An Anthology of Czechoslovak Literature/The Recruits

“WELL, so it’s morning already. I wish to God it didn’t shine on me,” thought Mišo Dzúrik to himself, as he woke up. His head was tousled and the confusion inside it was like a Jewish huxter’s den. “And why is the bed turning round with me? Ugh, what a taste there is in my mouth, ugh!”

He tried to stand up, but one foot went to the left and the other to the right. Both of them were shaky.

“Brr,” he shivered, making a wry face. “I do feel ill.”

The previous evening, far into the night, he had been at Moses’ tavern. They had had something to eat, it was supposed to have been goose; there had been a lot of drinking and even more smoking. It was this which had left the taste in his mouth and the confusion in his head.

“I suppose I had better get up, if it must be. Well, here goes, then.” He yawned and eyed the clothes which he was to put on. They were such as he wouldn’t have stolen from a scarecrow. The trousers were one mass of patches, while on the jacket the lining shone through.

“Have you got up yet, Mišo?” came the sorrowful voice of the distressed woman who had just entered the room. She was short, reaching scarcely to Mišo’s shoulder. Nobody would have believed that this tiny woman had given birth to such a giant, and had nursed him at her breast. “Haven’t you had any sleep yet?”

​Mišo’s face puckered up still more when he saw his mother before him. “I don’t need any more sleep, mother. I slept well and I’ve woke up. I wish to God I hadn’t woke up,” he added in a churlish voice, as he cast a sullen glance at her.

“Why are you angry?” she reproached him tremblingly. “I am not to blame, am I?”

“Who is, then? Perhaps I am, eh?” he replied in a tone of disapproval. He saw that it wounded her to the heart, but some evil spirit whispered to him: Good, that’s it. When you are suffering, let others suffer, too.” And he added: “Why aren’t I a cripple, like Jan Rybár, or half-witted, like . . .”

“Don’t rail against God, it was His will,” she was about to admonish him, but the words stuck in her throat. Her heart was aching as if somebody had seized it with a pair of tongs. “How good, how obedient he was to me, and he has become like this. Will he always be so?”

She returned to the kitchen to unburden her heart by weeping. But she found no tears to efface this grief.

When she came back, Mišo was already dressed. But what a change. Yesterday in fine holiday clothes, to-day in frayed, dirty rags, like a vagabond.

She placed on the table a plate of noodles with warmed-up milk. His favourite dish. From the plate was wafted a pleasant smell of milk and pepper. Mišo did not even look at it. He sat down and sank into oppressive and mournful thoughts.

“Why don’t you eat?” she asked him.

“I’ve had enough to eat,” he answered stubbornly, roughly.

“But you’ve scarcely eaten anything at all. The ​whole week you’ve been starving yourself. You’ll be ill.”

“I don’t want to eat,” he retorted sullenly. He liked being able to act like that; never mind if it at once upset his mother. He looked at her as she sat there, subdued, crouching as if she were about to collapse. Perhaps he felt sorry for her, perhaps he was urged by a real need, when he said: If you want to do me a favour, go into the pantry and fetch me a nice plate of soup. Some cold cabbage soup would suit me best.”

His mother, delighted that she could at least do something for him, trotted off to the pantry. But while she was ladling out the cabbage soup, the thought occurred to her: “Oh, God, he’s going to-day. God knows when I shall see him. There’ll be a war, they’ll kill him; disease will come and overpower him. And when he’s dying, he’ll complain of his mother: She fed me on cabbage soup.’” She would have poured it back, but then she was afraid he would complain that she begrudged him even cold cabbage soup.

“But it’s cold, it’s no good. I’ll warm it up for you. I’ll stew a little bacon in it. Such cold soup is no good.” She tried to make her voice sound more cheerful. She waited to see whether her son would at least consider her suggestion.

Give it to me as it is. I don’t mind if it is cold. Bacon’s all right for you.” He was very glad that he could refuse his mother’s wish.

