The Czechoslovak Review/Volume 4/Number 8/Jail

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 shalln’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” (German; nonsense), said the Captain interferring.

Dr. Preminger suddenly thrust his pile away and stretched himself in his chair. “What horrible heap 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, Tzarism 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.

“Ležė 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 associaiton 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 its 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 colors 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 colors 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 Tzar’s manifesto?”

“No.”

“We are ready. Tomorrow you will kindly appear at Hernalser Guertel, 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 Guertel. 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 me for 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 prove 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 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 signaure 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 Messers. 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 friends of my acquaintances, an old table calendar, unused picture postcards—all “zur weiteren Amtsbehandlung” (for further official action).

Mr. Smutný, the district Governor of Kralové Hradec (Koeniggraetz), instructed the municipal authorities of suburban Prague that the street which had been named after me should be called differently, and this was done. They began to confiscate my books, and they confiscated them so thoroughly that of all my literary works only a small fragment remained. What there was of it in readers and primers for schools had to be ​left out, and from what was allowed to remain in consideration of the subject matter, or as an example of such and such a poetical style—what it was I know not—my name had to be removed. I read several of these decrees issued “at the instructions of the Ministry of Education.” Students were not allowed to recite my poems, to borrow my books for home reading, to select my work as a subject for critical analysis; teachers were strictly ordered to avoid referring to my name as much as possible, and if it were absolutely necessary to mention it, they were told not to omit adding “a poet detrimental (oh, holy bureaucracy! literally “detrimental”) to the Austrian Empire and hence also to the Czech nation.” (A similar ban was placed upon three other names besides my own—Tolstoy, Herben and de Amicis, only for them the ban was not so severe—their articles might remain, they might be spoken about, but the names had to be removed). And finally, the things I printed were to be subjected to the strictest control how far this was to go may be best seen from the fragment of a conversation which I had during that period with a certain worthy official authority:

He: “All that you write has a double meaning. If your name is under the sentence, “the sun is rising,” the Czech nation rubs its hands and exults because,—but you know—”

I: “And when I write: ‘The sun is setting’ and put my name to it, then you will say: “Aha paragraph 65a, offending against the interests of public order,’ and you’ll lock me up, won’t you?”

He: “You see how well we understand each other.”

In short, the sword of Damocles hung by a slender thread above my freedom. On no day was I certain whether in the evening I should be able to lie down in my bed, no night, whether I should finish sleeping in my bed. If I came home and saw a motor-car standing in front of the house, my heart gave a thump, and I said to myself: already. But this state of uncertainty by no means interferred with the straight course of my existence. I slept excellently. I ate, drank smoked with appetite, and I followed the course of events with interest as they were reported to me in the morning and evening by the papers. And every day I saw the sun rise and the sun set, and took a sincere pleasure in both.

One day,—it was in July about six weeks after Mr. Preminger’s visit to me.—I proceeded home and, lo and behold, Mr. David Kolbe stood waiting in front of the house.

“For me?”

For you. Permit me to come up.”

I permitted. And suddenly, without any ado there was another gentleman whom Mr. Kolbe introduced to me as his colleague. Good, good. Mr. Kolbe took out a paper,—a warrant for arrest? Oh no, only that they had to carry out a domiciliary search.

What? Again? Why, I had the pleasure only a few weeks ago.—

“Orders”—Mr. Kolbe shrugged his shoulders.

They searched. Mr. Kolbe ascertained that nothing had been moved from the time when he had assisted the Lieutenants here. The books, the bundles,—he himself had placed them thus, he himself had tied them up with string,—those were his knots.—

I expressed my regret; nothing had been added, letters received since then I had burnt. Nor had anything been removed, I had now no reason to hide anything.

Mr. Kolbe saw things. Everything was in its place as before. The dust lying upon them was proof that nothing had been changed.

We lit our cigars. Outside it had grown dark and a thunderstorm had come on.

“Where did you learn Czech?” I asked Mr. Kolbe.

“Why, I am from Bohemia. I did my military service at Hradec Králové."

“Hradec Králové,—a nice town. In the 18th regiment?”

“Yes, the 18th. My colleague understands Czech, too.”

The colleague nodded and asked whether Mr. Kolbe would need him or whether he was to go home.

“You can go. There is nothing here.” The colleague took his leave.

Mr. Kolbe told me about the domiciliary searches. In the case of authors it is an extremely simple matter; such gentlemen keep all their things together so as to have their eyes on them. But when it comes to professional thieves, to experienced robbers,—the floors had to be taken up, the furniture pulled to pieces, the chimney has to be inspected.

