Jaroslav Vrchlický

“ Bohdan.—Just as if not enough children died young. That idea itself is thoroughly humane.
Cilka.—And genial!
Karel.—Humane! Genial! What else will I hear? Whenever anyone wants to move every-day people he always starts to play with their sentiments. He would be a decidedly bad preacher who would not talk of widows and orphans and stepmothers whenever he would make his congregation weep. Of course, everybody knows that all orphans are little angels and all stepmothers infuriated witches, and now add to that, that the public is as inane as ever. ”

“ Who can tell me whether after a great artist one who is greater will not come?—Nobody. What measurement or rule should one use if he really does come? If you will heap on your contemporaries the greatest praise and bury them in panegyrics and eulogies what shall our posterity do? That's the misfortune of our modern romancers, who now go a begging for a morsel of recognition. You have given to your so-called classics extravagant praise and now our young world is unappreciated.
Bohdan.—Just like Ladislav Bystrina. Now you have contradicted yourself.
Karel.—What! Is Bystrina a beginner? ”

“ Was it young Cæsar, perhaps? He is so free with his tongue—but, then, you know when we drink we loosen up a bit. Ha! Gaius?
Catullus.—Neither did Cæsar offend me. They whose minds are equal to mine, I respect, and the others I regard not.
Metellus.—Well, was it Gellius?
Catullus (to himself) .—That scoundrel. (Loudly.) Let us forget it, consul. We cannot change the world.
Metellus.—Then it could have only been Clodia. I always tell her to be careful of her sayings, lest she offend the best of my friends. How unfortunate! How stupid! ”

“ Bohdan.—And who says that it must be healthy?
Karel.—Drop those theories, young fellow, and let us get to that which your Ladislav Bystrina drew. Cilka's long face tells me that she agrees with you entirely, and that you both suffer from that cult and cant of unappreciated and unrecognized genius. As I said, youth and women. Well, what did that gentleman picture? On a throne made of skulls and bones sits Death. It has a scepter and a crown and toward it move in a long procession crowds of miserable mortals. First come the children—poor things. ”

“ Bohdan.—You take trifles too seriously. Say with Hamlet, 'Words, words, words!' They are but the waste of daily conversation and are soon lost and forgotten. In actual life we do not judge by words but by action, and his actions are good, gentle and loyal.
Cilka (excited) .—My husband does not even know what a good advocate he has in you.
Bohdan.—The greatest misfortune in a home is exaggerated and eccentric sensitiveness, be it the husband's or the wife's. Karel is trying to kill it with his irony and his jests. You gladly fall a victim to it. ”

“ Clodia.—To-day, you are a sober and a bitter sophist, poet Catullus. Love means a different thing to you than in former years. You have forgotten the happy days when you and I secretly met in the house of Manlius. ”

“ Bohdan.—I brought it home from the club last night. Everybody was talking about it. He is going in a couple of days and he is right. No one is a prophet in his own country.
Cilka.—Oh, stop, Bohdan; you know that Karel cherishes an old prejudice against Bystrina, an old dislike.
Karel.—Dislike, prejudice! Mere phrases again. Of course, I did not forget that there was a time when Mr. Bystrina (bursts into laughter) could have been dangerous—but to-day that gentleman is wholly indifferent to me. Let him draw a good picture and I will not deny him my recognition. ”

“ Karel.—But, do explain this, will you?
Cilka.—Oh, give me time. Bohdan is writing a novel. In that novel a wife is supposed to desert her husband for the sake of an artist whom she secretly loves. They appoint a rendezvous, but at the final moment, the wife knows herself to be a mother—she loses her energy and lets the lover go without her. ”

“ Cilka.—And suppose his wife were of an artistic temperament, one who understood him and could sympathize with him.
Bohdan.—So much worse. They would kill each other. In every artist there is a certain amount of illness, but if his wife is a wise woman she will know how to manage and tune it to their every-day life. But it could not be possible with Bystrina. His illness is the source of his own inspiration and some day it will be his death. It is better for him that he remained single and you can thank God that eight years ago you chose Karel even if he is bitter and sarcastic. ”

