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(My translation – in the form of a play – of Karel Čapek‘s short story Zločin v chalupě, which was published in Povídky z jedné kapsy in 1929.)
Dramatis Personae
JUDGE
MR VONDRÁČEK, the accused
JUROR
USHER
Villagers
Other jurors
Barristers
Witnesses
Pronunciation: Joudal (Yohdal); Vondráček (Vondrahchek)
Scene 1: Courtroom
JUDGE.
The accused will stand.
[VONDRÁČEK stands up.]
You’ve been charged with murdering your father-in-law František Lebeda. In the police interview you admitted you hit him three times on the head with an axe, with the intention of killing him. How do you plead?
VONDRÁČEK.
[Shivers, gulps.] Not guilty.
JUDGE.
Did you kill him?
VONDRÁČEK.
Yeah.
JUDGE.
So, you are pleading guilty or not?
VONDRÁČEK.
No, I’m not.
JUDGE.
Now look, Mr Vondráček, it’s already been established that you tried to kill him once before. You put rat poison in his coffee. Is that correct?
VONDRÁČEK.
Yeah.
JUDGE.
From which it follows that you’ve been seeking to kill him for some time. Do you understand me?
VONDRÁČEK.
[Sniffs and shrugs his shoulders.] It… it was… it was coz of the clover. He sold the clover, even though I told him, “Dad, don’t sell that clover, I’m gonna buy some rabbits…”
JUDGE.
Hold on. Was the clover his or yours?
VONDRÁČEK.
His. But why would he be awanting clover. And I says to him, “Dad, at least leave me the field where you’ve got the alfafa.” But he says, “When I dies, Mařka – that’s like me wife – Mařka will have it. And then you can do what you likes with it, you greedy bastard.”
JUDGE.
And that’s why you wanted to poison him?
VONDRÁČEK.
Yeah, sort of.
JUDGE.
Because he swore at you?
VONDRÁČEK.
No. It was the field. He said he’d sell the field.
JUDGE.
But, for heavens’ sake, man! It was his field, wasn’t it? Why shouldn’t he have sold it?
VONDRÁČEK.
[Looking reproachfully at the judge.] Well, beside that field I got a sort of line of potatoes. I bought it so’s I could combine it one day with his field. But he said, “What do I care about your line of potatoes?! I’m gonna sell it to Joudal.”
JUDGE.
So you were continually arguing.
VONDRÁČEK.
[Frowning.] Yeah, kind of. Coz of the goat.
JUDGE.
What goat?
VONDRÁČEK.
He milked it dry. I says to him, “If you’re gonna keep the goat, give us that meadow by the stream.” But he sold the meadow.
JUROR.
And what did he do with the money?
VONDRÁČEK.
What d’ya think? He kept it in his trunk. “When I dies,” he says, “you can have it.” But he din’t have no intention of dying, even though he were already over seventy.
JUDGE.
So you mean to say it was your father-in-law who was responsible for all the disagreements?
VONDRÁČEK.
Yeah… He din’t want to hand nuffing over. “As long as I’m alive,” he says, “I’m in charge and that’s that!” So I says to him, “If you buys a cow, Dad, I’ll plough the field and then you won’t have to sell it.” But he says, “When I dies, you can buy two cows for all I care, but I’ll sell the field to Joudal.”
JUDGE.
Now listen, Mr Vondráček, did you kill him on account of the money in the trunk?
VONDRÁČEK.
That was for a cow. We reckoned, when he dies, that’ll be for a cow. A cottage like that can’t be without a cow, can it? Where was I gonna get manure?
JUDGE.
We’re not talking about a cow, we’re talking about a man’s life. Why did you kill your father-in-law?
VONDRÁČEK.
Coz of the field.
JUDGE.
That isn’t an answer!
VONDRÁČEK.
He wanted to sell the field…
JUDGE.
But the money would still be there after he died!
VONDRÁČEK.
Yeah, but he din’t wanna die, did he? If he’d died like he oughta of done, Yer Honour… I treated h’im like he was me own father. [Turns to the public gallery.] The whole village can attest to that, can’t you?
[Murmurs of agreement from VILLAGERS.]
JUDGE.
Yes, and that’s why you wanted to poison him, isn’t it?
VONDRÁČEK.
[Mumbling.] Poison… He shouldn’t of sold that clover. Anyone can tell you, Yer Honour, that clover oughta stay home. [Turning to the public gallery.] That’s no way to manage things, is it now?
[More murmurs of agreement.]
JUDGE.
Turn and face me, or I’ll have the public gallery cleared… Now tell us, how did the murder happen?
VONDRÁČEK.
Well… It was on a Sunday and I could see he was talking with that Joudal again. “Don’t go selling the field, Dad,” I says to him. And all he says is, “I din’t ask your advice, did I, blockhead?” So then I thinks to meself, it’s high time, innit? So I goes off to chop wood.
JUDGE.
With the axe at Exhibit A?
VONDRÁČEK.
Yeah.
JUDGE.
Continue.
VONDRÁČEK.
That evening I says to me missus, “Take the kids over to Auntie’s.” And she starts to cry. But I says, “Don’t cry. I’m just gonna have a chat with him.” But when he comes into the shed, he says, “That’s my axe, give it here!” An’ then he tries to grab it off me. So I gives him a whack with it.
JUDGE
Why?
VONDRÁČEK.
Coz of the field.
JUDGE.
And why did you hit him three times?
VONDRÁČEK.
[Shrugging his shoulders.] Well, Yer Honour… Where I comes from, we’re used to hard work.
JUDGE.
And then?
VONDRÁČEK.
And then I goes to bed.
JUDGE.
Did you manage to get to sleep?
VONDRÁČEK.
No. I was thinking how much a cow would cost, and how I’d exchange the meadow for that bit by the path. Then it’d be all together.
JUDGE.
And your conscience didn’t trouble you?
VONDRÁČEK.
No. What troubled me was that them fields wasn’t together. And then I’d have to repair the cowshed for the cow. That’d cost a few hundred. My father-in-law din’t even have a cart. “Dad,” I says to him, “God help us, but this isn’t no way to run a farm. The two fields need to be together. That’d be more like it.”