The thunderstorm was over. In the west a radiant topaz light was beginning to shine.

“Still, I must take something from this search to the chief commisary,” and Mr. Kolbe looked around him.

“Give him this letter from Switzerland. It has passed the censor,—some unknown Russian asks me to intervene on behalf of his friend who is badly off in an internment camp. And here are a few picture postcards.”

“Good, thank you. And you will come with me, won’t you?”

“Pepi,” I called into the kitchen, “give me quickly my box with the washing, a toothbrush—”

“But what for, what for?” expostulated Mr. Kolbe. “You will be coming back in a short while. It’s only a brief cross-examination. Pepička, don’t bring anything, but get supper ready for your master,” he shouted into the kitchen.

“What on earth can be the matter now?”

Mr. Kolbe smiled mysteriously. “Well, it’s that article in the French paper, “L’independence.”—I don’t know how it’s pronounced—”

“An article? I? Impossible.”

​“But your name is there.”

“Has the chief commissary got it?”

“Yes that’s what this search is for and why you have been summoned there.” ************* The chief commissary asked me about my name.

“What is this J. S.?”

“You see, it’s a little souvenir of the Roman Catholic Church. It gave me two baptismal names, and I left it, I returned the names to it and kept only these two letters.”

“Well, all right,” he remarked.

“Have you written anything recently for a paper in Geneva?”

“No.”

“Anything for the Hus number?”

“No.”

“What about this?” And he laid before me a copy of a newspaper of about the same size as Sládek’s old “Lumír”; above as the title “L’indépendance Tchéque”, beneath this a bad reproduction of Brožík’s well-known picture of Hus before the Council of Constance, beneath the picture about ten lines of letter press and beneath the letter press,—my full name. It occurred to me that perhaps it was a quotation from something, I read it through,—no, not a word was mine, horrible journalistic bombast.

“Sir” I said, “I can only tell you what you will hear from every criminal at the first moment when he is caught. I didn’t do it,—only I shall not be able to tell you anything else even later on. If I had written and signed that, I would not deny it.”

“But there isn’t a single compromising word in it. Nothing about the State, the dynasty, the army,—in fact no reference to Austria at all; why should not you, as a Czech, have written a few lines about your great compatriot on such an occasion as the 500th anniversary of his death?” he observed in a friendly tone.

“Nothing compromising, it’s true, but it is nonsense, nonsense both in the wording and the contents. And if I had written it, there would certainly be something compromising in it.”

“Wait,” he interrupted me, “I myself had doubts about your authorship,—I have read various things from your pen, and this certainly bears no resemblance to you. But perhaps you authorised somebody?”

“Ah, you really want to know whether I’m in touch with my fellow-countrymen in Switzerland?”

“And you are not?”

“No.”

“Then how do you explain your signature?”

“The carelessness of somebody who signed my name and did not think of the consequences. The curse of popularity possessed by an author’s name.”

“In America they print heaps of your poems,—and those are poems which are rather more compromising.”

“They obviously select them from my former books which are now prohibited in Austria.”

“Without your permission?”

“Nobody has asked me.”

“Are you in written communication with America?”

“I was. Before the war. Not now.”

“And you declare that you did not write these few lines about Hus?”

“I did not write them.”

“We will draw up a report. But I have already told you my impression,—that is not your prose. By the way, have you written about Hus anywhere else?”

“I was asked to, but I refused. I am in favor of celebrating Hus at a more peaceful time.”

“Which papers asked you for such a work?”

I mentioned them, he noted the titles. Then we drew up a report. To the effect that I emphatically denied the authorship of this trifle, that I was not in touch with Switzerland, that I was in favor of postponing the Hus celebration to peaceful times, that I was not in communication with America,—and all this I confirmed with my own signature.

We had finished. I was just in the doorway. Did I know Dr. Herben,—he asked me just as I was going. Of course I did. And I turned back and sat down again. Dr. Herben,—a quiet, peaceful man. In the editorial office he busied himself with literary matters, wrote obituaries, moderate social controversies; recently, however he had been forced by weakness of sight to give up all further work entirely.

“That tallied,” he said. And did I know Bezruč?

Of course I did, an excellent poet.

Political?

More social and personal lyrics. He has pleasant memories of his youth in Silesia.

And who is he supposed to be?

There are legends about it. Some say that he is a simple miner, others that he is an engineer in the foundries.

But it is supposed to be certain that he is a postal official at Brno.

Yes, they say that too.

And what did I think of the arrest of Dr. Kramář?

