Page:The Czechoslovak Review, vol4, 1920.pdf/18

confidently: “Mamičko, may I have one of those large ones?”

The coffee is excellent. There is nothing to take the place of coffee on a winter day. Moreover, this is real Mocha and not one of those substitutes, made out of hops or turnips ground and roasted, which everybody used during the war. It was given to the brother-in-law by a friend in Liberec, whose son, a courier, brought it from Italy.

“Why, here is Žíla!”

A small white dog bounds into the kitchen and commences rushing everywhere and barking furiously. The boy follows, with a selfconscious smile. The baby with the doll, amazed at this invasion, topples and sits down suddenly and violently on the floor.

“Put the dog out!” cries my hostess.

“Come here, Žíla,” says the marmalade-maker, in an indulgent tone, and immediately the little animal makes a lunge at himand worries the bottoms of his trousers.

“I won’t have it!” says his wife inexorably. “You know how the creature eats everything up.”

So Žíla is banished to the outside and the boy goes along for company. Presently I can see them through the window, playing and romping in a whirl of snow.

Coffee is over. My host proposes to take me to see the sights of the village until dinner time. We are warned not to be gone more than an hour and a half. For me, at least, that is easy to promise, for the scent of roasting pork which the oven now begins to disseminate is very alluring.

We go first to the factory where I am initiated into the fearsome secrets of marmalade-making. This business is one which was very slightly affected by the war. Raw materials are the greatest problem; the apple crop last year was miserable, but there is still a sufficient supply of sugar. Labor troubles are never heard of in Slanice. The factory hands live a stone’s throw from the place where they work; they are treated well and feel satisfied with what they get.

Nor is there any difficulty in reaching markets; the entire output of this factory could easily be disposed of three times over in Turnov, Mladá Boleslav and other towns within easy traveling distance.

Now that the worst times are over, my host expects to make certain necessary repairs in his plant. The Germans took away one of his great copper kettles; he hopes to get an iron one to put in its place. They overlooked a second copper kettle, which he had time to hide. He shook in his shoes when the officers were tramping in and out of the factory, for he knew it would be the worse for him if they should find it in its place of concealment. Eventually he will renovate the whole establishment, but many articles are hard to get at present,and he contents himself with making minor improvements; for instance, he is going to do some painting. He has bought a quantity of red paint, which has been turned out into a wooden tub in one of the sheds. As we pass the door, two painters come out, quitting work for the day. Their schedule used to be longer, but the eight-hour law applies to all industries. He speaks to them familiarly and they touch their caps. Both sides are evidently satisfied with the new legislation.

Now we have left the factory and, by the farther and less perilous foot-bridge, we cross to the street of the tavern. In the west a saffron sunset is cooling above the gentle curves of a line of hills. The gloom deepens and every house window throws its glimmer of light acros the roadway. This little villa on the corner is so situated that it commands a good prospect of the rolling country that lies to the north and west of Slanica. It is a pretty green house with a cupola, and a high spiked fence surrounds it. The owner was a Jew from Dresden who used to spend all his summers here. Finally something happened to him, something so horrible that my oracle will not even tell me what it was. His place has been deserted ever since, and the swallows make their nests unmolested under the projecting edges of the roof.

At the end of the street is a patch of woodland, and by the time we have walked there and back to the tavern it is quite dark. The tavern is a plain two-story affair, with no other inscription on its buff walls than Hostinec in enormous black letters. From within comes a confused din of voices and the sound of people trotting to and fro. I am surprised at this degree of activity in a plain country inn and ask the reason for it.

“Only a little party,” the marmalade-maker tells me. “If you have brought dancing shoes along with you, we can drop in there this evening.”