The Jail/Chapter VIII
VIII
A defence-corps man in front of me, a defence-corps man behind me, both equipped with old Werndl rifles, we walked solemnly along the middle of the street. We went from the Blindengasse, the street of the sightless, where the military tribunal held its sittings, to the Tigergasse, the street of Tigers, the headquarters of the military legal authorities. The genius loci is fond of making such unintentional jests.
The sun was still shining. But it was not the sun from which l had parted in the morning, it was a strange sun which somebody has put in the sky in the place of the beloved sun we know so well, and strange are its light and its warmth. Even these familiar streets have a stranger appearance, and the people passing through them are not Viennese, but natives of heaven knows what town. And finally, I myself, am I myself? And is this not all a repulsive dream? Two young ladies stood on the pavement and looked at us inquisitively."Ein Spion",[1] observed one.
"Oder ein Hochverräter"[2] replied the other. For a moment their eyes blazed with patriotic indignation, then they burst out laughing.
The defence-corps men marched along in military style, one two, one two, each pace 75 centimetres, 110 paces to the minute. I walked with little civilian steps, and this must have confused my guard at the back, for he kept on changing step and stamped to correct my pace.
The street of tigers is a quiet little street in the 8th circuit. For the greater part it consists of old, low-roofed little houses above which rises here and there a high and more modern tenement building. People were hurrying to and fro on the pavements, they looked at us, and from the open windows we were met by inquisitive glances of conjecture; I also looked at them, but really I saw, I felt nothing whatever. It was as if my soul had fallen asleep. I was indifferent to everything that had been, that was, and that would be, I had no interest in anything, least of all for my own fate. l was not even inquisitive now to know what they had against me. The day had brought too many impressions, it was not possible to take them in, and my senses were blunted. Only the fragment of some Viennese tune sounded obstinately in my ears, and I could not get rid of it. In front of a high tenement building,—on it was a tablet with an eagle and the number eleven, the man in front of me, he of the defence-corps, stopped. He read the inscription, compared the number of the house with what was written on his official paper, made a sign to us that this was the place, and entered.
The first story, the second, the third,—on the door a tablet marked Oberleutnant Auditor Dr. Frank,—this was it. The defence-corps man went in to announce my arrival, the second kept guard over me meanwhile in the little ante-room.
The fragment of that wretched tune kept ringing in my ears.
The defence-corps man came back and beckoned to me to go in. A small room with two windows, by the left window a writing table with the clerk belonging to it; further, two tables at one of which was an officer of no great height, giving somehow an impression of cleanness; he was clean-shaven, his hair carefully brushed, he had cold blue eyes,—Dr. Felix Frank, in civil life on the staff of the Viennese magistracy, now lieutenant-superintendent and searcher-out of guilty Czech hearts and souls.
Let me say at once that it was certainly a relief to us all that the military persecution did not employ our own people, Czech people as its instruments. I am absolutely incapable of imagining them in this capacity,—as an author I have a feeling for unity of style, and this would certainly have beenimpaired to aconsiderable extent. Dr. Frank had taken over Czech affairs and Czech people from Dr. Preminger of Bukovina.
He asked me to sit down, and his voice was agreeable and clear with a metallic note in it.
From a drawer he took out a file—my file—and I noticed that his hands also were clean and well cared for.
And he asked me whether I wished to appeal against my imprisonment.
Of course I did.
He drew my attention to the fact that this was a formality, that my appeal would change nothing, but might protract the course of my proceedings by several weeks. And he advised me not to appeal.
Good, I will not apeal then, but the jail was not to my liking, and of this I informed him. He smiled, disclosing two rows of clean teeth stopped with gold, and dictated the report to the youth at the writing table. That I did not enter an appeal. The machine clattered, the yellowish official paper kept emerging from its teeth, covered with symmetrical rows of writing.
Then from a drawer he drew out a book. Heavens, my own book, my verses entitled "Drops".
Did I guess why I had been arrested?
No.
For four poems from this book.
I saw marked with blue pencil:
"In memory of November 5th 1908."
"Hospital Humanitarianism."
"To Dr. Frant. Mesany."
"Twenty Years."
My listless weariness fell from me at a blow. What, really for this? And in all my literary activity you found nothing else besides these four trifles? Tell me, is it possible?
Yes, for these four poems.
Joy, inexpressible joy, set me astir. I will fight for my liberty. How could this be a menace to Austrian power and order? I was prepared for all kinds of things, but that I should be imprisoned and cross-examined on account of such trifling verses, no, that I had not expected.
