Josef Svatopluk Machar

“ You cannot die, you have not the strength, and you have no cause to die!”
And the second: “Down, down!” but it whispered it so sadly, and in so trembling a voice, that it was painful to bear it.
Cold perspiration in small pearls dropped down her brow. Her knees grew weak from fear. Terror clutched her white throat still tighter. Her glassy eyes bulged out as she looked down into the ghastly green,—and the two halves of her soul continued struggling with each other. . . .
Lucy suddenly motioned with her hand, and faintly whispered: “Perhaps to-morrow. . . .” ”

“ Before, so ’twill be after Thee. So too
The fowls flying the air and every beast
Inhabiting the earth has lived and lives
According to one law, that is my law.
The strong forever shall absorb the weak.
’Tis so with man. And this whole wide, wide world
Is my kingdom. Because I am the Life.
I rule. I sit enthroned in hearts, in souls.
No one shall ever banish me, nor Thou,
Nor Thy Father, Thy kingdom of God is
A dream. That dream I leave to man fore’er!
Behold, how calmly Rome’s centurion
Speaks with the scribe in white beneath Thy cross!
’Twill ever be thus. ”

“ While the winds that drive the restless roaming clouds,
Ruffle the silvery waves of ripened olives
Upon the mountain tops of distant Cedron.
Toward the city’s gates are noisily returning
The multitudes who saw the gruesome hanging,
Satisfied now, the lifeless forms ceased swaying.
A lonely soldier stands beneath each cross,
The first, a Roman, of his Rome is thinking,
Of Roman women, theatres and baths,
Longingly thinking of the crowded Forum,
The while he casts his brutal coarse damnation
Upon the stench-filled city, dormant at his feet,
And on the race of filthy Jews therein. ”

“ To make man’s life an enviable lot.
For health and happiness are like two fiery steeds,
By prudence held in check and safely guided
To one’s set goals . . . .
⁠The gift of prudence
Faithfully was given both to Augustus
And to Pomponius. (That I dare link my name
Boldly to Caesar’s is not a mere bravado
Or empty flattery. The noble one himself
From time to time discusses my life’s journey
And thoughtfully he speaks of by-gone days,
And praises me . . . contending oft and on
That my deep friendship was one among the jewels
Of his own life.) ”

“ The pulse of life is beating strong.
Eight o’clock. The bells are tolling over Prague. The proud harmonious tones fall upon this scene of animation. A sacred moment! Over this extinct sultry day, over this sea of red roofs, over this varied mass of spires, over this grey that is flooding the tangle of sweltering streets,—over all that is there in motion, over its empty pleasure, its sorrow, pride, misery, passion, hypocrisy love, over this weak, puny, ephemeral and human “ego,” the hollow brass sends forth into the vault of heaven its Ave Maria! ”

“ The city in triumph, they strewed palms 'neath
Thy colt, cried praises unto Thee, and then
Proclaimed Thee David's son. For they thought 'mongst
Themselves the kingdom of God was at hand,
The cherished time of milk and honey was
Now come. And then Thou didst refuse again.
The disappointed throngs next in anger
Cried, "Crucify Him!" into Pilate's ears.
And now they come and wag their heads and say:
Here the king of the Jews is crucified.
Let Him save Himself. He would be the Son
Of God. But God seems to forsake Him now. ”

“ Nobody in the other world has ever detected signs of it within me, nobody shall ever do so here among the filthy dregs of human society. Here a man practices mimicry, it is true, he adapts himself to his new surroundings, but he cannot drag forth his soul as the rest do, and expose it quivering to the gaze of beholders. No word of grief must pass the lips, the breast must heave no sigh, and not the least stirring of sorrow must be revealed in the glance. Everything must remain within the soul, and there let it crystallize ”

“ These tiresome walks, these tiresome conversations would cease. My conscience would be relieved of a task for which, properly speaking, I had no strength. I reviewed those days, and it appeared to me that I was clad in the array, not of the hero of a novel, but of a bourgeois moralist. I turned red with anger at the thought of how ridiculous I must be to this chit of a girl with such a past, with such experience and such yearnings in her soul. . .
I slunk round the kiosk only once again. I saw that Vlasta had again dyed her hair an infamously light colour. ”

“ Thy youthful life would not have thus been spent
In shameful torture. Happily couldst Thou
Have lived and brought millions Thy happiness.
But what bring’st Thou? Death and discord Thou spreadst.
Thou fallest first. And for Thy name, Thy dreams,
Hundreds upon hundreds shall spill their blood
On crosses and arenas and scaffolds.
And when ’twill seem Thy dream has been fulfilled,
Then in Thy name, and only in Thy name,
The carnage shall go on. ”

“ The burgomistress referred several times to Lucy, as if by chance, but Jiří answered her questions evasively.
He was tired of his relations to Lucy. In the depth of his soul he felt that, though he had acted foolishly, he had done the proper thing. Lucy was now living in retirement, unknown to any one; she was the whole life of his aunt, to whom he owed so much, and that was well. ’Tis true, the enchantment which had once blinded his eye had paled: he looked at her now with an entirely different eye,—with the eye of a man that surveys a maiden’s attractive body. ”

“ A human being, a human being.
But Madam M. L. sat down without a word, as if she did not know whether to believe it, and when she began to believe it, as if she did not know whether it was all a dream or not. And in her face she had, strangely enough, an expression of painful surprise. (Later on she admitted to me that she had heard only the tone of Frank's voice but not his words, and from the tone of it she had felt that my situation had become more acute) . ”

“ Lucy began to talk: she spoke of her childhood, and of the country, where she had lived,—happy recollections bubbled up unbidden in her soul.
Jiří was silent. Only, from time to time, he complained of the heat, the gnats, and the small flies. He took off his hat, wiped his forehead, yawned, and continued smoking. His soul was like a house from which people had just moved: no object, no picture, no voices, no motion,—only a wearisome calm. . . . ”