“ Karel—Well, did some feeling for him remain in the inner nook of your heart? (Suddenly serious.) Women, women—If I did not know you so well, Cilka, I should think over what you have said, but I will leave undisturbed. Good-bye, I have staid too long, anyhow. (About to go.) Good-bye, Bohdan.
Bohdan.—Say whatever you please, but you wrong Bystrina. You always judge a work of art by your physical and mental disposition. You are proud of being a normal, healthy man, and you transpose this to every work of art. You think that because you have a good digestion—everybody must have one. ”

“ Cilka.—And if the wife has an artistic temperament?
Bohdan.—In that case, her disposition should be strong, otherwise her sensitiveness will be in her husband's way. By this I do not mean that she ought not partake in her husband's works, on the contrary, I have always been of the opinion that a woman's influence is always beneficial in a work of Art, but I think he ought to find in her a perfect sympathizer; she ought to encourage and reward his efforts; she ought to be his first public and her praise his first laurel. For negations and criticism there is always time. ”

“ Your husband is not an artist—such theories do not apply to you. This would probably be true in the married life of, say, Mr. Bystrina—but, he is an old bachelor and does not need our philosophies. So, good-bye, Cilka. (About to go.)
Cilka.—One more word, brother. Do you think that Bystrina's marriage could never be a happy one?
Bohdan.—Bystrina? Never. Married life requires a peaceful disposition. Bystrina is a wild phantast, his fits and whims would kill his wife a year after their wedding. ”

“ Bohdan.—As, for instance, you.
Karel.—Well, perhaps he spoiled me too. Mr. Bystrina was a pale, tall young fellow, with a little black moustache. He always wore a bloody Socialist cravat tied à-la-Byron. He was an artist—talked little. And gentlemen with such qualities are very dangerous for young ladies. You can ask your sister about that. There was a time when things looked very much against me, but the common-sense journalist, a man of balanced, positive views, was victorious over the soft, mild romanticist.
Cilka (flares up) .—Karel, stop talking about the past. ”

“ Karel.—Ten years from to-day we will speak about that again (going to desk) . Excuse me now, I must finish this introductory article.
Cilka.—And what are you writing now, brother?
Bohdan.—Nothing, dear Cilka, and it is the best. To-day an author ought to be sent to St. Helena. The whole atmosphere is deluged with mottoes and motives. Idealism, naturalism, humanism, realism and God only knows how many more isms. One wants to suit them all and suits none. For instance, I am now collecting human documents, because to-day without them there is no truth in a work of art. That is naturalism. ”

“ Why should the hackneyed life change its course for my sake? Not even we poets are indispensable to this world.
Metellus.—Truly spoken, Gaius Valerius. You were always clever. Well, in the house things remain unchanged. Cicero talks political gossip between his nods over the wine cups; Cæsar teases and plays with my wife’s slaves, and Gellius——
Catullus.—I care nothing about Gellius. Tell me about your wife, about Clodia.
Metellus.—My wife entertains Gellius. (Observing that Catullus is displeased.) Why are you displeased? ”

“ Valenta.—That’s just why I took the liberty to-day, Gnädige Frau, as long as we are, as it were, still neighbors.——
Theresa.—Neighbors?
Valenta.—Certainly (pointing to the windows) , Gnädige Frau does not know me, but I know her very well.
Theresa (not noticing his motion) .—No, I do not know you.
Valenta.—And I know the doctor, very well, too, and also that young gentleman who always sits over the law books—there. When a man sees the same faces every day for fifteen years, he knows them like his own family.
Theresa (disturbed) .—You watched our faces daily for fifteen years. ”

“ Valenta (coming nearer to her) .—Well, Gnädige Frau, you put in a good word for me with the doctor—and you will see how discreet I can be—an old veteran like myself—believe me, I can’t even remember such little trifles—but you reminded me of it with your excitement. Who’d think of it—What’s happened, has happened, now we must be good friends and help each other.
Theresa.—God, this is dreadful. We must help each other—this man has the audacity to tell me this so quietly because he knows of my sins. You are an evil and dangerous fellow. ”