JUDGE.
And did you have no sympathy for the old man?!
VONDRÁČEK.
Well… Well… He wanted to sell that strip to Joudal, din’t he?
JUDGE.
So you murdered him out of avarice!
VONDRÁČEK.
[Tremulously.] No. It was coz of the field! If the fields had been together…
JUDGE.
You don’t feel guilty?
VONDRÁČEK.
No.
JUDGE.
So, murdering an old man is a matter of nothing as far as you’re concerned?
VONDRÁČEK.
[Almost in tears.] But it’s like I says, it was coz of that field. That isn’t no murder! Jesus, Mary and Joseph, anyone can see that! It was a family matter, Yer Honour! I wouldn’t of done it to no one outside the family… I never stealed nuffin… You can ask anyone… An’ they drags me off like a thief! … Like a thief!
JUDGE.
No, not like a thief. Like a patricide. You do know, Mr Vondráček, that the punishment for that is death?
VONDRÁČEK.
[Sobbing.] It was coz of the field.
[The hearing continues: witnesses, prosecuting council, defence council… The jury retire to make their decision.]
Scene 2: The judge’s office
Deep in thought, the judge is staring out of a window.
USHER.
All a bit weak, I’d say. Neither the prosecution nor the defence felt the need to say much… In short, open and shut. Guilty as charged.
JUDGE.
“Guilty as charged” you say. Listen, my friend: that man feels just as innocent as you or I. It’s as if I were judging a butcher for killing a cow, or a mole for making molehills. At times I felt like it shouldn’t be up to us, you know – shouldn’t be up to our justice. [Sighs and takes off his robe.] God! I need a break from it. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if the jury find him not guilty, ridiculous as that sounds… And that’s because… Let me tell you something. I was born and bred in the country, and when that fellow said, “Those fields need to be together,” it was as if I could see the two fields and I thought, you know, if we had to judge… by some sort of divine law… we’d have to judge those two fields. You know what I’d have liked to do? Stand up, take off my cap and say, “In the name of God, Mr Vondráček, because spilt blood cries to heaven for vengeance, you shall sow those two fields with hawthorn and henbane, so that, until your dying day, you’ll have that wasteland of hate in front of your eyes…” I wonder what the prosecuting counsel would have to say to that. My friend, sometimes God should do the judging. He’d be able to impose such terrific sentences. Although we judge in God’s name, we’re nothing in comparision… What’s that? The jury have already decided? [Sighs and puts his robe back on.] Right, let’s go. Call them back in.
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My translation – in the form of a play – of Karel Čapek‘s short story Rekord, which was published in Povídky z jedné kapsy in 1929.
Dramatis Personae
HEJDA, police sergeant
TUČEK, magistrate
VÁCLAV (Vašek Lysický), the accused
SCENE: Magistrate’s office.
TUČEK is sitting behind his desk. Enter HEJDA.
HEJDA.
I’ve got a case of grievous bodily harm here, sir… My God, isn’t it hot!”
TUČEK.
Just take it easy, Hejda.
HEJDA.
[Puts a bundle on the floor by the door, chucks his helmet down beside it, puts his firearm on a table in the corner of the room and unbuttons his coat.] Phew! The wretched scoundrel! I’ve never had a case like it, sir. Just take a look at this. [Picks up bundle, places it on Tuček’s desk and undoes it.]
TUČEK.
[Pokes the stone with a pencil.] What’s that meant to be? A cobblestone or something?
HEJDA.
Yes, a big one, 5 kilo 940 grams. It’s like this, sir. This Václav Lysický, bricklayer, nineteen years old, lives in the brickworks, right? He hits František Pudil, landlord, No. 14 Dolní Újezd, right? in left shoulder, causing breakage of clavical and shoulder joint with accompanying bleeding wound and torn muscles, tendons and surronding tissue. Right?
TUČEK.
Right. But what’s so unusual about all that?
HEJDA.
Just you wait and see, sir. I’ll tell you precisely what’s so unusual about all that. Three days ago that Pudil sends for me. You know him, don’t you, sir?
TUČEK.
I do. He was here once on account of extortion, and then… hm…
HEJDA.
That was the poker game. Yes, that Pudil. He’s got a cherry orchard going down to the river, right? That’s where the Sázava bends, so it’s wider there. So, Pudil sends for me one morning, saying something’s happened. I find him in bed, groaning and cursing. He says he went down the orchard the previous evening, to have a look at the cherries, and he catches this boy up a tree, stuffing his pockets with cherries. Well, you know what a ruffian that Pudil is. He takes off his belt, grabs the lad’s leg, pulls him down from the tree and whips him with the belt. But then someone yells at him from across the river: “Leave that boy alone, Pudil!” Well, Pudil, he doesn’t see too well – on account of his drinking, I think. All he can see is someone standing on the other bank staring at him. So, just to make sure, he shouts, “What’s it got to do with you, bonehead?!” and carries on whipping the boy even harder. “Pudil!” shouts the fellow on the other bank. “Leave that boy alone, I tell you!” Well, Pudil thinks to himself he can’t do much, over there, so he shouts, “Get stuffed, you interfering idiot!” But no sooner has he said that than he’s lying on the ground with a terrible pain in his left shoulder. And the fellow on the other bank says, “I’ll show you what for, you big bully!” So, listen, they have to carry Pudil away, coz he can’t stand up. And lying on the ground beside him is this here stone. They send someone to get the doctor that same night, and the doctor wants to send Pudil to the hospital, but Pudil won’t go, on account of it being harvest time. So he sends for me this morning and tells me I’ve got to arrest that scumbag, that toerag. So…
TUČEK.
Look, Hejda. That has to be impossible. Nineteen metres is quite some distance. Are you sure the fellow wouldn’t have been standing in the water? In the middle of the river, say?
HEJDA.
