The Czechoslovak Review/Volume 4/Number 2/Grandmother

One hundredth anniversary of the birth of Božena Němec will be widely celebrated in Bohemia on February 5th. Božena Němec was one of the early writers whose work fanned the feeble spark of Czech national consciousness in the souls of the people to burning patriotism. As a portraitist of Bohemian country life she has no equal.

“Babička” (Grandmother) is generally considered her best work. It was translated into English by Frances Gregor in 1892. The excerpt given here tells of the visit of the grandmother with her grandchildren to the princess on whose estate they lived.

The cabinet of the Princess was decorated with green hangings inwrought with gold, curtains of the same stuff were at the door and over one window, which was as large as a door. Many pictures of various sizes hung upon the walls, but all were portraits. Opposite the window was the fireplace, made of gray marble variegated with black and green; upon the mantel stood two vases of Japanese porcelain, holding beautiful flowers whose perfume filled the whole cabinet. On both sides were shelves of costly wood, skillfully wrought. Upon these were laid out various articles, valued partly for their artistic worth and partly for their costliness; also natural objects, such as shells, corals, stones, and the like. Some of these were souvenirs from journeys, some keepsakes from friends. In the corner of the room near the window stood a Carrara marble statute of Apollo, and in the opposite corner a writing desk. At this desk, in an arm chair covered with dark green plush, sat the Princess, dressed in a white morning-gown. As Grandmother and the children entered she laid aside her pen to welcome them.

“Praised be Jesus Christ!” said Grandmother, bowing respectfully.

“Forever!” replied the Princess, and welcomed her guests.

The children were so bewildered that they did not know what to do, until Grandmother winked at them, when they went to kiss the hand of the Princess. She kissed them on the forehead and motioning to a stool covered with plush and ornamented with golden tassels, she invited Grandmother to sit down.

“I thank your Grace, but I am not tired,” was the reply. The fact was she was afraid to sit down lest the stool should break down or roll away with her. Still, when the Princess asked her again, she spread her white shawl over the stool and sat down saying: “So we should not carry away your Grace’s sleep.” (It is a common belief, that if a person does not sit down when coming into a strange house, its inmates will not sleep well.) The children stood still and trembling with awe, but their eyes wandered from one object to another; the Princess observing this asked, “Do you like it here?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they replied in chorus.

“No wonder,” added Grandmother. “They would find enough here to amuse them and they would need no coaxing to remain.”

“And you? Would you not like it here, too?” asked the Princess.

“It’s like heaven, still I should not want to live here,” replied Grandmother.

“Why not?” asked the Princess greatly surprised.

“What should I do here? You have no house-keeping. I could not spread out my feathers here for stripping, nor take my spinning out; what could I do?”

“And would you not like to live without care and labor, and take some comfort in your old age?”

“Indeed, it will be soon enough that the sun shall rise and set over my head, and I shall sleep free from care. But as long as I live and God grants me health, it is fitting that I labor. An idler costs too much when he costs nothing. Besides, no one is wholly free from care, one has this cross, another that, but all do not sink beneath its weight.”

Just then a small hand turned aside the curtain at the door; and there appeared the lovely face of a young girl, whose head was adorned with long blonde braids.

“May I come in?” she asked.

“Certainly, you will find pleasant company,” replied the Princess.

Into the cabinet stepped Countess Hortense, the ward of the Princess, as was said. Her figure was slender, and undeveloped; she wore a simple white dress, her round straw hat hung over her arm, and in her hand she held a bunch of roses. “Oh what charming little children!” she exclaimed. “Surely they are Proshek’s children, who sent me those delicious strawberries yesterday?”

The Princess nodded. The Countess bent down to give each child a rose; then she gave one to Grandmother, one to the Princess, and the last she placed behind her belt.

“This bud is as fresh as yourself, gracious Countess,” remarked Grandmother smelling the rose,” may God protect and kep her for you,” she added turning to the Princess.

“That is my earnest prayer,” replied the Princess as she kissed the forehead of her ward.

