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 with coarse jokes,—a new Iliad in which the simple heroes were silent and fell, and only types like Thersites made speeches at the back.

Everybody was tired of the war,—rulers, nations, diplomats, soldiers, but the war went on.

And the spring came with its fresh greenery, skylarks, chafers, blossoms, the first swallows appeared, flitted above the streets and darted into the air with artistic curves, but what else happened and 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 l was convinced of the pernicious character of