Nine Tales for Children

 

Karel Čapek

 

plus one additional tale by Josef Čapek

 

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The Postman's Tale

 

            I wonder: could there be stories about the jobs people do or skills they have instead of stories about kings and princes and robbers, shepherds and knights, black princes and giants, woodmen and water babies, why could there not be a story about a postman too?  After all, the post office almost seems to have a curse on it; you have all the same signs up there, such as "No Smoking" and "Dogs Not Allowed" and lots of other warning signs.  Believe me, not even witches and dragons have as many announcements and warnings in their offices as there are in a post office.  This just goes to show, the post office is a secretive and powerful place.  And remember, children, who can tell what goes on in a post office in the night time when it's closed?  Oh how we'd all like to see that!  Well, there was one man - his name was Mr. Kolbaba, just so that you know, and he was a postman - and he actually did see what goes on and he told all the other postmen and letter carriers about it and they told others, until eventually I came to hear about it; and I'm not so miserly as to keep it all to myself.  So out with it, and this is how it all began. 

            Well, this Mr. Kolbaba, whose career it was to be a postman and letter carrier, somehow became tired of his trade:  with all that walking and running and climbing and stepping, each day a postman must walk twenty seven thousand seven hundred and thirty five steps, including eight thousand two hundred and forty nine steps up and down; and these letters he carries, they're nothing but forms and bills and other things that nobody wants and that bring nobody any pleasure; and even the post office is such a cheerless and dull place where nothing worth telling about ever happens.  This, and many other things, is what Mr. Kolbaba grumbled about as he went about his postman's business.  One day, just because he was so sad, he sat down by the stove in the post office and fell asleep and didn't even notice when it was six o'clock; and when the clock struck six all the other postmen and letter carriers closed the post office while Mr. Kolbaba remained there locked in and fast asleep.

            It may have been around midnight when he was woken up by a kind of rustling noise, such as mice make when they scurry across the floor.  'Looks like we've got mice,' said Mr. Kolbaba to himself, 'we'll have to put a trap out for them.'  And when he looked round to see if he could see these mice, what he saw was that they weren't mice at all, they were the post office gnomes.  Now these gnomes are little bearded men about the size of a squirrel or a rabbit in the woods, something like that; and on their heads they wear postman's caps just like proper postmen and over their shoulders they wear little capes just like proper letter carriers.  'Oh Lor!' said Mr. Kolbaba to himself, but he didn't say anything else, not a word, because he didn't want to startle them.  Just then, Mr. Kolbaba saw that one of the post office gnomes was sorting out some letters which he was to deliver himself the next morning; another of them was sorting other letters, another was weighing some parcels and sticking labels on them, another was complaining that the package he had was not properly wrapped like it should have been, a fifth gnome was sitting at the window counting money, just like they do behind the counter.  "Just as I thought," he laughed, "this clerk has made a mistake by one penny once again; I'll have to correct it for him."  A sixth gnome sat by the telephone switchboard and tapped out telegrams which went like this: taktak tak tak taktaktak tak.  But Mr. Kolbaba was able to understnad what he was saying; in normal language it went like this: "Hello, Ministry of Posts?  This is post office gnome number one hundred and thirty one here.  Report everything in order stop.  Colleague, elf Matlafousek has the sniffles, reported sick, didn't come in to work stop.  Over."

            "There's a letter here for the city of Bambolimbonandy in the Kingdom of the Cannibals," a seventh gnome called out.

            "Where's that?"

            "That goes via Benešov," another little man called out.  "Write on it 'Kingdom of the Cannibals, Trebizon station, last post office Cat's Castle'.  Air mail.  And that's it then.  Now then lads, how about a game of cards?"

            "Don't see why not," said the first gnome as he counted out thirty two envelopes.  "We've got the cards here and we can get started."

            The second gnome took the envelopes and shuffled them.

            "I'll cut them," said the first gnome.

            "Deal them out then," the second one told him.

            "Hold on, hold on," the third one grumbled, "I've got a bad card here!"

            "I'll start " said the fourth and lay a card down on the table with a thump.

            "I can beat that " said the fifth, and laid his card on top of it. 

            "Na, I can't do much with that," said the sixth and threw his card down.

            "Ah," said the  seventh, "I've got a card that's even higher."

