by Karel Čapek
The heavy marble clock ticked away on the mantelpiece. The emperor is strange, Mlle Claire thought uncertainly.
“Perhaps they only wink at each other behind closed doors,” the emperor said, once again lost in thought. “And perhaps they whisper to each other: What a prankster, that Polio, the way he plays at being emperor; he never bats an eyelash — if it weren’t a game, you’d think he took it seriously!” The emperor gave a snort, as if he were laughing to himself. “Comical, isn’t it, Madame? But I have my eye on them, too — so that the minute they begin to nudge each other, I’ll be the first to burst out laughing. But they never do. Sometimes I have the feeling they’re conspiring to get me to make the first move. You understand? To get me to believe that it isn’t a game — and then they’d sneer: Polio, Polio, we’ve caught you now!” The emperor laughed quietly. “No, no! They won’t catch me! I know what I know — ”
Polio, Mademoiselle Claire thought to herself. When he is tender, I will call him that. Polio. Mon petit Polio.
“I beg your pardon?” the emperor asked sharply.
“Nothing, Sire,” Mademoiselle Claire assured him.
“Indeed. I thought you said something.” The emperor leaned towards the fire. “Curious, I haven’t noticed it with women, but with men it happens often. Deep down inside, they never stop being little boys. That’s why they get worked up over so many things in life, because they’re really only playing. That’s why they do things with such earnestness and weighty concentration, because it’s really just a game — surely that’s so? As if anyone could seriously be an emperor! I know it’s nothing but a lark.”
There was silence. “No, no, no,” he murmured. “Don’t believe that. But sometimes one isn’t certain, you know. Sometimes one is suddenly afraid that — No, I’m still little Polio, and all this is just play-acting and dress-up, isn’t it? But mon Dieu, once the game’s out in the open — ! That’s it precisely, that one can’t be certain — ” The emperor raised his eyes and fixed them on Mademoiselle Claire. “Only with women, Madame, only in love is one certain that — that — that one’s no longer a child; in this, at least, a man knows that he is a man for God’s sake!” The emperor sprang to his feet. “Allons, Madame!”
Suddenly he was very passionate and heedless.
“Ah, Sire,” sighed Mademoiselle Claire, “comme vous êtes grand!”
January 1, 1933
FABLES
Thersites: Hurrah! Hurrah! We Greeks have won!
Neighbor: He’s a traitor and a coward, that Archimedes! The enemy’s attacking our city, and he’s drawing little circles!
Cato the Elder: What’s that? Hunger? Poverty? A poor harvest?
No matter — first Carthage must be destroyed.
Annas: So he wanted to save the world. Well, why not? But he shouldn’t have had that falling-out with the Pharisees.
Nero: Persecution of the Christians is a lie. We’re only rooting out their views.
Attila: We too have come to save the world.
Muslims: Yes, but we are fighting in the name of God.
Contemporary: Who? His name’s Galileo? And he says the Earth revolves around the Sun? Hm. I’ve got more serious concerns.
After St. Bartholomew’s Eve: Whew! . . . But we’ve restored the unity of the nation.
Conquistador: You know, merciful God, that inhumanity is alien to my nature. But of course Aztecs aren’t human.
Pharaoh: The slaughter of baby Hebrew boys? Purely an administrative measure.
Bulletin from Herod’s Headquarters: Our regiments have scored a brilliant victory over the infants of Bethlehem.
Alexander the Great: My goal is achieved. I have made India a part of Macedonia for all time.
Khan: Just wipe them out! I want them to proclaim me emperor.
WOULD-BE TALES
The Libertine
“Excuse me for asking,” said Mr. Smítek, “but what do you married men know about life? You sit at home in your slippers, drink your half-liter of beer, and by nine o’clock it’s bedtime, you pull the comforter up under your chin and drift right off. And you call that life.”