“May I take the children away for a while?” asked the Countess looking both at the Princess and Grandmother. The former nodded, but ​Grandmother said they would be a great trouble, for those boys were like hounds and John was a regular scapegrace.

But Hortense smiled and offering both her hands asked: “Do you want to go with me?”

“Yes ma’am, yes ma’am!” cried the children in a chorus, taking hold of her hands. She bowed both to the Princess and her company and disappeared. The Princess then took a silver bell and rang it; in an instant the chamberlain appeared at the door. The Princess ordered him to see that breakfast was served in the small dining room, and gave him a package of papers to care for. He bowed and left the room.

While the Princess was speaking with the chamberlain, Grandmother was looking at the portraits upon the walls of the cabinet.

“O dear Lord!” she exclaimed when Leopold was gone, “what strange costumes and faces! This lady is dressed just as the late Mrs. Halashkow used to be dressed,—may her soul rest in peace! She used to wear high heeled shoes, a high bonnet, her petticoats puffed out, and her waist laced so tight that she loked as if she had been cut in two by a whip lash. Her husband was a city alderman in Dobruska, and when we went there on a pilgrimage, we saw her at church. Our boys called her a poppy doll, because in those petticoats and that powdered head she looked like a poppy blossom with the petals turned backwards. They said it was a French style of dress.”

“That lady is my grandmother,” said the Princess.

“Indeed? She is a fine lady,” replied Grandmother.

“The picture to the right is my grandfather, and the left one is my father,” continued the Princess.

“Very nice people! Your Grace does not deny her father; and may I ask, where is your mother?”

“There is my mother and sister,” said the Princess pointing to two portraits above her writing desk.

“A lovely lady, it gives one pleasure to look at her; but your sister does not recemble either her father or her mother; it is sometimes the case that a child takes after some distant relative. The face of this young man seems familiar to me; I cannot recollect where I saw it.”

“That is the Russian Emperor, Alexander, you did not know him.”

“Inded I knew him! why, I stood about twenty steps from him. He was a handsome man, here he is somewhat younger, but still I recognized him. He and the Emperor Joseph were excellent men.”

The Princess motioned to the opposite wall, where hung a picture,—a life size figure of a man.

“The Emperor Joseph!” exclaimed Grandmother clasping her hands. “A perfect likeness! How you have them all together! I did not dream that I should see the Emperor Joseph to-day. God grant his soul eternal glory; he was a good man, especially to the poor. This dollar he gave me with his own hand,” said Grandmother as she drew the silver dollar from her bosom.

The Princess was pleased with Grandmother’s simple-heartedness and timely remarks; so she asked her to relate how the Emperor came to give her the dollar. Grandmother needed no coaxing and at once began to tell the story of her dollar. The Princess laughed heartily. When Grandmother took another look about the cabinet, she espied the portrait of King Frederic.

“Why, this is the King of Prussia!” she exclaimed. “I knew that ruler well, too. My late husband George served in the Prussian army, and I spent fifteen years in Silesia. Once he had George called out of the ranks to him, and made him presents. He liked tall men, and my George was the tallest man in the regiment and well grown, like a maiden. Little did I think that I should look down into his grave! a man like a rock, and he is gone long ago and I am still here.” She sighed and wiped the tears from her wrinkled cheeks.

“Did your husband fall in battle?” asked the Princess.