            "And I've got the ace of trumps," called out the eighth, and he flung his card down after the others.

            At this, children, Mr. Kolbaba was no longer able to keep control of himself and he exclaimed: "I'm sorry if I disturb you, gentlemen, but what are those cards you've got there?"

            "Ah, Mr. Kolbaba," said the  first gnome.  "We didn't want to wake you up, but now that  you are awake come and join in the game with us.  We're playing a game a bit like whist, called 'Maríáš', I'm sure you must know it."

            Mr. Kolbaba didn't wait to be asked a second time and sat down among the gnomes. 

            "Here are your cards," said the second gnome, handing him a number of letters, "and we can begin."

            Mr. Kolbaba looked down at these letters he'd been given, and he said: "Don't hold it against me gents., but I haven't got any cards in my hands, all I've got is these undelivered letters."

            "Yeah, that's right," the third little man answered, "that's what we use for playing cards."

            "Hm," said Mr. Kolbaba, "I hope you don't mind my saying, but playing cards for playing mariáš are supposed to have a seven as the lowest card, then there's the eight, then the nine and ten, jack, queen, king, and the highest card is the ace.  But I can't see anything like that on these letters."

            "Ah, well that's where you're mistaken, Mr. Kolbaba," said the fourth little man.  "What you need to know is that each of these letters counts more or less according to what's written inside of it."

            "The lowest card," the first gnome explained, "what you call a seven, are the sort of letters where people are lying or pretending something."

            "The second lowest is the eight," the second gnome continued, "and that's the sort of letter that people write only because it's their duty and they have to."

            "The third lowest is the nine," added the third tiny man, "and that's letters that people write only for the sake of being polite."

            "The first of the high cards is the ten, " said the fourth.  "That's the sort of letter where people write something new and interesting."

            "The second high card is the jack," said the fifth.  "They're the little letters that people send each other when they want to give them pleasure."

            "The third high hard is the queen," said the sixth.  "They're letters from one good friend to another."

            "The fourth high card is called the king," added the seventh.  "A that's the sort of letter that gets written for love."

            "And the highest card of all, the ace," explained the eighth little old man last of all, "that's the sort of letter where someone pours out his whole heart.  It's the card that can beat or trump any other card.  For your information, Mr. Kolbaba, this is the sort of letter that a mother might write to her child or that someone might write to someone else who he loves more than himself."

            "I see," said Mr. Kolbaba.  "But now I'd like to know how you can tell what's written inside these letters.  I do hope you're not opening them and reading them.  You're not allowed to do that you know, that would be a breach of postal confidentiality and I'd have to report you to the police for it.  Dear me, that would be an enormous sin if somebody opened a letter that doesn't belong to him!"

            "We're all well aware of that, Mr. Kolbaba, " said the first gnome.  "But what we do, lad, is we feel through the sealed envelope and we can tell in that way what sort of letter it is.  These letters without any emotion to them, you see, they're sort of cold to the touch, but the more love there is in a letter the warmer it feels."

            "And us gnomes, if we put a closed envelope against our foreheads," added the second, "we can tell you word for word what's written inside of it."

            "Well I never," said Mr. Kolbaba.  "And now, now that we're all here together, there's something I'd like to ask you, if you don't mind, that is."

            "As it's you, Mr. Kolbaba," answered the third gnome, "you can ask us about anything you like."

            "What I'd like to know is," said Mr. Kolbaba, "what do gnomes actually eat?"

            "We eat all sorts of things," said the fourth gnome.  "Gnomes like us, living  in various kinds of government offices and departments and so on, we eat in the  same way as the cockroaches do, all the stuff left by you humans: a few crumbs of bread or a piece of bread roll.  You see, Mr. Kolbaba, there's really not much that you humans drop."

            "We don't hold it against you, though, not us post office gnomes," said the fifth gnome.  See these lines of tickertape, we cook them up like noodles and soak them in this glue the post office uses; only it's got to be dextrine glue."

            "Or else we might  lick the stamps, " added the sixth.  "We like that, only it does make your whiskers stick together."

            "But mostly what we eat is crumbs," explained the seventh gnome.  "So that, Mr. Kolbaba, you see, that's why they hardly ever sweep up in government offices, it's so that there's some of these crumbs left for us."

