EARLY in the morning before anyone was awake Juraj had ieft the village behind him, and made for the hills. To Misa. And what was he going to do there ? Oh, only talk with him. It’s still misty, you can’t see the hills. Juraj shivered a bit; but that pricking feeling was no longer in his side; he only found it a bit difficult to get his breath, perhaps it was the mist. He climbed up to the field that used to be Hordubal’s, and he had to stop to catch his breath; Pjosa has got it ploughed already—all stone, they say, and see, even to Pjosa the field is worth the trouble. Hordubal sighed deeply, and tramped upwards into the hills. The mist lifted and rolled away over the forest. Only a bit longer, and it will be autumn. Hordubal climbed, keeping his hand pressed to his side: Well, it pricks a bit, but it’s all the same now, up or down. And this isn’t mist, it’s a bank of clouds; you can tell by the smell how it’s soaking with water. Mind your head or you’ll knock into it. And now it’s rolled away over the hill, and now again you’re in it, and you can’t see three yards in front of you, you just keep on going, forcing your way through a thick fog, and you don’t know where you are. And Hordubal gasped as he climbed slowly and laboriously into the clouds.
A cold drizzle began to fall. Above on the clearing Misa threw a sack over his head, and cracking his whip, hazzo ho, he was driving the catde to the hut. You couldn’t make out if it was an animal, bush, or boulder; but Cuvaj was a clever cur, he ran round the herd, and kept the cattle moving, but only the sound of the bells could be heard in the mist.
Misa sat at the entrance to the hut and gazed into the mist; the clouds opened for a moment, and you could see the cattle bunched together; and then again everything was enveloped in mist, and only the rain pattered. What time can it be? surely nearly midday. And then Cuvaj sprang up, he sniffed in the mist, and growled faintly.
Out of the mist the shadow of a man appeared. “Are you there, Misa?” cried a hoarse voice.
“I am.”
“Thank God!”
It was Hordubal, drenched to the skin, and with his teeth chattering: from his hat water ran in a stream as if from a gutter.
“What brings you here in the rain?” inquired Misa, rather vexed.
“In the morning … it wasn’t raining …” gasped Juraj. “It was such a clear night … and it’s good that it rains, we need it.”
Misa blinked his eyes thoughtfully. “Wait a bit, I’ll make a fire.”
Hordubal sat on the hay, and gazed into the little fire; the wood crackled and smoked, Misa put a sack on his back, and a feeling of warmth spread over Juraj’s body. Ugh, why it’s hot, as hot as it was down there in the mine. Juraj’s teeth chattered, and he patted Cuvaj’s wet coat, who stank at his side. Oh, well, I smell myself like a drenched dog. “Misa,” chattered Juraj, “and what’s that hut for in the wood?”
Misa boiled water in the little ketde, and threw some herbs into it. “I know, you don’t feel well,” he growled. “And what are you doing running about in the rain, you doodle ?”
“There was a shaft in the mine …” said Juraj hurriedly, “where water was always dripping, always. Tic-tic-tic, like a clock ticks. And—do you know, Herpakova has had a baby, Polana went to have a look—and there’s no job anywhere, Misa, men aren’t wanted any longer, they say.”
“And yet new ones are born,” murmured Misa.
“Must be born!” prattled Juraj. “That’s because women are—You aren’t married, you don’t know anything, you don’t know anything—What have you to talk about, if you haven’t got a wife ? Eh, my lad, there are lots of things to think about. For instance, that they put down: for her fidelity and conjugal love. Otherwise God knows what people would say. And it is a pity that they robbed me of three thousand dollars; she could have been like a lady, eh? What do you say, Misa?”
“Well, that’s true,” mumbled Misa, blowing into the fire.
“So you see, and then they say I’m a fool. They envy me because I’ve got a wife who carries her head high like a thoroughbred. People are like that: they want to do you down. And instead, she only went to a neighbour’s to look at the baby. All vile gossip, Misa. Tell them that I saw her myself coming from the neighbour’s house.”
Misa nodded his head thoughtfully. “I’ll tell them, I’ll tell them everything.”