“It’s easy for you to talk, Mr. Smítek,” Mr. Rous objected. “You can live like a prince on your salary. But if you had a wife and a couple of kids — ”
“Sure,” Mr. Smítek grumbled with disgust. “On my salary? How could I live on my salary? I don’t even make enough to tip. Why, there are taverns where you don’t dare give the bus boys less than fifty crowns. And if there’s music? Friend, you lay down a thousand crowns by your plate and nobody even bats an eye.”
“You’re kidding,” said Mr. Kroll. “I’ve never in my life heard a musician who was worth a thousand crowns. You’d have to be a prize sucker to shell out that much for a few bars of fiddle-scraping.”
“Listen,” retorted Mr. Smítek, “you don’t get it. That kind of musician acts as if he’s reading straight from the score, but the whole time he’s keeping an eye on who you’re sitting with, what you’re doing, what you’re talking about, how much is in the pot, and all that. If he jerks like this with his thumb, that means: Pay up, and I’ll keep my mouth shut. That’s the way it is, friend.”
“They’re bastards!” Mr. Kroll exclaimed in astonishment.
“They are. Look, Mr. Rous, you couldn’t squeeze a single crown out of me today; and tonight, word of honor, I’ve got to come up with twelve thousand. And you married men think you have god-knows-what kind of worries if you owe a hundred twenty crowns to the corner grocer.”
“Twelve thousand?” repeated Mr. Rous. “Man, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”
“That’s nothing.” Mr. Smítek yawned voluptuously. “At least a man’s getting some fun out of life. And last night, friends, what a night — What I could tell you! Now that’s life, boys — ”
“But debts,” Mr. Kroll admonished him sternly, “you don’t want to run up debts. The moneylenders will get you in their clutches, and then it’s amen for you. That’s the way it works.”
“Debts,” tossed off the devil-may-care Mr. Smítek, “debts are no problem, not when a man has connections. Just the other night, this banker from Amsterdam told me — those were fabulous women there, by the way; damn, this one mulatto, boys, you wouldn’t believe it — anyway, this banker told me: Buy yourself some Mexican stocks, and before the week’s out you’ll clear eighty dollars American on each of them. A man’s got to have connections, see; and you don’t make connections if you’re fast asleep in bed.”
“And did you buy the stocks?” asked Mr. Rous, intrigued.
“I’ve already spent the money,” Mr. Smítek said somewhat evasively, “a long time ago. One way or another, it all pans out. I love excitement, see? And even if a night like that costs me a few thousand, well, so be it; I’ve seen a bit of life.”
“Certainly according to your view of it,” muttered Mr. Kroll. “Wait and see how your liver and kidneys hold up after a few years.”
“So what?” Mr. Smítek retorted with a sinfully frivolous air. “As long as I’ve lived life to the full.”
That evening Mr Smítek bought himself a piece of pâté and a slice of Edam cheese, after which he went home and brewed some tea. The bit of pâté and the cheese rind he fed to his cat, Lízinka, who then washed her face with her paws and wanted to go out.
“You little scoundrel, you frivolous creature,” Mr. Smítek reproached her, “you want to go out gallivanting again, do you? Well, you just sit nicely right here at home. What’s the matter with you? You’re old enough to have better sense than that, you little slut,” Mr. Smítek said tenderly, and he settled Lízinka on his lap; then he placed his headphones over his ears, switched on his crystal set, and listened to what the evening’s programming had to offer. Someone at the station was reciting poetry; Mr. Smítek tried keeping time to the meter by swinging his leg, but when the poetry didn’t conform to his rhythmic beat, he lost interest and began pulling at Lízinka’s tail. Lízinka gracefully a
bout-faced and lashed out at his hand; then, just to be on the safe side, she vaulted down from his lap and glared at him, eyes shining, from under the bed.
Between the poetry and Lízinka, Mr. Smítek found himself in a fairly bad mood. Still, he read through the part of the newspaper in which the cheese had been wrapped, and by ten o’clock he was in bed. About half-past eleven, Lízinka leaped up onto the bed and nestled herself comfortably against his legs, but Mr. Smítek was already fast asleep.