She stood by the fireplace and looked fixedly at her son. She looked, not only with her downcast, tear-stained eyes; with her whole motherly heart she looked at him every fibre of her heart trembled with sorrow and hope that he would comfort her. She felt as if her ​heart were being torn to pieces and destroyed piecemeal. And her son sat down at the table, drank up the cabbage soup, and possibly did not notice what was happening to his mother. And if he did, he was glad that she, too, was suffering because of him. He was not sorry for her distress, fear, heartache and hope, any more than we are sorry for the worm which we have trodden under foot. If it writhes, let it writhe; why should I step with care on account of a worm?

Who would not be sorry for Mišo? A nice, well-behaved, attractive lad. Suddenly he had to reconcile himself to the idea of being away from home for three years. Ah, the feelings that seethed in his mind! He had needed much self-control before he could hide them behind the surly answer which he had flung into his mother’s face.

Well, what was that compared with his mother’s grief? She was losing a part of her very existence. It was as if her soul were being wrenched apart. Since her son had been called up, there had not been a moment when she had forgotten her grief. Every moment brought her fresh grief, fresh torment.

“What will he be like when they send him back to me, and will they even send him back? That was the most dreadful thought. “Why, even now he’s changed, and he has not been away yet. What will he be like afterwards?”

And these were no empty misgivings. For old Mariena had seen more than once how sons who had been good, industrious, honourable citizens before they went, had returned as malicious, uncouth, conceited time-expired soldiers, filled with subversive ideas, scoffing at everything that they used to love and revere. Who could ​reassure her that her son would not be one of these, or that he would keep to the good principles which she had instilled into him from childhood?

More than once she pondered in the night when she could not sleep: What is this army? All sorts of things she pondered over, seeking explanations and excuses, but finding only one conclusion: The army is the scourge of God upon us, it is evil. . . . Ah, if she had the power, assuredly there’d be none of it. She pondered: Who has any benefit from it? She could think of no such person. She pondered: Who would object if it were proposed to abolish the army? It always seemed to her that the whole of mankind would breathe a sigh of relief if the army were to disappear from the face of the earth. The soldiers would joyfully throw away their arms; mothers and sons would joyfully welcome each other in their homes; the citizens would exult at not having to pay any more taxes for it. Was it, then, superfluous? What was it for? And then she saw that the army took the place of justice. Where justice is lacking, there an army has to be. When justice begins to rule, at that moment the army will be no more.

“Oh, where are you, justice, where?” she cried, as she despairingly tossed to and fro in her bed. When will your rule begin?”

Everywhere muteness, everywhere stillness. Not the faintest ray of justice showed itself on the broad, distant horizon.

Are you up already? came the sound of some third person’s voice beneath the window. Mišo said nothing and did not even look out of the window. Not that it would have been of any use, for it was not yet light outside, and he would have seen nothing.

​“Yes,” his mother answered.

“Good-day to you.”

“Welcome, Ondrejko. Come in and sit down,” begged the housewife in a friendly voice, exerting herself to greet him with a smile which was very pitiful to see. The new-comer was a tall man with an open, cheerful countenance which was dominated by a Roman nose and two large, smiling eyes. Under his arm he held a parcel, which he at once placed on the table.

“What have you brought us?”

There was no doubt that the housewife was pleased by this visit, as could be seen from the fact that with her apron she wiped the chair on which Ondrej was to sit. And in truth, his face was not merely expressive—no uncommon thing for a peasant,—but it also aroused confidence. There was something about his expression which made people confide in him.

“Well, you know why I’ve come. Here you are, already up, and this is what I’ve brought you. The mayor sent it to Mišo.”

She untied the knot, and two pairs of pants became visible. The needlework was quite new and it was fine, ironed material. Besides these, there were six pocket-handkerchiefs and a purse, also new, made of leather and nicely ornamented. Noticeably, it was not empty.

“Well, I never!” exclaimed the housewife, and her words expressed both admiration and gratitude. The whole matter greatly moved her, and compelled her to forget all her trouble and to indulge in more pleasant feelings. “Tell the mayor, Ondrejko, that we thank him for all his kindness.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s only what you’re entitled to.”

​It was the custom for the parish to show its appreciation in this way to the recruits when they were on the point of leaving for their regiments. This was a survival from the times when the parishes were obliged to enlist a fixed number of soldiers. They did this by means of feasts and all kinds of gifts. The mayor still had unrestricted authority to arrange feasts for the recruits and to make them presents. There was nobody living in the town who would have raised any objection to this.

