Page:The Czechoslovak Review, vol4, 1920.pdf/379
what kind of a spring it was, I do not know. For the sword of Damocles now descended upon the head of my freedom.
A few years ago,—heavens, how pluperfect everything is today,—I wrote a little skit in three chapters, entitled “Clericalism Dead.” For reasons given below, it is impossible to explain its contents I can only hint at them. A certain caste of people, Archbishops, Bishops, Prelates, Abbots, Deans and Vicars assemble and say to themselves: we are unmarried, we have an abundance of the possessions of this world,—good, we will do something for our country and nation. And they did so; they took over the National Schools, founded a second University, gave their country-houses to disabled artists and writers,—well it was a skit. And because it was a skit, nobody here had noticed it, but in Zagreb a certain progressive paper took it quite seriously, translated it, printed it and exclaimed: Look here, just see what kind of clergy, what kind of bishops the Czechs have,—and suddenly the satire had its comic side. But that only by the way. So that hoax was called “Clericalism Dead” and the late “Volná Myšlenka” issued it as a pamphlet. It was a green, thin little book. Somewhere about the middle of April 1915 our beloved censorship also had a look at this booklet and confiscated it, which did not surprise me in the least,—not that I was convinced of the pernicious character of its contents, but because I had experiences, both my own and other people’s, in these matters.
Then on April 25th the clerical paper Reichspost published an item of local news about the completed confiscation of this booklet, and very bitterly expressed its astonishment that I was still allowed to write, and to write things which had to be confiscated, surely it was well known that I was undergoing a cross-examination.
To this item of local news our papers bashfully replied that the worthy Reichspost had been wrongly informed, that the pamplet “Clericalism Dead” had appeared several years previously, but what is the good of speaking to them when they are Germans and do not understand you?
Some days later this paper again expressed its astonishment. Masaryk, the traitor, it said, was outside the country, but here was a man walking about in liberty in Vienna—yes, and writing too, as if there were no control,—a man who aimed at proceeding from the destruction of authors to the destruction of thrones, and so on.
I watched everything like the spectator of a bad play in the theatre,—with my mind elsewhere, with the fatalism of a Turk. I did not move a finger, I did not speak or write a single word, I gave no explanation, I did not defend myself. The performance was wearisome, there was no chance of getting away, so I waited for the end.
And I met with it on May 7th.
At home everything had been prepared. In an envelope the telegrams to my family and friends which Josefinka was to send off in case of my non-arrival, in my soul there was calm, in my table-drawer the manuscripts of new books arranged for the publisher,—to be prepared is everything. And I was.
So early one day I went to my office.
It was a beautiful golden day, the streets swarmed with people, everybody was hurrying in pursuit of some aim office machines; for years and years we have known their faces, their gait, their movements; if one of them disappears, nobody misses him, the others will press on in the same way tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, a year hence, five years hence.
I sat down at my desk and began to work.
At ten o’clock I was called on the telephone by Dr. Sieghart, the managing secretary. I was to take my hat and coat.
Now “it” is here, flashed through my mind.
I went up. The secretary’s face was very solemn, and softly and slowly he began to say that “leider muss ich Ihnen.”[1]
“Arrested?” I said jerkily.
“Yes. A detective is waiting in the next room.”
“Good, let us go.”
I was told that I had about an hour if I wanted to write home.
Unnecessary. I had already seen to that. But I should like to write a few lines tto Josefinka asking her to bring me a handbag with clean linen.
They said I could. Here was paper, a pen, an envelope.
I wrote. Clean linen, soap, a toothbrush,—and I where was I to have it sent me?
Perhaps to the police, they thought. However, we would ask the detective.
The detective came in. It was neither Mr. Kolbe nor the other taciturn person,—it was quite a strange detective. Yes, to the police, he thought.
“Have you a warrant for the arrest?” I asked.
He had. Signed by the military commander, and I was arrested under paragraph 65a.
“Doctor, have you a manual of law here? Please find out for me what that is.”
The Doctor turned over the leaves, 65a,—offending against the interests of public order,—the penalty from two years upwards.
“You must obtain a counsel, perhaps Dr. Pressburger” remarked the secretary, “he is rather ex‘pensive.”
“A counsel? What for? Not a bit of it.”
“But allow me to—”
“My dear doctor, you do not understand my situation. A poet cannot be concerned about a trial, a poet has nothing to hush up, a poet must be his own counsel.”
“Well, think the matter over, a military court is no joke.”
“We shall see. And now, my guardian angel,” I said turning to the detective, “let us go.”
And we went to the police headquarters. I looked at the May sunshine, which covered the streets, the houses, the trees trembling in the air, and thought and thought. What have they against
- ↑ I’m sorry to have to tell you.