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| Czech Pronunciation Guide | |
| Introduction | p. 7 |
| The Footprint | p. 11 |
| Elegy (Footprint II) | p. 19 |
| Time Stands Still | p. 32 |
| Story Without Words | p. 35 |
| The Lost Way | p. 39 |
| Grafitto | p. 46 |
| The Mountain | p. 51 |
| Temptation | p. 77 |
| Reflections | p. 82 |
| The Waiting Room | p. 87 |
| Help! | p. 93 |
| Lida | p. 98 |
| Love Song (Lida II) | p. 116 |
| Two Fathers | p. 135 |
| Three | p. 142 |
| Helena | p. 151 |
| At the Castle | p. 165 |
| Money | p. 188 |
| The Bully | p. 208 |
| The Shirts | p. 227 |
| Insulted | p. 237 |
| The Tribunal | p. 253 |
| Table of Contents provided by Blackwell. All Rights Reserved. |
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At the Castle
D, Mary, D," Olga repeated with mechanistic patience. Little Mary reluctantly hammered out a very easy piano étude they'd already been at for fourteen days, but the more time they spent on it, the worse the result. That detested childish melody haunted Olga even in her dreams.
"D, Mary, look: C D G D," Olga hummed the notes and played them on the piano. "Try to pay better attention: C D G D - D, Mary, D! Why do you persist in playing E?"
Mary didn't know why she was playing badly, she only knew that she was being forced to play. Her eyes flashed with hatred, she kicked her legs against the piano bench, and at the earliest possible moment she would run off to her papa; meanwhile, she willfully played E and then E again. Olga abandoned her efforts and gazed out the window with the eyes of a martyr. The sun shone, the great trees on the park-like grounds bowed before the hot wind, but there was no freedom, no lack of constraint out on those grounds, not even in the rye fields beyond - ah, when would the hour end? E again, once again E!
"D, Mary, D" Olga repeated, filled with despair, and suddenly she burst out: "You'll never know how to play!"
The young girl rose to her feet, scorched Olga with a glare of ancestral pride, and replied: "Miss Olga, why don't you say that in front of Papa?"
Olga bit her lip. "Play!" she shouted with undue sharpness. She caught sight of the child's hateful glance and emphatically, impatiently, she began to count: "One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. C D G D. Wrong. One, two, three, four ..."
The door to the drawing room swayed. No doubt the old count was standing behind it, eavesdropping once again. Olga lowered her voice. "One, two, three, four. C D G D. Much better, Mary!" Much better it certainly was not, but the old count was listening. "One, two, three, four. Much better now. That wasn't so difficult, was it? One, two ..."
The door flew open and the lame count entered, his cane clattering. "Mary, Mary, wie gehts? How beautifully you play! Eh, Miss?"
"Oh, yes, my lord," Olga fervently agreed as she rose from the piano bench.
"Mary, du hast Talent," the lame old man cried out, and suddenly - it was terrible to see - he fell to his knees with a loud thump, and with what sounded like a sobbing wail he nuzzled his child's neck, planting wild, noisy kisses. "Du hast Talent," he murmured, "du bist so gescheit, Mary, so brilliant! Tell me, what sort of present should Papa give you?"
"Danke, nichts," replied Mary, her small, ticklish shoulders wriggling beneath his kisses. "I'd just like ..."
"What, what would you like?" asked the count enthusiastically.
"I'd just like to have not so many lessons."
"Ha, ha, natürlich," the count laughed, enchanted, "wie gescheit bist du! Eh, miss?"
"Yes," Olga said in a whisper.
"Wie gescheit," repeated the old man, and he started to stand up. Olga sprang to help him. "Let me be," the count fiercely shouted, and on hands and knees like an animal he tried to rise to his feet. Olga turned away. Then five convulsive fingers gripped her arm, and thus supporting his entire weight, the old count stood up. By some miracle, Olga did not collapse under the weight of this huge, frightful, apoplectically palsied body; it was an act above and beyond courage. Little Mary laughed.
The count straightened himself, affixed his pince-nez, and gazed at Olga with some surprise, as if he'd never seen her before.
"Miss Olga," he said, now addressing her in English.
"Please?"
"Miss Olga," he continued in English, "you speak too much during the lessons; you confound the child with your eternal admonishings. You will make me the pleasure to be a little kinder."
"Yes, sir," Olga whispered, blushing to her hairline. Mary understood that her papa was scolding Olga, and haughtily pretended that it did not concern her.
