The Jail/Chapter XVII

by Josef Svatopluk Machar

XVII

 

Monday evening. Monday has always been a repulsive day to me, and it seemed as if it became still more repulsive to me in jail.

And it was as if the whole of number 60 agreed with this view of mine; in the morning they got up grumpy and cursing,—only Messrs. Fels and Goldenstein announced that they had at last been able to sleep. The artillery-man did not even want to dress. Hedrich yawned till his eyes flowed with tears, Budi frowned,—in fact nowhere was there a pleasant glance and a contented word. Our arrival of yesterday, Mr. Simon Lamm, again donned his waterproof overcoat, put on his hat and waited. He did not even want to go out for exercise so as not to miss the messenger of freedom. He then went after all when the sergeant had assured him that he would be called even from the yard; but during exercise he kept turning his head to the door where the defence-corps man stood with a bayonet.

When we returned, he took Hedrich aside,—our barber's good-natured blue eyes had probably inspired Mr. Lamm with confidence—and he asked him who I was. For I had a special bed, a blue blanket, and the inmates of the room held me in some esteem. The worthy Hedrich who was fond of hoaxing people,—but he did it in such a good-natured and pleasant manner that nobody could be angry with him,—informed him in a whisper that I was a worse than a two-fold murderer, whereupon Mr. Lamm nodded and declared that he had immediately noticed me, and was sure that I must be something of the sort. He then went on waiting quietly.

A repulsive Monday. We were not even inclined for our usual "scorching".

Papa Declich brought in a bucket of water and began to clean out. Budi climbed up on to the straw mattresses and began to snore. Old Nicolodi, wrapped up in his plaid, sat on his box and stared at the floor. Tironi had made friends with Dr. Smrecsanyi and they were talking together. The artillery-man was looking for somebody who would play wolves and sheep with him—at that moment Papritz burst into the room.

Papritz with a rattling sword and his overcoat buttoned up,—a successful replica of the German monarch,—even with his upturned moustache. He stood there and looked about him,—number 60 grew silent, otherwise nothing happened. "Habt Acht" he belowed angrily, "who is in charge of this room?"

The sergeant pushed platoon-leader Kretzer forward, and he stepped up and reported himself. Papritz looked him up and down twice from head to foot with a withering glance, then burst forth: "Don't you know the proper thing to do? When I enter the room you've got to bring them to attention, come to attention yourself and report yourself to me. And the whole room has got to stand at attention, nobody's allowed to move,—you miserable lot,—I'll give you what for, I'll teach you,—what do you mean by standing there like that, you blockhead you", be snapped at Mr. Fröhlich, "I'll have you put in solitary confinement for twenty-four hours,—and look at this, there's one, of them lying fast asleep,—come down, come down"—(Budi jumped down and opened his sleepy eyes in terror)—"this is a fine collection, look at this, a volunteer in the bargain,—and you take off your hat" he snarled at Lamm.

From the corridor could be heard the voice of Kranz, the president of the orderlies, singing:

In fernem Afrika
da wächst der Paprika.—

Papritz turned pale and red, but did not burst out. He threatened and yelled for a little longer, then he departed.

"He's still soaked from yesterday", observed Hedrich. Mr. Lamm put his straw hat on afresh.

"I shan't report myself to him" the sergeant began to declare.

"It's a piece of impudence" said Mr. Fröhlich reminiscently. "Somebody ought to have pointed out to him that we're brought to attention only before officers, and that he as an N. C. O. in charge of accounts has no right to wear an officer's sword."

"And besides, he's got no right to carry out inspections and to make such threats" added the sergeant. And Mr. Fels felt sorry for Lamm. He took him by the arm and led him up to my bed.

"Mr. M., yesterday you set us up and encouraged us so much, look after Mr. Lamm here, tell him something."

"Take off your hat, remove your overcoat, hang it up yonder and try to make yourself at home,—you'll be here several months."

Mr. Lamm looked at me horrified, he took off his overcoat rather waveringly, removed his hat and sat down.

"That's right", remarked Mr. Fels. "And what about our marching?"

There was nothing else for it, we started off.

We walked silently. Warder Sponner came in, called out several names, Tironi and Dr. Smrecsanyi amongst them: "Take your things and come up to the first floor." They had been transferred.

They took their leave and departed.

We went on walking.

Several people expressed aloud their satisfaction at the departure of Tironi. A hideous man with that cough of his,—the sergeant lost his taste for food when the fellow coughed.

When we had finished our "scorching", we sat down on a mattress and looked on while the second batch marched.

