mother’s grave.”
And both their hearts heaved with feelings different than a moment before the sentiment of unexpected bliss exhausted them, and bliss is burdensome before we are accustomed to it.
They took one another by the hand and went into the little house to tell Bartos what they had just told one another.
“I wish to have Staza for my wife and am come to speak about it,” said Frank by way of salutation when they entered.
​Bartos measured Frank from head to heel and said, “Good, Staza go away.”
When Staza was gone, Bartos said, “You know, I suppose Frank, that Staza is a child not born in wedlock.”
“But all the same, a child,” responded Frank.
“That she does not know, neither do I know, nor perhaps does anybody know who was her father.”
“Is there any need to know it,” enquired Frank.
“That people will talk about this and will say, ‘Look! there goes Frank Loyka arm in arm with his wife,’ and they will laugh at her origin.”
“Why should a man trouble himself about an origin?”
“Every one thinks his or her origin the important thing and acts accordingly.”
“And do they mend matters thereby.”
“They do not. But it goes against them when it comes about as in her case.
“And was she created against the will of the Creator?”
“That I do not know; but if you wish to have her for your wife you ought to be told about it.”
“I see no difference between her and others, and what I see is that she is dearer to me than all the world, let her origin be what it may.”
“Good! call her!”
And Bartos himself called Staza. “You have led one another by the hand,” he said, “lead one ​another by the hand for all your life.” And this strong man who had not his equal, at these words well nigh gave way.
After this he said “I found thee, dear Staza, long have I had thee with me, and now Frank has claimed thee. What have we to do? He has a greater right to thee than I have. He is young and loves thee.”
At these words Staza threw herself on Bartos’ breast, and there sobbed out her great happiness, wept there also her thanks to him for being a father to her and her sorrow at leaving him.
“One thing more, oh! Bartos,” said Frank.
“What, pray?”
“You know that my parents dwell in the farm house and will dwell there with me for many a long year, let us hope; the pension house is therefore empty, will you not settle there and be our neighbour—mine and Staza’s?”
At these words Bartos again measured Frank from head to heels and said, “I pensioned off! No, dear boy. Here I am lord and master, and am little skilled in accepting pensions or returning thanks for them. It is possible that you would like to have me there. But we cannot tell, and I should never manage to pry into your eyes every day to see whether you still liked to have me there. Do you think I shall be low-spirited here alone. I have a large family, as yet I have never felt oppressed or ​low-spirited among them. Who knows? Perhaps, I shall be needed here. The next time some father flies from his son’s harsh bounty and knoweth not whither to turn, he will come to Bartos. And what would he do if he did not find me here?”
Frank was silent. It was evident he deemed that Bartos judged him harshly.
“Do not be angry, boy,” said Bartos. “Possibly I shall come and visit you from time to time, to see how you treat your father. Do your best to show yourself at once a good hospodar and a good son—of that I must be first assured. Promise nothing. Even your brother promised and would have deprived your father of reason. I do not trust you little sons, because your fathers make themselves dependent upon you. But promise me one thing, invite me to your wedding.”
All was so unanswerably true which Bartos had said, that Frank did not utter a word in reply.
“Do not be anxious about me,” he added. “Now Staza must be the dearest object of your care.” On this he kissed Staza and kissed Frank, and so the betrothal ended.
What they wished to say to one another, and what they had said to one another how simple it was! How entirely the outcome of souls already united, and yet, before they had reached the goal of speech they had to undergo all the pleasing ​lapses, doubts and problems of lovers—true passion follows no other course.
And now they both enjoyed the most charming rambles together. They led one another by the hand and went to visit those hedgerows, those bushes, all the haunts where their childish hearts had beat beside the quails. They visited their little chapels, in which as children they worshipped their Creator with the laverock. Everything was the same and yet it was all different. On every hedge was more green and more glitter; the air seemed more alive with singing; every laverock piped a more fervid lay; every whisper of nature was more touching.
And so everything was different, but it seemed as though only now all nature manifested itself in its true essence, which none understand who have not looked upon the world with an eye enlightened by true love. Even Staza was different; even Frank was different. When they looked at one another they seemed to catch a glimpse of each other’s souls, of something inexhaustible and eternal. They seemed to catch a glimpse of each other’s soul and in their eyes gleamed the light of eternal blessedness, beautiful as the glory of a Saint; in their eyes gleamed the truth of eternal rapture made more beautiful by tears. Each of them was different, each seemed endued with angels’ wings, to flutter round the other; each of them was more exalted, and their thoughts were like prayers.
