Page:The Czechoslovak Review, vol3, 1919.djvu/447

 “It’s all the same,” remarked his friend who was only half listening. “Whether French or English, the’re excellent anyway. If I simply had to raise my objection, I should point out one single fault—”

“A fault?” exclaimed the autor eagerly, assuming a defensive attitude. “And what might that be?”

“They have too many pockets.”

The poet drew back from his defensive position, his eyes rested with horror upon his friend, his face took on an expression of bitter disappointment, as he stammered: “What are you talking about?”

“Why, about your new clothes, of course. What else should I be talking about?”

“A funny mistake,” explained the poet with a forced smile.

“I thought you were talking about the poems I’ve just published.”

“What, you’ve published some poems? That’s the first I’ve heard about it. Of course, you must keep a copy for me with your autograph.”

A little while later he stopped another friend with the question: “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“To the bookseller’s.”

“What for?”

“Fancy asking that! As if you could have the slightest doubt about it.”

“Well, come with me. You shall get it from me for nothing.”

“Repeat those heavenly words!” exclaimed his friend joyfully, taking the poet by the arm. “I was just going to spend the remains of my cash on it. I tell you, I’m enraptured, crazy, off my head.”

Our hero observed rather suspiciously this outburst of enthusiasm on the part of his friend, and interrupted it with the question: “And which of them do you like the best?”

“The smallest one with the Alpine rose in her hat. My word, what eyes, what a figure, what—”

The poet let go of his enthusiastic friend’s arm and said in an icy tone:

“We must both be making some mistake. I thought you were going to the bookseller’s for a volume of my poems.”

“Your poems? I never dreamt of such a thing. I was hurrying to get a ticket for today’s performance of the Tyrolese girl singers.”

“I can’t oblige you with that.”

“Oh, hang you and your poems. Now I’ve got to go all that way back to the bookseller’s.”

Our hero entered a café. He knew that there, behind a certain pillar in a dim recess, a set of young men regularly threshed out the events of the day. No actress had so blameless a reputation, no chorus-girl had wings of such transparent gauze, that this private tribunal could not discover in them some blemish to form the butt of their malicious sneers. The most skilful imitation tresses in the Row, the slightest discord in the orchestra, the remotest new tavern, the most stupid ball-room joke,—nothing, absolutely nothing escaped their attention, or was spared by their unmerciful criticism. “They can’t have missed seeing my big volume of poems. I’ll listen to their opinion,—it may be abusive and unfair, but still it’s an opinion.”

He sat down behind the pillar and listened. He did not have to wait long.

“No, nothing fresh at all,” began one. “Things are horribly dull.”

“But what do you think of this collection?” said another.

“I can’t understand how anyone can waste his time over such nonsense! Besides, there’s nothing new or special about it. This childishness only shows how lacking in originality they are nowadays. Nothing but hackneyed decoration. They’ve all got the same old stars, lilies, eagles, goddesses, banners and suchlike trash.”

(“I’m sure they’re talking about my poems,” sighed our hero to himself.)

“Oh, come, here’s a dragon as well!”

(“He’s alluding to my fable of the dragon,” thought the poet to himself.)

“That’s really Japanese style.”

“Still, it doesn’t seem as if it were original.”

“I shouldn’t think so. I’ll bet a good third of this collection are sheer imitations.”

They passed on to another topic.

The poet stood up, and as he went by the plain-spoken young gentlemen, he swept them with a glance of the deepest contempt. As he did so, he observed one of them holding an open collection—of foreign postage stamps.

In a certain well-to-do family our poet used to give piano lessons. The young lady who was his pupil,—but no; I will not dishonour her angelic beauty with my prosaic pen; you must read the first of my hero’s poems where he describes her with the aid of gold and snow, sunset and dew, where he implants upon her gleaming tresses a crown formed from the most beauteous diamonds of his poetry.

The father of this adorable being was a prominent nationalist, a citizen held in high esteem by all, a member of numerous patriotic institutions and associations, a champion of popular education, whose portrait with the motto: “The nation’s shield and sword is its character and its language!” adorned the showcases of the booksellers. There could be no doubt that he bought at least the better works of the native literature, and that amongst these, our hero’s poems had found their way into the hands of the young lady of his affections. Perhaps the reading of their introductory poem had already acquainted her with the ardent avowal of love which he had there set forth.

With a beating heart he entered the room.