Valerie and Her Week of Wonders

va l e r i e a n d h e r
w e e k o f wo n d e r s

a g ot h i c n ov e l by

Vítězslav Nezval

translated from the Czech by David Short

illustrated by Kamil L hoták

twisted spoon press

jeppe press

prague
 © 1945, 2005 by Estate of Vítûzslav Nezval
Translation copyright © 2005 by David Short
Illustrations copyright © 1945, 2005 by Estate of Kamil Lhoták
Afterword copyright © 1983, 1996, 2005 by Giuseppe Dierna
This edition copyright © 2005 by Twisted Spoon Press

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American

Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be used or reproduced
in any form, save for the purposes of review, without
the written permission of the publisher.

isbn-10: 80-86264-19-x
isbn-13: 978-80-86264-19-6
 contents

Valerie and Her Week of Wonders

11

On Valerie, Nezval, Max Ernst, and Collage: Variations on a Theme

by Giuseppe Dierna

199
Valerie and Her Week of Wonders
 f o r e wo r d

I wrote this novel out of a love of the mystique in those ancient tales,
superstitions and romances, printed in Gothic script, which used to
flit before my eyes and declined to convey to me their content. It
strikes me that the poetic art is no more and no less than the repay-
ment of old debts to life and to the mystery of life. Not wishing to
lead anyone astray by my “Gothic novel” (least of all those who are
afraid to look beyond the boundaries of “the present”), I am appeal-
ing to those who, like myself, gladly pause at times over the secrets of
certain old courtyards, vaults, summer houses and those mental
loops which gyrate around the mysterious. If, with this book, I will
have given them an evocation of the rare and tenuous sensations
which compelled me to write a story that borders on the ridiculous
and trite, I shall be satisfied.

the author
 Chapter I
a m a g i c a l ya r d

Valerie, an oil lamp in her hand, entered the yard. The

moon was full . . . Her bare feet touched the moonlight. She
could also detect the scent of the garden. The noise from
the poultry was unceasing. With her right hand she clasped
her bed jacket to her.
“Who’s up there?” she called and took a step towards the
henhouse.
A moth circled the lamp. Then a second, and a third.
“It’s a polecat,” she told herself.
But suddenly she noticed that the yard was unrecog-
nizable.
“Where’s my apple tree?”
But the woodshed had also disappeared, and the wall
was twice as high as usual. She thought she heard the well
winch squeak.
Then she heard the following conversation:
“Have pity on me.”
“Where did you put her earrings?”
“But you know I’ve been with you the whole time.”
“I’m warning you again.”
“When did you stop trusting me, Constable?”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I’m innocent.”

13
 “We’ll see who’s master!”
“For God’s sake, surely you don’t mean to . . . ?”
“You’ll be put to the water torture.”
“Tyrant!”
Valerie thought she heard a groan. Involuntarily, she put
her right hand to her ear as if to check that her earrings were
in place. Both were gone. She stepped up close to the hen-
house from where the two arguing voices and the terrified
cheeping of the birds were coming. Suddenly a hand reached
out towards her lamp, and before she could cry out in horror
she felt someone fixing her lost earrings back in place. At
once she saw the apple tree and woodshed and the voices
fell silent. Her hand fell to her breast. Beneath its gentle
curve her heart pounded as if she had run a long way. Why
was she holding a lamp when there were so many stars over-
head? Not that the lamp could be recognized: swirling about
it were moths from all the surrounding gardens. She set it
down on the step and sat down herself. Her ears still rang
with the voice that had uttered that desperate word:
“Tyrant.” And the words about a water torture still clung to
her mind.
She took off her right earring and toyed with it. The
silence was so intense she could hear the brook running.
Somewhere water was dripping. The sound was intolerable,
and she shuddered. The hens were sleeping again.
“I’m not going back to bed now,” she said aloud, and

14
Orlík, now immaculately attired, right down to his straw boater . . . (p. 49)
leaving the lamp in the doorway, she went to the other end
of the yard. The carriage stood there with its hood clipped in
place. She sat in it and looked at the sky.
The moon played with her earrings. She saw a ray of
light jetting off them onto the carriage hood. She wished she
could hear the two bickering voices.
“I wonder what will happen if I take my earrings off.”
“Constable,” she heard the moment the golden ray of
light stopped playing in the carriage. “Constable, I confess
everything.”
“Who would have thought,” the other man growled,
“that Orlík would one day become my sworn enemy.”
“You’re wrong, Constable. Orlík knows he is bound to
you by a debt of gratitude.”
“Some gratitude!”
“I didn’t know those trinkets meant so much to you.”
“Liar!”
“You’ve made me pay for it!”
“Next time I’ll double the torture.”
Terrified of hearing more, Valerie put her earrings back in.
“So, it’s Orlík!”
At that moment, the frightened cries of the chickens
came again from the henhouse and the voices continued
talking.
“Get down, Orlík, and hold the ladder for me.”
“You’re acting like a right old man, Constable.”

