"Heavens!"

Front matter

“HEAVENS!”

3em

5em

Front matter

"Heavens!"

One Shilling & Sixpence.

THE MODERN LIBRARY.

Biographical

BIOGRAPHICAL.

Alois Vojtěch Šmilovský, the author of the following novel, is considered in his native country (Bohemia) as one of its most successful modern writers of fiction. He was born in the town of Mladá Boleslav, the 24th of January, 1837, of an old wealthy patrician family. After completing the lower classes of the “gymnasium” (grammar school) in his native town, he was sent to the Academical Gymnasium in Prague; and, having gone through the higher forms there, entered the University of Prague, where he devoted himself to the study of i natural history.

In 1860 he became teacher of this branch at the gymnasium of Klatovy, in the south-western part of Bohemia, where he remained, first as supplent, then as real professor, until 1873, when he was transferred in the same capacity to the gymnasium of Litomyšl, in the east of Bohemia. In 1877 he was appointed Government Inspector of National Schools in the districts of Litomyšl and Polička. This laborious office he held until his death, which took place on the 20th of June, 1883.

Even as a student, Šmilovský followed closely the development of Bohemia’s national literature and music; and later on, while attending conscientiously to his public duties as professor, he was at the same time always busy with his pen.

As early as 1859 he published his first original attempt, a short novel, which was followed the year after by an essay entitled, Poet and Musician. Then there was a long pause of ten years, which, however, was filled up with very diligent literary work. From 1871 till his death his name was constantly before the reading public. Every year stories from his pen appeared in various periodicals; a volume of poems came out in 1874; and no less than eleven dramas (four tragedies and seven comedies) were found among his literary remains, besides several librettos for musical composition, and other poetical pieces. Some of his poems found an able composer in his friend L. E. Me̓chura, whose life and position in the Bohemian musical world Šmilovský made the subject of a separate essay in 1871.

His dramas are the least known; only three of them found their way to the stage; the rest have not been even printed yet.

His poems met with a much warmer reception, but the field in which he really excelled was fiction.

No less than twenty-one different tales of various lengths issued from his prolific pen, and were published between 1871 and 1884, the last of them after his death.

Of these, our translation Heavens! (Nebesa) and another story about the time of the awakening of the Bohemian nation, Za ranních červánkŭv (The Morning Dawn), the plot of which is woven round the person of the celebrated grammarian Dobrovský, are considered by many critics to be the best.

All Šmilovský’s novels are founded on real life and character, which he had a particular gift of observing closely. They are nearly all free from the sensational element, though rich enough in original incident. They develop a simple, natural plot, and tend not only to the amusement, but also to the improvement of the reader, without incurring, on the other hand, the reproach of P sententiousness or of moralizing. A warm patriotic is feeling pervades all his works, and an unobtrusive tendency to do good to his compatriots.

His chief power lies in the delineation of character. His stories abound in original figures, not the least interesting among which is Father Cvok in the following story. In the description of such manly, noble-minded, humane men, Šmilovský was particularly successful. Not less so are his aged persons—old-fashioned, blunt, outspoken characters—which he was rather fond of introducing; or again, wavering, though at heart good natured weaklings, like Baron Mundy; or practical men of common sense like Father Ledecký in our story, which he introduces for the sake of contrast. In some of his novels we also meet with characters of the lower serving-class, who exhibit no small degree of racy wit and humour. Downright bad, depraved characters Šmilovský did not like to make use of; they appear but rarely in his works, and when they do, he endeavours to show that even the very worst are not entirely devoid of some good point or other; just as, on the other hand, even it the best are not free from human weakness.

His female characters show less variety on the whole. They may generally be classed under two heads: the truly feminine, gentle, loving woman; and the imperious, cold, calculating natures, more given to reasoning and selfish ambition than to obeying the softer teaching of the heart. Both the Baroness Poc̓ernická and Jenny of this story belong to the last-named species. A good contrast of both kinds is formed by the representatives of the serving-class in this novel—the good-natured old Naninka, and the sharp spinster Regina; and similar characters occur also in Šmilovský’s other works.