That did occur to me as well, sir. But the middle of the river is 2 metres deep at that point coz of the bend. And there’s a hole in the embankment where that stone was. You see, they built up the embankment a bit there to stop flooding. The fellow pulled this stone out of it and he must have thrown it from the path coz the river was too deep and he’d have slipped if he was standing on the embankment. So, that means he threw it 19.27 metres. What do you say to that?
TUČEK.
Erm… Perhaps he used a sling?
HEJDA.
[Looking askance at Tuček.] You’ve never used a sling, have you, sir? Just try shooting a 12-pound stone from a sling. It would have to be some sling! I tried it out over two days, sir. I made one and tried, but that stone would fall out of any sling, sir. No, it was thrown by hand. And do you know… do you know what that means? A world record! That’s what it means!
TUČEK.
[Amazed.] Steady on!
HEJDA.
Yes, a world record. The ball used in shot put is heavier – 7 kilo. And this year’s shot-put record is just a few centimetres short of 16 metres. The previous record of 15.5 metres had lasted for nineteen years, sir. But, this year, some American, can’t remember his name, Kuck or Hirschfeld or something, did a throw of almost 16. So, with a 16-kilo ball that would mean 18 or 19 metres. And here we have 0.27 of a metre more! That fellow, sir, would be able to throw a shot put at least 16.25 metres, even without training. Jesus! Sixteen and a quarter metres! I used to do shot putting myself, sir. In Siberia, the lads were always shouting, “Hejda, throw it over there.” A handgrenade, that’s to say. And in Vladivostok I threw with American sailors. I managed 14 metres, but their chaplain did 15.5. Fourteen and a half was all I could manage. So, 19 metres! Damn it, I said to myself, I have to find that chap. He’ll get us a world record. Just imagine, snuffing out the Americans’ record!”
TUČEK
And what about Pudil?
HEJDA.
Sod Pudil! The man I’m searching for, sir, is the unknown fellow who – so to speak – has infringed the world record. That’s a matter of national interest, wouldn’t you say? So, the first thing I do is guarantee him immunity for what happened to Pudil.
TUČEK.
I beg your pardon?
HEJDA.
Hold on, Sir. Immunity on condition he really can throw a 6-kilo stone across the Sázava. I told the local mayors what an extraordinary achievement that is – one that’d be famous throughout the world. He’d make thousands of pounds from it. And, upon my soul, no sooner had I let it be known, than lads from the whole region left off havesting and hurried off to that river bank to try and throw stones across to the other side. There are hardly any stones left in the embankmnet wall now, so they’re searching for more from field boundaries. They’ve even started knocking down walls. And little boys – the rascals – have started throwing stones in their villages. Lots of chickens killed as a consequence. And of course I goes to the embankment to watch, but none of them manage to throw further than half way across. The river must be half-full of stones by now, sir.
Yesterday afternoon they brings me a lad who, they says, is the one who hit Pudil with the stone. You’ll see the rascal in a minute, sir, he’s waiting outside. “So, Lysický,” I says to him. “Was it you who threw this stone at Pudil?” “Yeah,” he says. “Pudil swore at me, so my blood gets up and I grabs it and throws it.” “Right,” says I, “so now come with me and throw it across the river. And if you can’t I’ll give you what for.” So, off we goes, he stands there on the bank, I gives him the stone – he’s got hands like shovels – he stands there and aims… I must say, no points for technique or style, he don’t even move his legs or his hips. And then – plop! – he throws it maybe 14 metres. Not bad, but… Alright, so I shows him. “Look here, you good-for-nothing! You have to stand like this, right shoulder back, and when you throws you got to whip the shoulder forward, understand?” “Yeah,” he say. Then he twists himself up like St Jan Nepomucký, and – plop! Ten metres.You know, that really made me mad. “You bastard!” I shouts at him. “So, you hit Pudil, did you?! Lying bastard!” “As God is my witness, Sergeant,” he says, “I did hit him. Honest. If he was standing there now I’d hit him again, the swine.” So, when I hears that, sir, I runs round to Pudil and says to him, “Please, Mr Pudil, look, there’s a chance of a world record. Come and swear again from your side of the bank, and that bricklayer will have another go.” But, you’d hardly believe it, sir, Pudil says no, he won’t go there for love nor money. You see, that sort of person only thinks about themselves.So I goes to talk to that Vašek again, the bricklayer. “You swindler,” I says to him. “It weren’t you who knocked down Pudil. Pudil says it were someone else.” Lysický says that’s not true, it really were him. “Show me then,” says I, “that you really can throw that far.” At which, Vašek scratches his head and laughs. “Sergeant,” he says, “I can’t do it cold. I’d have to have Pudil standing there. If he was, I’d hit him every time.” So, I puts it to him straight: “Vašek,” I says, “If you manage it, I’ll let you go. If you don’t, you’ll be done for grievous bodily harm, for crippling Pudil. That’d see you behind bars for half a year, you brute.” And all he says is, “That’s alright, Sergeant. I don’t mind spending the winter in prison.” At which I arrests him in the name of the law.
He’s waiting in the corridor now, sir. Maybe you could find out if he really did throw the stone, or if he’s just boasting. I think you might put the fear of God in him and he’ll admit it weren’t him. In which case, the scoundrel should get at least a month in jail for deceiving the statumentary authorities. Sportsmen aren’t allowed to lie and they should be properly punished if they does. I’ll bring him in.
[Exit HEJDA, returning with VAŠEK.]
TUČEK.
So, you’re Václav Lysický. You admit that you threw this stone at František Pudil with the intention of harming him, do you?
VAŠEK
Let me explain, Yer Honour. It was like this: That Pudil is beating a boy and I shouts at him across the river to stop it and he starts swearing at me…
TUČEK.
Did you throw the stone or not?
VAŠEK.
Yes, Yer Honour, but he were swearing at me and so I grabs the stone…
TUČEK.
Blast it! Why are you lying, man? Don’t you know it’s a serious crime to obstruct the course of justice? We are well aware that you didn’t throw the stone.”
VAŠEK.
But I did, Yer Honour. Coz Pudil told me to go and get…
TUČEK
[Pointing at Vašek.] Take off your clothes.
