Nine Tales for Children

Karel Čapek

plus one additional tale by Josef Čapek

88888888888888888

The Tramp's Tale

 

            There was once a poor gentleman - or rather simply a man - whose name was Francis Court but no-one ever called him that except when he was taken by a policeman to the nearest station and charged with being a tramp.  Then his name would be written down in a big fat book and he was made to spend the night on a hard wooden bed and in the morning he'd be sent on his way again; at the police station he would be called Francis Court, but everyone else called him by quite different names; that drifter, that scruff, that tramp, that pauper, that layabout, that burden on the taxpayer, that bundle of rags, that down-and-out, that dirty man, that shirker, that bum, that beggar, that get-out-of-here, that nuisance, that no-fixed-abode, that villain, that vagabond, that good-for-nothing, that waster, that vermin, that riff-raff and many other names; and if everyone who called him these names each gave him just a penny then he would have been able to buy himself a pair of brown boots and perhaps a hat to go with them, but as it was he bought nothing and all he had was the things that people had given him.

            You will understand already that Mr. Francis Court did not enjoy the best of reputations, and he was in fact nothing more than a tramp who simply wasted the time God gave him (although God lives in eternity, where He has so much time that the time wasted by Francis Court makes no difference whatsoever) and never achieved anything more than dining with Duke Humphrey.  Do you know what that is; dining with Duke Humphrey?  Dining with Duke Humphrey is when you wake up in the morning and your mouth is dry, and at midday you've got nothing to bite into, and in the evening, instead of food, you chew on a piece of wood, and at night your tummy rumbles from hunger.  That's what you call dining with Duke Humphrey.   When Francis Court's tummy rumbled it was so loud he could have played in a concert; in other ways he was a decent person down to his bones which, poor man, needed more meat to cover them!  When he was given a piece of bread he ate it, and when he was given insults he would swallow them too; that's how hungry he always was.  And when he was given nothing he would lie down somewhere behind the fence, cover himself over with darkness and ask the stars to keep watch over him so that no-one would steal his hat.

            There are many things that a travelling man like this knows about the world; he knows where he can find something to eat, he knows where he will be shouted at and where the vicious dogs are that might cause a tramp even more harm than a policeman.  But I will tell you about a dog  (Quick, what shall we call him?;  Let's call him Foxl.) who, poor dog, is also dead.  This dog, Foxl, lived and worked in the castle in a place called Chýže.  He was a dog with a very odd character, in that whenever he saw a tramp he would squeal with delight, dance round in a whirl and lead the tramp straight to the castle kitchen; but when some grand gentleman arrived at the castle, such as a baron, a count, a prince or even the archbishop of Prague, Foxl would growl at him and tear him to pieces if the stable boy didn't quickly shut him in with the horses.  As you can see, there are as many different kinds of dog as there are of people. 

            While we're on the subject of dogs, do you know why it is that dogs wag their tails?  This is the reason.  When God made the world with everything in it he went from one of his creations to another and asked them nosily whether they were satisfied with it, whether there was anything missing, and so on.   So he went up to the first dog in the world and asked him whether there was anything still needed.   The dog was enthusiastic and wanted to shake his head to thank God and say that there was nothing missing, but when God spoke to him he was just sniffing at something extremely interesting (I think it was the first bone or the first piece of sausage, still warm, that had just been made by the Creator), and so the dog became confused and enthusiastically wagged his tail instead.  Ever since then dogs have wagged their tails as other animals, such as a horse or a cow, can shake their heads just like a human being.   Only the pig is unable to nod or shake his head, and that's because when God asked him how he was satisfied with the world he'd made for him the pig just carried on snuffling round in the ground for acorns and shook his tail impatiently as if to say: Excuse me a moment, I don't really have time right now.  Ever since then, the pig has always shaken his tail all the time he's alive, and as a punishment his tail is to this day eaten with radish or mustard so that even after the pig's death he will still be punished.  And that's how it's been ever since the world was created.

            But that's not what I wanted to talk about today; I wanted to talk about the tramp whose name was Francis Court.  This tramp had walked around in every part of the land of Czechoslovakia where he lived; he'd been to Trutnov where you begin to find Germans, to Hradec Králové, Skalica, even as far as Vodolov and Maršov and other distant places that nobody's ever heard of.  At one time he was working for my grandfather in Žernov but, as you know, a tramp is a tramp; he gathered up his things and went on his way to Starkoč or some other part of the world and nobody saw or heard anything more of him; it was simply in his blood that he could not stay in one place.