“Ah, ahahah,” Mr. Smítek let out a lengthy yawn the following day, “damned life! Yes indeed, another incredible night, friends! Look,” he said, holding out his hand, “take a look at that scratch; believe me, that was some girl — Russian or something, name of Lízinka — like a wildcat. The way she carried on — ” Mr. Smítek waved his hand to show the hopelessness of it all. “The tales I could tell! You wimps, how could you possibly know what real life’s like? Eh, who cares if a man ends up dead or in jail: just as long as he experiences life! But you — give me a break from your middle-class morality!”
February 5, 1928
The Lawsuit
— — so I’m doing sixty into this curve and thinking it’s free and clear beyond — I know, it was a dumb thing to do; I just eased up a bit on the gas and went whizzing merrily around the bend. And all at once I see this procession down the road a ways. A funeral procession, for God’s sake. It was heading straight across the road to the gates of a cemetery. So I slam on the brakes, and let me tell you, folks, I skidded like you wouldn’t believe! All I remember is that the four young men carrying the coffin dropped it smack on the ground and scrambled into a ditch. And then thwack! my little car rams into the rear of the coffin, and the coffin flies off the road and into a field.
I climb out of the car and I’m thinking, holy moly, if I’d hit the priest, too, and the rest of the mourners, what a gawdawful mess that would’ve been! But nothing happened; on one side of the road stood the acolyte with a cross, and on the other side the priest and mourners. I’m telling you, they looked like waxworks standing there. Then the priest got over his shock and started to jabber furiously: “You there, you! Have you no respect for the dead?” As for me, I was just glad I hadn’t killed any of the living! And then some of the people recovered and started cussing me out, and some of them scurried over to give a hand to the dear departed in his shattered coffin; pure instinct, I guess. Then suddenly they’re surging back again, shrieking with fright — because there in that stack of lumber is a live man, scrabbling at the boards with his hands and trying to sit up. “What’s this? What’s this?” he’s saying, and he goes on struggling to seat himself upright.
I was over there next to him in a flash. “Grandpa,” I said, “you came within an inch of being buried!” And I help him climb out of the pile of boards. He only blinks and stammers: “What? What? What?” But he couldn’t stand up; I think he had a broken ankle or something from the jolt. But what I really wanted to tell you, after all this, is that I bundled the old man and the priest into my car and took them back to the old man’s house, with the rest of the mourners and the acolyte with the cross following along behind us. And the musicians hired for the funeral, of course, but they didn’t play because they didn’t know if they’d get paid for it. “I’ll pay for the coffin,” I said, “and for a doctor, too; but other than that, you ought to thank me that you didn’t bury a live man.” And I drove off. To tell you the truth, I was glad it was all over and done with and that nothing worse had happened.
Sure, but that’s when it all began. First, the mayor of that village wrote me this polite letter: it seemed that the family of the presumed dead man, Antonín Bartoš by name, a retired railroader, was poverty-stricken; that they had used the last of their hard-earned pennies to give their grandpa a decent burial; and that since, as a consequence of my careless driving the old man had been revived from the dead, they would now have to bury him all over again, which they would be unable to afford due to their impecunious state. And he requested that I therefore pay for the spoiled funeral and also for the priest, the band, the gravedigger, and the wake.
Then came an attorney’s letter on behalf of the old man: Antonín Bartoš, a retired railroad man, desired reimbursement for the ruined shroud; also, a few hundred for fixing his fractured ankle; and five thousand for the pain caused by the injury he had suffered, for which I was to blame. It all seemed a bit silly to me.
Then a new letter: it appeared that the old man had drawn a pension from the railroad; when he went to meet his Maker, they naturally had stopped his pension, and now those bureaucrats didn’t want to start paying it again, in light of the fact that they had verification from the local doctor that he had died. And it appeared that the old man was going to sue me for payment of a lifetime allowance as compensation for his lost pension.
