dows there are bookcases, and on the other side of the room there is another couch and a table. For that matter I do not vouch for the exactness of this description ; everything is seen by me as if in a haze. When I sit down I see opposite to me on the wall a small red pennant with the inscription “Justitia vincit;” when the President writes he has it constantly in sight. There is also a large red chalice embroidered on black velvet. Back of me is some old picture, very large, and a still larger American flag. But I only seem to see them through the back of my head—I would not dare to turn around for anything.
At first a little twisting and confusion. The President gives each of us a handshake, as seventeen men are presented to him. Finally we all sit. “There is room on the couch,” says Masaryk, and Cyril Dušek sits down next to him. They used to be together in the Čas. Where are those days! But anyway Dušek leaves a considerable space between himself and the President. And then Masaryk immediately comes right to the point:
“I should like to see the press . . . in close co-operation with the Government and the President . . . . democratic institutions . . . . the example of France and America . . . . I look at it this way . . . . what do you think of it?”
The atmosphere now is not so tense. The President sits in the corner of his couch and emphasizes his talk with motions. His head is bent to one side, he looks obliquely over his glasses, places one palm over the other, and when he intends to bring out a point he rifts his hands thus clasped together. He seems to speak in fragmentary sentences and forms of them a clear reproduction of his thoughts which really surprises us by its lightness, its comprehensivenes and its exactness, even though his speech gives the impression that he is searching for the most pertinent word.
“Education for democracy . . . . I have the impression that much remains to be done . . . . as far as I could learn in the short period I have been with you . . . . democracy is the opportunity to discuss . . . . respect for the opinion of others . . . .”
His speech has still something in it of Masaryk’s hardness, something that lends it picturesqueness and at the same time of intimacy. Talk runs to more personal matters: the maffia, the boys in Siberia. You ought to see Masaryk when he talks of them.
“You simply cannot imagine a better soldier. The Japanese found out at once that there must be in it some cultural tradition. Ah, this is the effect of the Sokols, said the Japanese, when they heard who Sokols were. While the others were content with mere admiring, the Japanese went down to the roots, and the boys were pleased, because the Japanese understood . . . .” Dušek begins to talk of what he saw in Slovakia, Nečásek tells stories of life in Prague between 1914 and 1918, and Vraný supplements them. Masaryk is listening with his mouth slightly open and an attentive look—he turns from visitor to visitor, as they take up the discussion. I could not help remembering what the President said a month ago, talking of his travels in Russia: “One cannot help studying human physiognomy incidentally . . .”
Gabriel Moudrý of the Národní Listy realizes that the discussion has gone astray and brings it back to firm ground. “To return to what we want . . . . .” Masaryk listens to a logical explanation full of common sense. Masaryk is smiling, as editor Moudrý tells how happy we are to be able to sit in the old royal castle and talk together in a friendly way, especially when we think that only a few weeks ago someone else had the right to sit there, with whom we could not talk thus openly, with whom we would not talk, even if we could, “whereas, today, Mr. President, we are happy . . . .” and in excellent humor we rise and take ourselves away.
The Twelve Months
From “Czech Folk Tales”, translated by Dr. Jos. Baudis.
Once upon a time there lived a mother who had two daughters. One was her own child, the other her stepdaughter. She was very fond of her own daughter, but she would not so much as look at her stepdaughter. The only reason was that Maruša, the stepdaughter, was prettier than her own daughter, Holena. The gentle-hearted Maruša did not know how beautiful she was, and so she could never make out why her mother was so cross with her whenever she looked at her. She had to do all the housework, tidying up the cottage, cooking, washing, and sewing, and then she had to take the hay to the cow and look after her. She did all this work alone, while Holena spent the time adorning herself and lazing about. But Maruša liked work, for she was a patient girl, and when her mother, scolded and rated her, she bore it like a lamb. It was no good, however, for they grew crueller and crueller every day, only because Maruša was growing prettier and Holena uglier every day.
At last the mother thought: “Why should I keep a pretty stepdaughter in my house? When the lads come courting here, they will fall in love with Maruša and they won’t look at Holena.”
From that moment the stepmother and her daughter were constantly scheming how to get rid of poor Maruša. They starved her and they beat her. But she bore it all, and in spite of all she kept growing prettier every day. They invented torments