​Staza’s love was not the least appreciably less fervent, less genuine, less holy because she was a child not born in wedlock. The divine breath hath not such narrow instincts as we poor humans. Only let the heart be right and the divine breath does not enquire what was its origin. The Son of God was a child not born in wedlock, and the divine love did not grow cold on that account, the divine love accepted him for its own Son. It is only we poor humans who, in our littleness, grow cold and shame-faced at the thought of a base origin, and yet the origin of us all is from no other source than from that eternal love from which every grain of wheat germinates, who threw that grain of wheat, for whose delight it germinates to maturity—wherefore should we trouble ourselves about that?
What more have I to relate?
About three o’clock one afternoon the sexton, Vanek, strode across the village green of Frishetts with the great key in his hand in the direction of the chapel.
Those who stood at the window and saw him did not ask one another whether there was a fire or whether some one was dead. They knew why he went to the chapel just at that hour, and only said to one another “So it will be at once.”
And here they walked out in front of their farm houses, and seeing neighbours lounging about the other farms, took a few steps towards the centre of ​the green, and saluted each other just as they had spoken at home—“So it will be at once.”
All were dressed in holiday attire, even their faces were in holiday attire, the whole village. was in holiday attire. Down the middle of the village green were posted branches of may with pennons streaming, the whole forming an arcade which stretched from the Loykas’ farm to the chapel. Even the Loykas’ house itself was smothered in pine branches and looked as spick and span as on a high festival.
On this occasion Vena again marched with a basket in his hand, he had rosolek in the basket, and poured out and gave to drink to any one who desired. On this occasion he was in good humour as though he was going to be wed himself. He poured out the liquor very briskly and continually invited the good folk to drink “now to their health, neighbours!”
“How, then, do you greet your new mistress, Vena,” they enquired.
“I greet her well,” said Vena, “and verily I say as thus, look you, “The Lord God grant you as many little dears for me to carry across the green as there are flasks here! That’s how I greet her!”
“And how many may that be,” said the neighbours laughing.
“How can I tell until you have drunk out the lot,” said Vena, and constantly invited them to imbibe.
​To look at him you would have said it was Vena’s own bridal day that was being celebrated. And nothing would have embittered his gay humour, only one question from neighbour Kmoch, Barushka’s father, vexed him. “How many wagons are required to bring home Staza’s marriage portion,” he enquired with a very saucy leer.
On this Vena vented his brimming choler in these words “You have not wagons enough to carry home a single one of her good qualities. So you want to be sarcastic do you? What do you know, ye peasant proprietors, of the essentials of a happy marriage? You barter your daughters on the market place to the man who makes the highest bid. ‘A crown! two crowns! ten crowns! twelve crowns!’—those are your daughters. And so you would sneer would you? He who throws down most of the dross is the heaven-sent husband. And then you shrink into your pension house when you have accomplished this feat of wondrous wisdom, and how many wagons are wanted to carry your pensioner’s portion? I would undertake to wheel you away, portion and all, on a hand barrow.”
Here Vena had worked himself into a frenzy, so that he did not know when he ought to conclude his declamation, although we must add in conclusion that all the neighbours condemned Kmoch’s ill-timed question.
“She will not be such a one,” continued Vena, “that her father must wander through the ​market places like a beggar, because they tormented him under his own roof. There will be no need that the vejminkar should make his last will before she sets foot in his house, because afterwards he will be worried out of his five senses. And with such good qualities as she possesses Staza will need many wagons to carry all easily.”
Perhaps Vena would have declaimed at yet greater length had not the march of events deadened the effect of Kmoch’s insolent remark.
From the cemetery, whither Frank had driven to claim his bride, his best man rode at a gallop, and said that the happy pair would be at the village in a trice, that old Bartos had joined their hands by the graves of Staza’s mother and Frank’s grandfather, and said “Your love grew out of the grave, may it last beyond all graves.”
At this moment Vanek began to ring the bell in the chapel, and outside the village resounded the fiddles of well-known fiddlers, who were assisted by musicians from the whole surrounding district.
The neighbours on the village green flocked into the green arcade which formed an alley as far as the chapel, and awaited the young bride and bridegroom, only Kmoch turned away in another direction.
Here I must touch off a good side in the neighbours of Frishetts, namely, that they awaited the young couple in perfect good faith. Frank, by his behaviour towards his father, had so firmly installed ​himself in their esteem that nothing could shake him in it. We cannot indeed disguise the fact that with all of them it somewhat ran counter to their ideas of what should be when he chose for his wife an illegitimate orphan, for in these matters no one was better or worse than his neighbours, and everyone said secretly to himself, “For my part I could not have done it.” But as it was Frank who did it they made their peace with him, and as it was Staza who was the object of his choice they made their peace with her as well.