            "And can I be so bold as to ask," continued Mr. Kolbaba, "where is it that you actually sleep?"

            "Oh, we can't tell you that, Mr. Kolbaba," the eighth old man said.  "If humans knew where us gnomes live, well they'd sweep us straight out of there.  Oh no, you mustn't know about that."

Well, if you're not going to tell me, thought Mr. Kolbaba to himself, I'll leave it at that.  I'll keep a good watch, though, and see for myself where you go to sleep.  And with that he sat back down by the stove where he could sit and keep an eye out.   He got himself comfortable, but very soon after, his eyes for some reason were already beginning to shut, and before you could say 'cosy' Mr. Kolbaba was asleep and he slept like a dodo till God brought the morning.

 

            Mr. Kolbaba the postman didn't tell anyone about what he'd seen because, you know, you're not really allowed to spend the night in the post office.  But from that day on he never minded carrying letters to people.  This letter here, he would say to himself, is a little bit warm, but this other one is quite hot, it's so hot it must be a letter from someone's mum.

            And one day he was in the post office, sorting the letters they'd brought in from the post boxes so that they could be taken round to the people, when suddenly he said: "Look at this!  There's a letter here in a sealed envelope, but there's no address on it - not even a stamp."  And the postmaster said:

            "Oh yeah, someone's gone and posted a letter without any address again."

            Just at that moment there happened to be a gentleman in the post office who was sending a registered letter to his mum; the gentleman heard what the postmen said and declared:

            "What a pillock that must be, what a fool what a thickhead what a camel what pig in a bottle what a dunderhead what a good for nothing what a piece of holy dead wood that must be, who'd send a letter and doesn't even write the address on it."

            "Needn't be," said the postmaster.  "We get piles of letters like that in the course of a year.  You wouldn't believe how forgetful people can be, sir.  They write a letter, rush out to the post office and forget to check they've written the address.  You'd be surprised, it happens more often than you might think."

            "That's very odd," said the gentleman, "and what do you do, then, with all these letters without an address on them?"

            "We just leave them in the post office, sir," said the postmaster, "as we can't deliver them without an address."

            Meanwhile, Mr. Kolbaba had been turning this letter without an address round and round in his hand and muttered: Postmaster, this letter seems warm, I'm sure it must say something sincere in it.  I think it really ought to be delivered to the person it's meant for."

            "Well if there's no address on it it can't be done, and that's that," objected the  postmaster. 

            "Well why don't you open it then?" asked the man from outside.  "Have a look and see who sent it."

            "We can't do that, sir," said the postmaster severely, "if we did that that would be a breach of postal confidentiality and that's not allowed."  And with that, as far as the postmaster was concerned, the matter was settled.

            But when the man had left the post office, Mr. Kolbaba turned to the postmaster and said: "Can I make a suggestion?  Maybe one of the post office gnomes could give us some advice about what's in this letter."  And then he told him about how, one night, he'd seen the post office gnomes doing their job and how they could read letters without opening them.

            The postmaster thought for a while, and then he said: "Crumbs, you're right.  Give it a try, Kolbaba; if one of the gnomes can tell us what's written in this sealed letter we might be able to find out who it's for."

            So that night, they left Mr. Kolbaba in the locked post office and there he waited for the gnomes to appear.  It must have been abut midnight when he heard a sort of tappety-tap on the floor, like when mice are running across it; and then, once again, he saw the  gnomes as they did their work sorting letters and weighing packages and counting money and stamping dispatches.  And when they had finished all of this, they sat down on the ground and played mariáš with the letters.

            That was when Mr. Kolbaba spoke: "Good evening, gentlemen."

            "Ah, there's Mr. Kolbaba," said the oldest of the gnomes.  "Come and sit here and play cards with us."

            Mr. Kolbaba didn't need to be asked twice, and sat down among the gnomes on the floor.

            "I'll start," said the first gnome, and laid his card on the ground.

            "Raise you," declared the second.

            "Here's trump," said the third.

            "Now it was Mr. Kolbaba's turn, and he laid the sealed letter without any address down on the three others.

            "You've won then, Mr. Kolbaba," said the first gnome, "you've put down the highest card of all; that's the ace of hearts, that is."

