Vodka of the Wood—Vodka of the Strawberry by Jaroslav Hašek (trans. Dustin Stalnaker)

From the collection The Man Without a Transit Pass

Editorial Note: A few months back, I—Matthew Spencer, the person addressing you—founded a small press: Paradise Editions. For our inaugural release, we published The Man Without a Transit Pass, a collection of tales and short essays by the Czech humorist Jaroslav Hašek. These pithy pieces display the same wit and social commentary that made The Good Soldier Švejk, Hašek’s epic comic novel of World War I, so beloved. I hope you enjoy this particular tale, one of my favorites in the collection, about the dangers of alcohol consumption, even among the pious. A copy of the collection can be purchased through our distributor, Asterism, by clicking here.

No priest enjoys such enduring gratitude amongst his parishioners as does Father Plebań in Dąbrowice.

This fine old fellow will long be remembered in the entire region of Tarnów, and the descendants of today’s parishioners will, in turn, recount to their children what they heard from their parents about this good man.

It was not his soulful sermons, which certainly bestowed satisfaction upon the souls of the good-natured farmers, nor even his piety that won him immortal renown in Dąbrowice, in its environs, and even in Tarnów. It was rather his green vodka, which he sometimes claimed enthusiastically to be the blood of his body, the essence of his mind, and the child of his intellect.

And the name of this product sounded scarcely less poetic: Vodka of the Wood—Vodka of the Strawberry.

He claimed to have given it this name sometime long ago. He had extracted the first little glassful after lengthy experimentation and sensed in the fresh green vodka the fragrance of all the forests surrounding Dąbrowice, the redolence of spring and summer, the scent of strawberry blossoms, and the taste of ripened strawberries. No one knew how the good priest manufactured this exceptional drink. It was only known that it was created chiefly from giant strawberries, which the priest collected in the forests with his own hands.

He always added an “Our Father” to his prayers, in the hope that there might blossom—in particular locations known only to him—an abundance of giant strawberries that he would himself gather in a giant basket.

Throughout August, light flickered all night long in the humble old parsonage. A pleasant aroma flowed out through the open windows, and when the children of the village climbed up the trees in the garden, they saw the long white hair of Father Plebań shimmering above curious snake-shaped apparatuses. They saw the priest, clutching a glass of his fresh product with a trembling hand, perform the sign of the cross piously, and slowly drink it down—heard him smack his lips and snap his fingers with such intensity that the cat, who purred contentedly behind the great oven, jumped up and took to its heels from the chamber with a snarl, as if someone had set a bundle of hay alight over its head.

In this moment, the priest seemed to them as if he were a supernatural being, and, in a state of holy reverence, the children climbed down from the priest’s pear and apple trees, not neglecting to stash an ample amount of fruit in their shirts while doing so.

That was in August. November came and went amidst the filling of a great quantity of bottles and the adhering of labels, which the rector of Dąbrowice spent the entire winter designing and painting. On the labels, a fantastical St. Stanislaus blessed a little angel carrying a voluminous bottle, upon which an inscription was emblazoned in gold letters: Vodka of the Wood—Vodka of the Strawberry.

One Sunday, at that time of year when the first snows fell and wolves could be heard howling on the outskirts of the village, the priest announced, in a soft and emotional tone of voice, that he was inviting all the faithful to an afternoon hour of Catholic religious edification in the parsonage. 

The spacious sitting room was full that Sunday, the parishioners packing themselves together tightly.

Father Plebań sat in an old, faded armchair, which had already served God knows how many priests, and, ever smiling, chatted pleasantly about the arrival of winter, and he urged them not to forget, on account of the cold, to visit the church and to be charitable towards the poor during Advent season. To this, he added a few words about the approaching Christmas holiday and then disappeared from the chamber.

After some time, he returned with a basket full of bottles and distributed among his parishioners the green forest vodka—his strawberry vodka.

Tears filled the eyes of many as they looked upon his white head, his beloved visage, at how his chin trembled with pleasure as he presented them with his product. Their eyes grew moist at the thought of how it would be when the old priest dreamed his final, eternal dream under the birches and larches in the cemetery of Dąbrowice.

Thus arrived in Dąbrowice the winter that the good priest had so feared, and on account of which he had prayed to God all spring and summer, seeking forgiveness for the sins he had committed the previous winter, and which he would commit again in the coming one. 

