J. S. MACHAR
light and sceptical smile of contempt,—but he controlled himself and said nothing.)
Kubaleck spoke the choice and pure language of an intellectual, his comments on people and things were to the point, incisive and witty, he was self-sufficing, that is, he did not make adisplay of his misery (and, as Dušek told me, his misery was great), he was resigned to his fate, but also prepared to stand up for himself and defend his rights up to the last consequences—an interesting man. He made not the slightest reference to his story when speaking to me; our conversation was about aeroplanes—he said he had served in the flying corps of the Prussian army. He explained to me the various types, their advantages and defects, and he said that he himself had made experiments in the construction of a new machine but that the war had intervened and ended everything.
What a magnificent morning it must have been outside! The blue, rarified sky seemed to be loftier than usual, without even a cloudlet in it; only the first golden flashes of the rising sun were beginning to spread, and the swifts, drunk with the freshness of morning, were wheeling beneath it in joyful circles.
And there we were, pressing along through a crowd of talking, coughing and spitting men, in the smoke of reeking cigarettes, amid creatures whom human society had rejected from its midst, we whom blind justice had flung among them, we lovers of freedom, air and light,—"if only an aeroplane were to come down" suggested Kubaleck.
"I would get into it without any further reflection, and would fly over mountains, valleys and waters far, far beyond the black-yellow frontier-posts" I added.
A few tiny lads, scarcely more than fourteen years old, ran to and fro amongst us and picked up the ends of cigars and cigarettes.
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