The Jail. Experiences in 1916. Josef Svatopluk Machar

of uncertainty such as was possessed at that time by every man whose language was Czech, had not left me since the arrest of Dr. Kramář. Perhaps it was some accusation,—at that time they were showering down like drops of rain in spring,—perhaps it was my mere existence, perhaps it was as Dr. Herben put it: some General or other is sitting down looking at a map, you pass by him and sneeze, the General turns round and you are immediately guilty of the crime of interfering with military operations,—well, it was possible that l had sneezed in this way,—who knows? We shall see.

      I entered the house, the little fellow from the street behind me.

      In the room there were three officers, a captain, two lieutenants and a little volunteer officer, obviously a Jew, with a foxy look. They clicked their heels and introduced themselves. "Lieutenant Dr. Preminger" said a man of medium size with scanty fair hair and pale blue eyes. So that is he.

      "What do you want, gentlemen?"

      "Could we see the letters that you have from Dr. Kramář? And could we have a general look around among your things? Here is the written order. "And Preminger handed me a paper.

      A stamp, a signature, a hectographed text, only the name and address written in. "Certainly."

      The man from the street stood in the anteroom. "Nobody is allowed to leave the house", Dr. Preminger instructed him.

      Out of a box I took a bundle of letters which Dr. Kramář had written to me from the Crimea sixteen or seventeen years ago, ​and I gave them to Preminger. "You will allow me, gentlemen, to have my lunch, I suppose?"

      Preminger bowed. "In the meanwhile we will have a look at the books, everything is of interest to us, both written and printed matter." They sat down and removed books from the shelves; I had my lunch in the next room. I was calm and said to myself: whatever it may be, I must show no weakness. I ate slowly, from outside could be heard the measured snorting of the motor-car, in the next room my guests were engaged in conversation. "I tell you that the Roumanians will go against us, I was ten years in a Roumanian regiment and I know them“, expounded the Captain.

      "I don't believe it", declared Preminger and closed one of my books noisily.

      I was finished and went in to them.

      "I will take these letters with me", remarked Preminger and he thrust some letters of Kramář into his breast-pocket. "And now we will see whether anything else will suit us. First of all show us all your correspondence."

      "War-time? Or all of it?"

      "The whole lot."

      I began with the dead. Winter—

      "Who was he?"

      "An author, and excellent man. Further: Čech—"

      "Who was he?"

      "A great poet. A field-marshal was ordered to his funeral. Vrchlický—"

      "Ah, Vrhliky,—I have heard of him. Is he dead too?"

      "Slavíček, a painter —"

      "Is he dead too?"

      "He shot himself"—Šimáček,

      Neruda

      ,

      Sládek

      —

      ​"Dead? This is a regular graveyard. We want live ones", remarked Preminger.

      "Here. Leger."

"Why Leger? Why not Ležé?"^[1]

      "His name is Leger and he lives at Kolín. A poet."

      Preminger looked suspiciously at the letters.

      "At Kolín? Not at Paris?"

      "Ah, you mean Louis Leger? No, I have nothing from him."

      He laid aside our Leger disappointedly. "And you have no letters at all from abroad?"

      "Yes. Here is a letter from Denis."

      "Oh, that's something", and he took the letter out of my hand.

      "It’s no good to you. The letter is already several years old. Denis thanks me in it for the dedication of my book The Apostles."

      "We shall see", and Denis' letter joined those of Kramář. "Nothing else from abroad?"

      "Nothing else."

      "Now for home affairs."

      I opened drawers, undid bundles,—hundreds and hundreds of letters tumbled out, congratulations, literary matters, bills, telegrams, personal communications, cuttings from papers, rough drafts of poems—all in Czech, and these piles were shared out among the three officers, of whom only the Captain understood Czech. They looked at the signatures and dates, and asked questions.

      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 shan'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",^[2] said the Captain interfering.

      Dr. Preminger suddenly thrust his pile away and stretched himself in his chair. What a fearful lot 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, Tsarism 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.

      "Ležé 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 association are two different things."

      "You