            I've already told you that people used to call him a tramp, a slob, a vagabond and all sorts of other names; but there were some who even called him a thief, a burglar, a pickpocket and a robber, and that was very unfair.  Francis Court never took anything from anybody, he never robbed and he never stole.   On my word of honour, never even as much as you could hide under your fingernail.  It was because he was so honest that he finally became so famous; and that is just what I want to tell you about. 

What happened was that he was standing in the street one day thinking about whether he would go to Mr. Vlček's house for a crust of bread or go and see old Mr. Prouza who might give him a bun.   Just then, a very smartly dressed man - he might have been a factory owner from abroad or a commercial traveller - walked by him carrying a leather suitcase in his hand.  There was suddenly a gust of wind which blew the man's hat off his head so that it rolled quickly away along the street.  "Hold on to this for me for a while," he hurriedly cried to the tramp, and threw the leather suitcase to Francis before he could say a thing as he ran off after his hat.

            Francis Court stood there with this suitcase and waited for this gentleman to return.  He waited half an hour, he waited an hour, and the gentleman was nowhere to be seen.  Francis did not even dare to go and get that bun in case the missed the man when he  returned for the case.  He waited two hours, three hours, and he whistled a little tune to pass the time.  The gentleman still had not come back and it was already getting dark.  The stars sparkled in the sky, the whole city was as fast asleep as a cat by the fireplace, so contented he would be purring loudly if he weren't asleep.  But Francis, the tramp still stood there anxiously, looking at the stars and waiting for the gentleman to come back. 

It was just striking midnight when he heard a horrible voice behind him: "What are you doin 'ere?"

"I'm waiting for a gentleman I've just met," answered Francis.

"And what's 'at you've got in your 'and?" the horrible voice enquired.

"This is that gentleman's suitcase," the tramp explained.  "He wanted me to hold it for him until he got back."

"And where is this gentleman?" the horrible voice enquired for a third time.

"He just ran off to chase after his hat," said Francis.

"Ah yeah?" the horrible voice replied.  "That sounds suspicious.  Come along with me."

"I can't do that," the tramp objected.  "I've got to wait here."

"In the name of the law, I'm placing you under arrest," the voice bellowed at him, and then Francis Court understood that the voice belonged to Mr. Boura, the policeman, and he would have to do as he was told.  So he scratched himself, sighed deeply, and went with Mr. Boura to the police station.  There, they wrote his name down in the thick book and locked him up in a cell; but they took the suitcase from him and locked it away until the judge would arrive in the morning. 

            In the morning, the tramp was brought up in front of the judge, and the judge that day was, unfortunately Mr. Šulc, and that day Mr. Šulc even had a headache too.

"You good for nothing, you layabout, you vermin," said the judge, "here again are you?  It's hardly a month since we put you away for a while.   My God, you are a burden on us.  Here again for vagrancy, are you?"

"Well, no milord, answered Francis the tramp, "Mr. Boura brought me here because I was standing there."

"There you see, you wretch," replied the judge, "why were you standing there?  If you hadn't been standing there he wouldn't have brought you in.  But I'm told they found some kind of suitcase on you.  Is that true?"

"Yes, milord," said the tramp, "but the suitcase had been given to me by a gentleman who was passing by."

"Aha!" the judge exclaimed.  "This gentleman passing by is someone we've heard about before.  Whenever anyone steals anything they always say they got it from some gentleman passing by.  You can't fool us with that one, my lad.  And what was in that suitcase?"

"On my soul, I don't know what was in the suitcase," said Francis the tramp.

"You're just a petty thief," said the judge, "we'll have a look what was in the suitcase ourselves."

            So they opened the suitcase and jumped back in surprise, for the suitcase contained nothing but lots of money, and when they counted the money they found it came to one million three hundred and sixty-seven thousand eight hundred and fifteen crowns and ninety-two hellers, and there was a toothbrush there besides.

"My God!" shouted the judge.  "Where did you steal all this from?"

"That gentleman passing by asked me to hold it for him, milord," Francis Court defended himself.  "He had to chase after his hat when it was blown away by the wind."

"You thieving  thief," the judge cried, "do you really think we'll believe that?  I'd like to know who would entrust a scruff like you with one million three hundred and sixty-seven thousand eight hundred and fifteen crowns and ninety-two hellers and a toothbrush besides!  Go down to the cells!  We'll have to investigate who it was you stole this suitcase from."