I told him. That his imprisonment was a dreadful mistake. That it was felt by the whole nation. That there is no policy more brainless than the one which manufactures martyrs for a discontented nation. That now we were asked to forget century-old traditions. Traditions,—not our own—but Austrian, purely Austrian. That the lands of the Bohemian crown were the scene of the wars waged by Frederick the Great and of the year 1866. That by a more moderate policy in the Balkans, Austria might have become a rallying point for all the nations and states there, that the Austrian Emperor could then have boldly laid hands upon the old crown of the Eastern ​Roman Empire,—on Constantinople,—on the route to Asia Minor, to Bagdad—

It was getting on for 10 o’clock when I parted from the student of my lecture.

A warm summer night, a sky full of stars.

So not today. When? When? I had an infallible foreboding that this sword of Damocles must sooner or later descend.

Days elapsed, weeks elapsed.

And in one of those weeks it happened that the post became silent as far as I was concerned. No papers arrived, letters did not come, nothing. Then again a day came and the precious post put in an appearance with a bundle of all the overdue papers and a heap of letters. The address-slips on the newspapers had been torn through, the envelopes of the letters had been cut open on one side and gummed down again. Aha, even an Empire can contrive to be inquisitive, and at such a serious time about the private affairs of a respectable rate-payer. Family letters, those dealing with literary affairs, from friends, picture postcards, bills, cards from the front, parcels of provisions,-all this was of interest to the State, all this it opened and examined.

Good, the signs are increasing, I thought to myself.

I have already mentioned the confiscations of my books. They began on St. Václav’s day, when newspapers published a report that my volume of verses entitled “Drops” had been confiscated. This collection had appeared at the beginning of the year, and had been received by the critics, as far as I had seen their comments either with benevolent praise or with a profound lack of comprehension,—as the majority of my books. I had long reflected and conjectured what the State Officials could have found compromising in it, I reflected and conjectured in vain, finally I said to myself this is not the first instance, it will not be the last.

And it was not, as I have already said.

For December 5th I received a summons to attend the military divisional Court. I was to appear as a witness in the case of Dr. Kramář and associates, charged with infringing such and such paragraphs. In the morning at 9 o’clock at the Hernalser Guertel. Signed Mottl, Colonel.

In the meanwhile a whole series of persons, well-known in our public life, changed their residences. They moved to the Hradchin, then to Vienna, and romantic rumors were woven about the reasons for their journeys. A misunderstood button, information lodged with the police, the thanks of its President expressed to the leaders of the Labor Party, a man could not hear enough of it, and when he had made sure that he had heard aright, he could not and would not helieve it. Nearly the whole editing staff of the suspended “Čas” was already residing in Vienna, and with them Dr. Soukup as well.

He, however, was soon set at liberty, as nothing incriminating could be associated with him.

I have a keen recollection of December 5th. Such days as these engrave ineradicable traces upon the memory.

It was not an agreeable day. Dull, overcast, chilly and dismal. Before 9 o’clock, as I had been summoned, I entered the building of the Military Court. I had been there six months previously to see Dr. Preminger. A porter was there who saluted,—curious; today I took his salute as a matter of course, as an insignificant phenomenom, in another six months it will emerge as something particularly remarkable to me, for I shall see that this building has yet other entrances which are without porters who salute.

In the witnesses’ room there were already a few gentlemen. Others arrived,—some I knew, with others I became acquainted. We were all assembled on behalf of Dr. Kramář and associates. Chief director Dr. Matuš, Dean Burian, Švehla, Prokupek, Mayor Groš, Dr. Soukup,—we were all waiting.

A Seargeant-Major arrived, read out our names and conducted us into the hall. On a platform in a semi-circle were the judges,—uniform beside uniform, medals on their chests, crosses,—twenty or thirty persons, I do not know exactly,—several silver-braided collars,—and the whole thing a blurred picture of combed heads, moustaches, eyes, ears, noses,—and nothing by which the glance was forcibly arrested. We received our admonition as witnesses and returned to the room.

From the windows there was a view below of small courtyards and a large one. Above them arose several stories with barred windows.—the jail. Everything was faded and drab,—the courtyards, the color of the walls, the dusty windows, the air in the courtyard and the sky above it all. Drab, the most aristocratic of colors, can sometimes be very repulsive.

Dr. Mattuš was the first of us to be called. A quarter of an hour, half an hour, a whole hour,—still he did not return.

“They do it thoroughly” observed Švehla when kept walking to and fro in the room.