His style is simple, and clear, and highly polished, and yet not overdone. He prefers short sentences to long elaborate periods, and spares no trouble in keeping to the genuine idiom of the Bohemian language, the purity of which is chiefly felt on making an attempt to translate it into another tongue. Many of his racy modes of expression are taken from the unalloyed idiom of national proverbs and sayings, and it is often difficult, and indeed almost impossible, to find their exact equivalents in any other language.

Šmilovský’s novels are firmly established in the hearts of his countrymen. May this specimen of them gain the approval of English readers too, and may this first attempt at translating a Bohemian work of fiction into English meet with a friendly reception, and pave the way for many of its successors.

Prague, 1894.

Chapter 1

HEAVENS!

The sky looked as if it had been swept; so cloudless, clear, and transparent. The sun in the midst of it, burning with delight and bliss; as well he might be, for he had just accomplished a grand piece of work! He had tripped the earth of her sad widow’s weeds, and adorned her for his bride.

There is not much use in dipping your pen in ink, for you will never be able to write down all the thoughts and feelings that come swarming up, treading on each other’s heels.

It is the second half of May, the time of the sweet lily of the valley, of syringas, of the horse-chestnut, of finches, thrushes, blackbirds, and—I don’t know what besides. It is a litany without end; you cannot sing it out.

Spring writes its own poem on earth’s face with flowery letters, and sings it with the skylark’s notes aloft in the skies. So let it be; let us not interfere.

From Záluz̓í to Suchdol (Drydale) a footpath leads of more than an hour’s walk. It winds along through fields, groves of hazel, beech, and underwood, down a slope to a meadow; on further to a brook; then through more fields and meadows to Suchdol . Goodness knows why it was ever called so! For dale there is none, but a plain as flat as a floor, and in the village there is nothing particularly dry , except perhaps the chimney-pots.

The rich verdure of the orchards is dotted with countless blossoms, and through the verdure and bloom the venerable thatched roofs of the cottages peep forth like mushrooms from among the moss, while the red tiles of the priest’s residence and schoolhouse, and here and there of a more recently built farmhouse, look like the red toadstools in a wood.

Nothing ventures to show itself higher up towards the blue sky, except the church with its very corpulent belfry and a small tower. The footpath from Záluz̓í goes close by the wooden railing of the last farmhouse. Here, in the shade of a blooming rowan, a man of about fifty years of age is standing, leaning upon a hawthorn stick and looking at random over the fields. You may see at once that he is the parish priest. His brown eyes are full of kindness, but are clouded over now with melancholy. The expression is not peevish, but sad and touching. No doubt cares are gnawing at his heart, else why should he stand in the midst of vernal rejoicing, of merriment and pleasure, like a thirsty musician? It is the Rev. Father Václav Cvok, the priest of Záluz̓í. He is a diligent labourer in the Lord’s vineyard, but does not partake at much wine himself—that is plain. All his exterior shows it; even his very boots! One of them has a patch on the right side, the other on the left. And his hat: There was a time when it was black; but now it is changing into a greenish brown, and shows that it has never had the habit of being sheltered by an umbrella. The coat is of a cut at least ten years out of date, and the elbows and seams tell of faithful service. Neither can Father Cvok boast of corpulence; his Orleans waistcoat is evidently too loose for him in the front; and the only bit of luxury to be seen upon him is a watch, attached to a hair chain, which is fastened in the middle with a gold heart. What can it be that weighs so heavily on his mind?

I’ll whisper it into your ear. The poor man has not a farthing left in his pocket, and no provisions in his house! His wood is all burnt, not one fowl more in his yard, and the ancient maid, Naninka, his old housekeeper, has used up the last grain of flour for to-day’s dinner. He is on his way to Suchdol to borrow five florins from his reverend brother, Father Ledecký, as there is no prospect of any speedy christening or funeral to help him out of his difficulty; and, to add to his distress, he already owes Father Ledecký ten florins, which he borrowed from him at the beginning of Advent, and has never been able to pay back since.

