Page:The Czechoslovak Review, vol4, 1920.pdf/21
The brother-in-law has already taken his departure, for he is escorting a girl to the ball and her house is some distance away. When we have changed our clothes, we too start for the tavern. We are late comers; the dancing has already begun.
The dance hall is a high, dark room, with thick rafters and a floor stained brown. It is crowded with all the young people of Slanice and a good many of their elders. A waltz is in progress. The music is very brisk, and the dancers whirl rapidly about, always in one direction and never reversing. When the pause comes I am formally introduced to a good-natured middle-aged woman and her daughter, a blooming girl in national costume.
The girl and I sit together. She is pleased because I am admiring her dress. No, she did not make it herself. She thanks me for the implied compliment, but she is really not clever enough for that. This was a present from her little grandmother in Králové Hradec. We make an engagement for the next dance, and I am glad when I find that it will be a Bohemian beseda. The beseda is great fun, especially the spinning part. You stand with your feet close together, facing your partner, with the tips of your toes almost touching hers. Then you take hold of hands and lean far back, away from each other. When the music starts you commence turning, gathering momentum and pivoting about your toes. Faster and faster you go, until the whole hall swims and you feel like two motes caught in an eddy of light. Then the music stops and you must make way for some one else. It is over too soon.
When we are warm and tired, we go into an adjoining low-ceilinged room, where there are clouds of blue smoke. We sit about a round table over glasses of amber wine, with two little squat bottles of Mělnické before us. The richest man in Vinoř, who is a sort of guest of honor, sits with us, and my beseda partner and her mother. The man from Vinoř talks politics. He would like to know about this scandalous new proposition they are talking over in the national assembly at Prague, the confiscating of big estates. He considers it an outrage. The marmalade-maker asks him, whether he would like to have the old days of German rule back again. No, he is too loyal to want that, but there is no reason why the new government should start its career with idiotic measures like the land law. The marmalade-maker reminds him that the Germans used to confiscate things too. His brows is pensive and I suspect he is thinking about his copper kettle.
After this bit of rest in the wine-room comes more dancing. It is remarkable how one feels more and more light and high-spirited at these village festivals, as the night wears away. It is hard to believe my hostess, when she finally comes to say that it is four o’clock in the morning. We trail home under a starless sky. My feet ache dreadfully. The servant girl, who has waited up for us to come home, is drowsing beside the kitchen table. She rouses herself and brings us more coffee and a piece of koláč. We drink our coffee and compare notes. It turns out that the marmalade-maker’s wife broke her vow and danced almost continuously through the whole affair. Her husband laughs and winks at me. We are warm and contented, but too tired to talk much. I am shown into my bedroom.
It is a small chilly room, crowded with dark, ornate furniture, but the only thing which interests me is the bed with its mountainous feather quilt. When I crawl under this I find that the sheet is like ice. It must be a frightfully cold night, for I can hear the boards somewhere in the house creak and snap. I have opened my window and a breeze sweeps into the bed. For a short time I find myself shivering, but what blessed relief to stretch out here and relax my weary frame! Soon the feather-bed has made me very comfortable.
My brain swarms with pictures. I burrow my head into the pillow and wonder confusedly whether I shall be long in getting to sleep. Now I am waltzing with the young sister of the man from Vinoř, now with my beseda partner. Now I am sitting out a dance with some one. By all that is wonderful, it is the little grandmother from Králové Hradec, and she is nodding her head and telling me how she came to buy the national costume! The marmalade-maker glides by me dancing with his wife’s servant girl in all her kitchen regalia. Suddenly all the people begin prancing about and cutting the most ridiculous capers, while round and round the room runs a little red and white dog. I cannot remember what comes next.