VIII
THE FREE CITIZEN gave in its newest number a fine surprise to its readers. They turned the two sheets over and over again, but there was not a word of it in it! It kept stubborn silence on everything,—on the picnic, the young lady, the disgrace of the ruling party,—bah, the burgomistress got off with her usual share of abuse, but otherwise not a word! That caused the heads of the town, of the Opposition itself, to shake knowingly: ”Evidently the doctor is losing his teeth. . . .”
The sly doctor had put the hand of a diplomat upon that muddled situation.
The town was all in a flutter. Cupidi novarum rerum they now were in the ant hill. They wanted to know more and still more. Matters were discussed on the common, in the inns, in the offices, and at home. Men of the world retailed all their experiences to a wondering crowd, and married women listened to them with blushes. The patrician daughters, while out for a walk in the evening, went as far as the house, and there stealthily looked into the row of windows, hoping to find “her” sitting there.
After taking council in a full meeting, the burgomistress and Frau von Janík went as delegated to Jiří’s aunt. They went full of praiseworthy purposes: to open the eyes of that good old lady who had been tricked in a shameless manner; to point out to her Jiří’s contemptible action; to place that reptile, “her,” with her fine past, in the right light; to say everything politely, yet openly,—in short, to purify the atmosphere in the poor old lady’s own house.
The aunt received them as usual. They seated themselves, and spoke for a long, long time of this and that; at last the burgomistress hemmed. She spoke softly, impressively, with dignity, as behooves the worthy spouse of a town’s head. Frau von Janík now and then uttered a word or two, or put in a whole sentence. The old lady listened with surprise, then told them that she had known all the time what the girl had been before, that she had taken her into her house in order to return her to the world and decent society, that now the girl was as pure as a child. She praised her, and she said that she could hardly have been more satisfied with her if she had been her own daughter. The burgomistress and Frau von Janík only exchanged cold glances: how that Jiří had deceived her, how he had put a cobweb before her eyes! Terrible, terrible!
Now Frau von Janík began to speak. She turned her attention to Jiří. It was evident, she said, that he was the fabricator of that whole story about her new innocence, that he wanted only to throw a mantle over his passion before the town and before her, his aunt; that the whole town was deeply agitated by that trickery, and that everybody pitied the councilloress for having so much shame cast upon her white hair.
The old lady replied emphatically, but curtly, that that was not true. The two ladies arose in undisguised indignation and went away.
The town was once more in a turmoil. The old lady was in the foreground of the situation. People wrung their hands in disgust over the blind love for that worldly man, and over her credulity.
Just then the doctor, the head of the Opposition, called upon Jiří. A great plan had ripened in his head. Jiří had been a neutral spectator of that war of the town mice, and only occasionally leaned towards the ruling party, as was proper for a rich man and a patrician. In the depth of his soul, the opposition of the democracy was distasteful to him. In Prague he had, in political discussions, often quoted with conviction Horace’s Odi profanum, and as long as his breast was beset by longings, he dreamed of some day attaching a “von” to his name, or of some well-sounding baronetcy.
The doctor did not find him at home. He was told that he was in the field.
He went down to see him there. The two walked among acres of beets, where a crowd of perspiring peasants were swarming in the heat of the sun, amidst the singing of larks, and in the blue smoke of cigarettes; and they talked for a long time.
At once the news flew through the town that Jiří had gone over to the Opposition, that he had become co-proprietor of The Free Citizen, that he would be a candidate for representative at the Diet, that he would speak on Sunday, when the banner of the white veterans would be consecrated upon the island; that The Free Citizen would from now on appear with an illustrated satirical addition,—and many more things flew through the town like lightning.
The burgomaster was very angry at his dinner: “It is your talking that has done it all!” he accused his spouse. “You have attacked that girl like hornets! Besides, the whole lot of you are no better! There will be now an end of Mr. Burgomaster!”
Then the burgomistress arose, returned ten words for every word of his, and splendidly defended her honor and that of her followers; then a few tears trickled down her cheeks, she wept out loud, and the burgomaster turned his eyes to the ceiling, and began peacefully his defence: “Aber, Kätzchen, I did not say all that. . . .”
It was now twenty years since Corporal Václav Benda had come home from the war. On his breast gleamed a cross (he had earned it at Solferino) and a silver medal (at Sadowa). He returned to his native home with the idea of forming a society of brave veterans, according to the custom of other towns. Some fifty good men joined it. It bore the name of Radecký,[1] On holidays, such as Corpus Christi, the eighteenth of August, Easter Sunday, and at funerals, the society came out in all its glory. At the consecration of the banner, the princess herself had been godmother.