“Not exactly, but he died from the effects of wound received in battle. When that rebellion broke out in Poland, and the Prussian King with the Russians invaded the country, our regiment was with them. I followed the army with my children; we had two then, the third was born in the field. That is Johana, who is now in Vienna; and I think that she is so courageous a girl, because from her birth she had to become accustomed to all sorts of hardships like a soldier. That was an unfortunate battle. After the first skirmish my husband was brought to me into the tent. A cannon ball had taken off his leg. They cut it off. I took all the care of him that was possible. As soon as he was a little better, he was sent back to Neisse. I was rejoiced. I hoped that when he got well they would not want him as a cripple, and that we could return to Bohemia. But my hopes were disappointed. He began to fail, and nothing could be done. I knew that he must die. What little money I had I gave for medicines and yet he was not helped. It seemed to me that I must lose my reason or that my heart must break from grief. But a person can endure much. I was left with three orphans, not a penny of money, and but little clothing. In that same regiment there was a certain Lehotsky, who was my husband’s best friend. He took me up, and when I told him I could weave blankets, he got me a loom and set me up in the trade. May God reward him! What I had learned in my youth as a pastime now did me good service. My work sold well, so that I soon paid off my debt to Lehotsky, and supported myself and the children comfortably. Although there were very good people ​in that town, I was very lonesome, and from the time my husband died I felt as forsaken as a pear tree in a grain field. (In Bohemia, one often sees a solitary pear tree in the field; so that the phrase “as lonely as a pear tree in a field” has become a common saying). I often thought I should be better off at home, and one day I broached the subject to Lehotsky. He discouraged the thought and assured me that I should certainly get a pension and that the King would care for my children. I was thankful, but finally decided to return home. The German language was a great obstacle to me. While we were at Glatz, I was better off, for there Bohemian was spoken more than German; but at Neisse, it was just the opposite, and I could not learn that language. Hardly had we made ourselves comfortable when the flood came. Water is a fearful element when it becomes angry; one can not escape it even on horseback.

“It came so suddenly that people barely escaped with their lives. I quickly picked up what I could, tied the bundle upon my back, took the youngest child in my arms, held the elder two by the hands, and so we fled, wading to our ankles in the water. Lehotsky came to our assistance, led us to the higher town, where good people received us kindly and gave us shelter.

“The report soon spread through the town that I had lost almost everything, and these good people at once came to my aid. The commander of the regiment sent for me, and told me that I should get several dollars a year and steady work that the boy would be taken into a military school, and I could place the girls in the Royal Institute for Women. This did not comfort me at all, and I begged them, if they wished to show me some kindness, to give me a little money so that I could return to Bohemia. I said I would not part with my children, that I should bring them up in my faith and language. This they would by no means permit, and told me that if I did not remain there, I should get nothing. ‘If nothing, then nothing’, thought I, ‘God will not leave us to perish from hunger,’ and so I thanked the King for all, and left.”

“I think your children would have been well provided for,” observed the Princess.

“Very likely, your Grace; but they would have become estranged. Who would have taught them to love their home and their mother tongue? Nobody. They would have learned a strange language, strange customs, and finally would have forgotten their own kin. How could I then justify myself before God? No, no, who is born of Bohemian blood, let him learn to speak the Bohemian tongue! I asked for permission to leave, picked up the little clothing I had left, took my children and bade farewell to the town where I had seen so many bitter, as well as happy days. The housekeeper loaded my children with as much food as they could carry and gave me several dollars for the journey, May God repay their children what good those people did to me! Poor Lehotsky went with us about six miles, carrying Johanna. He was sorry we were going away, for our house was always like a home to him. At parting we both wept. While he remained at Neisse, he went regularly to George’s grave to pray a Pater-noster; they loved each other as brothers. He lost his life in the French war. God grant his soul eternal rest!”

“And how did you get to Bohemia with those children?” asked the Princess.

“We suffered much on the journey, gracious lady. Not knowing the way, we wasted much time wandering about to no purpose. Our feet were covered with bloody blisters, and often we could find no habitation. We got safe to Kladrau Hills, and there I felt quite at home. I came from Olesnic near the borders of Silesia, but I suppose your Grace doesn’t know where that is. When I was near home, another burden began to weigh upon my heart. I wondered whether my parents were still living, and how they would receive me. When I left home they had given me a good outfit, and now I was returning with empty hands and bringing them three orphans. ‘What will they say to me?’ That question kept sounding in my ears. I feared, too, that some sad change might have taken place in the two years during which I had not heard from them.”

“And did you never write to them, at least your husband, if not you?” wondered the Princess.

“The custom of sending letters is not common among us. We think of each other, pray for each other, and as we have opportunity, we send word by some friend how each one is doing. A person doesn’t know where such a letter may go, and into whose hands it may fall. My father used to write letters to soldiers who went from our village and were somewhere far beyond the boundaries, so that their parents might find out whether they were alive or not, or when they wanted to send them a little money. But when they returned, they said they never got anything, and so it is, your Grace; when a letter comes from a person of the lower classes, it is very apt to remain here or there.”