And this in itself produced an agreeable impression on the housewife. She saw in it a proof that she was not deserted in her sorrow, but that the whole parish shared her feelings.

Mišo sat down and scarcely looked towards the mayor’s gift. The arrival of the captain reminded him that time was short, and that before long he would have to be making a start. It occurred to him how well-off he had been, ever since his childhood, under the care of his mother and father. To-day he would have to leave all this, a whole ocean of feelings arose within him and began to surge up. He clenched his teeth and gave a sullen glance into the corner as if he were in a rage. He started back in alarm when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the captain’s.

“Don’t feel upset, Mišo,” said the captain in his ringing voice. “The army is no picnic, but on the other hand it isn’t altogether hell. I know, because I’ve served my time in it. If a man’s all right, he gets on well wherever he is. A man with a contented mind can sleep the night on a rock, like Jacob in olden times, and he won’t notice that it’s hard, he’ll even say how comfortable it is. At first you’ll find it goes against the ​grain, but then you’ll think to yourself: I shan’t be here for ever, and in three years I shall go back home. And if you do as you’re told, you won’t be badly off, even there. And then they’ll let you go before the three years are up if they find they don’t need you. Not that you’ll be so keen on getting home by that time. Why, you’ll be sorry to see the last of the army.”

With a bitter expression on his face Mišo listened to the captain’s words. He did not believe what he heard. For he knew from experience that there was not a single fellow wept when he returned from the army,—on the contrary, they sang. There was not a single one who had thrown himself into the water because he had to lay aside his tunic. But how many were there who sacrificed their lives rather than have to put on uniform? He knew that if it were a good thing, there would be no need to force people into it. Nobody would give feasts to those who enlisted, nobody would look at them pityingly, nobody would comfort them and try to cheer them up. And the captain would not have come to him at sunrise if he really believed what he was now saying.

“And you won’t find so much trouble in getting used to it,” continued Ondrej. “If you were to enlist all by yourself, I won’t say that it wouldn’t make you feel unhappy. But, you silly fellow, you won’t be by yourself. Why, from our village alone there’s Mato Horniák. And how many from the other villages? Don’t be afraid that you’ll feel unhappy. You’ll forget us. Why, you’ll imagine that you were born in the barracks, and that it’s your home and your village.”

Mišo was staring into the corner and did not turn his eyes away. He was only half listening to what the captain was saying to him. “What does it matter to ​me that several of us’ll be there, if all of us aren’t there?” he thought. “I shall be there and shan’t know what’s going on in the village. And the people here’ll be working in the fields, driving the oxen, flicking their whips, having sing-songs, courting the girls, going on rambles, sitting in front of the house, or strolling through the village with reed-pipe and harmonica. Zuzka Lupták will get tired of waiting for three years,—who knows what she will do at carnival times?”

The mother looked to see how her son was taking what the captain had said. She was watching for some glance from him which would reveal to her that the boy was still hers, even if not entirely, as in his childhood, at least just a little. Was no feeling astir within him, and would he not let her have at least a word, at least a glance? But she perceived nothing of that kind. Her son’s thoughts were wandering in other worlds where they would never meet with her. She hung her head and wiped away her tears. She felt as though she had to lay him in the coffin and close the lid upon him.

“Don’t be afraid that you’ll be miserable,” Ondrej comforted him. “Whatever you need for yourself, inside or out, the Emperor’ll supply it. He looks after the soldiers. He considers every soldier as his own son. Why, he’ll even call you his children and his lads. Oh yes, he’s fond of the soldiers. Every year you’ll get a new tunic, so that the whole world’ll envy you when you go for a walk in the town. And you’ll smoke your cigar, too, just like a gentleman. And when the band turns out and starts playing, why, every vein in you will thrill, and just when you could scarcely move, you’ll straighten yourself up and march away in step. And you’ll even sing on the march.”

​The captain grew warm at the memory of military life, he straightened his back and his eyes shone.