            And so it was that poor Francis was shut up in jail for a very long time.  The winter went by and the spring passed and they still didn't find anyone who claimed that money; and so Mr. Šulc the judge, Mr. Boura the policeman, and various other men from the court and the police decided that Francis Court, a tramp of no fixed abode, no fixed employment, several times punished in court and general miscreant, must have killed this unknown  gentleman and buried him somewhere, taking his suitcase and all the money in it.  So when a year and a day had gone by, Francis Court found himself in front of the judge once again charged with the murder of the unknown gentleman and stealing one million three hundred and sixty-seven thousand eight hundred and fifteen crowns and ninety-two hellers, and a toothbrush besides.   Dear me, children, they hang people for that sort of thing!

"You parasite, you robber, you spendthrift," said the judge to the accused, "now confess to everything, where did you kill this gentleman and bury him; you'll hang better if you confess to it."

"But I didn't kill him, sir," poor Francis objected, "he was just chasing after his hat and, there he was, gone; he flew off like a jack in the box and left me there with his case in my hand."

"Well then," said the judge with a sigh, "if that's how you want it we'll hang you without a confession.  Mr. Boura, take this hardened criminal, and hang him with God's blessing."

The judge had hardly spoken when the doors flew open and there stood an unknown man in the doorway, dirty and out of breath.  "Found you at last," he exclaimed.

"Who's found whom?" the judge asked in a severe voice.

"My hat," said the man.  "Oh, what a lot of trouble it's been!  It's already a year now since I was walking along the street and the wind wind suddenly took my hat.  I gave somebody my suitcase, I didn't even know who it was, and off I went running after my hat.  But my hat was very badly behaved and it rolled along over the bridge to Sychrov and from Sychrov to Zálesí and then to Rtyni and through Kostelec to Zbečník and all through Hronov to Náchod and from there on as far as   the border with Prussia.  I went on after it; I nearly had it there but I was stopped by the border guard who wanted to know what I was running after and I told him I was running after my hat.  Before I had finished explaining this to him the hat was away again with the dust.  So I found somewhere to sleep and set off after my hat again in Prussia in the morning through Levín and Chudoba, oh the water was very bad there ... "

"Wait," said the judge.  "This is a court of law, not a geography lecture."

"I'll cut the story short, then," said the unkown man.  "In Chudoba I learned that my hat had been there and drunk a glass of water, bought itself a walking stick and then got on a train and went to Svídnice.  I, of course, went after it.  In Svídnice my naughty hat spent the night in a hotel without even paying the bill and then went off somewhere without saying where.  After asking lots of people, I learned that it had been seen in Cracow, and was even making plans to marry a widow.  So I went off to Cracow after it."

"And why did you chase after your hat in this way?" the judge asked.

"Well," said the man, "that hat was still new, and not only that, but I'd put my return railway ticket from Svatoňovice to Starkoš under its band.  It was because of that return ticket, sir."

"Ah," said the judge, "now I understand."

"I didn't want to have to buy my ticket all over again," said the man.  "Now, where was I? Ah yes, I was on my way to Cracow.  So I arrived in Cracow, but by then my naughty hat had travelled on to Warsaw, first class and pretending to be a diplomat."

"That was dishonest," exclaimed the judge.

"That's why I told the police about it," said the man, "and they sent a telegram from Cracow to Warsaw saying it should be arrested.  But by then my hat had got itself a fur coat as it was nearly winter, grown a beard, and travelled on to Moscow."

"And what did it do in Moscow?" the judge asked.

"Well, what would a hat do in Moscow," said the man.  "It got involved in politics, the blighter, and became a journalist.  Then it got it into its head that it would take over the government, but then the Russians arrested it and condemned it to death by firing squad; but as soon as they got it against the wall where it was to be shot there was a gust of wind and the vagabond began to roll along the street, slipped through between the soldiers' legs and rolled off all the way through Russia as far as Novocherkask.  There it  put on the lambskin cap and became an ataman of the cossacks on the Don.  I was still chasing after it and finally caught up with it; and then, the blighter, he whistled to his cossack friends and told them to shoot me."

"And what happened then?" the judge asked, anxious to hear more. 

"What happened then," the stranger said, "is that I told them that we're not afraid of cossacks: 'We cut them into slices and we eat them with our soup!' And that frightened the cossacks so much that they let me go.  Meanwhile though, my good-for-nothing hat had jumped onto a horse and galloped off to the east.  And, of course, I went after it.  At Oranienburg it got onto a train and went on to Omsk and right the way across Siberia, but in Irkutsk I lost its trail; it seems it somehow came into some money while it was there, but then it was attacked by some robbers who took it all from him again and it was lucky to escape with its life.  In Blagovyeshchensko I came across my hat in the street, but it was clever enough to escape from me again and rolled off all the way through Manchuria as far as the Sea of China.  On the coast, there, I caught up with it because it was afraid of water."