The venerable shepherd of the sheepfold of Záluz̓í heaved a heavy sigh under his rowan tree, scratched his left arm above the elbow, turned his eyes once more to the left towards Záluzí, then to the right in the direction of Suchdol. He was evidently undecided whether to return home or to venture to Suchdol. At last he wiped the sweat from his wrinkled brow with a blue cotton handkerchief, and came to a decision. Right foot foremost, he stepped out towards Suchdol.

To the left of the gate leading up to the house there stands, between two wild chestnut trees, the statue of St. John of Nepomuk. The stately old trees were covered with blossoms, and a whole flock of sparrows were disporting themselves among the branches. The priest stood still, took off his hat, and looked up for a good while at the trees. The sight of them seemed to brighten his eyes and gladden his heart; even his skinny face relaxed into a careless smile.

“The dear, good trees!” he said to himself; “who would not find pleasure in looking at them? And thou St. John, standing here under the blossoms and the sparrows’ love-making, as I, with my empty pocket, in May, the honeymoon of the year! Oh, dear and blessed friend, intercede for me, so that when I come back from Ledecký I may be able to thank thee with a grateful look!”

Then he entered the yard, and passed, with a drooping head, under the windows of the house. The dog lying on the threshold stood up, stretched his legs, and giving a bark for a welcome, ran to meet him.

At the door leading from the kitchen to Father Ledecký’s sitting-room, the energetic profile of Miss Regina, the cook and housekeeper of Suchdol, appeared. Her nose bore a strong resemblance to the beak of a parrot just going to give a peck.

“There is Heavens! here again,” she informed her master snappishly. “Don’t lend him anything, I tell you.”

“Oh, never fear!” answered Ledecký, as serious as book.

“Oh yes, that’s just what you always say,” said Miss Regina, sharply, “but in the end you let yourself be twisted round like a cane.”

“Well, I’m not a beech of the forest; I’m a Christian man, I hope!” said the priest. Just at that moment there was a knock at the door, Regina drew her expressive profile from the half-open kitchen door, and retreated into the background, taking care to leave the door ajar, that she might not lose a word of what her master and his visitor would say to each other.

Chapter 2

II.

“The Lord Jesus Christ be praised!” was Cvok’s greeting to Ledecký, saluting him on both cheeks after the clerical manner.

“Come in, reverend brother,” said the Suchdol friend, welcoming him. “Sit down—sit down,” pointing to a chair near the oaken table, which stood in the middle of the room.

They both sat down. Ledecký placed his chair so that he could keep an eye upon the kitchen door. Cvok turned his back to it. “I dare say you are tired,” said Ledecký.

“Not much,” replied Cvok. “Thank God, my legs are still as fresh as fiddle-strings, and I am as active as a minnow. There is no fear that the clerical complaint will ever touch me. I think, as far as the well-being of legs is concerned, the living of Záluzí is worth gold!”

“Why do you say ‘the clerical complaint’?” said Ledecký, reprovingly; “as if the gout was not found anywhere except in clerical dwellings. This looks as if you ridiculed your own calling; and yet I know that you are a very worthy labourer in the Lord’s vineyard!”

“Only I get marvellously little wages,” sighed poor Cvok, fixing his eyes upon the table.

At the kitchen door behind Cvok’s back the profile of spinster Regina appeared. Her eyes plainly said, “Do you see what he is driving at? He is just preparing his way. Don’t lend him anything!”

Ledecký looked steadily towards her, as if he would say, “Don’t you be afraid! I won’t be taken in.”

To Cvok he said, “True, your living is certainly no gold-mine. Záluzí is one of the poorest of villages; every corner is full of poverty there. But, in spite of that, you need not have cobwebs in your pocket, if you were only another sort of man, and would follow good advice when you get it.”

Cvok did not answer.