Each member was covered with gold,—the lace, the stripes of the trousers, and the lapels,—everything was of gold, while upon their hats waved majestically black panaches. Their president was Václav Benda. It was a pleasure to look at those stately men and to see the military spirit revive in them during such parades! Just as though an old warhorse, drawing a plough, suddenly heard the march of Prince Eugene! He struts along proudly, keeping measure, neighs, and raises his head,—just so our veterans filed by with sure steps before the local dignitaries!
But two years before another society of veterans had been formed, at the instigation of the doctor. There were quite a number of men who were anxious for decorations, but whom proud Benda had turned away, on the ground that they had never worn the emperor’s uniform. The doctor called together these rejected men, and wrote them out some by-laws. A new society came into life. Everybody, without exception, could be its member. The society had about one hundred men. Their uniforms were even more expensive than those of the others. There was still more gold upon them, but from their hats waved white panaches. The society bore the name of even a greater person than the grey marshal himself,—in short, it was a dangerous rival. It grew and grew. Many black ones left Benda soon, and went over to the white panaches. Now these white ones were also to get a banner, and the doctor’s wife was to be godmother. (There was no princess present, therefore the doctor made a mighty democratic speech at one of the meetings: “We no longer have any aristocracy, the people is everything,” etc.)
Sunday came. At a high mass about noon the banner was consecrated, and then it was carried to the island. Here, in the shade of oaks and amidst restaurant tables, rose a platform adorned with bunting, flags, and pine boughs. The island was filling up. The dignitaries had their table near the platform. The doctor was there with his wife, the aunt with Lucy, the tax collector’s wife with her blonde daughter (being a wise mother, she had gone over to this camp, for she had well noticed the fire for her daughter in Jiří’s breast). She had heard, it is true, of Jiří’s relations with Lucy, but her daughter’s existence was more to her than everything else. She bad made up her mind to tell him at the first favorable moment that there was but one conditio sine qua non: To send that girl away from his house. The tax collector was there, a speechless bureaucrat, two adjuncts, the merchant Jiskra with his wife, Captain Knotek, Alderman Vrzal, the apothecary, the flour-dealer Vrba, Doctor medicinæ universæ Řehák, and the wives and daughters of the celebrating veterans, who now stood in a circle around the platform. All was quiet, and only the branches of the oaks rustled to the ripple of the nearby water.
Jiří was the speaker. At first he spoke calmly, cleared his throat in places, looked into his notes, and at times passed his fingers through his thin hair. The farther he proceeded, the more excited he became: he emphasized, thundered, now and then made effective pauses and proper gestures, and shook his head.
He began with the White Mountain,[2] and the two centuries’ deep sleep of our lion, then spoke of the marvellous awakening, and here he quoted Kollár[3] (about the shepherd’s hut); then he related the effects of the constitution, and Bach’s[4] despotism, analyzed the February Patent,[5] discussed with fire the Diplomas,[6] spoke long of the passive Opposition, of entering the Austrian Parliament, of the sad, grovelling politics, of the rotten opportunistic party, of the venal government, of that new, approaching era that demanded new men, new organizations. (Here he again quoted Kollár: “Let all men work,” etc.)
Then, by a nice turn, he passed over to our white veterans: he called them a national legion, to whom the realm might appeal indeed at any moment; and that banner, which was to be a holy symbol to them, should be borne to the honor and glory of their society and their country.
The standard bearer raised the banner to a dizzy height, and the music fell in with: “Where is our home?” The island shook to its foundation from the storm of applause and the cries of “Glory!” Kutzendorfer, the concert master, followed with: “Hej, Slavs, you ask, Moravian maid,”—and again there was a deafening noise and applause. Jiří, his face red, stepped down. The doctor embraced him and kissed him. Then came congratulations from all sides, drinking, and cries of: “Glory! Glory!” 'The blonde wife of the tax collector, congratulating him half comically, half seriously, patted his open hand with hers. Jiří seated himself near her.
Then the doctor arose. “Silence, silence!” was the cry. The doctor swung his glass and drank to Jiří. Again: “Glory!” The glasses clinked, and the music thundered a flourish. Jiří drank to the godmother of the banner.
Then a terrible furor rhetoricus (a specific Bohemian ailment) took possession of the crowd. Speeches followed upon speeches, and then two or three speakers were talking at the same time. Kutzendorfer gave the company a full force of marches in breathless succession. The beer poured down the throats. The white panaches shook slowly on the veterans’ heads, though somewhat to one side.
