The Jail/Chapter III
III.
It was the morning of June 17th. I left my office, collected my letters and proceeded home. The landlady of the neighbouring house, Mrs. Helena Krásná, was leaning out of the window, she beckoned to me and called out: "There are officers in your house, they want to take you away to Prague", and, as a matter of fact, a motor-car was standing in front of the building. Also, some man or other was cautiously following me, not leaving me out of his sight; I had not noticed him previously.
Already? I thought to myself. And why can it be? I did not know, but the continual feeling of uncertainty such as was possessed at that time by every man whose language was Czech, had not left me since the arrest of Dr. Kramář. Perhaps it was some accusation,—at that time they were showering down like drops of rain in spring,—perhaps it was my mere existence, perhaps it was as Dr. Herben put it: some General or other is sitting down looking at a map, you pass by him and sneeze, the General turns round and you are immediately guilty of the crime of interfering with military operations,—well, it was possible that l had sneezed in this way,—who knows? We shall see.
I entered the house, the little fellow from the street behind me.
In the room there were three officers, a captain, two lieutenants and a little volunteer officer, obviously a Jew, with a foxy look. They clicked their heels and introduced themselves. "Lieutenant Dr. Preminger" said a man of medium size with scanty fair hair and pale blue eyes. So that is he.
"What do you want, gentlemen?"
"Could we see the letters that you have from Dr. Kramář? And could we have a general look around among your things? Here is the written order. "And Preminger handed me a paper.
A stamp, a signature, a hectographed text, only the name and address written in. "Certainly."
The man from the street stood in the anteroom. "Nobody is allowed to leave the house", Dr. Preminger instructed him.
Out of a box I took a bundle of letters which Dr. Kramář had written to me from the Crimea sixteen or seventeen years ago, and I gave them to Preminger. "You will allow me, gentlemen, to have my lunch, I suppose?"
Preminger bowed. "In the meanwhile we will have a look at the books, everything is of interest to us, both written and printed matter." They sat down and removed books from the shelves; I had my lunch in the next room. I was calm and said to myself: whatever it may be, I must show no weakness. I ate slowly, from outside could be heard the measured snorting of the motor-car, in the next room my guests were engaged in conversation. "I tell you that the Roumanians will go against us, I was ten years in a Roumanian regiment and I know them“, expounded the Captain.
"I don't believe it", declared Preminger and closed one of my books noisily.
I was finished and went in to them.
"I will take these letters with me", remarked Preminger and he thrust some letters of Kramář into his breast-pocket. "And now we will see whether anything else will suit us. First of all show us all your correspondence."
"War-time? Or all of it?"
"The whole lot."
I began with the dead. Winter—
"Who was he?"
"An author, and excellent man. Further: Čech—"
"Who was he?"
"A great poet. A field-marshal was ordered to his funeral. Vrchlický—"
"Ah, Vrhliky,—I have heard of him. Is he dead too?"
"Slavíček, a painter —"
"Is he dead too?"
"He shot himself"—Šimáček, Neruda, Sládek—"Dead? This is a regular graveyard. We want live ones", remarked Preminger.
"Here. Leger."
"Why Leger? Why not Ležé?"[1]
"His name is Leger and he lives at Kolín. A poet."
Preminger looked suspiciously at the letters.
"At Kolín? Not at Paris?"
"Ah, you mean Louis Leger? No, I have nothing from him."
He laid aside our Leger disappointedly. "And you have no letters at all from abroad?"
"Yes. Here is a letter from Denis."
"Oh, that's something", and he took the letter out of my hand.
"It’s no good to you. The letter is already several years old. Denis thanks me in it for the dedication of my book The Apostles."
"We shall see", and Denis' letter joined those of Kramář. "Nothing else from abroad?"
"Nothing else."
"Now for home affairs."
I opened drawers, undid bundles,—hundreds and hundreds of letters tumbled out, congratulations, literary matters, bills, telegrams, personal communications, cuttings from papers, rough drafts of poems—all in Czech, and these piles were shared out among the three officers, of whom only the Captain understood Czech. They looked at the signatures and dates, and asked questions.
The volunteer officer with the foxy eyes was standing in the next room and waiting for his turn to come. In the ante-room the man from the street was keeping watch.
I lit a cigar and offered them some. The Captain declined with thanks, saying that he only smoked cigarettes. Without a word, Preminger lit his own cigar, the third officer, an otherwise taciturn gentleman, remarked sharply that he smoked only "his own cigars" and also lit up. The smoke floated out through the open window to where the blue sky was spread out above the peaceful earth, and white swelling clouds were borne across it from north to east. There was a rustle of papers: letter after letter was translated, and as I saw that the pile was diminishing, I added fresh supplies to it.