"My respects to you, miss," the count said in his odd, old-fashioned Czech.
Olga curtsied and left. But on her way out, she was struck by a need for revenge, and she returned, her eyes flashing, to say, "Mary, you might acknowledge it when I take my leave."
"Ja, mein Kind, das kannst du," the old count benignly agreed. Mary smirked and tossed off a quick little curtsey.
Scarcely had Olga gone beyond the door when she pressed her hand to her forehead. Oh, heavens, I can't bear this, I can't! Oh, heavens, for five months not a day, not even an hour has passed when they haven't tormented me ... But in fact they don't torment me, she said to herself as she proceeded along the chilly hall with her fingers pressed to her temples. I'm a stranger here, a servant, and no one gives me a thought. This is simply the way they are, God knows, and no one is ever so alone as when among strangers. But Mary is wicked, something within her fiercely shouted, and she hates me, she wants to bedevil me and she knows how to do it. Osvald is a rascal, but Mary is wicked. The countess is a proud woman and she insults me, but Mary is wicked. The child I so wanted to love! The child with whom I spend the entire day, the entire day! My God, how many more years will I be here?
Two chambermaids came giggling along the corridor. As soon as they noticed Olga, they fell silent and greeted her with sidelong glances. From pure envy of their laughter, Olga nearly snapped at them; she would have liked to order them about in a lofty way, but she didn't know how. If at least she could be in the servants' hall with those girls, it occurred to her, squealing well into the night, gossiping and chasing each other, and Franz the footman with them, every moment one or another of them screaming with laughter - oh, heavens, it was disgusting! A frightful memory forced its way into her head: yesterday she had surprised Franz with the scullery maid in an empty guest room next to Olga's bedroom. Olga could have struck him in the face with a small, raging fist for the idiotic way he grinned while buttoning himself up. She buried her fingers in her face. No, no, I can't bear this! C D G D, C D G D ... But at least the servant girls enjoy themselves. At least they're not so lonely, they don't take their meals with the gentlefolk, they jabber all day long, and in the evening they sing softly in the courtyard ... If at least they would let me join them in the evening! Sweetly, melodiously she could hear the duet they'd been singing last night under the old linden:
Oh, how my heart is aching,
Oh, how I could weep.
She had listened at her window, her eyes filled with tears, and sung along with them under her breath; she forgave them everything and extended her hand to them in ardent friendship. Girls, I am truly just like you! I too am only a servant girl, the unhappiest of us all!
The unhappiest of all, Olga repeated to herself as she proceeded along the hall. What was it the count said? "Miss Olga, you speak too much during the lesssons. You only confuse the child with your - everlasting - reprimands. You will do me the pleasure of being - a little - kinder." She repeated it word by word, so as not to lose a drop of bitterness. She clenched her fist, burning with anger and pain. Yes, this was her weakness: she took her work as governess too seriously. She had arrived at the castle glowing with enthusiasm, already in love with the little girl to be entrusted to her care. She had hurled herself passionately into instruction. Zealous, meticulous, brimming with knowledge, she had believed wholeheartedly in the importance of education. But now she merely drudged wearily through her bits of grammar and arithmetic, letting herself become upset over and over again, banging her knuckles on the table and then fleeing the schoolroom in tears, while little Mary stayed there, victorious in her defiance and her mistakes. At first she had played with Mary exuberantly, passionately, always in high spirits, as engrossed as a child with Mary's toys, but eventually she found that she was being toyed with under Mary's cold, bored, mocking glance, and the game was over. Olga trailed along behind her little charge like a shadow, not knowing what to say to her or how to amuse her. Accepting the task as a sacred trust, filled with resolutions of love, gentleness, and patience, but now look at her blazing eyes, hear how violently and erratically her heart beats, that heart which now feels only pain, not love. "A - little - kinder," Olga repeated to herself, horrified: God in heaven, can I ever be kind again?
All upset, her cheeks blazing, she ran between the two rows of metal-plated figures, knights in armor, which used to make her laugh. A thousand replies to the count's admonishments occurred to her, words of great dignity, replies both decisive and proud, which would ensure her importance forever in that house. My lord, she might say with head held high, I know what I want: I want Mary to gain a thorough understanding of all things and to learn self-discipline; I want to make of her someone who will not permit herself to take the wrong path in anything. My lord, it is not a matter of false notes on the piano, but of false upbringing. I cannot love Mary and not be concerned about her faults; it is because I love her that I will be as strict with her as I am with myself. - Upon saying all this to herself, her eyes shining and her heart lifted from its recent pain, Olga became almost cheerful; she felt relieved, and she firmly resolved that soon, tomorrow, she would have a word with the count. The count himself was not so bad, he had his generous moments, and after all, he suffered so much! If only there weren't those frightful, pale, domineering eyes staring out from behind his pince-nez!