Ledecký went on: “I know you don’t like this sort of preaching. I admit that it is a beautiful thing to be such a pastor as you imagine, and as you yourself try to be. But this beautiful thing, this ideal pastor, is very unpractical, as your own form and figure plainly show. Where is the use of it? A priest is a man of flesh and blood like every one else, and must accommodate himself to the circumstances in which he is placed in his clerical office. Our country people are not what they are described in novels; if they are not absolutely obliged to give, you won’t shake a penny out of them. And then, when they see besides that their pastor does not seem to care particularly about money, and that he has neither the will nor the energy to demand and obtain what in all justice is due for his labour, they will tie up their purses: tight enough to choke them. You know, my dear Cvok, I do not wish to remind you of payment. I only mention it as a proof and an example. I lent you ten florins at the beginning of Advent; you promised you would take good care to pay them back, at least by instalments, and I really think you might have settled that little debt by this time.”

“And , if you please, tell me how I could have done so?” inquired Cvok , meekly.

“I’ll tell you how immediately,” answered Ledecký, quietly. “Last Shrove-tide Farmer Rousa had his son married in your village, and provided a snug bride for him. It was you who married them in the church. How much did you get for that?”

“My goodness! what could I have got?” answered Cvok. “They asked me and old Naninka to the wedding-feast, and gave us a big parcel of the good things to take home with us, which gave us enough to eat for about four days; and some goslings besides,—that was all.”

“That’s as good as nothing, my dear Cvok; you ought to have asked forty florins for the ceremony. Ten of them you ought to have paid me, and with the rest you should have bought a decent new coat for yourself.” Cvok began to feel warm, and a bitter smile played about his lips, while he moved restlessly upon the chair.

“I hope, with God’s help, I shall yet be able to pay you your ten florins,” he said.

“I do not want to remind you of paying them,” said Ledecký, defending himself. “My only intention was to point out the mistake you made for your own good, because I am sure there is nobody else who would hold the looking-glass to you as openly and candidly as I do. Otherwise, honour bright, I truly respect and love you in spite of all your faults. What matter about the ten florins! Let them go to the bottom. If you were at a pinch, I’d gladly help you with another ten!”

At this moment spinster Regina rushed into the room like a whirlwind , bringing a jug of beer, a plate of bread and butter, and the salt-cellar.

“I heard the reverend father of Záluz̓í talking here,” she began, spreading a napkin before him on the table, “and I thought a little refreshment might be agreeable after the walk, even though it is nothing better than bread and a glass of beer.”

“Thank you,” said Cvok. “Indeed, to tell the truth, I am beginning to feel a little hungry.”

“It is gladly given,” added Regina; and as she retreated to the kitchen, she gave another significant glance at Ledecký. He looked for his pipe in the corner, stuffed it, and lit it.

Puffing away, he then went on: “As we are once at it, ’tis as well to have it out. When a person comes to see of you, and wants to put his stick out of his hand in a corner, there’s sure to be a heap of books there already; if he wants to lay his hat down on a bed, ’tis all covered over with newspapers and magazines lying about; if he wants to sit down, there is a pile of books on the chair, and another on the table. Books and again books everywhere! What is the use of all that rubbish? I take an almanack and our one clerical paper, and have more than enough in them. Why do you throw away your money on secular books? As your income is so low, I’m sure you must have a fine bill at the bookseller’s?”

“I pay him with potatoes,” replied Cvok, carelessly.

“With potatoes!” exclaimed the other. “Who ever heard of such a thing?

“I’ll explain, ”began Cvok. “When, after being a curate for eighteen years, I at last got the small living of Záluz̓í, I thought to myself, ‘Now, as you are at last happily your own master, you’ll buy the necessary books, and will be able to keep pace with the progress of the times, even in the solitude of your country village.’ So, whenever I went to the town, I chose at the bookseller’s whatever books I liked.”

“And did not pay for them?” interrupted Ledecký.