Mišo gave him a fleeting glance and then continued to stare sullenly into the corner. “What does it matter to me? I’ve never suffered any hardship at home. And if any did come my way, I didn’t have to put up with it alone; father and mother shared it. And why should Jano Rybár envy me? And why should the others envy me? They’ll get married and will work peacefully in the fields, and won’t have any hardships. Even if there are a hundred bands playing to me, that won’t be freedom. To have no freedom for three years is worse than being in prison.” At this thought his heart-ache was such that he could not breathe for very anger. He went outside.

“Oh, Ondrejko,” exclaimed the housewife, when she was left alone with the captain. “My heart is near to bursting. What will become of me when he is no longer here. Oh, my dear son, where have you gone to?” She hid her face and wept.

The captain had more than once been witness of such scenes as this. They were repeated every autumn. His heart had become proof against such outbursts of emotion, and his firm opinion was that the tears which were shed for the recruits were the result of sheer prejudice. He himself would not weep even if he had to accompany his own son to the regiment. He knew that it was nothing so very terrible. There was plenty of bad luck about which we made less fuss. Weren’t there enough other troubles we had to bear? And we resign ourselves to them when we see that it has to be so.

“Don’t cry, Mariena,” he coaxed her. “It’ll do you no good, and you’ll only make things harder for yourself ​and for him, too. Don’t worry; he’ll come back to you. And he’ll learn, he may become more clever, and you’ll find him better than ever before.”

“It’s not that so much I’m crying about, since it’s got to be. What makes me unhappy is that his heart has fallen away from me. He’ll never be the same to me as he used to be.”

“Yes he will,” declared Ondrej with conviction. “His heart clings to you, but he can’t let you see it.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s a soldier.”

“Oh, what a curse that army is,” lamented the mother and sank down on the seat.

Duro Gabaný also rose very early that morning. He fed his horses, mixing into their chaff more oats than usual. He combed them down until they were as glossy as a mirror. Every vein in them quivered impatiently. All they wanted was to leap and fly,—such were the steeds which Duro Gabaný owned. In the village they were nicknamed “The ladies.” Perhaps because they were so proud, possibly also because Duro treated them with such consideration. He disliked harnessing them to a plough, and they were not used for dray-work. It had to be a grand wedding that he would agree to drive a carriage for.

Every autumn he would feed them and comb them, bedecking their manes with all kinds of ribbons and letting down their tails. This was how he conveyed the recruits to the railway station, and his heart swelled with pride to think that from no village was the transport on so grand a style as from Ondrašová.

​“Duro, harness your horses,” the captain shouted to him from beneath the window. “It’s time to start.”

The captain did not go away, but helped Duro to saddle the “ladies.” Duro pulled on his smock and mounted the carriage. The captain also took his seat in it. Rarely did he ride like this, and never so grandly except when the recruits were being taken away.

Mišo sat at the table fully dressed. He was wearing his worst garments. He looked like a prisoner. The room was full of people. All the relatives and neighbours had come to take their leave of him, and each one brought what he could. The room was quite festive. It seemed to Mišo as if it was a sort of holiday; all were in their best clothes, he alone was ragged and unkempt. Would he ever see them again, all together like this? They looked at him pityingly, as if they all wanted to comfort him. And those who were distant from him, to-day became closely attached to him. And in a short while he would no longer be among them,—he was going among strangers.

Old Mišo sat beside his son and said nothing. Altogether, the room was silent. Only now and then was a word or two spoken. It was like entering a house where a corpse had been laid out.

“Well, let’s make a move,” said the captain, coming into the room. “Duro’s already waiting in front of the mayor’s.”

The room was immediately astir. Old Mišo pulled on his smock, took his cap and seized a creaking knapsack filled with cakes.

“Well then, God be with you. Let’s go,” said the old man, stroking back his long hair which straggled down to his chin.

​Mišo put on his hat, and went from one to the other. They shook him by the hand, and each one added a few words of comfort and blessing. Thus he reached the stove where his mother stood, overwhelmed by mute grief.

“Good-bye,” said Mišo, and gave her his hand. He did not look at her, but lowered his eyes to the ground. He wanted to impart a certain stubbornness and hardness to his voice.

“My darling son,—I shall never see you again.”

