Page:The Czechoslovak Review, vol4, 1920.pdf/268

hopes grew like wisps of fresh grass underneath a heavy boulder.

But all this took place quietly and in secret. Outwardly, it was burdensome to breathe, the atmosphere was full of horrible uncertainty. If anyone counted upon the enforced outbreak of a revolt, after which it would have been possible to have recourse to still more violent measures, those who so counted, suffered a disappointment. The nation held its peace.

No persecution, since that following the battle of the White Mountain, was more cruel than this military one carried out in the kingdom of Bohemia in the years 1915—1916; both of them are worthy of each other, and in fact our persecution is a new epitome of all persecutions to which we have been subjected during the last 300 years.

As long as the Russians remained in Galicia and Count Thun was acting as governor in Prague, the persecution did not venture to make any steady advance, as it were. Now and then it seized hold of some old huxter-woman, of whom it had been ascertained that she had told people how close the Russians already were, and that they would be “here” within a fortnight,—she had been told so by some tramp or other, the old woman received, I believe, 14 months. Or, an official person, a constable or a police-agent was walking along the street and in the second story of a house heard somebody scraping away at his violin practice,—practice indeed? That is the Russian hymn,—and nothing was of any avail, the pupil-teacher could explain this and that, and call upon the whole of heaven as a witness, the oficial person said Russian hymn,—and the pupil-teacher received 8 months. But the persecution was still, so to speak, only dallying,—as if a hungry tiger were catching flies. It gave a grab with its paw only occasionally if some large object came into its vicinity; the news could then be read in the papers that this or that well-known person “had moved” to Vienna. But an oppressive uncertainty had already setled upon the land of Bohemia.

After the break-through at Gorlice, all was changed. They began to coax Prince Thun into believing that he was seriously ill; his sight was weak, they said, and was being impaired by his official duties at so responsible a spot. The Prince denied this energetically but vainly. He did actually fall ill and retired.

On May 21st, 1915, Dr. Kramář was arrested. He “moved” to Vienna.

A day or so after that I was travelling to Prague for the Whitsuntide holidays. In the train I met Deputy Choc. We still knew nothing about it. We talked of this and that, until suddenly it occurred to Choc that Hofrat So-and-so was travelling in the same carriage with us, and that he would go to him and discover the latest news. He soon came back; he had promised to say nothing, but he would tell me,—they had arrested Kramář. Said I, that is impossible.—Yes, the Hofrat declares it is so.—We were silent for a while. Then I pointed out to him that this would be a Harakiri of Austrian policy in Bohemia; that everyone knew how consistent an advocate of that policy Dr. Kramář had been in the last fifteen years; that no Viennese Government could be so short-sighted as to do anything of the kind; that Dr. Kramář was persona gratissima in all Viennese circles,—Choc only shrugged his shoulders; the Hofrat had declared it was so.

“Well then, we shall all have our turn,” I remarked to Choc.

“We shall, never mind.”

In the meanwhile, the Hofrat’s secret was known to the whole of Prague. And in a considerably enlarged edition. Altogether, nowhere had so many legends come into existence as at Prague in those two years. On the very same evening I heard it definitely asserted that the whole of the National Council had been removed in chains to Vienna, that old Dr. Mattuš had protested, but in vain, that Prince Thun had been arrested, that the Czech University had been suspended for some protest or other,—the people were not satisfied with reality and so they invented fables.

The arrest of Dr. Kramář, however, was the only certainty which I took back with me to Vienna.

Now, the nature of man is such that he does not fathom the ways and methods of Fate, he does not know that one of its apparent oversights may in time produce the most desirable results, he ceases to believe in it and wants to correct its mistakes. So it was that immediately upon my return I proceeded to a certain highly placed personage to explain to him what I had explained in the train to Choc, and asked him to intervene. The highly placed personage was able to do so, that much I knew.

I arrived. His excellency was engaged, he was not there. His secretary received me. He shook hands, smiled, asked me how I was,—I plunged in medias res. Such and such a thing had hapupened. An error, a mistake, a blunder, a misfortune. The secretary at once assumed an appearance of very serious gloom, and his voice changed from that of an amiable friend and assumed a dry official tone. “There you are, as long as Thun was governor, he kept Kramář safe, and Kramář, supposing himself God’s equal, thought that nothing could ever happen to him, that nobody would dare to interfere with him. But Thun went, the correspondence of Kramář was seized, and the result is that he is locked up in the military prison.”