Juraj sighed. “That’s why I came to see you, you know. You haven’t got a wife, you’ve got nothing to be spiteful about. They—they wouldn’t believe me; but you’ll tell them, Misa. It’s clear, she had to have a workman while the master was away; but she locked herself in the loft, a latch as big as a thunderbolt; I’ve seen it myself. And that Geric has got something to say! Eight years, he says, and so. Tell me, who knows her better—Geric or I? She only just moved her shoulder, and her breast slipped into her bodice. And that fellow down there, the one at the stream, he was a chap from Lehota, I saw him, he came from Lehota. And people—gossip at once.”
Misa shook his head. “Now, drink this, it’s good for you.”
Juraj sipped the steaming beverage, and gazed into the fire. “You’ve got a nice job here, Misa. And tell them, they’ve got faith in you, you’re a knowing one, they say—that she was a good and faithful wife—” The smoke made his eyes smart, and tears stood in his eyes; his nose seemed to stick out sharply. “It’s only me, only me, who knows what she’s like. Eh, Misa. I’d go to America like a shot, and earn more money for her—”
“Drink the whole lot at once,” urged Misa. “It will warm you up.”
A heavy sweat broke out on Hordubal’s forehead, he felt weak, and happy. “I could tell you things about America, Misa,” he said, “I’ve forgotten a lot already, but wait a bit, I shall remember—”
Misa quietly made up the fire; Hordubal breathed deeply, and his teeth chattered in his sleep. Outside the rain had stopped, from the spruce-trees behind heavy drops were still falling; and the mist kept on rolling. At times a cow gave a moo, and Cuvaj went to look if the herd was all right.
Misa felt something at his back, it was HordubaTs eyes; for a while Juraj had not been asleep, and he was looking round with sunken eyes.
“Misa,” he said hoarsely, “can a man take his own life?”
“What?”
“I asked if a man could take his own life?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“To get away from his thoughts. They’re thoughts, Misa, which have nothing to do with you. You think … let’s suppose … that she lied, that she wasn’t with the neighbour …” Juraj screwed his mouth up. “Misa,” he groaned, “how can I get rid of them?”
Misa blinked his eyes. “Eh, it’s very difficult. Think it out to the end.”
“And what if at the end there’s … only the end ? Can a man put an end to himself?”
“There’s no need,” said Misa slowly. “Why ? Even then you’ll die.”
“And—soon?”
“If you want to know—soon.”
Misa rose and went out of the hut. “And sleep now,” he said, halting at the door, and then he vanished—as if into the clouds.
Hordubal tried to get up. Praise to God, I’m a bit better already, but my head is somehow dizzy, and my body so queer, limp, as if it were made of rags.
He staggered out, into the mist, he could not see; only hear the ringing of the cow-bells, a thousand cattle grazing in the clouds, and bim bam with the bells. Juraj walked and walked, he really didn’t know where. But I must go home, he thought, and so he had to go forwards. But he didn’t know whether he was going uphill or down; perhaps down, because—he felt as if he were falling; perhaps always—upwards, because he went with difficulty, and breathed heavily. Eh, it’s all the same, only home. And Juraj Hordubal plunged into the clouds.
CHAPTER XXIV
IT was Hafia who found him in the cowshed. The cows were uneasy, and Polana sent her: “Go, have a look.” He was lying on the straw and there was a rattling in his throat.
And he didn’t mind any longer when Polana led him into the parlour,
he only tried to raise his eyebrows. She took his clothes off, and put him to bed.
“Do you want anything?”
“No,” he chattered, and went to sleep again; he dreamed of something, and they disturbed him—what was it ? But Geric was not in America, they mixed everything up, now start again right at the very beginning. If only something didn’t weigh so heavily on my chest, it must be that dog, Cuvaj, right on my chest he lies, and sleeps. Juraj passed his feverish hand over his hairy chest. Just sleep, you hairy one, and how your little heart beats! Ah, you beggar, but you are heavy!
He slept for a time, and when he opened his eyes Polana was standing in the door, and looking inquiringly. “How are you?”