Mayor Groš was talking to Prokůpek about fool questions in Prague. Dean Burian was reviving memories with Dr. Soukup of an encounter in connection with some school,—the Dean was once Minister for Education in the Central Committee of the Kingdom of Bohemia. In the little courtyard three Russian officers were walking about,—an old man with the badges a staff officer, the two others being young subalterns. Two men of the defence-corps were guarding them with fixed bayonets. The area of the yard as about two hundred square metres, but it seemed that this trifle was no hindrance to the Russians. They moved along slowly, stopped gesticulated, perhaps their conversation had removed them to some distant district of their native land,—perhaps they were criticising the ​conditions in their jail,—perhaps they were telling each other anecdotes,—who knows?

Dr. Mattuš came in, and Mayor Groš was called. The aged leader of the Old Czechs testified that they “do it very thoroughly” indeed, they want to know everything, they inquire about everything from several quarters.

A door rattled below, a military jailer opened the entry to the large yard, and a crowd of people scrambled out. They looked up at us,—some greeted, obviously our fellow-countrymen. Men old and young, in clothing which varied from the workmen’s dress to a lounge suit, healthy and sick, as shown by their gait and the color of their faces, swarmed in fours like a large dark reptile along the elipse of the yard.

“The thick-set man in the cap is Markov,—condemned to death” explained Dr. Soukup to me, “the old man beside him is Kurylewicz, also condemned to death, the one who is just greeting us is Giunio.”

All were talking, a muffled buzzing penetrated to the room where we were.

“They walk for half an hour like that in the morning, half an hour in the afternoon,” remarked Dr. Soukup. We all stood at the windows and looked out. “The jail was built for two hundred people, now there are more than seven hundred in it. They are let out for exercise by floors, and when they are relieved, it is the turn of those who are locked up in the tower.”

“Kramář and Rašín are in the tower?” asked somebody.

“Yes, here on the left.”

We looked out. In a semi-circle squeezed into the yard, arose a grey building with small barred windows. Angel’s Castle,—I was reminded of Rome.

The prisoners were guarded by defence-corps men with bayonets. The half hour was up; there was a word of command, the door opened, the black reptile crawled into the dark entrance of the building and was lost within it. The yard was empty.

Mayor Groš returned. Flushed, in high spirits, he was obviously glad that his period of torture was over.

Dean Burian went to relate what he knew and what he had seen.

It began to be tiresome. Udržal who was present at the proceedings in the body of the court, looked in for a moment and gave us an account of his impressions.

There was a buzzing in the ears, as always when a man listens to time as it elapses.

Dean Burian returned after a while. Finished? No. It’s the interval. “The presiding judge is certainly on the side of Kramář; whenever I said anything favorable to Kramář, his eyes twinkled at me.

The interval was over, the Dean was again called into the court-room. Dr. Rašín was indifferent, as if he had been a bored spectator of the trial. Dr. Kramář,—pangs of sorrow clutched at my heart, was sunken, his face was an ashen color, it was years since I had seen him and now like this. Editor Červinka seemed to be in a whimsical mood, and Zamazal, by means of whom the military tribunal, with remarkable sagacity, had increased the group of traitors to a quartette, was as mournful as the overcast day outside.

Dr. Peutelschmidt, the leading counsel for the prosecution, had seemingly acquired military smartness to perfection, although his head with its almost white hair, recalled the poet Robert Hamerling. In civil life he was, I understood, a police magistrate, also very smart and stern,—here his manners, yes, they reminded me of the army; that is how an old gaunt Sergeant Major browbeats a poor raw recruit for bad marching and faulty movements. Or, if you like, another comparison. He watched the defendants in the dock like a hawk, which has somewhere come upon four captured doves, and woe betide them if they advance a single word to defend themselves. These men were condemned in advance, ruined in advance. Why these ceremonies, cross-examinations, and all this martyrdom?

The members of the court were obviously tired, the presiding judge blinked his eyes and his face twitched involuntarily like that of a rabbit, this is what Dean Burian took to be the circumstance in favor of Dr. Kramář!—Dr. Preminger in full-dress uniform was sitting on the left-hand, alert, lithe, ready to leap.

Name,—when born,—where,—relations with the defendant.

A witness at his wedding,—a personal friend.

“Then were you his political opponent for a number of years?”

“Yes, for fifteen years. Up to the present day.”

“How so, up to the present day?” he went for me.

“I see Dr. Kramář in the dock, when I might assume that I should see him decorated with all Austrian orders. This politician—”

I did not finish.

Swords rattled, the whole of the court was astir, Dr. Peutelschmidt reddened and shouted: “I did not ask you about that.”

“You did ask.”

