Читать книгу The Jail. Experiences in 1916 - Josef Svatopluk Machar - Страница 8

Chapter IV

IV.

Just as Columbus when his wandering voyage was approaching the goal which he foreboded, began to see things announcing the proximity of land,—birds above the water, trees floating in the water and a certain kind of sea-weed under the water,—so I too began to perceive signs that my unrestricted voyage through this world was drawing to a close, and that I should soon find myself in some harbour which was certainly unknown to me but of which I already had an inkling.

Mr. Smutný, the district Governor of Králové Hradec (Königgrätz), instructed the municipal authorities of suburban Prague that the street which had been named after me should be called differently, and this was done. They began to confiscate my books, and they confiscated them so thoroughly that of all my literary works only a small fragment remained. What there was of it in readers and primers for schools had to be left out, and from what was allowed to remain in consideration of the subject-matter, or as an example of such and such a poetical style—what it was I know not—my name had to be removed. I read several of these decrees issued "at the instructions of the Ministry of Education." Students were not allowed to recite my poems, to borrow my books for home reading, to select my work as a subject for critical analysis; teachers were strictly ordered to avoid referring to my name as much as possible, and if it were absolutely necessary to mention it, they were told not to omit adding "a poet detrimental" (oh, holy bureaucracy! literally "detrimental") "to the Austrian Empire and hence also to the Czech nation." (A similar ban was placed upon three other names besides my own—Tolstoy, Herben and de Amicis, only for them the ban was not so severe—their articles might remain, they might be spoken about, but the names had to be removed). And finally, the things I printed were to be subjected to the strictest control—how far this was to go may be best seen from the fragment of a conversation which I had during that period with a certain worthy official authority:

He: "All that you write has a double meaning. If your name is under the sentence, ′the sun is rising′, the Czech nation rubs its hands and exults because,—but you know—"

I: "And when I write: ′The sun is setting′ and put my name to it, then you will say: ′Aha, paragraph 65a, offending against the interests of public order', and you'll lock me up, won't you?"

He: "You see how well we understand each other."

In short, the sword of Damocles hung by a slender thread above my freedom. On no day was I certain whether in the evening I should be able to lie down in my bed, no night, whether I should finish sleeping in my bed. If I came home and saw a motor-car standing in front of the house, my heart gave a thump, and I said to myself: already. But this state of uncertainty by no means interfered with the straight course of my existence. I slept excellently, I ate, drank, smoked with appetite, and I followed the spectacle of events with interest as they were reported to me in the morning and evening by the papers. And every day I saw the sun rise and the sun set, and took a sincere pleasure in both.

One day,—it was in July about six weeks after Mr. Preminger's visit to me,—I proceeded home and, lo and behold, Mr. David Kolbe stood waiting in front of the house.

"For me?"

"For you. Permit me to come up."

I permitted. And suddenly, without any ado there was another gentleman whom Mr. Kolbe introduced to me as his colleague. Good, good. Mr. Kolbe took out a paper,—a warrant for arrest? Oh no, only that they had to carry out a domiciliary search.

What? Again? Why, I had the pleasure only few weeks ago.—

"Orders"—Mr. Kolbe shrugged his shoulders.

They searched. Mr. Kolbe ascertained that nothing had been moved from the time when he had assisted the officers here. The books, the bundles,—he himself had placed them thus, he himself had tied them up with string,—those were his knots.—

I expressed my regret; nothing had been added, letters received since then I had burnt. Nor had anything been removed, I had now no reason to hide anything.

Mr. Kolbe saw things. Everything was in its place as before. The dust lying upon them was proof that nothing had been changed.

We lit our cigars. Outside it had grown dark and a thunderstorm had come on.

"Where did you learn Czech?" I asked Mr. Kolbe.

"Why, I am from Bohemia. I did my military service at Hradec Králové."

"Hradec Králové,—a nice town. In the 18th regiment?"

"Yes, the 18th. My colleague understands Czech, too."

The colleague nodded and asked whether Mr. Kolbe would need him or whether he was to go home.

"You can go. There is nothing here." The colleague took his leave.

Mr. Kolbe told me about the domiciliary searches. In the case of authors it is an extremely simple matter; such gentlemen keep all their things together so as to have their eyes on them. But when it comes to professional thieves, to experienced robbers,—the floors had to be taken up, the furniture pulled to pieces, the chimney has to be inspected.

The thunderstorm was over. In the west a radiant topaz light was beginning to shine.

"Still, I must take something from this search to the chief commissary", and Mr. Kolbe looked around him.

"Give him this letter from Switzerland. It has passed the censor,—some unknown Russian asks me to intervene on behalf of his friend who is badly off in an internment camp. And here are a few picture postcards."

"Good, thank you. And you will come with me, won't you?"