[VAŠEK starts to undress.]
And your trousers.
[VAŠEK takes off his trousers. Shivers.]
Look at his deltoids, Hejda. And that long muscle… What do you call it?
HEJDA.
That one’s alright, but the muscles of his abdomen aren’t defined enough. You need those muscles for shot putting, sir, for swinging your body. If you’d allow me to show you my abdomen…
TUČEK.
No, I don’t think that will be necessary. Well, never mind his stomach, but – my God! – just look at his chest. [Poking his finger into the abundant hairs on Vašek’s chest.] But his legs are weak. These country boys always have bad legs.
HEJDA.
Coz they don’t bend them, sir. They’re no good. A shot putter has to have really strong legs.
TUČEK.
Turn round…
[VAŠEK turns round.]
What about his back, Hejda?
HEJDA.
The upper half is good, but the lower half… far from it. His torso isn’t strong enough. I think it can’t have been him who threw it, sir.
TUČEK.
[To Vašek.] Get dressed then.
[VAŠEK gets dressed.]
One last chance: did you throw this stone or not?
VAŠEK
[Mumbling, recalcitrant.]
Yes. I did.
TUČEK.
You ass! You threw it, so that’s grievous bodily harm and that means the regional court, where they’ll sentence you to several months, do you understand? So, stop this boasting and admit it: you made it all up. I’ll sentence you to three days for obstruction of justice and then you can go. So, for the very last time, did you strike Pudil with this stone or not?”
VAŠEK.
Yes. Coz he starts swearing at me from…
TUČEK.
Take him away. The damned liar!
[Exit HEJDA with VAŠEK.]
HEJDA
[Sticking his head through the door.] You forgot to add damage to other people’s property, sir. He took the stone from the embankment, didn’t he? And now there’s none left.
♥ ♣ ♦ ♠
(My translation of Karel Čapek’s short story Věštkyně, which was published in Povídky z jedné kapsy in 1929)
A
nyone with half a brain will realise that this incident couldn’t have happened here or in France or Germany. As is well known, here and in those countries judges are required to punish wrong-doers according to the letter of the law rather than according to their ineffable acuity as superior gentlemen. This story involves a judge who made a judgement based not on the relevant sections of law but on his trusty common sense. So, as you will see, it has to do with England or, to be more precise, London, or, to be even more precise, Kensington; or perhaps Brompton or Bayswater – anyway, somewhere thereabouts. The judge was His Honour Judge Kelly and the woman who was the object of his ineffable acuity was Mrs Edith Myers.
I should explain that this otherwise respectable lady had aroused the suspicions of Police Inspector McCleary. “My dear,” said McCleary one night to his wife. “I can’t get that Mrs Myers out of my head. I’d love to know how she makes her money. Just imagine: even though it’s winter, she’s still sending her servant to buy asparagus! I’ve also discovered she has about fifteen visitors every day – everything from Covent Garden stall-holders to countesses. And I’m well aware it could all be a front for something else: prostitution, spying or whatever. I need to find out what’s going on.”
“Why don’t you just leave it to me, Bob,” said the redoubtable Mrs McCleary. And so it came to pass that, the very next day, that good lady went to visit Mrs Myers in Bayswater or Marylebone or wherever. Of course she’d taken the precaution of removing her wedding-ring and doing herself up like a young girl – in a mutton-dressed-as-lamb sort of way, I might add. And she pretended to be appropriately nervous as, having rung the bell, she waited to be shown in to Mrs Myers.
“Sit down, my dear child,” said the old lady, after having had a good look at her simpering visitor. “What can I do for you?”
“I…,” spluttered Mrs McCleary. “I… I would like… I’ll be twenty tomorrow and I’d be awfully glad to know what the future holds in store for me.”
“But, Miss… Miss?” asked Mrs Myers, picking up a pack of cards at the same time, and immediately beginning to shuffle them.
“Jones,” said Mrs McCleary, almost in a whisper.
“My dear Miss Jones,” Mrs Myers continued. “I think you’re mistaken. I don’t do card-readings – except, of course, here and there, for old friends, as us old women tend to do. But if you’d like to split the pack into five with your left hand… That’s right… So I do do card readings from time to time, of course, but just for pleasure. Oh look!” she said, as she turned up the first pile. “Diamonds. That means money. And the jack of hearts! That’s a lovely card.”
“Ah,” said Mrs McCleary. “And what next?”
“The jack of diamonds,” said Mrs Myers, as she turned over the second pile. “And the ten of spades. That means travel. But then,” she exclaimed, “we’ve got clubs! Clubs always mean adversity, but here’s the queen of hearts at the end!”
“And what does that mean?” asked Mrs McCleary, trying her hardest to look amazed.
“Diamonds again,” muttered Mrs Myers, turning over the third pile. “My dear child, you’re in for a lot of money. But I’m still not sure whether it’s you who’ll be travelling, or someone close to you.”
“I do have to go and visit my aunt in Southampton,” said Mrs McCleary.
“Oh, it will be further than that,” said Mrs Myers, turning over the fourth pile. “And somebody’s going to try to stop you. An elderly man…”
“Probably my father!” Mrs McCleary exclaimed.
“So there we have it!” said Mrs Myers triumphantly, looking at the upturned fifth pile. “Dear Miss Jones, this is the most beautiful spade I’ve ever seen. Within the year you’ll be married to a fabulously wealthy young man, a millionaire, a businessman – because he travels a lot – but before that you’ll have to overcome difficult obstacles: an elderly gentleman will try to prevent your marriage. So you’ll have to be obstinate. And after you’ve got married you’ll move far away from here, overseas most likely… That will be one guinea, please, for the Christian missions amongst the poor Africans.”
“I’m so grateful to you,” said Mrs McCleary, taking one pound and one shilling from her purse. “Very very grateful. But may I ask, Mrs Myers, what it would cost without the adversity?”
“You can’t bribe a fortune-teller,” the old lady said in a tone of injured dignity. “What does your father do, by the way?”
