IX
JIŘÍ fixed up a room in the corner of the house for a study.
The heavy portières of the windows admitted but little light. There was an evident attempt at emulating the imposing duskiness of the studies of great men. The furniture,—it had been bought somewhere in Vienna,—heightened the sublime impression: it was of massive ebony, covered with shining plush of a moss color.
He hung excellent woodcuts of Havlíček and Sladkovský upon the large wall, by the side of Brožík’s Hus. The seven famous Young Čechs, who were the first to defend their holy rights at the Austrian Diet, he had hung above his table, in expensive gilt frames. Long bookshelves ran along the walls, and these were filled with fat, learned pamphlets on political economy, with books of the great philosophers, histories, and some hundreds of booklets, and all the political speeches from Demosthenes up to Bismarck. Then there were anthologies of quotations, which industrious Germans collect and classify according to subjects, and which are of great use for oratorical ornamentations. The minutes of the Diet were bound in leather. The statutes and laws of Bohemia and Austria lay in a big heap, from which he sometimes took out a volume to read a page and, yawning, put it back.
His large writing-desk was covered with papers and a mass of documents, and there, from day to day, he carefully deposited his campaign speeches, speeches full of fire, full of promises to the voters of all the classes, full of sulphury flashes and thunder against unyielding Vienna,—the great and famous July elections were not far off!
The doctor called on him often. He smoked, while Jiří read to him his weighty philippics. The doctor corrected him in places, smiled, and predicted great success for him and a seat in the Diet. He said that the committee of the party would send him a trusty man from Prague, whose glib tongue would advance his cause in the district. Now and then he advised him in a fatherly way to finish that affair with Lucy. He told him he was convinced that he was acting in an honorable manner, but the voters were in that respect a dull lot of people, and would not understand such a rehabilitation of a girl’s virtue. He also advised him to be wise and get married: the tax collector’s Anda, he said, was a girl full of life, full of fire, whose embrace promised many happy moments to her husband. Jiří always warded him off with a motion of his hand, and promised that he would consider it, but he never gave it any thought. He had no time and no inclination for that.
While smoking his cigar, he dreamed enticing dreams of the future. He was sure he would soon take unto himself the tax collector’s Anda. A sweet sensation thrilled him, whenever he thought of her embrace,—but he drove away these pictures like golden flies. His soul was divided, its greater half was tending elsewhere. He would be called to the Diet, he would speak there, and would be a great man. His name would be known to the whole country, the whole nation would read his speeches in the party’s press and in the foreign papers, and then they would be reprinted in pamphlet form. At times deputations would come, and they would ask him this and that; he would receive them here, in his study (he proudly looked around him, passing his fingers through his sparse hair), he would answer them this way or that, would shake hands with them, would see them to the door. . . . The mandate to the Bohemian Diet would only be a step to higher honors. He would be chosen to the Austrian Diet,—he would speak, storm, and thunder in Vienna,—beyond that he could not think, his dream passed away in a whirl, he inclined his head, closed his eyes, and drifted off in a pleasant and blissful sea of the mysterious future days.
Then the ýs Gazette began the fight in earnest. In its editorials and in the news of the day, it shot off its arrows at Jiří, his candidacy, his principles, thoughts, and plans. The speech which he delivered on the island was called the babbling of a political baby; his life at Prague was laid bare, and they asked the question, whether that was a preparation for the serious, heavy struggle for the holy national rights. The feuilleton, which bore the title “Behind the Curtain,” was interlarded with a series of spicy gossip which, as everybody in town knew, was composed at the feminine sessions in the house near the common, and which the editor of the ruling party (a runaway student whose light hair of the color of straw hung down to his shoulders) put into literary form; this feuilleton told of penitent Magdalens, of Magdalene of Egypt and of Palestine, one with the skull, the other with the lion, and still of a third, a more modern Magdalen, who, following the example of the earlier ones, was travelling on the thorny road of virtue, whither the future leader of the nation had brought her, accompanied by the wise old aunt, who was giving them her blessing,—quotation marks played a great role in these attacks.
The Free Citizen was not behindhand, and repaid every thrust with full measure. It had the scoffers of the town upon its side, and in its illustrated supplement it trampled upon its adversaries: the burgomaster was there represented with big horns, which ornament the burgomistress and the councillor were laughingly attaching to his temples; Frau von Janík, the commissary’s wife, Frau von Fischmeister, and the whole house at the corner of the common were artistically represented,—their heads were scaly, and from their mouths issued long, thin tongues, forked like those of serpents, or they appeared as a crowd of witches flying at night on broomsticks. Every two weeks five or six such cartoons hovered above the greedy eyes of the town. And the texts! . . .