            "If you don't mind me asking," answered Mr. Kolbaba, "are you quite sure about that, that it's such a high card?"

            "If I'm not mistaken," said the gnome, "what that is is a letter from a lad to his girl, and he loves her more than he does himself."

            "No, that can't be right," said Mr. Kolbaba, just to test the gnomes out.

            "It is right," answered the gnome.  "If you don't believe me I'll read the letter out to you."  So he took the letter, laid it against his forehead, closed his eyes and this is what he read:

            "My Deerest Maria, (got a spelling mistake there," said the gnome, "it ought to be 'EA', not 'EE') I'm writing to tell you I've got a job as a chouffeur so if you like we can have some hapy times toggether  write and tell me if you still love me  write soon, I'll allways be yours Frank."

            "Thank you very much," said Mr. Kolbaba, "that's what I needed to know.  Thanks very much."

            "That's alright," said the little man,  "but I'd better just point out there are five spelling mistakes in that letter.  I don't think this Frank learned much in school."

            "But now I need to know who this Maria or this Frank is," muttered Mr. Kolbaba.

            "I can't help you there, Mr. Kolbaba, " said the tiny gentleman.  "That's not written down there."

In the morning, Mr. Kolbaba went to see the postmaster and told him that this letter without an address on it was written by someone who was a chauffeur called 'Frank' to a young lady called 'Maria', and that this Frank wanted to marry the young lady.

            "Fried-egg shell!" exclaimed the postmaster.  "That's a really important letter, this young lady really ought to get that!"

            "I'd deliver it to her straight away," said Mr. Kolbaba, "if only I knew what this Maria's surname was and what city, what street and what number she lives at."

            "Anyone could find that out, Mr. Kolbaba," said the postmaster.  "You wouldn't even need to be a postman to find that out.  But I'd like to be sure this young lady does get her letter."

            "Alright then, postmaster," called out Mr. Kolbaba, "I'll go and look for this young lady the letter's addressed to, even if I have to keep running round for a year and go everywhere in the world."

            As soon as he'd spoken, Mr. Kolbaba slung his postman's bag over his shoulder with the letter and a piece of bread in it and he set out into the world.

            So Mr. Kolbaba walked and he walked and everywhere he went he asked if there's not a young lady in the area called 'Maria' who's expecting a letter from someone called 'Frank' who's a chauffeur.    He went round all the towns and regions in his country, with names like Litoměřice, Louny and Rakovník, Plzeň, Písek and Domažlice, Budějovice and Přelouč and Tábor and Čáslav, districts of Hradek, Jičín and Boleslav: he was in Kutná Hora, Litomyšl and Třeboň, Vodňany, Sušice and Příbram.  In short he went everywhere in Czechoslovakia, and everywhere he went he asked about this young lady called 'Maria'.  In his home country he found lots of young ladies called 'Maria', altogether there were forty nine thousand nine hundred and eighty of them, but none of them was waiting for a letter from a chauffeur called 'Frank'; some of them were waiting for a letter from a chauffeur but he wasn't called 'Frank', they all had a name like 'Toník or Ladislav or Václav, Josef or Jarolím or Lojzík, Florián or Jirka or Johan or Vavřinec, or even Dominik or Vendelín or Erazim', but none of them was called 'Frank'.   And there were other young ladies called 'Maria' who were waiting for a letter from someone called 'Frank', but this Frank was not a chauffeur but a locksmith or a craftsman, a joiner or a conductor, some were chemists and some were decorators, some were barbers and some were tailors, but none of them was a chauffeur.

            And so Mr. Kolbaba went on walking for a year and a day, but he was still not able to deliver the letter to the right young lady, Maria.  He learned many things: he was villages and towns, woods and fields, he saw the sun rising and he saw the sun setting, he saw the skylarks come back and the return of the spring, the sowing and the reaping, the mushrooms growing in the woods and the plums ripening on the trees, he saw the hops in Žatec and the grapes in Mělník, the fish in Třeboň and the gingerbread in Pardubice, but after the year and a day had gone by and he still hadn't found Miss Maria he sat down disheartened at the roadside and said to himself: It's no use, I don't think I'm ever going to find this Miss Maria.

