Page:The Jail, Experiences in 1916.pdf/108

 rebellious,—that is our work. In former times poets created gods for mankind—Homer, the poets of the Old Testament, poets of the New Testament. Now they create men. As long as they created god, it was well with them,—seven cities disputed the honour of Homer's birth-place, nature submitted to them. Orpheus tamed wild animals. Arion was saved by the dolphin from drowning. lbycus was avenged by the cranes. Death did not venture to lay hand on Aeschylus, and an eagle had to drop a tortoise on his skull in order that his earthly fate might be fulfilled. Yes, that is how it was once, and afterwards, later, poets were the great judges,—Dante, Shakespeare, they judged Emperors, Kings, Popes,—all mankind, but from the time when poets moulded the souls of their nations, the mighty of this world have locked them up. Gods,—yes, men,—no, and I can fall asleep peacefully,—he who is my man, is firm and strong,—yes, I can fall asleep, bang,—bang,—trrrrr,—crash, crash, crash.—

 

On Sunday we were not awakened by the bell until half-past five, the only thing being that scarcely anyone had any benefit from this half-hour. As usual I opened my eyes before five,—behold: the artillery-man on the table was already smoking. Mr. Fels was conversing with Mr. Goldenstein, Mr. Fröhlich was gazing disconsolately at the ceiling, old Nicolodi was sitting and sighing, Dr. Smrecsanyi was pinching his foot,—perhaps only Budi and Hedrich, the young who never got enough sleep, and Papa Declich, a sturdy peasant nature, who was glad to indulge in an extra few minutes even if the bell had already sounded, were the only ones who were sleeping the sleep of the just.