17
 “Silence, you seventeen-year-old cub!”
“My age exactly,” thought Valerie.
“There’s no ladder here, Constable.”
“Don’t go hoping I’ll break my neck!”
“Fine things you suspect me of, guardian.”
In disbelief Valerie could hear the conversation despite
having her earrings in. It made no difference whether she had
them in or out, the voices were clearly audible either way.
“Oh well, I’ll get down then, Constable.”
The girl huddled under the carriage hood, and although
she was afraid they would find her there, she tilted her head
out a little to observe what was happening at the foot of the
henhouse. The story was not long in unfolding. A young
man, a few inches taller than Valerie, jumped down and
donned a straw boater.
“Orlík,” came a voice from above, “stoop over so I can
climb down your back.”
“Are you really so weak, Constable?”
“Are you asking for the water torture again?”
That seemed to strike fear in the young man. He
stooped, presenting his back to the huge boots of his supe-
rior. Then, gradually and gently, he bent lower and Valerie
saw a stout man emerge, borne aloft on Orlík’s back beneath
the opening of the henhouse. Orlík’s face was concealed
from sight, leaving Valerie ample opportunity to inspect the
other, who, to judge from what she had heard said, enjoyed

18
unlimited power over the younger man. The moon shone
straight into the face of the man descending from the hen-
house. It was not a human face. It was the face of a polecat.
“Constable,” said Orlík, “where have you left the birds
you strangled?”
But just then the Polecat gave a tug on a string he was
holding and, as if it were a truss of partridges, several stran-
gled chickens sprang into Valerie’s sight.
“My speckled hen with the crest is dead,” the girl sighed.
She wanted to shout “Thieves!” but her voice stuck in her
throat.
The man who let himself be addressed as “Constable”
and Orlík strolled across the yard towards the gate, impervi-
ous to anything.
“Thieves!” the girl shouted.
But it was too late. The gate had closed and the noctur-
nal visitors had disappeared among the gardens.
In the distance a cock crowed. Then a second, and a
third.
“Orlík,” Valerie said to herself.
She stretched out in the carriage as if on a bed and began
to inspect her bare feet in the moonlight.
As she was examining them, she felt that a tiny spider
was spinning a thread down the inner side of her thigh. She
raised her eyes to the sky and thought no more of the
unusual sensation.

19
 “Orlík is seventeen,” she said in spite of herself. But at
once added:
“My poor hen.”
Another cock chimed up, answered by two others from
far away. But the night remained unchanging. When the girl
glanced back towards the door, she saw about ten moths
obstinately circling the lamp. She felt the little spider had
reached the ankle of her left foot. She glanced down at it and
saw to her great dismay a thin stream of blood trickling over
her ankle.
“The Polecat,” she shrieked in horror and, leaping out of
the carriage, she dashed towards the door.
The moths flew after the lamp as she took it with her to
light the way down the long corridor leading to her room.
Somewhere close by a cock crowed.
Valerie flung herself into bed and clamped her fists over
her ears to block out the sounds of the vanishing night.

Chapter II
a ta l k w i t h g r a n d m ot h e r

“Good morning,” Valerie said next morning to her grand-

mother, who was back from church and getting breakfast
ready in the old dining room, where the table was laid for
two.

20
 “Missionaries are coming,” Grandmother replied tersely.
“When?” the girl asked abstractedly.
“Tomorrow or the day after.”
Grandmother dropped into thought. Then, having con-
sumed a gulp of coffee, she uttered a sentence that seemed
to cause her some embarrassment:
“The archpriest is thinking of quartering one of the mis-
sionaries with us since there’s not enough room at the rec-
tory.”
Valerie did not reply. She played with an earring until
she unhooked it from her ear and, looking at it against the
sun, decided the time had come to ask her grandmother a
few questions.
“Grandma,” she said timidly.
“You’re not fiddling with your earring, are you, my child?”
“It came undone.”
“Do be careful!”
“They were a christening present, weren’t they, Grandma?”
“No, silly, they were your mother’s,” the old woman said
in consternation.
“I don’t remember ever seeing her wear them.”
“Of course not, she didn’t wear them.”
“Might I know why, Grandma?”
“I don’t know whether you’re old enough for me to tell
you.”
“Grandma!”