And so the happy pair were escorted by such a goodly company as ne’er was seen before in Frishetts, and a festival was celebrated the like of which few a short time before ever expected to see again originate from Loyka’s farm. People collected on foot and in carriages from all parts of the neighbourhood—not only in honour of Frank’s bridal day, but also in honour of old Loyka’s recovery, who had for so many years wandered among them without health and without mind.
What more have I to relate?
Beside the coach house in the two chambers the legends and ballads of old times, which had been banished for so many years, took root once more. And Loyka’s courtyard beamed like the face of a happy listener.
If we wish to take a peep for a moment, we can do so. The farm is again free of access to everyone: ​the cloth pedlar and the family of the kalounkar have made themselves quite at home, tinkers come for a night’s lodging, musicians often turn aside thither, and listeners, male and female, come from the village to hear them play.
Again Frank listened to the song or the story in these chambers, and lead Staza thither—how well-known and beloved wherever they are seen!
And, if we wish, we can take a peep at Loyka sometimes in the morning when the servants are preparing themselves for their work afield.
Old Loyka with his pipe in his mouth promenades about the court, inspects the implements, and the servants salute him with “The Lord God give you good-morrow, pantata.”
Old Loyka thanks them. “As God wills, my children,” says he.
“Are we to go to-day to work in the meadow, pantata.”
“Have you asked your young master? go where he tells you.”
“He said we were to ask you.”
“Well, well, then go to the meadow. But always ask your young master.”
“Look, here he comes.”
And here Frank comes forward. “What do you think? Must they go to the meadow?”
And Frank knows so many reasons why they must go to the meadow and nowhere else, that old Loyka ​is all smiles, to think that he is still competent to manage the estate.
“Well, well,” he adds, “then go to the meadow to be sure.”
“Then Stazicka (little Staza), as all on the farm call her, comes and says that they must go to breakfast. Old Loyka chucks her under the chin, and looks into her sparkling eyes. “Good child, good child,” says he. Then he lets go her chin, and takes her by the hand. This very day come a ear you will not come for me alone, little Staza.”
“Why should I not come for you, papa.”
“Tut: come, of course you will, but with my grandchild in your arms.”
On this little Staza blushes, and thinks to herself, full of fond anticipation “This very day come a year.”
Or suppose we pay them a visit, come a year, at harvest. The harvesters once more make the farm their first halting place when they go a-harvesting, and old Loyka promenades among them with pipe in mouth.
“I come from the young pantata,” says the spokesman of the harvesters, “in order that you should select us yourself, pantata, because you know us now as he says; and I also think it is best.”
“Well, well,” says old Loyka, “how could we fail to know one another after so many years.”
​And after this he chooses according to his taste, and as seems best.
“This summer we shall have a merry harvest,” says the harvester.
“This summer! so I believe you. And when Staza leads off the dance for you! Such a mistress has not been seen on the farm as Stazicka.”
“She is a worthy mistress, pantata. Once Annette came here with us—you know, pantata, mnuh! her only fault is she does not know how she came into the world. And women being but women, they would not endure her among them. ‘How, then, is it her fault,’ said your little Staza. “We do not drive away an animal when it nestles against us, in what is Annette worse than an animal? And as you know, pantata, she took her as nurse to your pretty grandchild.”
“Just so, just so,” smiled old Loyka.
But the whole farm was quite on foot when there for a time came on a visit the gravedigger Bartos. “I begin to be aweary among the dead,” said he, “and since the living like me, I gladly come awhile among them. Well, and you like to have me with you?”
And it was a wonder they did not carry him on their shoulders, that is to say, if they could have borne his weight. And as they could not do this, they all hung upon him. Frank and Staza and the ​little fellow which Staza took from Annette that she might proudly exhibit it.
“Why am I made so strong, I wonder,” Bartos would say, “if I may not fling you off.” And he pretended jestingly to drive them before him that he might free himself from them. But it was worst of all when he prepared to depart. Here even old Loyka fastened on him, and all held him, that he should still remain with them. And here Bartos, the gravedigger, for a time feigned to chivy them away, just as though he would shake them off. And we must say what then happened, seldom happened—it being the only occasion when the Herculean Bartos succumbed. Frank, Staza, Loyka, and the little boy overpowered him, and sometimes the little boy alone prevailed.
“Well, well,” laughed old Loyka, and then when at even the musicians came there was in the farm a most charming idyll.
Long had they sought this idyll, long had they wandered in search of it, but they found it at last. And this idyll ends as it began— odpocinte v pokoji . . . . .
Finis.
JOHN SAMPSON, PUBLISHER, 13, CONEY STREET, YORK.