The passion of fighting took possession of the whole town like a contagious disease. Suddenly the Guelphs and Ghibellines were revived in the once simple-minded people. The courts had much to do: to return to some their lost honor, and to punish the slanderers; but after the summons the witnesses fell to again in the ballowed corridors of the court-house, whence arose new trials, new punishments, and higher and higher appeals. The Hussite blood was throbbing in the veins of the good citizens; in the evenings the children of God’s fighters proved their opinions in the inns with their fists and glasses. Sons parted from fathers in anger, brothers from brothers,—old men sternly shook their grey heads and wrung their hands.
Lucy’s life flowed listlessly along, like a long autumn day. No pain, no bitterness disturbed her, for her soul no longer had any strength for eruptive ebullitions. A dull resignation, like a November cloud from which no storm issues, veiled her thoughts. She sat at the window, mechanically knitting, while her eyes roamed over the waving clover fleld, without seeing it. Only common, every-day thoughts passed through her mind.
Frequently a word occurred to her, and it kept on repeating itself inwardly; she heard it, she understood it, until she said: “Lo, this word,—how foolish it is!” Or there occurred to her a novel which she had read some time before: a scene which then had in no way impressed itself upon her, now stood out vividly; she saw its characters walking, speaking, and smiling,—but it all lasted so long, and those people seemed unable to get through. Lucy impatiently moved her hand, as if to hurry them up, but immediately she thought: “How foolish I am!”
She saw the picture of a man,—it was a poor woodcutter,—who was pushing a wheelbarrow full of wood up Vysočany Hill. She plainly saw his strength slowly leaving him, the dark veins in his swarthy temples were filling up and beating fast, and she saw his knees tremble,—and that hill was still towering above, and the summit was not to be seen. Warm drops of perspiration trickled down Lucy’s forehead and cheeks, she breathed heavily, as if she herself were pushing that load. She opened her eyes again, and drew a deep breath,—the picture disappeared.
There occurred to her a few bars from familiar songs, and a few words that went with them, strange, incoherent words, and it all sounded in her soul endless and monotonous, like the telegraph wires in some deserted garden on a murky November day.
Only rarely a sharp, nameless feeling, like the prick of a fine needle, stung her,—but only for a moment,—her soul at once fell again into its heavy semi-sleep.
The old lady frequently looked into her eyes: something yellow quivered in them now, and blue rings around them made them appear deeper in their sockets. The light breath of playful merriment and mobility had vanished, and there remained only a long, apathetic, retired, quiet glance. Her face was emaciated and of the color of yellowish alabaster. Her thin, light red lips had somehow become immovable. Her every motion had grown heavier and more feeble. For the remarks and jests of the old lady, for books and reminiscences, for everything, she had but a weak, melancholy smile.
“She is like a caterpillar,” often thought the old lady, “but she will change to a chrysalis.” Only rarely and but for a moment, she saw Lucy’s whole suppressed life, but with the childish optimism of her soul she thought that everything would soon be different. People would change, and would look upon Lucy with other eyes; all would be well. The old lady had managed through her long life to preserve a firm faith in some higher, unfailing justice.
One holiday forenoon she took Lucy to church. They seated themselves upon one of those old benches that gleam with a dark, red-brown sheen. The church was empty: Lucy happened to be looking at the altar,—an old altar. An indistinguishable black picture in a gold frame was hanging between two windows whose variegated panes colored the light from without. Four saints, sculptured by the inexperienced hand of a country artist, were standing at the sides. They were gleaming in new, bright colors. Lucy looked at them. Their smooth faces seemed comical to her, for the renovating painter had indicated with a bluish-grey paint the traces of their shaven hair and beard upon their sunken cheeks. She looked at the pillar of dust that rose obliquely from the chequered floor to the colored windows. . . . It was blue, wavy, and light, like the smoke of the censer, and reminded her of the little church in her native village in the distant mountains.
The church then began to fill rapidly. The flower of the local dignitaries, in costly garments, bedecked with jewels, stepped, rustling noisily, to the front.