“You are mistaken, my good woman,” quickly said the Princess, “every letter, let it come from whom it will, must come into the hands of the person to whom it is addressed. No one can keep it or open it, there is a severe penalty for this.”

“It is a proper thing, and I gladly believe it but after all, we prefer to confide in some good friend. Upon such a bit of paper one cannot put everything, and the reader would like to know this and that, and there is nobody there to ask; but when one of those good pilgrims or peddlers comes along, he tells everything word for word, I, too, should have heard more about my folks, but on account of those disturbances, there was very little travel.

​“It was dark when we arrived in the village. It was summer and I knew that at that hour they would be at supper. We left the road and went through the orchard so as not to be observed. The dogs came out from our house and barked at us; I called them but they only barked the louder. The tears filled my eyes, my heart felt heavy,—for the moment I forgot that it was fifteen years since I had left home and that they were not the same dogs that we had then. In the orchard, I noticed many young trees, the fence was repaired, the barn had a new roof, but the pear tree under which George and I used to sit, had been touched by God’s messenger (lightning) and its top was gone. At the cottage near by there was no change; it had been taken by father from the late Widow Novotny for an annuity. She was the woman that made those woolen blankets, and my husband was her son.

“There was a little garden near the cottage, for she always liked to have a bed of parsley, onions, some little corner of sweet balsams, sage, and such herbs as are needed in the household. George made her a fence of wicker work around the garden. That same fence was there still, but the ground had been neglected and allowed to run to grass; only a few onions were still seen. An old dog, half-blind, crawled out of his kennel. ‘Old fellow, do you know me?’ I said to him, and the brute began to rub himself about my feet. To be recognized and welcomed by this dumb animal touched me so that I burst into tears.

“The children, poor things! looked at me wondering why I wept. I had not told them that we were going to their grandmother’s; for I thought that if my parents should be displeased with me, the children must not know it. Caspar, the oldest, asked: ‘Why do you cry, mother? shan’t we get a night’s lodging here? Sit down and rest. We can wait; then I shall carry the bundle for you. We are not hungry.’ Both Johanna and Theresa agred with him, but I knew they were hungry, for we had gone several hours on our journey without coming upon any habitation.

“‘No, my children, that is not why I am weeping’, I replied. ‘We have reached our journey’s end; here in this house your father was born, your mother in that one yonder. This is the home of your grandparents. Let us thank God for bringing us home safe, and pray that we may receive a fatherly welcome.’ The prayer finished, we went to the cottage, for I remembered that my parents lived there, having given the homestead to my brother for an annuity. Upon the outside of the door was still pasted the picture that George brought his mother from the Vamberitz shrine,—the Virgin with the fourteen helpers. (Saints.) A burden fell from my heart as soon as I saw it. I thought: “They blessed me when I left, and welcomed me as I return;’ and much comforted I entered the house with confidence.

“Father, mother, and old Betsey sat at the table eating soup out of one dish,—it was milk soup thickened with flour and egg. I remember it as if it were yesterday. ‘Praised be Jesus Christ!’ I said. ‘For ever’ was the reply. May I beg a night’s lodging for myself and these children? We come from far, we are tired and hungry’, I said, my voice trembling with emotion. They did not recognize me; it was somewhat dark in the room. ‘Lay down your baggage, and sit down by the table!’ said father and laid aside his spoon. ‘Betsey,’ said mother, ‘go cook some more soup. In the meantime, sit down, mother. take some bread and give the children. Then we will take you to sleep up in the garret. Where do you come from?’

“‘Clear from Silesia, from Niesse,’ I replied. ‘Inded! That’s where our Madaline is,’ cried father. ‘I beg you, my good woman, didn’t you hear anything of her?’ asked mother approaching me closely. ‘Madaline Novotny, her husband is a soldier. She is our daughter, and we haven’t heard for two years what she is doing and how she is. I’ve had bad dreams lately; not long ago I dreamed that I lost a tooth; so I have that girl and her children on my mind constantly, and I wonder whether something has not happened to George, since they have those battles all the time. God only knows why those men cannot let each other alone!’