“He works for the police,” lied the young lady, looking as innocent as she could. “He’s a secret agent.”
“Aha!” said the old lady. She pulled three cards out from the pack. “That’s bad, very bad. Please tell him, my dear child, that he’s in grave danger. He should come to see me to find out more. A lot of Scotland Yard people come and ask me to read the cards for them. And they tell me everything that’s worrying them. So, send him to see me. You say he’s in the political department? Mr Jones? Tell him I’ll be expecting him. Goodbye, my dear Miss Jones… Next please!”
“I don’t like the sound of it,” Mr McCleary said, rubbing the back of his head. “Not at all, Katy. That woman was far too interested in your late father. And apart from that her name isn’t Myers: it’s Meierhof and she’s from Lübeck. A damn German!” he grumbled. “What shall we do about her? I don’t doubt for a moment she’s getting stuff out of people that’s none of her business… I know! I’ll report her to the high-ups.”
And that’s what Mr McCleary did. Somewhat surprisingly the high-ups took it all seriously, and thus it was that Mrs Myers was eventually summoned to appear before His Honour Judge Kelly.
“So, Mrs Myers,” said he, “what’s all this business with the cards?”
“Why do you ask?” said the old lady. “One has to earn one’s keep somehow. At my age I’m hardly going to go and dance in vaudeville!”
“That’s all very well,” said Judge Kelly, “but I’ve had a complaint that you’re not reading the cards properly. And that, my dear Mrs Myers, is just the same as if you were selling bars of clay instead of chocolate. If they’re going to pay a guinea, people are entitled to expect a proper reading. Would you kindly tell me why you’ve set yourself up as a fortune teller when you don’t know how to do it properly?”
“But people don’t complain,” the old lady replied. “The thing is, I tell them things they like to hear. And the pleasure they get from that is surely worth a few shillings. And sometimes I even get it right. Just the other day a lady said to me, ‘No-one has ever read the cards and given me such good advice as you, Mrs Myers!’ She lives in St John’s Wood and is getting a divorce from her husband…”
“But,” said His Honour, “here we have a witness to what you’ve been getting up to. Please tell us about it, Mrs McCleary.”
“Mrs Myers read the cards for me,” said Mrs McCleary. “She told me that within a year I’d be married, that my husband would be a wealthy young man and that we’d move overseas…”
“Why overseas, exactly?” asked the judge.
“Because there was a ten of spades in the second pile, and that means travel,” said Mrs Myers.
“Nonsense!” said the judge. “The ten of spades means good fortune. It’s the jack of spades that means travel; when it comes together with the seven of diamonds, that’s when it means travel to far-away places and good fortune. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, Mrs Myers! And you told our witness here that within the year she’d marry a wealthy young man. But Mrs McCleary is already married; she married Police Inspector McCleary three years ago, and a fine man he is too. So how do you explain this nonsense, Mrs Myers?”
“Well now,” said the old lady, perfectly calmly. “That’s how it goes sometimes. This person came to me all dolled-up like a silly girl. But I noticed that her left glove was torn. So, someone who’s not rolling in money but wants to give the appearance that she is. And she told me she was twenty, whereas in fact she’s twenty-five…”
“Twenty-four!” interrupted Mrs McCleary forcefully.
“Well, it’s all the same. So she’d like to get married – that’s to say, she made out she was single. So I foresaw a wedding for her and a rich bridegroom. That’s what seemed to me the most appropriate.”
“And what about the adversity?” demanded Mrs McCleary. “The elderly gentleman and the journey abroad?”
“For something more to say,” was Mrs Myers’ simple reply. “For a guinea you have to say more than just a couple of things.”
“I’ve heard all I need to hear,” said the judge. “There’s no getting out of it, Mrs Myers: reading the cards like that is a swindle. Fortune tellers have to understand the cards. It’s true there are various theories about it, but the ten of spades never – and I emphasise the word ‘never’ – means a journey. You will pay a fine of fifty pounds, just like tradespeople who wrongly describe their wares. There’s also a suspicion that you’re a spy, Mrs Myers, but you’re hardly going to own up to that, are you?”
“As God is my witness…,” Mrs Myers began, but His Honour interrupted her. “Never mind: we’ll leave that to one side. But, because you’re a foreigner without proper employment, I shall order the police authorities to expel you from this country. Goodbye, Mrs Myers, and thank you, Mrs McCleary. Fraudulent fortune telling is cynical and dishonest behaviour, Mrs Myers. I hope you’ll learn your lesson.”
About a year later, Judge Kelly happened to meet Police Superintendent McCleary. “Lovely weather we’re having,” said His Honour. “By the way, how’s Mrs McCleary?”
Mr McCleary grimaced. “Well… the thing is, Mr Kelly,” he said, clearly embarrassed, “Mrs McCleary…the thing is… we got divorced.”
“No! Really?” said the judge. “Such an attractive young woman.”
“That was just the problem,” muttered Mr McCleary. “A young dandy took a shine to her. Some sort of millionaire businessman from Melbourne… Of course, I tried to talk sense into her, but…” He waved his hand. “They left for Australia last week.”
♥♣♦♠
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(My translation of Karel Čapek’s short story Případ Selvinův, which was published in Povídky z jedné kapsy in 1929)
What was my greatest success? Hm… Well, the success of which I’m most proud…
[As well as being old, Leonard Unden was a famous poet, a Nobel Laureat etc.]
When you get to my age, my young friends, you no longer care about honours, applause, lovers and suchlike nonsense. All of that is in the distant past. When you’re young, you’re up for all sorts of fun and you’d be stupid not to be. But – here’s the rub – when you’re young you hardly have the means to enjoy anything. That’s why life should really be the other way round. You should start off old and put in a full stint of proper work, because that’s all you’re good for. And only after that should you become young, so you can enjoy the fruits of your long life. So, there you have it – an old man’s confession.
But what was I talking about… Ah, yes, my greatest success. And I can tell you this: it wasn’t any of my books or plays, even though there was a time – believe it or not – when people did actually read them! No, my greatest success was the Selvin case.