“Better, my dear.” He was afraid to talk, for things might go lost and change again into his hovel in Johnstown. But this is—like home: the painted cupboard, the oak table, oak chairs—Hordubal’s heart throbbed: but I’ve come home at last! Lord, what a long journey, a fortnight on the lower deck and in the train—you feel quite broken down. But I mustn’t move, or it will disappear again; better close my eyes, and just realize that it’s here—
And then it all got mixed up again: the miners in Johnstown—Harcar—they fight Hordubal; Juraj flies through the mine, dodges about, catches hold of the ladder, and struggles upwards; a cage crashes down from above, it will smash his head, it certainly will—and Hordubal woke to his own groaning. Better not sleep, it’s better here, and with staring eyes Juraj clutched the peaceful furniture. It’s better here. Hordubal made signs with his finger in the air, and told Misa about America. Old boy, the hardest job for me—only, hello, Hordubal, and off I went. Once a shaft fell in, even the breakdown gang wouldn’t go there. Twenty dollars I got then, the foreman himself shook my hand—like this, Misa, like this. And Hordubal descended in the cage, always down; a fat Jewess sat there, and an old man, and they looked severely at Hordubal. A hundred and eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three, Juraj counted and shouted: stop, that’s enough, it doesn’t go any lower, it’s the bottom of the pit. But the cage kept going down, all the time, it got warmer, he couldn’t get his breath, these devils take you down to hell. It seemed to Juraj as if he would suffocate, and he woke.
Dawn came; Polana stood at the door looking intently.
“It’s better already,” murmured Hordubal, and his eyes glowed. “Don’t be angry, Polana, I shall get up soon.”
“Just keep lying,” said Polana, drawing nearer. “Have you got any pain?”
“No, I haven’t. In America I had it as well—flu, the doctor said. And in two days—like a horse. I shall get up to-morrow, my dear. I make a mess here, don’t I?”
“Do you want anything ?”
Hordubal shook his head. “I’m quite well. Only—only water in a bucket, but I could do it myself—”
“I’ll bring it straight away.” And she went.
Hordubal heaped the pillows behind his back, and put his shirt straight over his chest. So that Polana doesn’t see me so undressed, he thought. And if I could wash and shave! But Polana will come, she’ll be here directly. Perhaps she’ll sit down on the bed while I drink. Juraj moved to make room, so that she could sit down, and he waited. Perhaps she’s forgotten, he thought, she’s got plenty to do, poor girl—if only Stepan would come back! I’ll tell her when she comes: “And what, Polana, if Manya came back?”
Hafia came through the door, carrying a glass of water; she carried it so carefully that her tongue was sticking out.
“You arc good, Hafia, “sighed Hordubal. “And say, is uncle Stepan here?”
“No.”
“And what is mammy doing ?”
“She’s standing in the yard.”
Hordubal no longer knew what to say, he even forgot to drink: “Well go,” he muttered, and with a jump Hafia was out of the door.
Juraj lay silently listening. In the stable the horses’ hooves clattered. Will Polana give them water? No, she’s feeding the sows, I can hear their contented grunting. How many steps a woman like that must make, he wondered. Stepan ought to come back; I shall drive to Rybary, and I shall say to him: What, you sluggard, get a move on with the horses, Polana can’t manage all the work. I shall go perhaps in the afternoon, thought Juraj, and then a veil spread before his eyes, and everything vanished.
Hafia peeped through the door, she changed from one foot to the other, and stole away again. “He’s asleep,” she whispered to her mother in the yard. Polana said nothing, her thoughts were on something else.
Towards midday, Hafia again stole on tiptoes into the parlour. Hordubal was lying with his arms behind his head, and looking up to the ceiling.
“Mammy wants to know if you want anything ?” she recited.
“I think, Polana,” said Juraj, “that Stepan ought to come back.”
The girl did not understand and opened her mouth: “And how are you?” she says.
“All right, thank you.”
Hafia ran out. “He’s all right, he says, “she announced to Polana.
“Quite all right?”
“Hm,” murmured the girl.
And then the afternoon silence fell. Hafia did not know what to do. You must stay at home, Polana said, in case your father wants something. Hafia played in front of the house with her doll, which Stepan had cut out for her. “You mustn’t go away,” she said to the doll. “Master is lying down, you must watch the yard. And don’t cry, or I shall spank you.”
Hafia went on tiptoes to peep into the parlour. Her father was sitting on the bed, nodding his head.
“What is mammy doing, Hafia?”
“She’s gone somewhere.”
