Fraternal Herald/Volume 31/Number 6/Impressions of Czechoslovakia

by Olga Folda

Impressions of Czechoslovakia.

By Olga Folda.

What can I tell you about this life in Prague? It is all so different from everything at home just as I hoped it would be. I didn’t want to be disappointed. I wasn’t. Perhaps the first thing that came to mind when I stepped off the tiresome train, was that people seemed to be overwhelmingly gallant. You couldn’t possibly get lost, the station men won’t allow it. They seem to love giving directions and repeating them in various intricate ways. When we stepped into the door of the hotel, the Golden Goose Hotel, the whole force seemed to arise—including the elevator boy. It made me think a royal family must be following us in the ceremony. But no, everyone is welcomed as pompously, it seems. Now, I know the secret—it is training—such deep constant training that they do it mechanically. The first time I went into a shop and bought a few crowns’ worth of apples I was shocked beyond expression when I heard the clerks, about four of them, call out to me as I opened the door to go: “Ruku líbám, slečno,” (I kiss your hand, Miss) and then like a shower—one after the other “Má poklona, Má úcta, Děkuju zdvořile,” etc., etc., which is nothing but bows and heartfelt thanks and best respects and lots of other things that get simply drowned in the jumble. I have learned that I, too, must respond with “{{lang|cs|Má úcta—ruku líbám}” to be perfectly polite.

By the way, I used to think that “kissing the hand” was a fairy tale and entirely not modern. Since I claim I have attended a few balls and have discovered that it is quite the custom and correct thing for one’s partner to kiss one’s hand at the end of each dance. I am of the opinion that it is a custom which would be difficult to eliminate in this country. Balls are very frequent events here. Just now this is the masquerade season—everyone is designing. Shop windows are overflowing with costumes and colors. Billboards are covered with signs announcing “Maškarní Ples”, and, of course, we are in the midst of the winter season of operas and theatres. Unlike the American custom a single play does not run successively for three or four weeks and then change to another. Instead, each night at the theatre offers a different production and plays are arranged so that they are repeated once or twice a week during the season. And, consequently, there is always something new to be seen. I was impressed by the number of foreign pieces that were translated and used. Some of their favorites are plays from Shaw, Galsworthy, Ibsen, Wilde and numerous French authors. Dostojevsky’s “Crime and Punishment” was quite successfully dramatized and very effictively produced, in 19 acts which required two successive evenings. Russian opera is very frequent, in fact, it is impossible to keep up with events.

One of the most amazing influences here in Prague is that of the Kavárnas—not altogether good—but not wholly bad. Kavárna, of course, means coffee house. They are as numerous here as drug stores are in America. What surprises me is that at any time of the day they are full. The sight of them was not wholly pleasant to me when I first came. Usually, they are not beautiful, many of them very old, bare marble-topped tables, people lounging around in various comfortable attitudes, stacks of newspapers here and there, very much smoke everywhere, glasses of beer floating about and—the best cups of coffee I have ever drunk in my life! How many of you have heard the tales of European coffee “impossible—utterly IMPOSSIBLE. You must learn to drink tea, my dear.” Of this I must assure you—I am going to miss this coffee when I get home. ’Tis true—when I first came to Europe this summer, I was glad I had been prepared. In England everything seemed impossible, concerning nourishment. So we fed our minds on literary food. Holland was a delightful change, by the time we got to Switzerland I had begun to get used to the coffee custom, hot milk, etc. In Germany, I was agreeably satisfied, for it seemed to be improving as we traveled in our easterly direction. But here we reached the peak of delicious “Káva”. They serve it everywhere with thick whipped cream on top. I have heard that several people in America expressed their sympathy for me. No need—no need—it is delicious.

But to come back to Kavárnas. They are very important, for they are a substitute for “home life”—family life. And that is the sad part about it. It is hard to tell which is the cause and which is the result. You see, Prague is a very crowded city. There are almost a million individuals swarming around in it. And it is much too small for them; they have not enough elbow room, no breathing space. The ordinary family must be content with 2 or 3 rooms, usually small ones—and old, decidedly not modern, even in improvement, and utterly impractical. Three of the greatest luxuries are elevators, furnaces and automobiles. The heating problem is a very difficult one and consequently most of the people learn to dress warmly and work in cold rooms. If they have a day off they go—to the Kavárna. For a cup of coffee or beer they sit at a table in a warm corner, reading papers, writing letters, all day long. They become accustomed to a certain place and make it their stopping or resting place. They meet their friends there, they get very used to their certain little corner, to their obliging waiter—and the result is—a pleasant retreat. Entertaining in homes is practically unheard of, room does not permit it, and in the winter neither does the cold. Students come in to do their studying, business men—there seems to be an astonishing number of carefree ones—here sit around and discuss politics or play chess or cards, women—all sorts—from the shawl type to the highly jeweled, pompous figures, sit and look and smoke and drink coffee. There are always the “constant set” who come and go regularly every day and there are always the unfamiliar ones who stroll in and out, never to return again. There is something interesting about it all, because it is different—the place, the people, the habits.

There is so much I should like to tell you about—if space permitted, something more than the general impression—rather the details. Some of them may seem very insignificant but nevertheless they are the manners of the people themselves, they can be traced back to centuries ago, to the old rule, the old atmosphere of a king’s realm, of the inevitable “classes” among the people. It is difficult for some of them to wake up to the idea of democracy and a republic. Pre-war conditions were even more astonishing and Czechoslovakia is still a very young republic. She has the advantage of good schools and universities. The percentage of her illiterate population is smaller than almost any country in Europe. The “desire for knowledge” of the people here made a very deep impression on me. Perhaps it is because the opportunities for education are very different. To us the universities seem lax. Students are not required to attend classes, to take notes, to take examinations. But their loss is a great one if they miss the opportunities. And the majority of them don’t lose them. One particularly notices the breadth of their education. For some reason they do not allow themselves to be swallowed up by one interest. So very often I have talked to people who were majoring in law or medicine, who were at the same time mastering several foreign languages, studying about the literature, the music and the art of their country and others, were interested in politics, and often were better informed on American current events than we were.

For the last few months I have been attending “Institut Francais”, a course of lectures which the French government offers to the Czech Republic. The class attendants are a very cosmopolitan group of people of all ages and nationalities—Czech, German, French, Polish, Russian, Italian, Serbian. As far as I know I am the only American there. Many of them speak English and whether they speak it well or not they put it into practice as often as they can. They seem to love to speak it. I have met a few very interesting men and women there—that is one of the great advantages of the Institute.

Speaking of the English language again, I must tell you about my first day there. It happened that I was conversing in English with a Russian lady who sat next to me. I noticed that several people, especially those who were studying language themselves, watched us and because the Russian lady spoke quite fluently and because they thought I was Czech they seemed amazed at our rapid conversation. When the lecture began, of course, we quieted down—but when it was over, an elderly white haired German lady edged up to me and very haltingly said: “Mademoiselle, you spik English very well. You have a beau-ti-ful accent!” She sighed.—“Madame,” I replied, “I’m an American!” And she actually looked disappointed.