She threw herself into his arms, and burst into a fit of weeping.

All kinds of feelings again filled his spirit with tumult. The pride which was within him crumbled to pieces. He clutched his mother’s face into his hand. It was pale and full of wrinkles. Assuredly they had been thrusting themselves upon her of late. And some of the hair on her temples had become silvery.

“After all, it’s your mother,” said something within him, when he was looking into her face. “Look, how unhappy she is.”

“Shall I ever see you again?” he thought to himself, and great pity surged through his heart.

“Good-bye mother, I’ll write to you.” Tears leaped into his eyes.

She saw them. She perceived the emotion in her son’s heart. She now knew for certain that he belonged to her, to her only. Joy filled her heart; that moment was the happiest of all that she had experienced. If only it would remain, remain for ever.

He moved away from her a little. She sprang after him, and seized him by the shoulder.

“Don’t go yet, my child; just one more minute.”

​He pressed her to his heart, was about to say something, but his voice was smothered in his throat.

“Don’t go, don’t go from me yet.”

She would have given all, her whole life to nestle against his heart only for a minute.

“Come on, leave her, it only makes things worse, someone whispered to him. He saw the captain at his side.

He wiped his eyes, placed his mother on a seat and walked to the door. Once again he looked round the room. It struck him as strange that the next day he would no longer be there. Will it be the same when I come back as it is to-day? And he made up his mind that this should be his first thought on entering the house again.

He went out into the street. A crowd of people were standing and waiting. Some of them came up to him again, while others pityingly watched him from a distance. He stepped forward with his father and the captain; behind them was half the village. Among those who were accompanying them, some were quietly weeping, others were exchanging remarks in a whisper. They reached the mayor’s. There they found Duro Gabaný; he was sitting in the carriage and smoking a cigar. The mayor,dressed in holiday garb, and standing on the bridge, was the first to greet Mišo and his father. Mišo again moved away a little from all the people who had accompanied him from home. And he approached the other crowd of people. There in the middle of them stood Mato Horniák and was shaking them all by the hand. Their eyes met; they took each other by the hand, without saying a word. Some of the women began to cry.

​They once more moved away from all the people, put their arms round each other’s necks, and made their way up the village.

Thus they went singing, as when a bride is led to her wedding. Behind them their fathers and closest relatives.

They reached a house which was still almost new, and the pathway to the courtyard led steeply uphill. The house stood silent, nobody was looking out of the windows, and the doors were shut.

Just go on ahead. I’ll catch you up,” said Mišo to Mato, and slipped away from the clutch of his arms. He ran up to the gate, opened the door and crossed a high threshold. He closed the door and stood still. Zuzka was standing behind the door. When she saw him, she covered her face with her apron.

“Zuzka, I’m going now,” he said to her, and his voice trembled. Don’t forget me, like the others. . . .”

He waited, but received no answer. He drew her hand from her face and saw that she was distressed and tearful. The knowledge of all he was losing that day weighed oppressively upon his spirit. What a long time it would be before he again looked into her face, from which an undivided heaven had smiled at him.

“Don’t cry, Zuzka,—I’ll be true to you. In every letter I will greet you. . . .”

“What is that to me, if you aren’t here?” she lamented.

“It’s hard for me, too. You are at least staying at home, and you’ll be all right here. But I’m going among strangers.”

​“Yes, I’ll be at home. But I shall never know where you are and what you are doing, or whether you still. . . . Oh, it’s so hard to bear. And suppose something happens to you there, or you give me up.” Again she started crying. “How I have to suffer for the sake of our love.”

“Don’t be afraid,—I’ll never, never give you up. And here’s a keepsake that’ll make you feel we’re still together.” He gave her a fine, coloured kerchief.

Zuzka took it without looking at it. She felt as if she were going to choke.

Mišo ran up the courtyard and entered the room. “The last time, I shan’t be here for another three years,” he thought to himself.

“I’ve come to say good-bye.”

“So soon,” they all asked, as if surprised. But it was clear that they had been counting the minutes till he came. For they were all at home, although there was hard work for them to do in the fields.

The master of the house gave Mišo his hand and pressed Mišo warm-heartedly. “God be with you. Do what is right and keep true to God.”