“Wait a bit. Then the bookseller sent me of his own accord, from time to time, whatever he thought I might like. I had no end of pleasure with them; but then, the Saturday after New Year’s Day I got a bill for forty florins.”

“For goodness gracious sake!” exclaimed Ledecký. Where did you get the money?”

“I had fifteen florins saved. But how to get the rest?—that was the question that troubled me sorely. For three weeks I went about thinking of nothing else. I had to go to the town at last. My heart almost failed me as I entered the bookshop. The old bookseller smiled when he saw me; the poor fellow thought I was bringing him money. At last I stammered out that I had only fifteen florins. He made a serious face. That very moment the good Lord sent me help from an unexpected quarter. The bookseller’s wife came into the shop, and wanted money from him for potatoes. There happened to be a fair in the town that day. A blessed thought dashed through my brain. ‘Heavens!’ I said to myself, ‘you’re a made man now; the potatoes will save you!’ I told the bookseller not to buy any potatoes at the fair, as I had enough of them at home, and would gladly give them to him for the books, cheaper than he could buy them in the market, and brought to his very door. ‘Now, that’s really a curious coincidence,’ said the bookseller. ‘We want a great deal of potatoes in our family, and, if it suits you, I have no objection to your settling your book account now, and in future as well, with potatoes.’ ‘It is a bargain,’ I said, as we shook hands upon it . And now I reap from my fields not only potatoes , but also books.”

“It would have been wiser,” observed Ledecký, “if you had brought your potatoes to the market and sold them there. There’s nothing like cash. And then, as we are talking about it at all, I must tell you that your constant poring over books is bringing you into bad repute with the clergy. They think that you are a rationalist. If you please, how could you forget yourself so far, at the Church feast of Radesín, as to praise Voltaire up to the skies before the faces of so many brother-priests? I was playing cards at a little distance from you , and only half heard your argumentation; but you vexed the vicar very much; and who knows what might have happened if we had not talked him over, and made him think you had taken a drop too much , and did not know what you were saying?”

“I was as sober as a jug of water,” said Father Cvok, defending himself. “And , indeed , I did not praise Voltaire up to the skies at all. I maintained , on the contrary, that he was a filthy egoist, a treacherous, deceiving fellow, impudent and violent in his attacks, full of hatred and bitterness, and that his powerful wit consisted only of icy sarcasm . But I did say that, in spite of all this human dross and dirt, he was undoubtedly a great genius, and from the beginning to the end of his philosophy kept to the belief in a personal God, and the immortality of the soul. When , shortly before his death, Franklin paid him a visit in Paris, he laid his right hand upon the head of his grandchild, and said, blessing him, ‘God and liberty;’ and to Baron Holbach he wrote ‘Not to believe in God is just as illogical as to look at a watch and not to believe in a watchmaker.’”

Ledecký knocked the ashes out of his pipe, saying, “Let us talk of something else. By the way, what do you hear about Miss Jenny of Labutín?”

“She is still in Prague with the family,” replied Cvok.

“And does she not write to you? She used to be so often with you for a talk, that people remarked it in your village and elsewhere on the estate.”

“Miss Jenny is a clever, high-spirited girl; it is a pity that she must go in petticoats. She has a good knowledge of French and other literature, and has, for a woman, a very fair idea of what the aims of literature in general should be. We used to pass the time with excellent talk, and she would often say that in the whole of Labutín there was not one real man or woman; that they were all mere puppets, made up of society manners and insipid phrases.”

“What! not even Baron Mundy?”

“I only repeat what she used to say.”

“And has she not written to you from Prague?”

“She wrote twice in the autumn, but about nothing in particular. Since New Year I have not heard from her.”

Ledecký fixed his eyes penetratingly on Cvok for a moment or two, and then muttered to himself—

“As guileless as a child!”

At this moment Miss Regina ran into the room quite out of breath.

“Be quick, your reverence!” she cried excitedly. “Make haste! It’s sitting again on the plum tree near the beehives!”