Like lightning there flashed through my mind the memory of Count Jáchym Ondřej Šlik. Slavata in his "Memoirs" quotes as if in mockery the letter written by him on March 2nd 1621 to Prince Liechtenstein. He said that he was not the instigator of that unfortunate deed which flung the Emperor's representatives from the window, that he had only heard of it about an hour and a half previously, that he could not even give them any warning, that he had opposed Mates von Thurn "almost to bodily violence", that Mathes von Thurn was a "false and notorious man", who had shamefully misled and deceived the gentleman of rank, that Šlik had not laid hands on the Emperor's representatives,—poor rebel, this explanation availed him nothing; on March 18th he was seized by the Kurfürst of Saxony, handed over to the Emperor's justices, and on June 21st he was executed in the square of the Old Town. All revolutions, whether active or passive, produce people such as Šlik; they undertake and carry them out in the conviction that their cause is just, but then when their cause comes to grief, they desert it, disguise it, deny it and conceal it,—as if defence of this kind had ever helped those who were, defeated, and could ward off the vengeance of those who had conquered.
My case was clear and free from guile,—thank God. All these poems were written long before the war, printed several times,—I did not need to deny and conceal, I could not indeed have played so pitiable and aimless part as Count Jáchym Ondřej Šlik.
And so I dictated for the report: The first three poems appeared in Čas in the years 1905, 1908 and 1913, without arousing any objections; the last one appeared in Samostatnost in 1913.. In book form they were issued,—again without arousing any objections,—in my collected feuilletons, then "bei Umgruppierung meiner Werke"[3] (to use the modern term), I included them in a volume of short and topical lyric poems entitled "Drops", which I might call my diary.
"And by printing them during the war you have committed a new criminal offence" remarked Dr. Frank.
"Only that they were confiscated as far back as September 27th 1915, and the poetaster has only just been arrested, that is, seven months later" I objected.
"That makes no difference. Nothing gets out of date here. Do you make any changes in your printed verses when you prepare them for volume form?"
"Very often. Rhyme, phrases, whole stanzas."
"What are your criteria in making such changes?"
"Artistic ones."
"You have not changed anything ad hoc in the poems concerned, in order, for example to bring out their chief features more prominently?"
"No."
"Has your publisher any influence on the contents of the book? Does he read it before he sends it to press?"
"No, he does not. He sends it to press just as he receives it from me. I alone take responsibility for everything.
He dictated the continuation of the report. The machine clattered, the paper rustled.
—Tomorrow I may be out of it—was the thought that occurred to me. For everything was so clear and obvious. An error, a judicial error. If they are human, I shall be among my books tomorrow.
"Did you extract only these four poems from the books of feuilletons referred to, or others as well?" continued Dr. Frank, and studied his pink finger-nails.
"Quite a number. In fact all the verse writings which they contain."
"Could you mark them for me in the contents?"
I marked them and noticed that they formed a good third of "Drops.""Here is your letter which you wrote when you were arrested. What is there in it? And who is Josefína Procházková?"
"She is my servant, and I asked her to send me my clean linen to the jail."
"Good, I will have it forwarded. Your case is a very simple one, a matter of a few days; we will investigate your statements on Friday or Saturday,—today is Tuesday,—I will have you sent for and we shall proceed to hear the case on its merits. You will then obtain counsel to defend you."
"I shall not have counsel!"
"Why not?"
"There is nothing to defend. The matter is clear. I wrote and printed such and such a thing, here it is, I alone can explain it,—if there is anything punishable in it, punish me."
"But you must have counsel."
"No. You take a man and lock him up,—I did not ask you to do so,—and then you say: have a counsel. I have nothing to hush up, and I permit nobody to twist and turn my verses. What I have written, I have written."
"As you like. I will now read to you the report of today's cross-examination."
"There is no need, I have heard it."
"I will read it through. You will sign."
He read it. I signed.
Then he wrote on a piece of paper how long the cross-examination had lasted, and handed it and me to the defence-corps men.
And again we went through the strange streets. A defence-corps man in front, a defence-corps man behind, one two, one two, I with short civilian steps between them.
It is impossible for them to keep me here longer than the end of the week. Such a paltry matter. After all, we are in the twentieth century. Within a week I shall certainly be among my books—such were my thoughts, and I felt like a cockchafer which is preparing to fly; it raises the covering of its wings, stretches the delicate membranes of its netlike wings, and moves them as if testing them; and its whole body moves as if it were taking breath for a magnificent flight.
Dušek, a sceptical person, damped my ardour: "Don't believe them; you will find that your case won’t be heard on Friday, or Saturday either. They will keep you here on ice like me and all of us."