Occasionally he said to himself that this stockpiling of prayers was not entirely permissible, but he put his mind at ease with the thought that God already knew the weaknesses of humankind. And his winter transgression? It was the love of his green vodka.

On winter nights, he yearned for the green forests in which he loved to stroll. And so to transport himself back to the aromatic summer, he sat in the warmth of the great oven with a giant bottle of his own product.

As the first drops moistened his lips, there appeared before the priest’s spiritual eyes the cool green of the oaks, birches, and spruces, and he saw before him the locations where the red of ripe strawberries gleamed.

The glass was quickly drained of its delicious green drink and had to be refilled routinely from the bottle beside it.

The breviary that he had laid out for himself remained unopened, and instead of the evening prayer, curious sounds were heard throughout the quiet chamber: the priest slurping extravagantly on the green, effervescent liquid.

The old priest sat, drank, and became lost in the thought of green forests—of spring and of summer—and it did not even disturb him that wolves howled in the vicinity of the parsonage and that gunshots, meant to disperse the hungry beasts, occasionally rang out.

Illustration by Josef Lada

Indeed, it also did not disturb him when his sister and caretaker, two years his junior, bewailed the sins of her brother and invoked all of the saints whose names occurred to her.

The priest said nothing. He just nodded his white head and continued to think of the fragrance of green forests.

When he repaired to bed, his head was usually spinning a bit, and he sang aloud a lengthy song of forest faeries and green vodka, causing his old sister to cover her ears.

The next day, he would arise only shortly before noon and vow never again in his life to even so much as look at the diabolical drink. But what good was that?! Evening arrived, and the snow sparkled outside in the moonlight, and he was seized anew by a longing for summer and proceeded once more to down one glass after another.

Every day, over the course of many years, his sister prayed that the dear Lord might protect her brother from his infernal visions, but every winter such evenings occurred anew: the breviary sat undisturbed and the bottles emptied themselves. All for nothing was every pilgrimage to Kalwaria¹ and even to Częstochowa.² In vain were her donations of money there for a Holy Mass dedicated to her unfortunate brother.

When she thought about it, she cried bitterly. Every conceivable notion frightened her pious mind as she saw the priest suffer hellish torment. One winter, the devil—as she called it—led the priest into temptation with far greater success than usual.

On that occasion, before going to sleep, he sang his song of the forest faeries so loudly that Jurzik Owczyna—the municipal policeman, who was walking home late at night from the pub—stopped and stood before the parsonage. And after a while, a duet rang out in the still of the night.

One voice—rather powerful, yet dulled by the thick window glass—belonged to the priest, and the second, raspy one belonged to the municipal policeman. They must have sounded like wolves howling, since a group of farmers soon assembled with rifles and clubs in front of the parsonage. There, in a state of wonder and astonishment, they listened to Father Plebań’s chant of forest faeries and green vodka, with such devotion as they might listen in church to litanies sung in honor of the Virgin Mary.

As the priest arose from his bed the next day, he learned from his tearful sister what a great commotion he had stirred up when the devil had tempted him on the evening prior.

He promised to change, but of course the nocturnal performance repeated itself, and half the village eaves-dropped dutifully beneath the window of his sleeping chamber, awestruck, mouths agape, as their aged pastor chanted curious elegies about green vodka and forest faeries.

Thenceforth, the song performances recurred with regularity, and the farmers turned up nightly to listen to the priest.

These were sad times for his sister. She saw hellfire everywhere she looked. It was then that she came to a decision and wrote a letter, with a trembling hand, to the consistorial vicar³ of Tarnów. She begged that he might pay a visit, for the spiritual health of the priest of Dąbrowice, and speak to her brother with fatherly words, to free him from the snare and clutches of the devil. Without saying a word to her brother, she signed the page, moistened it with tears, and sent it to Tarnów.

Several days passed.

On one glorious winter’s afternoon, a sled could be heard in front of the parsonage. Four fiery steeds stamped the frozen earth, kicking up dusty snow all around, and the esteemed consistorial vicar of Tarnów emerged and notified the bewildered priest that he had come to make his rounds.