"So you finally caught your hat there?" the judge asked.

"If only!" the stranger replied.  "I ran after it all along the coast, but just as I was about to catch it the wind changed and my hat went bowling off towards the west again.  I went after it and chased it all the way through China and Turkestan, sometimes on foot, sometimes in a sedan chair, sometimes on horseback and sometimes on a camel until, in the city of Tashkent, he got on a train and went back Oranienburg.  From there it went to Kharkov and Odessa, then to Hungary, then, back in Czechoslovakia, it rolled along into Olomouc, then Česká Třebová, then Týniště then finally back here to Prague.  And here I finally caught it, just five minutes ago in the square as it was about to go into a resaurant for some dumplings and sauce.  So, here it is."

And he showed them all the hat; it was beaten and tatty, but there was nothing else about it to suggest it was such a complete rascal.

"And now," declared the stranger, "let's have a look and see whether my return ticket from Svatoňovice to Starkoč is still tucked in its band." He felt inside the hatband and pulled out his ticket.  "Here it is," he cried out in triumph.  "So now at least I won't have to pay to go to Starkoč."

"But that ticket will have become invalid long ago!" said the judge.

"Why's that?" the man asked in surprise.

"Well a return ticket is valid for three days and this one, as I can see from here, is already a year and a day old.  That ticket is invalid, I'm afraid."

"Oh gosh," said the stranger, "didn't think of that.  So I'll have to buy a new ticket after all, and I haven't got any money left."  The man scratched his head.  "Wait a minute, I had my case, with all my money in it, and I gave it to someone to look after while I went off to chase after my hat."

"How much money was in the case?" the judge asked quickly.

"If I remember rightly," the man said, "there was one million three hundred and sixty-seven thousand eight hundred and fifteen crowns and ninety-two hellers and a toothbrush in there. "

"Precisely right," said the judge.  "So we've got your case here, with all the money and the the toothbrush.  And standing here is the man who you gave it to for safe keeping.  His name is Francis Court, and Mr. Boura and I have just condemned him to death for robbing and murdering you."

"Well I never," the man replied, "so you put this poor man in prison?  But he didn't even spend a penny of all that money that was in the case."

Then the judge stood up and announced: "Now, for the first time, I see that Francis Court is not a thief, not a robber, not a filch, and not a bandit.  And he did not even take any of the money left with him, not a penny, not a groat, not a farthing, not a crown, and that's even though - as we found out for ourselves - he himself didn't have enough for a doughnut or a pastry or even for a slice of bread, a roll, or any other kind of food or titbit or what you might call baker's wares or, in Latin, cerealia.  I hereby declare that Francis Court is not guilty of murder, unlawful killing, in Latin homicide, manslaughter, burying the corpse, robbery, assault, theft or any sort of wrongdoing; on the contrary, he stood waiting a day and a night at the same place so that he could honestly give one million three hundred and sixty-seven thousand eight hundred crowns and ninety two hellers and a toothbrush back to its owner without any loss thereof.  I therefore decree that he may leave this court without any stain on his character, amen.  Well lads, that was a good speech, wasn't it!"

"Yes," said the stranger, "but you might also let this honest man of the road say something."

"What would I have to say?" said Francis Court modestly.  "For as long as I've been alive I've never taken as much as a fallen apple from anyone.  That's just how it is."

"Mr. Court," the stranger declared, "not only among men of the road, but also among men anywhere, you are certainly a rare bird."

"That's what I think too," Mr. Boura the policeman added who, as you may have noticed, had not spoken a word until now.

And so Francis Court found himself a free man once again; and as a reward for his honesty the stranger gave him enough money for him to buy not only a house but even to buy a table to go in it, a plate to go on the table, and a hot sausage to go on the plate.  Only, Francis Court had a hole in his pocket and he lost all that money and found himself, once again, penniless.  So he went on walking wherever his feet took him and he went on dining with Duke Humphrey.  But the man had said he was a rare bird, and he could not get that out of his mind.