Then I began to crave for something to read. One volume of Gerstäcker and something by Ganghofer were lying about on the table. I thought to myself "Das ist kein Kaffeehaus vor mir" (as the Viennese Jews say). "Budi, have you got anything to read?"

Budi gave me a few stories by Rodenbach and Napoleon III's "Life of Julius Caesar". I started off with the stories. The author of "Bruges la morte" disappointed me. Anybody who has become accustomed to read the honest and profound Russians, rarely finds satisfaction in foreign literatures. Everything there is so corpse-like, affected, machine-made and untrue to life,—it would really be a pity to waste time on it, if there were not so much to spare. If somebody had taken it into his head to sweep the floor, I would rather have watched the movements of the broom and the whirling of the dust,—there was more life in that than in these bloodless people about whom I read. But Voronin was gone and the broom was deserted.

After the midday meal, of which I again touched nothing, I was summoned to the superintendent in the Tigergasse. A defence-corps man in front of me, a defence-corps man behind me,—the streets and the people as strange as if they were from another world,—I see how accustomed to the jail I had become. With composure I imagined that this would be the second cross-examination which Dr. Frank had promised me for the previous Friday or Saturday, but I was not pleased,—I did not believe that it would mean a turning-point in my destiny.

Frank, well-groomed, clean-shaven as on the first occasion and equally restrained in manner, informed me that I had a visitor.

Dr. T., a German, whom I had known for quite a number of years. The first man who had visited me in the Rudolfinerhaus after my operation, the first one who was visiting me in jail.

"My dear M" he began, and his voice trembled.

"Doctor, no sentimentality, I have been imprisoned because of four stupid poems."

"My dear sir", intervened Dr. Frank.

"Oh, I see. It's not allowed. Very well. As you see, I am in good health, in jail of course, but for eight hours a day I have the most glorious freedom."

"How is that? Do you go for a walk?" asked Dr. T. in astonishment, and even Frank looked at me inqusitively.

"No. I sleep for eight hours and you know that dreams are an important part of my life,—and I dream about liberty. Night after night I have dreams about freedom, and if this estimable official here (I turned to Frank) had the least idea of it, he would station a defence-corps man by my bed to wake me up every ten minutes: Hi, hi, are you dreaming about freedom? That is forbidden, you are in jail."

Dr. Frank gave a forced smile.

"And in other respects?"

"In other respects I live amid dirt, and contemplate our beloved Austria from below, which is also very interesting."

"Do you need anything?"

"The State gives me everything that I cannot need,—thank you."

"Gentlemen", and Dr. Frank drew out his watch, "I am sorry to tell you that I have a great deal of work."

"Doctor, we will not hinder this estimable official in his activity. He has in truth a great deal of important work to do."

My friend had to wait a moment until I had gone—obviously in order that we might not communicate with each other outside,—the devil trust such a poet!

The defence-corps men had me back and handed me over to the superintendent. When I was back again in number 60, my eyes hurt me from the unaccustomed light in the street.

And again the minutes and hours dragged on, each one had leaden soles, none was in haste.

I began to read Julius Caesar and remembered his commentaries on the Gallic war. Gallia omnis divisa est in partes tres. Napoleon held on to them. What a difference too, between them and the "Germania" of Tacitus. Caesar is like an unconcerned and self-assured mathematician, his reader has a feeling of security and believes, but not in the case of Tacitus. And see the elegant style of which this Napoleon III. was a master. And the knowledge he had. An Emperor.

The room resounded with footsteps, otherwise everybody was still in the grip of Monday's repulsive humour. It was quiet. If somebody made a joke, it was unbecoming and out of place,—nobody even smiled.

At the afternoon exercise I walked with the engineer. He wished that he had a few pounds of dynamite.

After exercise, Mr. Fels again sat down beside me. Did I really think that they, the censorists, would be granted written communication with their families, and would they be allowed to receive visitors. Otherwise, his mind was already at rest. And when we left here, would I do him the pleasure of dining with him and his family. I had really saved his life, he said, by what I had told him the day before.

Then he called Mr. Lamm and told him that if he felt anxious and unhappy he should apply to me for comfort. I was wiser than any rabbi.

"I know, and a very dangerous man" declared Mr. Lamm,—it was clear that he had not properly understood.

I read a little longer. And when it began to get dark, I was glad that this day was coming to an end.

Such a Monday had in truth no other value except that it brought us a little nearer,—to what? To what, actually? To freedom? To life? Or perhaps merely to the end of it?