            Mr. Kolbaba was so sorry about this he was almost in tears.  He was sorry for Miss Maria, who would not receive the letter from the lad who loved her more than himself; he was sorry for Frank the chauffeur whose letter he could not deliver; and he was sorry for himself, who had given himself so much work and trudged so far through the rain and the sun and hardship and discomfort and it was all for nothing.

            And while he was just sitting there feeling sorry for himself, he saw a car coming along the road.  It went slowly, no more than five miles an hour, and Mr. Kolbaba said to himself: That car must be some kind of vintage antique car, the way it's creeping so slowly.  But when the car had come close he saw - cheeses! - he saw that it was a beautiful eight cylinder Bugatti, and that at the wheel sat a sad-looking chauffeur dressed in black and behind him there was a sad-looking gentleman dressed in black. 

            And when this sad gentleman saw Mr. Kolbaba looking sad by the roadside he told his chauffeur to stop and said: "Would you like to get in Mr. Postman, I'll take you some of the way."

            Mr. Kolbaba was pleased at this as after walking so far his feet were hurting; he sat down next to the sad-looking man in black and the car slowly and sadly set off.

            After they had gone about two miles Mr. Kolbaba spoke: "If you don't mind me asking, sir; you're going to a funeral, are you?"

            "We're not going to a funeral," said the said man in a hollow voice.  "What makes you think we're going to a funeral?"

            "Well, if you don't mind my saying, you look so sad."

            "I am sad," said the man in funereal voice, "because my car is going so slowly and sadly."

            "Oh, I see," said Mr. Kolbaba, "so why is it, then, that you've got such a lovely great Bugatti and it's going so slowly and sadly?"

            "Because it's driven by a chauffeur who is sad," replied the mournful man in black.

            "I see," said Mr. Kolbaba.  "Please, if you wouldn't mind, why actually is it that this chauffeur is so sad?"

            "Because he received no reply to a letter which he sent a year ago and a day," replied to man in black.              "You see, he wrote a letter to the person he held dearest in  the world, and she  didn't write one back to him; so he thinks she doesn't love him."

            At this, Mr. Kolbaba exclaimed, "And am I right in thinking your chauffeur's name is 'Frank'?"

            "His name is 'Francis Freeman'," answered the mournful man.

            "And this young lady, her name is 'Maria', is that right?" Mr. Kolbaba continued.

            Now the sad chauffeur spoke, and said with a mournful sigh, "That's her, Miss Maria Newman, that's her name.  She betrayed me and forgot about my love for her."

            "That's it then," exclaimed Mr. Kolbaba in glee, "it's you, it's you who's this fool this pillock this artichoke, this tulip this slow-wit this plateful of salad, this scatter-brained twit this absent-minded twat, this short deficient head in need of screwing on, this twerp who doesn't even know what kind of world he's in, this tanker this rocker this boil on the tum, this nitwit this ninny this nincompoop charley, this imbecile dimwit this head on a drum, this rocking horse this sawdust this jackass this moron this fool who posted a letter without any stamp and without an address!  Cripes, I'm glad I've had the honour of finding you!  How d'you think Miss Maria was going to write back to you if she still hasn't got your letter?"

            "What? Where?  Where's my letter?" called out Frank the chauffeur.

            "Well as soon as you tell me where Miss Maria lives," said Mr. Kolbaba, "it'll be on its way to her.  Listen, I've been carrying this letter found in my bag for a year and a day looking all round the world trying to find the right Miss Maria!  You golden boy!  Now, quick, gi'me the address where Miss Maria lives and I'll go and deliver the letter."

            "Postman," said the gentleman, "you are not going anywhere, I will take you myself.  Frank, put your foot down and let's go to where Miss Maria lives."

            No sooner had he said this than Frank the chauffeur pressed down the accelerator, the car pulled away and then, just listen to this, it ran up to sixty, seventy, eighty kilometres an hour, a hundred, a hundred and ten, a hundred and twenty, a hundred and fifty, always going faster and faster so that the car sang, whirred, and thundered for the sheer joy of it and the man in black had to hold on to his hat with both hands so that it wouldn't fly away and Mr. Kolbaba held on to his seat with both hands and Frank shouted: "It's really going now sir, isn't it!  A hundred and eighty kilometres an hour!  Jeepers, we're not even on the road any more, its like we're flying up into the sky, look at the ground down there below us!  Boss, boss, we've got wings!"