"Tell the agent to come in", said Dr. Preminger to the volunteer officer, "we shan't be finished in two days."
Mr. Kolbe understood Czech. They gave him this and that to read through and express his opinion. Mr. Kolbe read it through and expressed his opinion.
The taciturn person had found a sheet of paper and gave it to Mr. Kolbe to read through and translate. There is a proverb which I once noted down: "To cut up chopped straw and prove that it is oats should not be tried even on a donkey."—Mr. Kolbe translated, the taciturn person asked Preminger whether he should take it with him. Preminger waved him aside. "But that certainly has some bearing upon the Czech nation", insisted the taciturn person. "Eh, Unsinn",[2] said the Captain interfering.
Dr. Preminger suddenly thrust his pile away and stretched himself in his chair. What a fearful lot of letters you have. A paper deluge."
"Tell me, why did you really arrest Dr. Kramář? That is more than an error, it is folly, if I may quote—"
"You think so?" said Preminger smiling.
"The most black-yellow politician in Austria", I went on eagerly, "for fifteen years he has had a thoroughly hellish time amongst us for that very reason."
"Well, you will see what his Austrianism amounts to. You were with him in the Crimea,—were you in touch there with Russian personalities?"
"With persons certainly, with personalities never."
"Of course, you were there seventeen years ago. You like the Russians?"
"Russian literature above all, the Russian peasant extremely, Tsarism less."
"You see we know all about you", declared Preminger triumphantly. "And the English?"
"Sir, if I were an Englishman, I should not have the pleasure of your visit in my house."
Preminger laughed.
"Look, that's the one", and the taciturn person pointed out to him some signature in a letter. Preminger nodded.
"Ležé again?" said I pointedly.
"What is the Volná Myšlenka?" asked Preminger instead of replying. "A society?"
"No, an association."
"Well, that is a society."
"An association. A society and an association are two different things."
"You were honorary President of this society, weren't you?"
"Yes, I was honorary President of this association."
"Which wages war against all religions?"
"Which waged war against clericalism. Waged it,—for immediately at the beginning of the war its activities both as regards issuing periodicals and publishing books were stopped."
"Have you any papers, documents from which it would be possible to learn what were the real aims of the association?""I will lend you a few volumes of the paper it issued, but you will return them to me."
"Certainly, and with thanks."
I found two volumes for him.
"Mr. Kolbe, look, here is a poem Franz II; tell me what it's about", remarked the taciturn person turning to the agent.
It was a poem which had once been published in the paper called "Neruda".
"There is nothing in it. Very nice patriotic verses. About how the soldiers fight for the Emperor?" remarked Mr. Kolbe.
The taciturn person scratched his head; "Why should Mr. M. write patriotic verses? and about Franz II?"
"Lieutenant", I said shaking my finger at him, "I must point out that by your last question—"
The taciturn person reddened angrily.
"The Lord knows that my back is already aching", said the Captain coming to his assistance.
It had grown dark. The chauffeur came up to say that there was no lamp on the car and that they must go. I pulled out a number of new bundles.
"That's enough, gentlemen", announced Dr. Preminger, "we will go. What do you want to take?" he said turning to the taciturn person.
"This", he pointed to it, "and this and this." There were about eight bundles.
"There will be no room in the car, there are four of us" explained Preminger.
"Are you taking me with you?" I asked,—I had completely forgotten the volunteer officer in the next room.
"Oh, no, no, no", said Preminger deprecatingly. "But where are we to put this litter?"
"I will lend you a trunk if you will let me have it back", I offered.
"There is one more room?" asked the Captain pointing to the closed door.
"Yes, my wife and daughter are there", and I made as if to open. "No, we won't go there, we have nothing to do with your ladies", announced Preminger.
"Ready?" asked the Captain.
"Yes. Just a report that we have completed the search, and we must tie the bundles together a little. Hi, officer."
I lent them a trunk. The volunteer officer tied up the bundles. Suddenly he said to Preminger: "Lieutenant, this knight has the red and white colours on his shield." On the wall hung Schwaiger's picture "The Long, the Broad and the Sharp-Sighted". The knight who is riding across the foot-bridge has actually got a red and white shield. The volunteer officer fastened his little foxy eyes upon it.
"Lieutenant", he pointed out afresh, "has it any special significance that the colours there are red and white?" "Keep quiet, and see about getting ready", snarled the Captain. The foxy little eyes were lowered with injured reluctance and the little volunteer officer went on packing and tying up.
The report was read in a minute. I made it as easy for them as possible. I did not want the letters to be counted, I brought the trunk, the twine, the packing paper,—when a man has had such guests for five whole hours in his house, he has a slight desire for solitude and peace at the end of it.