“You won’t forget me, will you?”

“Never, while you don’t forget. We look upon you as our son,” the master of the house assured him. And take this, it’ll be useful to you.” He pressed into his hand something wrapped in paper.

Mišo demurred, but the whole family pressed it upon him. He had to put it with the rest of the money in his purse. He had plenty, he himself did not know how much everybody except the mayor had brought him whatever he could afford. But it all seemed superfluous to him. He did not know that money has its value.

​The whole family accompanied him into the courtyard. There Zuzka was waiting. She was powerless as he pressed her to him; with an aching heart he hurried out into the street. He stepped out briskly, for the carriage had already passed the precincts of the village. He could see nothing near him. He looked round only when he heard somebody shout to him: “Good luck, Mišo.” It seemed to him that all this was an illusion, that he was dreaming. He rubbed his eyes and felt glad that it was only a bad dream.

But beyond the village he caught up Duro Gabaný’s carriage. The reality was only too clear.

“We must get in now, or you’ll arrive too late,” announced the mayor.

Mato and Mišo got in, with their fathers and the magistrate opposite them. They shook hands with the people outside, Duro whipped up the horses, and the carriage started off at a trot.

“If we were thrown out and got killed,” thought Mišo to himself and he felt no dread at this thought. Fields slipped by, the soil upon which every clod was familiar to him. Trees and telegraph poles flashed past, as if someone were thrusting them back.

He looked round at the village once more. It stood amongst rows of trees, from which the leaves were already dropping; it stood there the same as always. Nothing had happened to it, and on the morrow it would be just as it was to-day. It struck him as queer that he would not be there. The people would be doing their work, just as on the day before, or at any other time. It would be standing here, but to him it would seem that it had moved away, that it was no longer in the world among the other villages. Life would be astir in it, ​would ebb and flow, just as if he were there, and perhaps nobody would miss him. Such pangs of grief clutched at his heart that he would have cried out if he had been alone. He would have cried out, and perhaps the load which had overwhelmed his heart would shift. But as it was, he sat there and took his fill of this grief. He would have sung, he would have started singing so as to move that stony burden, but it would be foolish to sing when nobody heard him, nobody was looking at him, except those who were being taken away with him, and who were likewise silent. . . .

They passed through villages. In almost every one of them they would have discovered the same scenes as had been enacted that day at Ondrašová. And it was strange. From his carriage he looked at them as he had looked in the previous year. It seemed to him that what he had experienced to-day belonged already to the distant, distant past, he was surrounded by a different atmosphere, a different life. Those scenes meant nothing to him.

They reached the town and adjourned to a tavern. The mayor ordered them to eat and drink to their hearts’ content; he treated them to expensive cigars. Mišo felt as if he had been with his father at the fair; he forgot the village and the grief which had overwhelmed him when they were taking him away from home.

When they reached the station, they found a great crowd of people there. Most of them were young, like themselves, accompanied by older men with knapsacks, like their own fathers. The mayor moved away from them a little, and shook hands with some fellows holding long sticks and looking as jolly and rubicund as he was. These were mayors who had also brought their recruits.

​A bell began to ring. There was a general movement.

Mišo’s heart started beating violently. Before him stood his father, who was tall, but whose head was bowed. All that he had supposed to have vanished long since, now arose before him again. He felt just as intense a grief as when he had taken leave from the village. It seemed to him that only now was the village being lost to his sight. His father embodied the whole village in his person, as it were.

Good-bye, Dad. Remember me to mother and. . . .” He gave a gulp and laid his head on his father’s shoulder.

His father clasped him to his side.

“Come now, don’t cry. You’ll come back safe and sound.” Mišo looked at his father, and saw his grey eyes brimful of tears. “Don’t be afraid; we shan’t forget you, and we’ll pray. . . .” Now his tears began to flow so fast that he could not wipe them away with his hand. “And take this, here’s some money for you. Look after it well. And take care they don’t steal your knapsack from you.” This he added in a casual, matter-of-fact tone. It did Mišo good to hear his father talk like that once more.

“Well, God go with you.” And he took his son by the hand.