21
 “Just be grateful you’re still a child.”
“Not any more, Grandma. Just last night . . .”
Grandmother stood up and gazed silently towards the
window.
Then she said in agitation:
“At seventeen. Just like your mother.”
“It came in the night.”
“All right, let’s not talk about it.”
The old lady was picking up non-existent crumbs from
the table. Then, pulling herself together, she said in a
trembling voice:
“At last, it is my duty to warn you.”
Valerie blushed.
“Your mother set the earrings aside the day she entered
the convent.”
“Do you mean a convent school for girls?”
“No. Your mother entered the convent to become a nun.”
Valerie turned pale. She felt as if her throat were con-
tracting and she could not utter a sound.
“It wasn’t just my wish, you know. It was her own deci-
sion to make the sacrifice.”
Valerie was amazed she had been born.
“Your father was the Bishop of — . Surely you remember
the day he died; we went to his funeral.”
Valerie finally understood the upheaval surrounding the
funeral of the Bishop of — , which had turned Grandma’s

22
house upside down. How could she forget the magnificent
ceremony, which she had been permitted to attend ten years
ago?
“But my mother wasn’t alive by then. I remember that
well.”
“No. Nor was your stepfather, the colonel, whose name
you bear.”
“I remember him dying suddenly.”
“After a bout of uremia.”
“And Mother?”
“She died of pernicious anemia.”
The old lady stared at her granddaughter with the words:
“God be praised that you are a young woman at last. I’d
been so afraid that you would die. You know, the only rea-
son your mother entered the convent was that we expected
her to die, as I’ve been expecting you to. If it weren’t for last
night, it would have been my wish that a missionary prepare
you for the same path your mother was unable to keep to.”
“Did she take her vows?”
“I cannot tell a lie. She was truly a nun.”
“Is there some special story attached to my earrings?”
“Your grandfather bought them when they were auction-
ing off the property of a certain constable who used to own
this house.”
Valerie paled.
“Who was that constable?”

23
 “I don’t know much about his story. He seems to have
squandered his wealth.”
“Look, Grandma, what a funny parade!” Valerie cried
and rushed to the window.
“It’s a wedding,” said the old lady, not deeming the
performance that had so surprised her granddaughter wor-
thy of her attention. “It’s the wedding of a miserly old
landowner from R., and his farmhands hope to soften him
up by putting on this party with masks and all.”
“Who’s he marrying?”
“The daughter of our former neighbor, the one with the
corn chandler husband.”
“Not the little girl I sometimes played with in the yard?”
“Yes, Hedviga.”
“But you say the landowner is old and miserly.”
“He is indeed.”
“Neither one nor the other makes sense with this wed-
ding.”
“How do you mean?”
“If he’s old, why is he marrying a bride so young?”
“Few young girls would spurn the chance of becoming a
landowner’s wife.”
“So why’s he marrying a poor girl, if he’s so greedy?”
“She’s young. That explains everything.”
Valerie continued looking out the window, every now
and then bursting into laughter.

24
 “One of them has draped himself in a flag. This wed-
ding’s a regular carnival.”
“I expect they’re making fun of their master.”
“One’s on stilts and he’s twitching his ears like a little
donkey,” said her granddaughter.
“Don’t let them see you. The devil’s gotten into them
and they might start making a commotion outside our win-
dows. That would hardly befit the house a missionary is due
to enter tomorrow or the day after.”
Valerie realized she was the daughter of a bishop.
Because she relished words that struck her as in any way odd,
she said to herself: “I’m the daughter of a bishop and a
nun.” But the gravity that these words should have produced
dissipated against the backdrop of the ludicrous wedding
procession.
“I wonder what old hat shop they plundered. I’m
amazed at the number of funny-shaped top hats that a good
third of the wedding party have got on. But where are the
bride and groom?”
“What you see,” Grandmother said, still sitting with her
back to the window, “are just the young men making the
rounds of the town with an earthenware jug of wine and
drinking to the couple’s health.”
Valerie suddenly stepped back from the window.
Whether her eyes were deceiving her or not, she felt she was
looking straight into the ugly face of the Polecat. Rather than

25
a real human face, it reminded her of some horrid maggot
for frightening children.
“Grandma, look, Grandma, I’ve just seen a real monster.”
The old woman turned. She even stood up and took
two steps towards the window. The blood drained from her
features.
“Step back from the window. Don’t be seen . . .”
“Who by?” the girl asked.
“Oh, any of them,” her grandmother gestured in resig-
nation.
“How can it be?” she said, sitting back down at the table.
“It’s the very image of the constable. Yet he died long
ago. No one can live for a hundred years, and more, and not
change. Run along, Valerie, and practice the fingering of
your flat scales.”

Chapter III
a letter

The nun’s daughter has still not recovered from all the hor-
rendous news of the last two days when she is delivered a
large letter written in a tiny hand. Valerie does not know
whether she should dare open it, or whether to entrust its
secrets to her grandmother. Lost in thought, she paces down
one side of the jumbled room two maids are converting into

26