Page:The Czechoslovak Review, vol3, 1919.djvu/178



Old Foltýn slung across his shoulder an enormous drum, the venerable relic of the glorious patrimonial times, and came out before the castle. It seemed that the indulgent Father Time preserved the drummer for the drum’s own sake, for the tall, bony figure of Foltýn—very erect after the military fashion, inside an antique Uhlan’s mantle, with face wrinkled into innumerable folds though still possessing the vestige of its former fresh glow and clear, blue eyes of its youthful appearance, wilh coarse grey moustache and a grey stubble upon his divided chin, with a wide scar upon his brow and a dignified self-restraint in every movement—was as a living remnant of bygone feudal glory. Old Foltýn was the castle gatekeep, an office hereditary in his family. As in the Middle Ages the vassal families dedicated their efforts exclusively to the service of their own lord, so also the Foltýns restricted their ambitions to the positions of porters, overseers, henchmen, shepherds and wardens in the services of the noble proprietors of this castle. Yes, one member of them even attained to the dignity of a footman with one of the former gentry, thus becoming, of course, a boast and a proud recollection of his extensive relations.

Well then, old Foltýn stepped out before the castle along with his drum, seemingly to call the head of the village and his councillors together for some extremely important official business; in reality, alas! only to assemble an army of old women for the gentry's field-work.

Cocking his head a bit to one side, he brandished his drumsticks over his ancient drum. But what now? After a few prodigious beginnings, his productions culminated suddenly in one dull thud. I am convinced that many an old woman, upon hearing that lone, dismal sound, dropped her spoon in surprise and quickened her ears; then, as the mysterious sound remained the last one, she surely donned her headdress over her grey pleats, and running to the opposite cottage, met the female resident of it and read upon her lips the question which she herself was preparing to utter: what has happened to old Foltýn that he has concluded his afternoon’s artistic feat by such an unseemly turn?

The thing happened in this way. Had you but stood, at the given moment in Foltýn’s place and possessed his falcon eyes, you’d have seen, in the roadbend at the foot of the forest, a certain dark object which was nearing the village with terrific rapidity. Later on you’d distinguish a pair of horses and an equipage whose form was, in those regions, but seldom seen.

When the gate-keep reached this point in his observations, he abruptly came to from a complete state of petrifaction to which the appearance of the above mentioned object had reduced him, and hurried, quick as his legs could carry him, back to the castle.

The Adjunct Beruška was just casting a sorrowful, parting glance towards a remarkably fine piece of roast, ominously soaring above which was the fork of his esteemed principal, when Foltýn, drum and all, without giving any advance sign of entering whatever, broke into the room. He presented a singular spectacle. White as chalk, his eyes wildly astare, drops of perspiration trickling down his forehead, his lips moved without producing a sound while his hand aimlessly waved a drumstick in the air. All present turned, in painful expectancy from the table and towards him, fearing beforehand the news whose terrible character was clearly visible in the old man’s features.

“The gen—gentry!” he blurted out, at last.

“What?” shot back the director, the fork falling from his hand upon the dish before him.

“The gentry—at foot of the forest!” answered Foltyn, with dreadful certainty. The director flew to his feet, and seizing his best coat, began putting it on over his wild-hued dressing gown; his wife, for reasons mysterious, set about the hasty removal of the silver table service; Miss Melanie ran, fluttering, across the scene; Beruška stood, alone of thorough composure, gazing with quiet satisfaction at his superior, whom Nemesis had surprised so unexpectedly at his favorite diversion of choosing the best roast portions.

To explain all these phenomena, I shall have to apprize the reader that this castle—perhaps for its remoteness and its unsightly aspect—was the least favorite with its owners. Since the days of the old lord, who had spent a short time here before his death, not one of its noble proprietors was seen among its faded walls. The rooms of the first story, reserved for the gentry, were filled with truly useless extravagance: spiders, their sole occupants, swung upon fine threads from the showy ceilings down to the soft rugs on the floors, interweaving with their silken skeins, the richly carved backs of chairs and lounges that were covered with velvet. The officials and servants of the castle knew their masters but from hearsay. They pictured them therefore as well as they could, of course in colors largely ideal.

From oficial communications, various tales, rumors that circulated from one manor to another, conjectures even, they formed their