            One night he climbed up into a tree-house he had found in the woods and there he slept  like a log; in the morning when he stuck his head out the sun was shining, the whole world ws glittering with the fresh dew and on the fence in front of him there sat a white crow.  Francis had never seen a white crow before, this really was a rare bird, and he stared at him without even daring to breathe.  The crow was as white as freshly fallen snow, his eyes were as red as rubies, his little feet were pink and he was grooming his wings with his beak.  When he saw Francis, he held out his wings as if about to take to the air and fly off, but he stayed sitting there and watched Francis's unkempt head mistrustfully with one of his ruby eyes.

"Hey," he said all of a sudden, "you're not going to throw a stone at me, are you?"

"I won't do that," said Francis, and then he realised, with some surprise, that he was answering to a talking crow.  "How come you can speak?"

"That's just how it is," said the crow.  "White crows like me can all speak.  All that black crows can do is caw, but I can say anything you want me to."

"Get away!" said Francis in wonderment.  "Alright then; say 'call'."

" 'Call' " said the crow.

"Now say 'corn'," requested Francis.

" 'Corn', " the crow repeated.  "So now you know I can speak.  White crows like me aren't just anyone, you know, we're rare birds, we are.  Ordinary crows can only cunt up to five, but white crows can count up to seven.  Listen to this: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.  How high can you count, then?"

"Oh, at least up to ten," Francis replied.

"Cor! Let's hear you, then!"

"Eight, nine, ten."

"Well, you are a clever old bird, aren't you," exclaimed the white crow. "Us white crows, we're the best birds of all.  Ever see in a church, how people have those paintings of great big birds with white wings like a goose's and faces like a human being's?"

"Ah," said Francis, "you mean angels."

"That's the ones," the  crow replied.  "Now what they are, they're actually white crows; only not many people have ever seen a white crow.  There really aren't many of us."

"To tell you the truth, " said Francis, "they say I'm quite a rare bird, too, just like a white crow."

"Are you really?" said the white crow in some doubt.  "Not very white, though, are you.  And who was it told you you're a rare bird?"

"Mr. Schultz,  the judge, told me that in court yesterday, and a man I didn't know, and Mr. Boura the policeman."

"Well I never," said the white crow.  "What actually are you, then?"

"I'm just a Court, here, Francis Court," said the tramp humbly.

"A courtier?  You live at court with the king?" the crow exclaimed.  "You can't be serious.  No-one at court is as scruffy as you."

"Well, you see," the tramp said, "that's what I am, a scruff."

"Where is this royal court then; what country does it rule?" the crow asked.

"Well, it's everywhere.  I'm a Court here, and when I'm in any other place it's just the same."

"What about in England?"

"A Court in England, too."

"Not in France though, I suppose."

"In France too.  A Court here and everywhere."

"I can't believe that," said the crow.  "Swear to it on your soul."

"On my soul I swear I'm a Court here and everywhere," said Francis Court with a little bow.

"Say that it's God's own truth," the crow commanded.

"It's God's own truth," said Francis.  "If it's not true may He strike me down on the spot.  May my tongue fall out and ..."

"That's enough," the crow interrupted him.  "And do you think you could be a Court here among us white crows too?"

"Even among white crows," he said "I'd just be a Court here like anywhere else."

"Hold on a minute then," said the crow, "we've got a meeting planned for today where we're going to elect the king of all the crows.  Now the king of all the crows has to be a rare bird, and as you're a rare bird and a proper courtier and all, we might even elect you.  Tell you what, you wait here till midday; then I'll come back and tell you how the election turns out."

"I'll wait here, then," said Francis Court; and the white crow spread out his white wings and shone brightly in the sunlight as he flew off to the assembly.

            Francis Court waited and warmed himself up in the sunshine;  elections, you see, always involve lots of talking, and the white crows electing a new king quarrelled and quibbled for so long that the factory whistle sounded for midday before they had agreed on anything.  It was only then that they actually began casting votes, and that they actually did elect Francis Court to be the new king of all the rare birds. 

            But by this time Francis Court had had enough of waiting and he was hungry, and that's why, once it was past midday, he got himself up and went down into the little town where my grandfather was a miller and where he could hope to get a nice fresh slice of bread. 

            When the white crow came back to tell him he'd been elected king he was gone, over the hills and far away. 

            The other crows told him off for losing their king; and the white crows told the black ones they should fly all around the world to look for him and call out to him and bring him back to the crows' royal throne in the woods. 

            Ever since then, crows have been flying round the world, and as they fly they always call out "Court, Court!".   In the winter especially, when there are lots of crows together, they will suddenly remember their lost king and they'll fly off across the fields and the woods crying "Court, Courrt, Couurrt!"