The burgomistress, in her peony-colored dress, wearing heavy gold circles in her ears, sailed in; the doctor’s wife balanced herself to the bench like a pale-rose fairy. Lucy saw her neck and the cunning coiffure of her mobile head right in front of her.
Then in came Frau von Fischmeister, straight and stiff, her black dress fitting her like a uniform.
Frau von Janík arrived in an odd, but expensive yellow garment. Clotild, and the wives of the commissary, the postmaster, Mr. Jiskra, and the worthy veterans came and seated themselves. The ruling party was in the right row, the ladies of the Opposition on the left. Nobody else stepped into their pews. The ladies who came later turned back and stood in the rear.
That bench was the goal towards which the eyes of the curious and the sedate of both parties were turned. Nay, excitement was in the faces of the pious people, as if their glances said: “How did she dare come to the temple of the Lord?”
An old deacon, in white, gold-covered vestments, served high mass, with the assistance of chaplains and ministrants. From the choir thundered the organ and the violins, accompanying the voices of the patrician daughters,—they were playing Führer’s Mass.
Sad memories stirred Lucy’s soul during that playing; she thought of those Sundays and those masses when, as a young child, she used to sing at mass. Her father then played the organ. The sunlight used to fall through one window upon a gilt angel,—her first love. The old parish priest used to give her a bright silver coin after every mass. Meanwhile the mother was waiting at home in the kitchen where they used to eat. In that whitewashed kitchen golden-green flies flew over the windowpanes.
Lucy folded her hands in her lap,—she prayed. Her lips were closed, but she prayed inwardly, mechanically, from memory, without aim or purpose,—that music, those memories, that air heavily-laden with incense, that lonesome emptiness that lay like a black shroud over her once bright life, evoked in her an ebullition of repining piety.
They remained alone in the pew after the service.
Even in the open, the heat of the July sun and the noisy stream of the townspeople left her in a stupor. She drew the old lady along with her faster, faster. . . .
There was a big dinner. The promised trusty man had arrived from Prague. Upon his lips were jests and sweet words (these he showered upon Jiří); he wore a light suit, and his trousers were most properly creased (Jiří frequently cast an envious glance at them, thinking to himself: “What a fine fashion! He is a nice fellow!”) He knew everything and spoke of everything. He was all things imaginable, a politician, a critic, and a literary man; he was a soldier of the press in Prague, and he supplied five country sheets with weighty discussions on our situation; in the columns which were at his disposal, he now and then vented his spleen upon this and that man, sullying his name, his honor, and all his labors (referring to these articles, he used to say; “I have this day written some social news from Prague”). He knew all about French, Russian, Croatian, and Polish affairs. He was a phenomenon, a pillar of social purity, a secret messenger of embassies, a man of strength who knew how to make excellent use of every bit of gossip,—in short, a man worth his weight in gold.
At dinner he treated the two ladies with exquisite civility, but he looked at Lucy now and then, as if to say: “We know a thing or two, but we keep quiet, as becomes a gentleman.”
His conversation was exclusively with Jiří, that is, he spoke, and Jiří listened. He knew all the political wires behind the curtain, all about representatives, journalists, and ministers,—he knew some spicy gossip or anecdote about each, and at every opportune moment he flattered Jiří with: “Such and such a fellow, well! But you are all right!”
Jiří was charmed with him. After dinner he took him to his study, where the gentleman remarked that he here found all the familiar signs of the Bohemian land, which he promised to take a look at. Jiří read his speeches to him. In the meanwhile the trusty man drank wine (good wine!), smoked, now and then praised, and now again burst forth into full, enthusiastic agreement.
Thereupon Jiří brought out from the corner a big bundle containing one thousand copies of The Free Citizen, which were just ready to be distributed. The paper was headed by a fine poem (the local young assistant teacher had written it secretly upon order), which apostrophized the elections, the famous elections, the July elections! Then there were references to the knights of Blaník,[1] to the White Mountain, to the Hussites, the older and the more recent ones, to the new era in the history of the Bohemian land, and so forth,—two long, closely written columns.