“ How do we mortals know that a work, let it be as great and beautiful as possible, is worthy of a hyperbole?—Do we know that such work is the last link in the chain of human evolution, that after it a work which is greater and more beautiful would not come? ”

“ Acme took advantage of the preoccupied mind of the rustic and slipped away from him. He raised a hue and cry, a mob gathered and they pursued the beautiful slave. She ran into the house of the poet, Gaius Valerius Catullus. The slaves of Catulllus woke up and prevented Persistrates from entering. The combat brought the poet to the door, and he, finding the girl exceedingly pretty, and upon ascertaining the name of her new master, offers her his protection. He orders his slaves to eject Persistrates, who swears that Metellus shall avenge the wrong. ”

“ Valenta.—You have saved a destitute man, Gnädige Frau. (He takes her hand and wants to kiss it; she quickly withdraws it and points to the door.)
Theresa.—Go!—and quickly——
(Valenta exit.)
Theresa (sighs) . That’s over, God! Now for a new, clean life. (Calls.) Mary! Is there no one here? (Calls.) Mary! (Runs from one door to another excitedly.) Always alone—always. (Presses bell-button nervously, and continuously.) God! (She clenches her hands and brings one to her lips.)
Mary.—You rang, Gnädige Frau?
Theresa.—Where have you been all this time? There’s no one in the whole house. ”

“ The van and moving men are out there.
(Theresa goes to the window and looks.)
Mary.—But Lord, look, what is that—two men are fighting down there.
Theresa.—God Almighty, that’s the same man!
Mary.—And the other fellow does not want to let him go. Look at the crowd—how they run! Too bad we can’t hear what they have to say up here. Here’s the doctor, Gnädige Frau. He is taking that man’s part—that old man’s—he talks to the other fellow—they are quiet now—they are coming up here. (Turning to Theresa.) Is that the man who frightened you so badly, Gnädige Frau? ”

“ Acme admits that she is betrothed to Septimius Severus, a friend of Catullus. Just then Furinus enters hastily and announces the arrival of Clodia. Acme resumes her former place of hiding. Clodia (surnamed also Lesbia) enters and demands the slave. Catullus refuses. Clodia names Catullus, so that the listening Acme learns for the first time that he is the very poet whose verses she had been reciting. Clodia complains bitterly of the infidelity to her of Catullus. He answers by reminding her of her numerous lovers. He names Gellius, Gellius Peplecola, his uncle, Cælius, Rufus, Sestus Clodius.) ”

“ No, sir! I drink my wine unmixed—ha—ha. That was excellent wit, that was, Gaius Valerius. (He laughs and drinks; wants to rise, but overcome by wine, sinks back into the seat.) I must tell this comparison at home—they’ll have a good laugh about it. But here I talk and talk and forget the purpose of my call.
Catullus.—I am anxious to hear it.
Metellus.—This morning I bought a little present for Clodia, a young slave from the Syrian dealer, Persistrates. I wanted to surprise her.
Catullus (to himself) .— And enjoy yourself. ”

“ She replies that she uses Gellius to forget her sorrow, her love for Catullus. She demands and implores, wants to kill the Greek slave. He reminds her of her husband and her immorality. She admits she is but the victim of circumstances. When very young, she married Metellus, and he left her for a campaign through the morasses of Gaul. She is insistent. He moves away from her—she follows—)
Catullus.—What do you want? All is at an end between us.
Clodia (after him) .—Nay nay. The poem of our love is but beginning now. ”

“ Every man has his enemies, and I am the victim of mine. We had a new superintendent and he believed the report that I drugged and mistreated the patients there. So, yesterday, he discharged me. After fifteen years, Gnädige, it is hard, and so in my distress, I wondered if the doctor and you could not assist me with employment of some sort. A person who lives across the way for fifteen years and notices everything that goes on in the opposite apartment, and sees day after day who.comes in and who goes out, he feels that they are sort of old acquaintances, Gnädige Frau, begging your pardon. ”

“ His is a treatment of a sympathetic onlooker, and while each type is provokingly ludicrous, the peculiarities and helplessness awakens our sympathy and love. His ‘Little Shop that was Eaten Up’ (three volumes) is a masterpiece. ”