Slavs” (126) or comparing Švejk’s actions favourably against those of a fairy tale by the beloved nineteenth-century writer Božena Němcová (142) or having someone mistake a piss pot for the helmet of St. Wenceslas (602)—moments like these have the effect of savagely ridiculing some cherished traditions of the “high” culture at the heart of the National Revival (the official attempt to forge a distinctly Czech identity). Hašek wants to expose and mock such national stories (all of which were expressly created or interpreted to serve a political agenda, some more than others).
In pursuit of this aim, Hašek can be truly disgusting and amusing, nowhere more so than when he denigrates the most important legend of all, the story of Princess Libuše, allegedly the first ruler of the Czechs, who in a sacred vision foretold the greatness of Prague and chose the first dynastic king of Bohemia (Libuše is celebrated in Smetana’s opera named after her, a highpoint of the National Revival):
The most beloved figures of the official versions of Czech history serve to bring joy into the man’s life only because he can turn them into snot sketches on glass—an “artistic” process that gives him so much pleasure he’s prepared to undergo repeated beatings rather than give it up. The humour here may be coarse, but it’s brutally effective. After laughing at this, who can hear Libuše’s name or see an “official” picture of her without recalling what this working man did with her image? So much for the high cultural road to nationhood.
In his introduction to the Penguin edition of Hašek’s novel, the translator, Cecil Parrott, calls attention to the way in which the famous illustrations by Josef Lada also serve this