Hordubal nodded. “Tell her that Stepan must come back. And Stepan can get that stallion back. Would you like to have, some little rabbits?”
“I should.”
“I shall make you a rabbit hutch, one like the miner Jensen had. Eh, Polana, in America there are things—I shall do everything.” He nodded his head. “Wait, I shall take you up on the clearing, there’s a strange hut—even Misa doesn’t know what it is. Go, go tell mammy that Stepan will come back.”
Hordubal felt satisfied, he lay down, and closed his eyes. It’s as dark here as it is in the mine. Bang, bang, with the hammer at the rock. And Stepan grins, all stone, he says. Yes, but you don’t know, you greenhorn, what work is. A fellow is known by what he does. And what’s the wood like, my sweet, you’ve got in the yard. All straight logs. And I—I used to chop up old stumps. That’s a job for a man, to chop up stumps, or dig out stones from the ground. Hordubal felt satisfied. I’ve done a lot, Polana, ah, God, a lot. It’s all right, it is as it ought to be. And Juraj, with his hands crossed, fell asleep.
He woke in the dusk, because the darkness felt oppressive. “Hafia,” he shouted, “Hafia, where’s Polana?” There was no answer, only from the distance came the sound of the cow-bells, the herds coming from pasture. Hordubal sprang up from the bed, and pulled on his trousers; I must open the gate for the cows. I feel all dizzy, that’s from lying down. He groped his way out, into the yard, and opened the gate wide. He felt queer, he gasped for breath. But praise be to God, I’m already up and out. The sound of the cow-bells draw nearer, it flowed like a river: everything ringing, as if with cow-bells, and the tinkling of the calves. Juraj felt like kneeling down; never before had he heard such great and glorious ringing. Nodding their heads, looking tremendous, two cows came into the yard, with full and gleaming udders. Juraj leaned against the gate, and he felt as well, as peaceful, as if he were praying.
Polana ran through the gate, hasty, breathless. “You’ve got up already?” she burst out. “And where’s Hafia?”
“Well, up,” murmured Juraj apologetically. “I’m all right now.”
“Go, go and lie down again,” commanded Polana. “In the morning—you’ll be quite all right.”
“As you like, my sweet, as you like,” said Juraj obediently and kindly. “I should be too much in the way here.” He closed the gate, latched it, and
slowly went into the parlour.
When they took him his supper, he was asleep.
BOOK II
CHAPTER I
“JURAJ HORDUBAL has been murdered!”
Geric, the mayor, hastily pulled on his coat. “Run, boy, for the police,” he commanded quickly. “Tell them to go to Hordubal’s.”
In Hordubal’s yard Polana was running about, wringing her hands. “Oh, Lord, Lord,” she cried, “Who’s done it! They’ve killed him, they’ve killed him!”
Hafia looked on from a corner, the neighbours stared over the fence, a body of men forced its way through the small gate. The mayor went straight up to Polana, and put his hand on her shoulder. “Stop that. And what’s happened to him? Where’s the wound?”
Polana trembled: “No—no—I don’t know, I haven’t been there, I couldn’t—”
The mayor gave her a shrewd glance. She was pale and rigid, she only forced herself to run about and lament. “And who saw him?”
Polana pressed her lips tightly together. But then the police came and shut the small gate in front of the people’s noses. It was the fat Gelnaj with his coat unbuttoned, and without a rifle, and with him was the new man, Biegl, who sparkled with freshness and zeal.
“Where is he?” inquired Gelnaj in a subdued voice. Polana pointed to the parlour and began to wail.
The American Hordubal was lying on the bed as if he were asleep. Gelnaj took his helmet off to the dead, but not to make it appear so, he wiped away the sweat. Geric hung about gloomily by the door. But Biegl went up to the dead man, and leaned over the bed. “Look here on his chest,” he said. “A drop of blood. It looks as if they’d stabbed him with something.”
“A family affair,” murmured the mayor.
Gelnaj turned slowly. “What do you mean by that, Geric ?”
The mayor shook his head. “Nothing.” Poor Juraj, he thought to himself.
Gelnaj scratched behind his ear. “Look, Charley, a broken window.” But Charley Biegl pulled away the shirt on the dead man’s chest, and looked beneath. “I wonder,” he said slowly. “It wasn’t a knife, and hardly any blood—”