Page:The Czechoslovak Review, vol4, 1920.pdf/20

Though he puts it so casually, I know he would be desperately disappointed, if I expressed a preference to spend the time in his warm kitchen instead. But, of course, that is what I have no intention of doing. Fortunately I came provided with evening clothes, for I have already learned that these plain people of Slanice like to preen themselves, when they sally out for an evening’s fun and wish their guests to do likewise.

We are on the way home. The dangerous hollow is crossed again, and as we come near to the house delicious whiffs of dinner travel to us on the breeze. My hostess lets us in and apologizes for laying the cover in the kitchen again, but really it is the most comfortable room in the house in winter.

“The pork is done,” she tells me. “The food will be on the table in a jiffy.”

An untoward event delays the meal.

From the direction of the factory there suddenly rings out the agonized yelp of a dog. There follows a succession of squeals, barks and piteous groans. The marmalade-maker raises his eyebrows inquisitively and his wife, who is wiping her hands on her apron, stands transfixed with awe. Little Mařenka flings the door open and peers out. In the beam of light shed from the kitchen I discern the form of Žíla, racing like mad toward the house. The little beast reaches the threshold and grovels there, panting and squirming. He would like to bound into the kitchen, but the wife’s brother, who has now reappeared, seizes him firmly by the collar. The boy saunters after Žíla, laughing heartily.

“Poor Žíla!”

At first glance the dog presents a shocking spectacle, for his hinder half looks as if it were entirely bathed in gore. Closer inspection resolves our fears. It is nothing but paint. Red paint! Some one has dipped Žíla into the wooden tub which I saw when I was visiting the factory. The marmalade-maker looks accusingly at his eleven-year old son.

“Did you do this?”

The boy nods, holding his sides with laughter.

“How shameful of you to torment a poor dumb brute like that!”

The culprit grows serious.

“Why, daddy, I didn’t mean to hurt Žíla. I was just playing with him out by the shed, and he looked so white, and I happened to think how funny it would be to make him red and white, so he would be a real national Bohemian dog!”

My host casts a comical stare at his wife and resolutely shuts his lips. Žíla lies on the door-sill in an abject posture. His patriotism has not been equal to the ordeal. The brother-in-law leads him off to be chained in one of the out-buildings for the night. The boy is summoned indoors and comes looking very sheepish. A brief family council decides that he must be sent to bed at once without anything to eat. His punishment is made doubly hard because Mařenka, who idolizes her big brother, is told that she must not go into his room to talk to him. The boy limps off immediately, glad of a chance to escape the publicity of his disgrace.

After the servant girl has marshalled the other children out of the kitchen, the marmalade-maker sits down to indulge in silent but tremendous laughter, in which the rest of us join.

Dinner is coming on the table. There is savory broth with noodles, a rib roast of pork with dumplings and fat, sour cabbage, a compote of cherries, and, after a while, sugar cakes and two kinds of wine. The kitchen is hot and full of steam and good smells. The door of the range is red-hot. My hostess’ face is very flushed and damp. Everyone is happy and hungry. There is little occasion for conversation.

When the dishes have been cleared away, the marmalade-maker presses tobacco into the porcelain bowl of his pipe and, between puffs, tells me stories about ghosts and spirits. There are tiny creatures in the hills who play all sorts of tricks on folk. If they happen to like you, they befriend you and bring you good luck. But if you happen to stir their liliputian wrath, then the worse for you! Of course these are just fables and my informer chuckles at them. But, on the other hand, there is the adventure that befell Jan Janek when he was coming home late one night from Vinoř. Something about a woman all on fire who came fleeing out of a thicket. Jan’s clothes were scorched when he got home. My hostess interrupts.

“Don’t tell those things,” she begs. “They make me feel creepy.”