Well, of course, you won’t know what that was all about: it happened twenty-six years ago – no, more, twenty-nine. So, one fine day twenty-nine years ago, a little white-haired lady in a black dress came to see me. I used to be renowned for my affability in those days, but before I could ask her how I could help she sank to her knees before me and burst into tears. (I don’t know about you, but I can’t bear to see a woman cry.)
After I’d calmed her down a bit, the words poured out of her:
“You’re a poet, sir, and you’re a good man. Please, I beg you, save my son! You must have read about him in the papers. Frank Selvin…”
I think I must have looked like a bearded baby back then. I did read the papers, but I hadn’t noticed anything about a Frank Selvin. What I could make out, in between all her whimpering and sniffling, was that her only son, Frank Selvin, who was twenty-two years old, had just been sentenced to life imprisonment for murdering his aunt Sofie while trying to rob her. And the jury had considered his plea of innocence nothing more than an aggravation of the crime.
“But he really is innocent, sir. I can swear to it. That fateful evening he said to me, ‘I’ve got a headache, Mum, so I’m going for a walk out in the fields.’ That’s why he couldn’t prove his alibi, sir. Who would notice a young lad in the night, even if he met him? My Frantík was a bit of a gad-about – I won’t deny it – but you were young once too, sir. He’s only twenty-two. And all that life ahead of him has been destroyed.”
And so she continued. Listen, if you’d seen that broken, white-haired mother, you’d have realised what I realised: that impotent sympathy is a terrible thing. Well, what can I say? It ended up with me assuring her I’d do absolutely everything I could to get to the truth of the matter. And that I believed her son was innocent. When she got to her feet again and made the sign of the cross over me, I almost felt like kneeling down in front of her. You probably know how soppy one can look when turned into an object of such reverence.
So, I made it my job to look into the Frank Selvin case. First of all, of course, I studied the files. And I have to say, I’d never come across such a catalogue of errors. It was simply scandalous. The case was really quite straightforward: one night, Miss Sofie’s maid, fifty-year old Anna Solarová – who, let’s say, wasn’t exactly the brightest button – heard someone walking in Miss Sofie’s bedroom. So she went to see why the lady wasn’t asleep and, when she entered the room, she saw the window wide open and a man jumping out of it into the garden. Whereupon she screamed blue murder, and when the neighbours came with a torch they found Miss Sophie’s body on the bedroom floor – strangled with her own towel. The cupboard where she kept her money was open, the clothes had been thrown about, but the money was still there – evidently the maid had disturbed the murderer at that very moment. So, those were the facts of the case.
Frank Selvin was arrested the next day, the maid having testified that she’d recognised the man who jumped from the window. It was ascertained he wasn’t at home at the time: he’d returned about half an hour later and had gone straight to bed. It also came to light that the careless fellow had got into debt. And not only that, but a local gossip, who was flattered to find herself in the limelight, testified that, a few days before the murder, Miss Sofie told her something in confidence: namely, that her nephew Frank had visited her to beg for a few hundred crowns. And when she refused – she was a terrible old skinflint – Frank had said to her, “Just you be careful, Auntie; something’s awful’s going to happen.”
And that was everything as far as Frank was concerned.
Now the trial. It was all over in half a day. Frank pleaded innocence, claiming he’d gone out for a walk and had returned straight home and gone to bed. None of the witnesses were cross-examined, and the defence barrister – who was provided by the court gratis, given that Mrs Selvinová couldn’t afford to pay for a better one – was a harmless old fool, who merely appealed to the jury, with tears in his eyes, to bear in mind the tender age of his imprudent client. Even the prosecution barrister didn’t go to too much trouble: he just reminded the jury they’d let off the two previous defendents, and what would happen to society if every criminal was found not guilty because of a lack of backbone on the part of the people’s judges? And it looks like the jury were impressed with that argument and were only too anxious to demonstrate that each and every one of them really did have a backbone. Anyway, Frank Selvin was found guilty by unanimity. And that was that.
When I discovered all this I was furious, even though I’m not a lawyer – or perhaps precisely because I’m not a lawyer. Just imagine: the star witness is a bit dim; the night – as I discovered later – was very dark, so she couldn’t have had any certainty about the man’s identiity. I know very well that, in the dark, it’s even difficult to ascertain how big a person is. And not only that, but Anna Solarová absolutely hated Frank Selvin – evidently he uses to call her ‘fair Hebe,’ which she, for some reason, regarded as an unforgivable insult.
Secondly, Miss Sofie hated her sister, so much so that they no longer spoke to each other, and Miss Sofie wouldn’t even mention Frank’s mother by name. If she did say Frank had threatened her, it could very well have been no more than yet another way for the old spinster to belittle her sister. As for Frank himself, he’d been doing reasonably well: he was an office clerk; he had a girlfriend, to whom he wrote sentimental letters and poor poems, and he fell into debt through – as one says – no fault of his own, or rather, because he was inclined to get sentimentally drunk. His mother was a wonderful woman, but ground down by cancer, poverty and sorrow.
So, that’s how things were when one took a closer look.
Of course, you won’t have any idea what a terrier I was in those days! When my blood was up, nothing could stop me. So I wrote a series of articles for the newspapers, titled ‘The Frank Selvin Case,’ in which I set out, point by point, the unreliability of the witnesses, especially the star witness; I analysed the discrepancies and bias in their testimonies; I showed how absurd it was to think the star witness could have recognised the murderer; and I demonstrated the utter incompetence of the judge and the crude demagogery of the prosecution barrister. But even all that didn’t satisfy me: I began attacking the whole justice system – the criminal code, the way juries were organised, the indifference and arrogance of the authorities.
Well, you won’t be surprised that this caused quite a brouhaha. I was pretty well known in those days, and the young people were firmly on my side. One evening, there was even a demonstration outside the courthouse. And that’s when Selvin’s defence barrister hurried over to see me: what on earth was I up to?! He’d appealed on the grounds of procedural irregularity and was confident the sentence would be reduced to just a few years. But now, not wishing to look as if it was giving in to the mob, the court would almost certainly refuse his appeal.