"Pepi", I called into the kitchen, "give me quickly my box with the washing, a toothbrush—"

"But what for, what for?" expostulated Mr. Kolbe. "You will be coming back in a short while. It's only a brief cross-examination. Pepička, don't bring anything, but get supper ready for your master", he shouted into the kitchen.

"What on earth can be the matter now?"

Mr. Kolbe smiled mysteriously. "Well, it's that article in the French paper. "L'independence",—I don't know how it's pronounced—"

"An article? I? Impossible."

"But your name is there."

—"Has the chief commissary got it?"

"Yes that's what this search is for and why you have been sum- moned there."

The chief commissary asked me about my name.

"What is this J. S.?"

"You see, it's a little souvenir of the Roman Catholic Church. It gave me two baptismal names, and I when left it, I returned the names to it and kept only these two letters."

"Well, all right", he remarked. "Have you written anything recently for a paper in Geneva?"

"No."

"Anything for the Hus number?"

"No."

"What about this?" And he laid before me a copy of a newspaper of about the same size as Sládek's old "Lumír"; above as the title "L'indépendance Tchéque", beneath this a bad reproduction of Brožík's well-known picture of Hus before the Council of Constance, beneath the picture about ten lines of letter-press and beneath the letter-press,—my full name. It occurred to me that perhaps it was a quotation from something,—I read it through,—no, not a word was mine,—horrible journalistic bombast.

"Sir" I said, "I can only tell you what you will hear from every criminal at the first moment when he is caught: I didn't do it,—only I shall not be able to tell you anything else even later on. If I had written and signed that, I would not deny it."

"But there isn't a single compromising word in it. Nothing about the State, the dynasty, the army,—in fact no reference to Austria at all; why should not you, as a Czech, have written a few lines about your great compatriot on such an occasion as the 500th anniversary of his death?" he observed in a friendly tone.

"Nothing compromising, it's true, but it is nonsense, nonsense both in the wording and the contents. And if I had written it, there would certainly be something compromising in it."

"Wait", he interrupted me, "I myself had doubts about your authorship,—I have read various things from your pen, and this certainly bears no resemblance to you. But perhaps you authorised somebody?"

"Ah, you really want to know whether I'm in touch with my fellow-countrymen in Switzerland?"

"And you are not?"

"No."

"Then how do you explain your signature?"

"The carelessness of somebody who signed my name and did not think of the consequences. The curse of popularity possessed by an author's name."

"In America they print heaps of your poems,—and those are poems which are rather more compromising."

"They obviously select them from my former books which are now prohibited in Austria."

"Without your permission?"

"Nobody has asked me."

"Are you in written communication with America?"

"I was. Before the war. Not now."

"And you declare that you did not write these few lines about Hus?"

"I did not write them."

"We will draw up a report. But I have already told you my impression,—that is not your prose. By the way, have you written about Hus anywhere else?"

"I was asked to, but I refused. I am in favour of celebrating Hus at a more peaceful time."

"Which papers asked you for such a work?"

I mentioned them, he noted the titles. Then we drew up a report. To the effect that I emphatically denied the authorship of this trifle, that I was not in touch with Switzerland, that I was in favour of postponing the Hus celebration to peaceful times, that I was not in communication with America,—and all this I confirmed with my own signature.

We had finished. I was just in the doorway.

Did I know Dr. Herben,—he asked me just as I was going. Of course I did. And I turned back and sat down again. Dr. Herben,—a quiet, peaceful man. In the editorial office he busied himself with literary matters, wrote obituaries, moderate social controversies; recently, however he had been forced by weakness of sight to give up all further work entirely.

"That tallied", he said. And did I know Bezruč?

Of course I did, an excellent poet.

Political?

More social and personal lyrics. He has pleasant memories of his youth in Silesia.

And who is he supposed to be?

There are legends about it. Some say that he is a simple miner, others that he is an engineer in the foundries.

But it is supposed to be certain that he is a postal official at Brno.

Yes, they say that too.

And what did I think of the arrest of Dr. Kramář?

I told him. That his imprisonment was a dreadful mistake. That it was felt by the whole nation. That there is no policy more brainless than the one which manufactures martyrs for a discontented nation. That now we were asked to forget century-old traditions. Traditions,—not our own—but Austrian, purely Austrian. That the lands of the Bohemian crown were the scene of the wars waged by Frederick the Great and of the year 1866. That by a more moderate policy in the Balkans, Austria might have become a rallying point for all the nations and states there, that the Austrian Emperor could then have boldly laid hands upon the old crown of the Eastern Roman Empire,—on Constantinople,—on the route to Asia Minor, to Bagdad—

It was getting on for 10 o'clock when I parted from the student of my lecture.

A warm summer night, a sky full of stars.

So not today. When? When? I had an infallible foreboding that this sword of Damocles must sooner or later descend.

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