“I wept, but the children hearing their grandmother speaking thus, pulled at my skirt and asked: ‘Mamma, are these our grandmother and grandfather?’ As soon as they said this mother recognized me and fell upon my neck, and father took the children into his arms; and then we told each other every thing that had happened. Betsy ran to fetch brother and sister, sister-in-law and brother-in-law, and before long the whole village was together, and not only my relatives and old friends, but everybody else welcomed me as though I had been a sister to them all. ‘You did well to return home with those children,’ said father; ‘true, the earth is the Lord’s, but one’s own country is always dearest, as ours is to us, and thus it should be. As long as God gives us bread, neither you nor your children shall suffer, even if you cannot work. That which befell you is indeed a heavy blow, but lay it aside! Think: “Whom God loveth he chastiseth.”

“Thus I was again among them, and was as their own. My brother offered to let me have a room in his house, but I preferred to remain with my parents in the cottage where my husband had lived. The children soon were entirely at home, and my parents loved them dearly. I sent them regularly to school. When I was young, girls did not learn to write; it was thought enough if they could read a little, and that only the town girls. And yet it is a great pity and a sin when a person has the gift of ​the Holy Ghost and does not improve it. When, however, there is no opportunity, what is one to do? My husband was a man who knew the world, he knew how to write, too; in short, he was fit for a wagon or a carriage. And that is well; everybody might be so!

“I wove blankets as before and earned many a handsome groschen. Those were hard times war, disease, and famine everywhere. A bushel of rye cost a hundred guilders in bank notes! that is something to say. But God loved us, and so in one way and another we managed to pull through. The distress was so great that people went about with money in their hands unable to buy. My father was a man whose like is seldom found; he helped every-body where and how he could. When the neighbors were driven to the last extremity, they usually turned to him. Sometimes the poorer peasants came to him saying: ‘Let us have a bushel of rye; we haven’t a crust of bread in the house!’ He would say:’As long as I have, I give; when I have no more, others will do it,’ and at once mother was sent to fill the bag. Money, however, he would not take, no, indeed! ‘Why, we are neighbors, and if we do not help each other, who will help us? When God blesses your harvest, return the grain and we shall be even.’ Thus it was that father had thousands of ‘God repay you’s!’ And mother was the same. Why, she would have gone to the cross roads to look for a beggar, if none happened to come along. And why should we not help people! We had enough to eat, enough to wear; why should we not share the remainder with others? This is no merit, but merely a Christian duty. But when a person denies himself to help others, that is a real virtue. Indeed, it came to that pass that we ate only once a day, that others might have something, too. And we stood it until the sun shone again. Peace returned to the land, and times grew better and better.

“When Casper finished his schooling he wanted to learn weaving, and I did not object. A trade is a master. When his apprenticeship was finished he went into the world. My husband used to say that a tradesman rolled out on the oven (who never goes away from home) wasn’t worth a kreutzer.

“After several years he returned, settled at Dobrusitz, and is doing well. The girls I trained carefully to do housework. About this time, my cousin from Vienna came into the village; she took a liking to Theresa and said she would take her to Vienna and care for her. It was very hard for me to part from her, but I thought it would not be right for me to stand in the way of her fortune. Dorothy is a good woman; they are well-to-do and have no children. She cared for Theresa as for her own child, and when she married gave her a good outfit. At first I was somewhat vexed that she chose a German, but now I do not mind it. John is a good and worthy man, and we managed to understand each other. And the children—they are mine. Johanna went to Dorothy in Theresa’s place, and she, too, is well pleased with her home. This new generation is quite different from the last. I never wanted to go away from home, epecially among strangers.

“After a few years my parents died only six weeks apart. They left the world quietly as a candle is blown out. God did not leave them to suffer, and they did not mourn for each other long; they had lived together for sixty years. Soft they made their bed, and softly they rest. God grant them eternal glory!”