I told that bumptious barrister that, for me, it was no longer just a matter of the Selvin case: it was a matter of truth and justice. But he was right: the appeal was refused.
Nevertheless, the judge had to retire. And that’s when I really got stuck into it. Even today, I’d still say it was a crusade for justice. Many things have improved since those days of course. I think people who have a long memory might admit I’ve had some part in helping to bring that about. The Selvin case got mentioned in the press around the world; I gave lectures to workers in pubs and to delegates at international congresses. ‘Justice for Selvin’ became just as familiar a slogan as ‘No more war’ or ‘Votes for Women.’ But, for me, it was always a struggle against the state. With the young people on my side. When Selvin’s mother died, seventeen thousand people followed the coffin of that careworn little lady. And I spoke, like I’ve never spoken before or since, above the open grave. God knows, my friends, inspiration is a strange and awful thing.
I spent seven years fighting for justice, and it finished me off. It was the Selvin case, not my books, that gained me a certain world renown. People call me ‘The Sword of Justice’, ‘The Truth Sayer’ etcetera, and maybe something of that will appear on my gravestone in due course. And maybe, say, fourteen years after my death, children will be taught how the poet Leonard Unden fought for the truth. And then it will all be forgotten.
Seven years after the event, Anna Solarová, the star witness, died, but not before tearfully confessing that her conscience was weighing on her: she’d given false testimony at the trial; she couldn’t say with any certainty that the murderer in the window was Frank Selvin. The priest – a kindly fellow – came to tell me, but by then I had a better idea about the way things are in this world. So, instead of going to the press with it, I sent the priest to the court. Within a week, the case against Frank Selvin was reconvened, and within a month he was standing before a jury once more. One of the best barristers in the country took on the case for free and smashed the charges to smithereens. After which the prosecution barrister recommended the jury to free the accused. And all twelve members of the jury decided Frank Selvin was innocent.
So there you have it: my greatest achievement. No other success gave me such satisfaction – or, at the same time, such a feeling of emptiness. You see, the truth is that, a day after the original verdict was overturned, I was told a man wanted to speak to me.
“I’m Frank Selvin,” he said, standing in the door of my study. And, difficult though it is to explain, I felt a sort of disappointment: a disappointment that my Mr Selvin looked like… like a lottery agent – rather tubby, and pale, balding, sweating slightly and perfectly ordinary. Not to mention that he stank of beer.
“Maestro,” he stuttered – Can you imagine he actually addressed me as “Maestro”! I felt like kicking him. – “I’ve come to thank you… as my greatest benefactor… I’m indebted to you for my whole life. Any words of thanks will be inadequate…” (He seemed to have learnt all this off by heart.)
“But it was no more than my duty,” I interrupted, “as soon as I became convinced they’d condemned you unjustly.”
Frank Selvin shook his head. “Maestro,” he muttered, “I don’t want to lie to my benefactor. I did kill that old crow.”
I leapt up from my chair. “So why didn’t you admit it in court?!”
Frank Selvin gave me a cunning look. “But that was my right, wasn’t it, Maestro? The accused has the right to deny the charge, doesn’t he?”
I’m sure I don’t need to tell you I felt completely deflated. “So what do you want?” I growled.
“I’ve just come to thank you for your kindness,” he replied, in a voice of feigned gratitude. “You looked after my poor mother as well. May God bless you, noble bard.”
“Get out!” I yelled, at which he was down the stairs and away in no time.
Three weeks later he stopped me in the street. He was rather drunk and I couldn’t manage to get shot of him, let alone understand what he wanted. Keeping a firm grip of one of the buttons of my coat, he said I’d spoilt it for him. If I hadn’t written about his case in the first place, the barrister’s appeal on the grounds of procedural irregularity wouldn’t have been refused and he wouldn’t have had to spend seven years in prison. So I should, at the very least, be aware of the reduced circumstances he now found himself in as a result of my poking my nose in.
In short, I couldn’t manage to get rid of him until I gave him a couple of hundred crowns.
“God bless you, my benefactor,” said Mr Selvin, with tears in his eyes.
The next time I met him he was rather more threatening: thanks to his case, I’d garnered some fame and fortune, so how come he’d got nothing out of it himself? I tried to convince him I didn’t owe him anything but, in the end, I handed over some more money.
Ever since then he started turning up more frequently. Sitting on my sofa and sighing, complaining that he was wracked with guilt for snuffing out the old crow. “I’d hand myself in, Maestro, if it wasn’t that you’d be publicly shamed at the same time. So, I don’t know how I can find peace.”
Believe you me, his guilty conscience must have been the most terrible torment for him, judging by how much I had to cough up to help him bear that load. In the end I bought him a ticket to sail to America. Whether he finally found peace there or not, I don’t know.
So that was the greatest success of my life. When you come to write my obituary, dear friends, please say that the Selvin case is engraved in gold letters, undying gratitude etc.
♥ ♣ ♦ ♠
‘Mî vndeta agnst Pūtin’: ɖ Ycreńn sculptr huz hōntñ wrc z śept bî wor
(Transcription of an Observer article of 15 April 2023)
Miħaīl Reva hz yzd śrapnl n misîlparts t rīcriet ɖ nîtmer wrld v ɖ conflict
Lūc Hardñ in Odesa, Saṭde 15 Epril 2023
H z Ycren’z most feṃs sculptr. Miħaīl Reva’z plêfl n hymṛs crieśnz hv bn sìn bî miłnz v ppl n cn b faund in sqerz n bīćz in hiz netiv Odesa, in Cyīv n abrōd. Hiz sculpćrz sum p Odesa’z insūsịnt vy v lîf. “Odesa hz a ynīc lanḡj n spirit. I riylîzd ɖt ɖs siti śd pzes its ǒn plastic art – slîtli îronic, a litl nîīv, cerlis n joklr,” h sd.
