looked him straight in the eye, but he would not yield, he would not become a traitor to his own convictions. And he was just a common laborer. And I, a gentleman from birth, a man of culture and education, an example to the entire community and a chosen representative of my people . . . . am I to sink lower than that poor unkempt shoemaker, who willingly sacrificed himself with his whole family as martyrs to a sacred idea?
Broz—But is it advisable to perish through similar heroism? Might it not be wiser to save yourself, to sacrifice a principle for the moment, than to sacrifice yourself for all eternity?
Dr. Svoboda.—There is not now . . . there never has been a great ideal but what has demanded its great sacrifice. Every ideal is like a fairy which walks forth with a shining star above its head to guide its followers, but always at midnight changes itself into a dragon and devours the devotees who happen to be near it.
Broz.—Then allow someone else to be the victim for the sacrifice, Honorable Doctor, some one who does not owe so many duties to others.
Dr. Svoboda.—Another! Another means nobody! For according to that maxim, each one has the right to say, “Not I . . . . let another be the victim for the execution!” Not at all, my dear friends; he whom fate points out must be the sacrifice. He must not only give battle for his convictions, but when necessary, even give up his life for them. In this fight, one is no better than another.
Broz.—These are lofty ideals, but they will ruin you, my dear doctor. You might yet be saved, even now, by your daughter Anezka,—
Dr. Svoboda.—Yes, if she were but in love with Mr. Kytka . . . . if she were willing to consent to a union with him!
Broz.—Yes.
Dr. Svoboda.—But dare I urge her to accept a husband that might be distasteful to her?
Broz.—Certainly, such cases are not at all unusual! Thousands of families have been obliged to do so, to preserve themselves in the face of destruction . . . there is no dishonor in it!
Dr. Svoboda.—And does there not exist, Mr. Broz, in the hearts and minds of some people, something which rises and becomes enraged at the idea . . . this barter of one’s own flesh and blood?