The mayor came up to him. During the last few days he had seen much of him and had come to like him. “Thanks, Mayor, for all you’ve done.”

Old Horniák also gave him his hand. And he pressed it cordially. It seemed to him that this man was quite close to him, and indeed was a relative of his. Not at all the old Horniák to whom he had hitherto not given a second glance.

​Get in. What are you gossiping here for? You’ll miss the train,” shouted someone from the platform where the engine was whistling.

“Beszállani! Einsteigen!”^[1]

Mišo picked up his knapsack and scrambled along to the platform with the rest. When he had already passed the barrier, something seemed to thrust old Mišo forward. He pushed his way to the gate in his eagerness to shake his son’s hand once more.

“Your ticket! Show your ticket!”

The old man looked round. A railway official stood beside him.

“I haven’t got a ticket. I want to tell Mišo something.”

Clear off, don’t stand in the way here,” and he pushed him back with his elbow.

Mišo looked at the shabby underling and his cap with the “Ks. Od.”^[2] badge, and for the first time that day his blood became hot. A man who the day before was probably begging, to-day dared to show contempt for him, a respected citizen. He would have started an argument with him, but the stream of people pushed him aside.

He wanted to see his son once more. It occurred to him that the train would pass the level-crossing on the high-road. He called the mayor and Gabaný, took his seat with old Horniák, and off they started.

Mišo loitered with his knapsack on the platform. He had never travelled by train before; he did not know where he was to sit.

​“Recruits this way!” shouted someone from a carriage at the very end of the train. He had a military cap with a green pine-branch behind it. “This way, boys,—there’s plenty of us going.”

They got into the carriage, which would scarcely hold them. There were whole piles of bundles in the corners. The smoke was so thick that it could have been cut, and it smelt like a tap-room.

“That’s right, come along in. Are you joining your regiment, too?” said the one with the cap.

“Yes. Thanks very much.”

“Good. Take a seat.”

A few of them laughed at the joke, for there were no seats in the carriage. Others stared mournfully in front of them.

“Here are some pine-branches. Now everyone can see we’re soldiers.”

Mišo and Mato put the pine-branches behind their hats. They could not help admiring this man who managed to be cheerful at so dreary a moment.

He began to sing in a powerful, but somewhat hoarse voice, and a few chimed in with him.

Mišo pressed his face against the window and stared at the platform. He scanned the crowd of men who stood behind the barrier. He did not see his father among them.

“He’s gone; he didn’t wait to see me off.” A boundless grief took possession of him. Never had he felt so intensely the meaning of loneliness. It seemed to him unnatural not to see his father near him. “Will it ​always be like that?” He could not believe that he could survive three years without a living soul from home.

“So they didn’t wait to see me off.” He regarded it as something very sinful. If he had seen him at least once more, if he had at least waved to him. . . .

The bell began to ring. The trumpet hooted.

“Mehet!”^[3]

The engine whistled, puffed, panted, and the platform with the station buildings moved backwards. The faces of the bystanders became blurred.

Mišo stayed by the window and looked at the town. There was the high-road along which they had driven to the town. And there was the very carriage. He could distinctly recognise Gabaný’s “ladies” by the ribbons twined into the horses’ manes. And there, too, standing up in the carriage, was old Mišo with old Horniák waving their caps. He took off his hat and flourished it in the air. His father caught sight of him, attracted his attention and smiled at him. Ah, what a good father he was! God bless you for coming to see your son off.

“Good-bye, father,” sighed Mišo and his tears began to flow.

The train moved round a bend and the carriage suddenly disappeared. Mišo felt as if his heart were bursting. He wouldn’t have minded if he had slipped out of the window and fallen under the wheel.

“What, are you crying?” shouted someone behind him. And a hand pulled his hat upside down.

Mišo turned round angrily to discover who the joker was. At that moment he could have throttled him without hesitation. It was the same one who had given ​him the pine-branch. His sprightly eyes smiled at Mišo and there was a little pity in them, too.

“Was that your father?” he asked Mišo.

“Aye,” he answered sullenly.

“Yes,—not aye. From now onwards you’ll always have to say yes.”

“Well then, yes,” said Mišo for the first time in his life, and he felt more cheerful.