“It is not your business to decide about that” he said, looking daggers at me, “answer only what I ask you.”

And he asked why we had fallen out. I explained the story of the attack on the Czech evangelicals, but it did not seem to interest him very much.

“Were you a friend of Masaryk?”

“Yes and a contributor to his papers Čas and Naše Doba.”

He showed me the copy of “L’indépendance” with Brožík’s picture of Hus, and remarked “So you didn’t write that.”

Immediately afterwards he drew from an extensive file, my file, a letter dated October 17th, ​1899, and introduced it with these preliminary remarks: “We now come to an interesting document which has to be read, and I call upon the Court to decide whether the public is to be excluded during this reading.”

I wanted to protest against the reading,―in vain.

“Surely you wrote that?” asked the leading counsel sharply.

“Yes I did, but these matters are now out of date, the letter was written in exasperation at the suspended language ordinances.”

“The letter will be read.”

Swords rattled, the court rose and proceeded to deliberate.

They called for the public to leave the court.

Dr. Peutelschmidt read the letter. The presiding judge blinked his eyes, the other members of the court cast withering glances at me.

It was the letter which I wrote to Dr. Kramář in the Crimea after the suspension of the language ordinances. A letter in which there are about seventy cases of lése majesté. A letter about Franz Joseph.

“How do you reconcile it with your finer feelings, Dr. Kramář, that you selected the writer of such a letter to be a witness at your wedding?” he said swooping down on the defendant.

Dr. Kramář explained. The witness, he said, is a hot-headed poet, a pugnacious character, who has no consideration for any authority in the world, not for the nation either as a whole or individually, not for Bishops, Cardinals, not for the Pope, not for Kings and Emperors; not even his closest friends are safe from his pen, he himself could tell how he had been irritated not only fifteen years ago, but even before he fell out with the witness; he quoted an epigram which aroused suppressed mirth, but the leading counsel swooped down on him afresh: “and you preserved such a letter, Dr. Kramar?”

“It is the manuscript of a poet” replied the defendant simply.

There followed a few questions and answers about the “Volná Myšlenka” and the tendencies of this movement, even now I do not know why and how it was that this “Volná Myšlenka” was mixed up in all my cross axaminations, and in the evidence I gave at this trial; perhaps for economic reasons so as to have certain supplies prepared for all eventualities.

Thereupon we took our leave of the court very coldly,—they did not even thank me for my evidence.

Dr. Soukup was waiting and he accompanied me. He told me the story about the mysterious button, the unknown man and the suspicious woman,—he threatened ruthless action for the future. I could not understand what he was driving at, but suddenly it dawned on me; perhaps he supposed that I was in touch with people abroad and that I could warn them not to get Dr. Soukup into difficulties,—well, he was mistaken. So I assured him that I was not in touch with Switzerland. Whereupon we parted. *** A few weeks ago, long after this affair and after the affair which I shall yet describe in this book, at a time when the Imperial Amnesty severed all my connections with the military courts, I went to Dr. Preminger to demand back the trunk which I had lent him when he searched my house in June 1915.

‘Do you know that on December 7th, when you were giving evidence before the court and made a remark about the Austrian orders, all the officers were in favor of your immediate arrest?” Preminger infomer me.

“I do not know. And who prevented it?”

“I did.”

“You? Only so that you could lock me up afterwards?”

“I did not lock you up. As long as your ease was in my hands, you remained at liberty. Altogether I take very careful counsel before arresting anyone. It was the same in the case of Dr. Kramář. A domiciliary search,—I am in favor of that immediately. But to arrest a man,—no, then I reflect for a long time. I repeat, that as long as you were in my hands, you were free. When it was taken over by somebody else—”

“Doctor, for heaven’s sake don’t let it get known in Bohemia that you have any opinion of me or I shall be badly off.”

“How is that?”

“Did you not say that Dr. Tobolka was a good politician?”

“Yes, I praised him. Und was ist denn mit dem dr. Tobolka?”

“Ein toter Hund ist er. Haben Sie ubrigens auch den Dr. Schmeral gelobt?”

“Dr. Schmeral ist ein hervorragender Politiker. Was ist mit ihm?”

“Ein toter Hund ist er.”

I should add that Toter Hund (dead dog) is a Viennese expression, in which the word Toter (dead) has the full accent, and Hund (dog) is by the way. So the expression is neither a term of abuse nor of criticism.

*) “And what about Dr. Tobolka.

“He’s a dead dog. By the way, did you praise Dr. Schmeral too?”

“Dr. Schmeral is a prominent politician. What about him?”

“He’s a dead dog.”