Dexterously evolving his speech from that poem at the head of the paper, the trusty man fell to talking about poems and poets, about himself and about criticism. He said he was stern and unbending, and therefore he had enemies among the poets. But what was our poetry for anyway? Had any one among us ever written an “Orlando Furioso”? or a “Paradise Lost”? “Lusiads”? a “Faust”? a “Divine Comedy”? Vain conceit! What then have we? Only a few thin booklets of verses, “Morning songs,” “New songs,” then “Songs of Zavis.” (It was he who had discovered and properly valued them.) What was there else? Vrchlický?[2] Hem! He at once subjected them to his venomous criticism, though he admitted that he had talent, that it was possible that he would soon write a great work, that his forty books so far were nothing but flimsy toys. And the others? Shame, shame! We have versifying artisans, but no poets. What about Sládek? Nothing. He does not write like Homer, Krásnohorská[3] does not write like Zola, and Zola himself ought to write not as he does, but as Tolstoy. He was not striking at them now for the first time, nor calumniating them,—he had written publicly about this matter.
Our younger generation? A barren wilderness. Machar had lately published some political poems,—he had given them a fine raking over! What impudence! A poet to meddle with politics! He wants to overthrow public orators, state rights, and Panslavism with the work of a journalist! He wants to be the nation’s physician! As if he did not have stars, the moon, spring, flowers, the rustle of the forest, brooks! Our poesy has been so long growing fat on such subjects,—why should it all of a sudden be different? And he proceeded not only to berate him for this, but also for his whole activity, and not only the activity of the self-confident rebel, but his honor and name as well.
Jiří, who listened to him only with half an ear, and did not quite understand what he did hear, showed him the further contents of the spicy news: his own life, written in a very elaborate style; the platform on which he was to stand before the voters; a sharp review of the whole labors of the man who had represented that district for ten years; some terrible statistics of the tribute that flows from our country to Vienna; a few paltry figures of what returns to us from there,—and many more bombs, every one of which was sufficient to blow up the safest stronghold of the adherents of the ruling party. The trusty man promised future glory and future greatness for him. They continued drinking, and talked enthusiastically until late in the evening.
After dinner Lucy went into the castle park. It was quiet. On the horizon rose gloomy, ill-boding clouds. Not a leaf was stirring, Grey dust was lying everywhere, on the trees, the bushes, and the grass. The heavy odor of acacias was mixed with that of the walnut leaves, sage, and yellow roses. Hundreds of shrill-voiced swallows circled up in the air, around the many-colored tower.
Lucy walked over the old steps, over the path which looked as though covered with snow,—the white petals of the bird-cherry blossoms lay there.
All around was quiet. Lucy looked inquisitively into all the side-paths. It was quiet everywhere. A small woodpecker was pecking somewhere at the trunk of a tree. The chatter of the swallows reached her from the tower, now lightly, now more distinctly.
Lucy walked faster.
There was the bench,—how strongly her heart beat then! The blood rushed to her face like fire. . . . The bench was empty. . . . The stifling air around her was oppressive, as with some old perfume. . . . Threads of cobwebs stuck to her cheeks, and pestering gnats beat into her face.
Lucy said to herself that she was out for a walk only, that she did not expect anything,—but she walked on more rapidly, and she kept on looking into every corner, at every bench,—all was deserted.
Twice she crossed the whole park. The sunlight grew more yellow. A heavy mist was thickening for rain. The leaves began to stir gently, as if from fear of the coming moment.
Suddenly the bell in the tower of the town church tolled the knell of death. Those groaning, penetrating sounds spread with their full force, and, reflected by the wall and the trees, re-echoed here a second time.
A certain terror suddenly took possession of Lucy. She inclined her head and hurried on, and it seemed to her as if some one was looking at her from somewhere, some one for whom she had to-day been searching in vain. The last few days she had not succeeded in bringing his picture before her eyes, but now she saw him clearly outlined: he was looking so peacefully at her, and yet there was so much terror in his pale features.
The funereal bell continued ringing. She walked rapidly over the steps and through the avenue of trees, and out of the park.
The aunt was standing in the yard and speaking with the stewardess.
“They think, Lucy, the poor fellow has died,” she called out to her.
That short sentence stirred every nerve of hers. And yet, it seemed to her, she had known it before, that somebody had told her so in the park. She did not ask who it was, she did not ask anything,—she knew it all. . . .
- ↑ A legend tells that there are enchanted knights on mount Blaník, who will awaken only when Bohemia is hardest pressed, in order to free it from its foes.
- ↑ Emil Bohuš Frida (pseudonym Jaroslav Vrchlický), 1853-, greatest poet of the older generation.
- ↑ Eliška Krásnohorská, one of the more prominent women novelists, born 1857.