"I draw your attention to the fact", I remarked to Preminger, "that the search has been very incomplete; here are several thousand books, and there might be a treasonable document in every one of them."
"You haven't got the Tsar's manifesto?"
"No."
"We are ready. Tomorrow you will kindly appear at Hernalser Gürtel, No. 126, room 89. for cross-examination. A few trifles. At 9 o'clock please."
"I shall certainly come."
They gave me their hands, clicked their heels, Mr. Kolbe and the little volunteer officer carried out the bundles and the trunk, the car began to make a fuss, they took their seats, saluted once more from their seats and drove off.
The next day at 9 o'clock in room 89 on the Hernalser Gürtel. An uninviting, bare room, only three writing tables, a few chairs, cupboards, on the wall a map of Bohemia, Moravia and Silesia, on one of the tables a Remington. The Captain of the day before was sitting there and typing something. I was asked to sit down. Preminger would arrive immediately.
He arrived. Yesterday he had been jovial and talkative, today he was somehow stern and restrained. He took a file from a drawer, turned over a few leaves, took out a paper, handed it to me to translate. And he followed my impromptu version with a translation which he held in his hands, I went on reading, suddenly I stopped short. Sixteen years ago, on October 19th 1899, on the day when the language regulations were suspended, I had written a furious letter to Dr. Kramář in the Crimea. Bilge-water, fire, sulphur, petroleum, dynamite,—whatever could be said in words I had written, and flung everything at his head, of which I — — — "but must I read that?" I asked Preminger."Continue," he ordered sternly.
I translated the letter to the end.
"What do you say now, eh?"
"This letter is the very thing which proves what I explained to you yesterday about Dr. Kramář. I knew how I was offending his patriotic feelings, and that is why I wrote it to him. You can believe that Dr. Kramář—"
"Let's leave Dr. Kramář aside now; as you see, you are concerned here. This letter was found among Dr. Kramář's things, you wrote it to him—."
"But I just want to explain why I wrote it to him and why such expressions—"
"Do not suppose", continued Preminger, "that military justice is some blind animal, that it scratches where and when it likes,—if it had not been for this letter, your house would not have been searched yesterday."
"I should like to point out that the letter was written sixteen years ago, that I wrote it in rage and bitterness at the blow which our nation had received when the language ordinances were suspended, that I regret everything that is in it,—but that all of it is long since out of date, both according to the letter of the law and in my own spirit."
"So much I also know, and I draw no conclusions from it,—let us proceed to our report", and he prepared a sheet of paper and picked up a pen.
We soon finished the report. My relations with Dr. Kramář, our separation, our political friendship for fifteen years, something about the Volná Myšlenka, about my friendship with Masaryk, about that unfortunate letter—a signature and that was all.
"We have finished", declared Preminger."Just one more word about Dr. Kramář. Tell me what there is against him. What is he guilty of? Why was he arrested?"
"You will see. I repeat that military justice proceeds in the most cautious manner. Peace will come, parliament will meet, its actions will be discussed, will be investigated,—for today I cannot tell you any more."
"And I repeat that Dr. Kramář is innocent. And that if there is a trial, not he but the whole nation will be in the dock, and that if he is condemned, the idea of Austria as current in the Kingdom of Bohemia will be justified for ever and ever. Even today, you see—"
"Yes, the Czech regiments, they are surrendering—"
"This matter has not been cleared up."
"The war loans."
"We give what we can. Blood and property."
"And at the same time you are thinking of independence."
"If that is a crime, then have a high wall built around the whole of Bohemia and Moravia, make a single gate in it, put a soldier there with a fixed bayonet, and above it put the inscription: Royal and Imperial Jail."
"Your hearts are not in the monarchy."
"That is how the monarchy brought us up."
In this way we passed the whole of the morning. Preminger looked into my eyes, I into his. We pierced into each other's souls. A razor was the thought I had of him, well made, excellent material, admirably set. An obedient razor which shaves easily and well, but with which throats can be cut if it is used by a careless hand. It has a bluish steely glitter, it is a first-rate implement, you cannot get angry with it even when it wounds you. For with the same precision and neatness it would—under different circumstances—cut open the veins not only of Messrs. Gross, Wolf, Teufel and all the rest of the Germanic Austrians, but even of any of its masters, if there were an opportunity.
"Au revoir," he said to me as we parted.
"I'd rather not", I replied.
At the same time as the search was taking place in my house, a police agent was searching the table in my office. He took away a few letters, an artistically decorated seal, several envelopes filled with postage stamps which in the course of my official work I was in the habit of cutting out and saving for the children of my acquaintances, an old table, calendar, unused picture postcards,—all "zur weiteren Amtsbehandlung" (for further official action).