She went out in front of the castle, dazzled by the sunlight; damp air rose from the glistening pavement, which had been sprinkled with water not long before. "Watch out, Miss Olga," Osvald shouted in his breaking voice, and then a wet soccer ball bounded up into Olga's white skirt. Osvald howled with laughter but stopped when he saw the poor girl standing there stunned. The skirt was splattered with mud; Olga gathered it up and without a word of reproach began to sob. Osvald turned red and stammered, "I didn't see you, miss."
"Beg your pardon, miss." These words, in English, came from Osvald's tutor, Mister Kennedy, who in white shirt and trousers was lolling about on the lawn; with a single movement he leaped up, gave Osvald a cuff on the head, and lay down again. All Olga could see was her skirt; she had been especially fond of this white outfit. Without a word she turned and went back inside, controlling herself with all her might to keep from bursting out in tears.
By the time she opened the door to her room, her throat was shaking with the need to weep. She stood there in complete amazement, unable to understand what was happening: in the middle of the room, seated in an armchair, was the countess, and a chambermaid was rummaging through her, Olga's, wardrobe ...
"Ah, c'est vous," the countess greeted her without turning around.
"Oui, madame la comtesse," Olga forced out, scarcely breathing, her eyes staring in alarm.
The chambermaid pulled out an entire armful of clothing. "My lady, it's not here, I'm sure of it."
"Very vell then," replied the countess, rising heavily to go. Olga, stunned, did not even think to step away from the door. The countess halted three steps in front of her. "Mademoiselle?"
"Oui, madame."
"Vous n'attendez pas, peut-être, que je m'excuse?"
"Non, non, madame!" exclaimed the young woman.
"Alors il n'y pas pourquoi me barrer le passage." The countess's r's rumbled in her throat.
"Ah, pardon, madame la comtesse," whispered Olga, swiftly making way for her. The countess and the chambermaid left, and all that remained were the scattered articles of clothing on the table and the bed.
Olga sat in the armchair as if made of wood; tears passed her by. They had been going through her wardrobe as if she were some thieving maid. "You are not, perhaps, waiting for me to apologize?" No, no, countess, God forbid that you should ever apologize to someone in your service! Here are my pockets, there's my purse, have a good look through everything, to see what I have stolen. I am poor and surely dishonest. Olga stared at the floor, stunned. Now at last she knew why she had so often found her dresses and linens in disarray. And I eat with them at the same table! I answer, smile, provide companionship, force myself to be cheerful ... Olga was overcome with boundless humiliation. Her eyes were staring, tearless, her clenched hands were pressed against her breast; she was incapable of thought, there was only her heart pounding painfully, horribly.
A fly settled on one of her her clasped hands, rubbed its tiny head, attended to its wings, scurried to and fro - but the hands did not move. From time to time a hoof stamped or a chain rattled in the stable. Crockery clinked in the pantry, a hawk shrieked out over the grounds, a train whistled at a distant curve in the track. Eventually, it was too long a time even for a fly, it jerked open its wings and flew through the open window. Absolute silence stretched out over the castle.
One, two, three, four. Four o'clock. Yawning noisily, a kitchen maid came to prepare tea. Rapid steps crossed the courtyard, at the well the winch screaked, and a certain haste was noticeable in the house. Olga rose, passed her hands across her forehead, and set about arranging her dresses neatly on the table. Then she knelt by the bureau, took out her linens, and laid them on the bed. Her books she placed on the chair, and when she was quite ready she stood above it all, as if standing over the ruins of Jerusalem, and rubbed her forehead: What do I really want from them?
Why am I doing this?
I will leave, a clear, distinct voice within her replied. I will give an hour's notice and I will leave tomorrow at five o'clock in the morning. Old Vavrys will take my trunk to the station. But that can't be done, protested Olga, dismayed; where would I go from here? How would I manage without a position? - I'll go home, replied the voice that, so far, had thought everything through for her. Of course Mama will cry, but Papa will approve. It's good this way, my little girl, he'll say, better honor than a good table.
Continue...
Excerpted from CROSS ROADS by Karel Capek
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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