The red glow of the setting sun, reflected on the surface of the Elbe, flooded the island. The golden air was filled with grey tobacco smoke, which rose, snakelike, through the branches of the oaks to the sky. Here and there a swarm of gnats flew by in a whirling mass. Tiny waiters placed candles in glass globes upon the tables, There was a noise and din.
Lucy sat like a lifeless statue. That merriment was strange to her; she did not understand it, and she looked at it as if from some far distance. No one spoke to her, except the old aunt. Not a word. She felt that all were shielding themselves from contact with her. If she looked anywhere, she saw somebody’s eyes turning aside, though they had but just been fixed upon her. She heard within her the well-known old song:
“Only once we live down here:
Beauty, youth soon disappear;
Age runs riot with our face,
Of our youth leaves not a trace,”
That song kept on returning to her all the time, and she hummed it inwardly. On that day it sounded so melancholy, so despairing, as if she were to bury with it her young, empty life. For a moment the face with the dark glance would flash in her mind, the right eye looking sideways,—again she was gazing at it. That stung her. . . . Where was he now? How much more gladly would she have been sitting there in the park, by his side . . . his cough dinned distinctly in her ear, and she trembled.
“Only once we live down here.”
If she could only redeem his life by her lost, worthless life! Her room of former days stood before her. There, in that house, she saw herself clearly before the mirror,—she was combing her hair. . . .
“Only once we live down here.”
She almost felt that in the bagnio she was happier. . . . What would be next? She shuddered. The presentiment of some dark, terrible catastrophe chilled her.
It was evening, The tables were lighted. The colored lamps that were strung on poles between them were swinging to and fro. The people were surging up and down on the island. Confectioner Curček, a clever local pyrotechnist, sent up a swarm of colored rockets.
The doctor leaned for a moment down to Lucy, pinched her cheek, and, looking provokingly into her eyes, asked her: “Well, what do you say, deary?” That tone reminded her again of that house, of that life. She looked scornfully at him, but did not say a word.
The doctor stepped aside abashed. Just then Jiří came by, and took him away; but Lucy saw him patting him on the shoulder and saying: “Friend, you have a fine lassie! I must say, you show good taste!”
Jiří drew him aside, and explained something to him; the doctor smiled, and shook his head.
The old lady was fatigued by all the sights, and soon fell asleep. Then suddenly the doctor’s wife seated herself by Lucy’s side. Her silk garment rustled at every motion; her little head was redolent with powder; in her pale-blue eye was reflected an eternal longing for luxury; her every turn, glance, and smile was graceful and charming. She spoke two or three sentences, and lightly vaulted over to the burgomistress and to those ladies who gathered every morning for gossip in the house at the common. She called them very humorously the holy inquisition of the town, then sarcastically, but in a half-whisper, told her the salacious stories of their lives; she at times put such questions to Lucy or cast such a glance upon her, that the blood rushed to Lucy’s face. Then she began to flash confidences upon her, and to hint and indicate this and that,—and bidding with all that for Lucy’s confidence, she asked in veiled terms, and with the naïveté of a young girl, for the secrets of free love.
Lucy opened her eyes wide in shame, terror, and surprise.
The doctor’s wife made her questions clearer.
Lucy, fixing her eyes upon the white tablecloth, whispered: “Madam, spare me. I cannot speak of these things. . . .”
“You do not need to act the virtuous person before me,” whispered the doctor’s wife with biting irony, and walked gracefully away.
“My dear aunt,” Lucy gently shook the old lady’s hand; “Aunty dear, let us go away from here, I beg you. My head is in a whirl.”
“Where is Jiří?”
“He will probably stay here.”
“Come, child!”
When they had passed the narrow path and seated themselves in the coach, Lucy threw her head in the aunt’s lap, and sobbed out as loudly and pitifully, as if she wished to unburden all the bitterness of the day, all the bitterness of her life. . . .
- ↑ Field-marshal Count Radecký (Radetzky).
- ↑ The battle at the White Mountain took place in 1620; here the independence of Bohemia and many of its liberties were forever lost.
- ↑ Jan Kollár (1793–1852), famous poet who was one of the chief promoters of the literary regeneration of Bohemia.
- ↑ Alexander Bach, famous Austrian minister after 1848.
- ↑ A charter granted io Bohemia on February 26, 1861.
- ↑ The most important Diploma is the one granted by Emperor Frank Josef in 1860, by which the absolutism was abolished in favor of an equality of all the lands of the realm.