AT THE SIGN OF THE THREE LILIES
BY JAN NERUDA
I think I must have been insane that time. Every fibre of my being was alive, my blood was at a white heat.
It was a warm, but dark, summer night. The sulphurous, dead air of the last few days had finally rolled itself up into black clouds. The stormy wind had whipped them before it earlier in the evening, then the mighty tempest burst its fury, a heavy shower came crashing down and the storm and rain lasted late into the night.
I was sitting under the wooden arcade of the hotel called “At the Sign of the Three Lilies” near the Strahov Gate. It was a small inn, which in those times always had more numerous visitors on Sundays when, in the main room the cadets and corporals used to enjoy themselves dancing to the strains of a piano.
Today it was Sunday. I sat under the arcades at & table close to the window, all alone. The mighty peals of thunder roared almost in constant succession, the downpour beat upon the tile roof above me, the water
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