Ledecký jumped up, snatched a gun that was hanging behind a press, inspected the hammer, and ran through the back door into the garden, Regina and Cvok at his heels. Just behind the corner of the house they stood still. Upon a high plum tree near the garden wall, where the beehives stood, a beautiful bluish-green bird, about the size of a crow, sat preening its breast with its beak.

Father Ledecký at once laid the musket to his cheek, aimed at the bird and fired. The next moment the bird tumbled down into the grass.

The lucky sportsman ran over everything in his eagerness to find the prey, and came back showing it up triumphantly to Cvok and the housekeeper.

“Isn’t that a fine bird?” he said to Cvok. “I can tell you it isn t easy to find one like it.”

“Heavens! I never saw a bird like that before in all my life!”

“It’s very rare. One finds it very seldom in Bohemia—once in a lifetime, perhaps. And it is as shy as it can be. But for all that I hit it!” he added, with proud satisfaction.

“What do you call it?”

“It is a bee-eater—Merops apiaster,” replied Ledecký, showing off his Latin.

“But why did you kill it?” asked Cvok, reproachfully.

“You are a regular child, my dear fellow,” replied Ledecký. “Why did I kill it? Well, in the first place, it is a pleasure to shoot such a rare bird; secondly, the merops likes to eat bees, and therefore damages my hives; and lastly, if I get it stuffed, it is well worth five florins.”

The word “five” gave Cvok a start. Following Miss Regina and Ledecký into the house, he reflected, “Now, there is a strange thing! To him the florins come of themselves, sitting on plum trees, while I can’t screw up courage enough to ask him to lend me one of them. The day is on the wane. I must be thinking of going home; and I can’t go back to Záluz̓í with an empty pocket, whatever I do. As soon as we get into the room, I’ll ask him on the spot.”

But spinster Regina was in no hurry to leave the room. The word “five” had not escaped her sharp ears either, a while ago. Luckily , Ledecký was in good humour to-day; in great glee at having shot the merops, for which he had already for a long time been on the watch. He said to his housekeeper, “Regina, bring us another jug of beer to celebrate the lucky shot.”

As Regina was on her way to the kitchen for the beer, a lad all out of breath, with eyes ready to start out of his head, rushed into the room from the passage.

Cvok started when he saw him. The lad was from Záluz̓í.

“Have you come for me, Kozman?” he asked the messenger.

The boy tried first to recover his breath, and then said, “Yes, I have. Miss Naninka sends word the reverend father is to run home as fast as he can, because something dreadfully particular has happened.”

“In my house?”

“Yes, in your house.”

“Heavens! I hope it’s not on fire!”

“No, it isn’t; but she said that something dreadfully particular had happened.”

Cvok snatched up his hat and stick, and took leave hurriedly of Ledecký. Only when he had shut the door behind him, he remembered that he was going without the five florins he had come for. He stepped back to Ledecký, and said humbly—

“I beg of you, dear friend and brother, lend me five florins. I have not a farthing in my whole house, and now, to crown all, some misfortune or other has happened!”

Ledecký lent him what he asked for without saying a word. Cvok shook his hand gratefully and rushed from the house.

“Take it easy!” called out Ledecký after him. “Don’t lose your senses! And remember ’tis better to come half an hour late, than to be visiting the apothecary’s shop for half a year afterwards.”

But Cvok was already out of hearing. Curiosity, anxiety, and fear of what might be awaiting him at home, had winged his feet; and though he had the much-needed “five” in his pocket, he even passed by St. John without giving him one grateful look.

Chapter 3

III.

As sometimes a beauty, before going to bed, stands before her looking-glass and arrays herself in her rarest jewels, so on this day did Nature deck herself out for her evening rest. The sun, descending majestically from the blue heavens above to the horizon, shone with gorgeous splendour. The windows of the church glowed like flames of fire, and the verdant tree-tops were tinged with gold. The reeds in the pond, which was about a quarter of an hour’s walk from Suchdol, seemed bathed in molten gold; while a delicate haze spread like a thin veil over the fields and meadows.