Bt Vḷadīmir Pūtin’z inveźn hz trnsformd Reva’z wrc, az wel az ɖt v uɖr Ycreńn artists, promtñ him t imbres ny n darcr formz. Ɖ horrz v Bŭća n Marịpól – ẃr Ruśn soljrz x’ktd siviłnz – inspîrd him t criet a siriz v xtrordnri ny sculpćrz. Ɖe mt hv spruñ fṛm a Hoffmann fẹritêl crost wɖ a nîtmer.
Ɖ sntrpìs z a for-mītr-tōl sculpćr v Moloc, an enćnt god, in ɖ form v a Ruśn ber. Reva md it fṛm śrapnl n uɖr bom rmenz, rcuvrd fṛm ɖ batlfīld n wldd tgɖr. “It’s lîc a jîgantic scẹri ćildṛn’z tô. It wl b on ẃīlz,” Reva sd. “Ɖ ber hz biblicl asośieśnz n rfŕz t Mosco. Y lc at it n it hipṇtîzz y. Ɖr z fṛjiḷti n brūtaḷti.”
Anɖr hōntñ sculpćr z tîtld Blosm. Its flǎrñ metl form z cnstructd fṛm ɖ twistd parts v an X-31 Ruśn misîl ɖt landd nxt t Reva’z stydio in ɖ Blac Sī rzort v Zatoca, in suɖn Ycren. It blù ɖ dorz of hiz sumr daśa. Mrakḷsli, Reva’z sculpćrz wr undamijd. A nebr c’lectd ɖ fragmnts n gev ɖm t him.
Ovr ɖ past yir, ɖ sculptr hz bcm an xprt at dstnḡśñ difṛnt tîps v eṇmiwepn. Sm v ɖ debri bròt t hiz stydio includz fosfṛs bomz. “It’s denjṛs t briɖ ɖm in,” h sd. “I nǒ ɖ caṛctr n txćr v ć pìs v metl. It flù wɖ sć fors. Mî wrc z’nt an insṭleśn or pformns. It’s a mesij ɖt cmz fṛm pen.”
H hops t xibit Rŭsci Mir in Lundn, Brlin, Ny Yorc n uɖr mejr sitiz. It cd b prṃnntli dspleid in a ny ḿziym v wor in Cyīv – bt ɖt fr nǎ z litl mor ɖn an îdīa az ɖ conflict rejz on.
Reva sd h cnsidrd hiz b’luvid 88-yir-old muɖr, Valentina, t b a victim v Ruśn agreśn. Ś daid last sumr sn aftr h ivaketd hr fṛm hr nînʈ-flor Odesa hom.
Ejd 64, n ɖ sun v a sīcaptin, Reva studid sculpćr in ɖ lêt 1980z n spent fîv hapi yirz at ɖ hayr scūl v art n dzîn, in ẃt wz ɖen Leningrad. An ǎtstandñ stydnt, h wún a scolrśp t Rom, ɖen rtrnd t Odesa. Tîmz wr hard in ɖ nyli indipndnt Ycren. Wn v hiz frst petṛnz wz a locl mafịbos, hu wz lêtr śot ded.
Hiz c’rir tc of, n Ycren’z ɖen prezidnt, Leonid Cŭćma, bcem a fan. It wz Cŭćma hu cmiśnd ɖ Pūtin súndayl. Nǎ Reva sz h fīlz aśemd fr Ruśa n St Pīṭzbrg ẃr h spent hiz stydnt dez. “Ɖs z a wor v Cên vrss Êbl, Devid agnst G’layʈ. Mî smōl cuntri hz rzistd a gret monstr,” h sd. Hiz “dīp fīlñz” abt ɖ conflict ćenjd hiz art, h add. H wontd t avôd “isʈetics”, prifŕñ instd t dlivr “a prisîs, fînît imij”.
Mnẃl, Odesnz stl sīc ǎt hiz priinveźn public sculpćrz – crietd, h sz, fṛm a ples v “lît n cîndnis”. On Lanźerón bīć, nt far fṛm Odesa’z harbr, grūps pǒz in frunt v a strîcñ dor, cōld Domus Solis (Hǎs v ɖ Sún), best on ɖ entṛns v a grand 19ʈ-snć̣ri manśn, nǎ dstroid. Bhnd it z ɖ Blac Sī, ʈroñd bî Ruśn worśips.
Anɖr landmarc Reva mońmnt z lcetd in Odesa’z mn pdestrịn aṿny, Deribasifsca. Ɖ Twelfʈ Ćer – y cn sit on it – z an afx́ṇt tribyt t ɖ Sovịt raitrz Ilya Ilf n Yevğeni Petrov, huz stori v dîmndz hidn in ɖ sīt hz bn trnd intu coṃdifilmz. “Ɖ ćer invîts vywrz t an endlis gem wɖ ɖ sculpćr,” Reva xplend, “a sort v pformns v rleśnz.”
Ɖs wīc, Lena Sŭmsca n hr frend Anatolii jônd a k wêtñ t pǒz bî ɖ sculpćr. Anatolii wevd caś arnd: a sīn fṛm ɖ film. H sañ tū soñz, wn a 1955 hit bî ɖ Odesa crūnr Leonid Utyesov n ɖ uɖr, Ǒ Odesa! Prl bî ɖ Sī. Sumska sd ś hd fled t Jrṃni ẃn ɖ wor startd n hd rtrnd fr a wīc-loñ trip, tecñ fotoz t śo hr faṃli bac in Magdeburg.
“I’d lîc t ʈanc ɖ sculptr. H’z md a wundṛs ʈñ,” ś sd. Ś ɖen dlivrd an impromtu mesij fr Pūtin, rfŕrñ t him bî hiz unflaṭrñ dmińtiv nicnem, Vova. “Vova, y’v got nʈñ t se t s! W d’nt nīd y! G hom!” ś dclerd.
Ś add ćirḟli: “W r noun fr ǎr aḟrizmz hir. Ɖt’s ɖ spirit v Odesa.”
***
Lūc Hardñ’z Inveźn: Ruśa’z Bludi Wor n Ycren’z Fît fr Svîvl z publiśt bî Gardịn Febr (£20)
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