The thought that someone in Tarnów might have learned something of his musical performances struck the priest like a bolt of lightning, and he dared not make eye contact with the gray-haired vicar, who was many years his junior, and who, for his own part, addressed the older, white-haired priest with the utmost respect. 

The esteemed lord vicar expressed his great satisfaction with the church, and after supper he sat across from the priest, seeking an opportunity, by one means or another, to satisfy the wishes of the sister, who remained in prayer in the adjacent room.

“This region is—no doubt—very lovely in the summertime,” he began after a lengthy pause.

“Certainly, very lovely…” the priest confirmed wistfully, casting a furtive glance to the corner, where a giant bottle stood with its deliberately pious label.

“And there are forests here from which you must derive great pleasure in the summer,” the vicar continued. “But in the winter, it is desolate, so one is best served by sitting in front of a warm oven and praying from the breviary. The contemplations of St. Augustine and the church fathers also make for beautiful reading. Every temptation of the devil will be frustrated thereby. Brother, I have brought with me several books on the eternal life and glorious contemplations of St. Augustine. It is best to read for two to three hours in the evening. I will go and fetch them.”

With these words, he stepped into the adjacent room.

In that instant, the priest pulled himself together, sprang towards the bottle, and enjoyed a gulp of his wonderful drink.

When the esteemed vicar returned, a stack of books under his arm, the priest was once again sitting calmly in his place, gazing upward in a show of piety.

“This is a lecture that elevates the reader to another realm and casts out evil thoughts,” said the lord vicar, laying the books down before the priest, and after some time, he added: “There is a fragrance here—it smells somehow like—like the forest.”

“That is my Vodka of the Wood—Vodka of the Strawberry,” the priest exclaimed joyfully and, without waiting for a response, filled two small glasses and raised a toast to the lord vicar.

They emptied the glasses.

“An exceptional taste, is it not?” inquired the priest, beaming, as he observed how the lord vicar licked his lips. “Another, no?” And they emptied the glasses once more.

“Exquisite, as if one were roaming through the forests in the summertime, taking in a breath of summer air,” the visitor sighed longingly.

The eyes of the priest twinkled as he spoke of his product—the child of his intellect, the essence of his mind.

Both men sampled the green drink again and again, and before each new glass, the esteemed lord vicar whispered: “Multum nocet—Multum nocet,”⁴ forgetting completely the purpose of his visit, the devil, St. Augustine, and the church fathers.

Then, when the farmers gathered together before the parsonage, as they did out of habit, they were astonished to hear, from the bed chamber of the priest, the song of the forest faeries and green vodka being sung no longer by one voice but rather by two; and the other, unfamiliar voice, was much more powerful.

Out of discretion, I will say no more but will add that this was hardly the last of the official visits, and when the esteemed lord vicar returned home to Tarnów on the third day and unpacked a giant bottle of Vodka of the Wood—Vodka of the Strawberry, he recognized, to his dismay, that several pages of St. Augustine and the church fathers had served as the wrapping for the bottle.

Vodka of the Wood—Vodka of the Strawberry had secured Father Plebań immortal renown in Dąbrowice.

1902

Jaroslav Hašek (1883–1923) was a Czech humorist, satirist, and journalist. He was beloved—and infamous—for his bohemian lifestyle, practical jokes, and radical politics. During his short life, he wrote copiously and traveled on foot throughout Central and Eastern Europe, frequently landing in trouble with the authorities. He is best known for The Good Soldier Švejk, an unfinished comic novel set during the First World War.

Dustin Stalnaker discovered Hašek’s lesser-known short stories in Germany, while researching the history of European antifascism. He grew up in southwestern Pennsylvania. He now runs the translation blog Tales from Jaroslav.

1. A town in southern Poland noted for its extensive monastery, built during the Counter-Reformation. In the surrounding parkland, a series of 42 chapels recreates the path Jesus took to his crucifixion in Jerusalem.

2. The Jasna Góra Monastery in Częstochowa houses a Black Madonna, an icon in which the Virgin Mary and the infant Jesus are portrayed in black. This icon is the most popular pilgrimage destination in Poland and has been recognized by several pontiffs as worthy of special veneration. 

3. An officer of the Catholic ecclesiastical court, in charge of adjudicating matters of church governance. The implication is that the sister has informed on her brother as well as asked the vicar for spiritual counsel.

4. “Too much is harmful.”