            They were soon flying along at a speed of a hundred and eighty seven kilometres an hour and not long after saw a village ahead of them, a nice village all in white - well, that was Libnátov - and Frank the chauffeur said: "We're there now, sir."

            "Well stop, then," said the man in black, and the car came down to earth at the edge of this village.  "This Bugatti can really go, can't it," said the man with great pleasure.  "And now, Mr. Kolbaba, you'll be able to deliver that letter to Miss Maria."

            "Maybe though," thought Mr. Kolbaba, "maybe Frank would rather do it himself, tell her personally what's written in this letter. (Only, there's five spelling mistakes in there, you see.)"

            "I don't really want to do that, " objected Frank, "I'd be ashamed to let her see me because it's so long that she hasn't received any kind of letter from me.  And anyway," he added sadly, "maybe she's already forgotten all about me and doesn't love me any more.  Mr. Kolbaba, listen, it's that house over there where she lives, the one with the window as clear as a well."

            "I'll go then," said Mr. Kolbaba, and blew his nose loudly,  "off you go then postman; off with the mail to the people, " and he set out, best foot forward, to the little house.  And there, sitting behind that clear little window, was a pale girl sewing.

            "Good morning, Miss Maria," called out Mr. Kolbaba.  "Is that your wedding dress you're sewing?"

            "No, it's not," answered Miss Maria sadly, "what I'm sewing is a shroud for a little coffin."

            "Oh, there there," said Mr. Kolbaba in sympathy, "oh dear, oh my, oh my dear girl, oh my my, it can't be as bad as all that.  Are you ill?"

            "No, I'm not ill," sighed Maria, "but my heart is breaking with sorrow."  And as she said so she laid her hand on her heart.

            "Flans and ale!" exclaimed Mr. Kolbaba.  "Well don't let it break just yet, will you.  If you don't mind me asking, what is it that makes your heart so full of sorrow?"

            "It's a year and a day now," said Maria very quietly, "that I've been waiting for a letter that's never come."

            "Don't you worry about that," Mr. Kolbaba reassured her.  "It's a year and a day, now, that I've been carrying a letter round in my bag and I've got no-one to deliver it to.  Tell you what, Maria, I'll give it to you."  And with that he handed over the letter.

            Miss Maria became even more pale.  "But postman," she said timidly, "what if that letter's not for me?  There's not even any address on it."

            "Just you have a look inside," Mr. Kolbaba told her, "and if it's not for you just give it back to me."

With shaking hands, Maria opened the letter, and when she began to read it her face turned red.

"Well then?" Mr. Kolbaba asked. "Are you going to give me letter back or not?"

            Maria's eyes filled with tears of joy and she said with a sigh, "No I'm not - this is the very letter I've been waiting for a year and a day!   Postman, I don't even know what I can give you in return."

            "I'll tell you what you can give me in return!" said Mr. Kolbaba.  "You can give me two crowns - that's the fine to pay because this letter doesn't have the right stamp on it. Dear me, here's me, going all over the place for a year and a day just so that the post office can get two crowns in payment for it!"  Maria paid him the two crowns, Mr. Kolbaba said thank you, and he added: "and now, Miss, there's someone waiting here for your reply," nodding towards Frank the chauffeur who had been standing just behind the corner.

            While Frank was receiving his reply, Mr. Kolbaba went back and sat with the man in black and told him:     "A year and a day it is, sir, I've been going round with that letter, but it's been worth it just to see all the things I've seen.  It's a lovely country, this, you know, everywhere you go.  Ah look, Frank's coming back.  It's always quicker to sort these things out by mouth than by sending a letter without an address on it."

            Frank said nothing, but his eyes were sparkling.  "Shall we go then, boss?" he asked.

            "Let's go," said the man.  "And first of all we can drop Mr. Kolbaba off at the post office."

            The chauffeur jumped into the car, started the engine, pressed down the clutch and the accelerator and the car moved off as smoothly and gently as a dream.  The hand on the speedometer soon was pointing to a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour.

            "Oh, this car is a lovely drive," said the man with great satisfaction.  "and that's because it's being driven by a happy chauffeur."

            So they all went happily off, and so shall we.