A further demand: evidently the old man, from the time that I’d raised him from the dead, had been confined to bed and needed more nourishing meals cooked for him. And evidently I’d altogether crippled him; evidently the man who’d been raised from the dead was no longer the same man and would be good for nothing from here on out. Evidently all he could say was: “I’ve already kicked the bucket once, and now I have to die a second time! I’m not letting him off the hook: either he pays me or I haul him to the highest court in the land! To harm a poor old man that way! He ought to be punished the same as if he’d killed me!” And so on.
The worst of it is that, at the time, I hadn’t paid up the insurance policy on my car, and so the insurance company is free from any obligation whatsoever. So I don’t know. What do you think? Will I have to pay?
April 5, 1936
The First Guest
If you ask me, what we call the “social season” could use a little more organization. You can rent a dinner jacket or a top hat and tails; you can rent waiters, piano-players, and for that matter you can even rent — how should I put this — those tasty-looking maids, complete with little aprons. You can order up a whole dinner for your guests and have it catered in your home, right down to the last roll, with table settings and everything else you can think of. No question about it, there’s been a lot done to elevate the level of social life, but there are still gaps in the system, sir. I might go so far as to say downright critical gaps.
Say you’re invited to a fancy tea somewhere, or a reception or something of the sort; you ring the doorbell in the best of spirits, and then, upon entering, you suddenly notice there are no hats or coats hanging in the hallway. A terrifying sensation, sir. What you’d really like to do is escape, or at least say you’ve left your hanky at home and you’ll be back in no time. But it can’t be done. And so that it won’t seem as if you’re completely rattled, you say, in a voice full of surprise: “I’m the first to arrive, then?” And the maid in her little white apron bobs a curtsy and titters: “Yes, sir.” And now you’re stuck; before you know it, you’ve been scooped up in the hands of your hosts, and with embarrassment you mumble that perhaps you’ve arrived a bit early, that your watch has been running fast, or whatever. Whereas they’re assuring you almost too eagerly that, on the contrary, they’re absolutely delighted and that somebody has to be first.
It’s true, of course, but still, that doesn’t mean that you have to be that somebody, right? It can’t be helped: the first guest always finds himself feeling rather foolish and awkward, as if he considered the invitation some incredibly undue honor, or as if he were trying desperately to somehow worm his way into society — clearly an undignified position in which to find yourself. And, as luck would have it, an agonizing amount of time goes by before the second guest shows up — at which point all the other guests, those bastards, come surging through the door in a flood. But in the meantime you’re shuffling from one foot to another in front of your hosts, and you don’t know what to say (because they’re preoccupied with waiting for the others), and you wish to heaven you were somewhere else. In fact, you’re mortified; and from that day on you never regain
your shattered self-respect.
Now consider how many of these teas, dinners, and get-togethers there are during the social season, and consider that, at every single one of them there’s some poor devil who, through no fault of his own, is fated to play the tragic role of first guest. It’s impossible, sir, to count how many people number among a given season’s wounded. So it’s occurred to me that, somehow or other, somebody’s got to put a stop to it. What I have in mind is starting up a professional first-guest rental service. All you’d have to do is make a phone call, and fifteen minutes before the party begins I’d send my man to the scene of the crime to serve as first guest; he’d get twenty crowns per party, plus food. Obviously, he’d have to have suitable clothes, a good education, and highly specialized training. For twenty crowns you could get a student or a genteel, soft-spoken pensioner; an athlete would cost more, of course — say, fifty crowns; a distinguished foreigner or a Russian prince would be worth sixty at least. My professional first guest would arrive on the spot before any other first guest might appear; he’d stand around with the hosts until the next guest showed up, after which he could eat a few canapés and discreetly vanish. Believe me, whoever gets the job would profit in other ways, too, striking up acquaintances with the best people; and you know how it goes when people have rubbed shoulders with somebody socially — In short, the business has its own social advantages, sir, and it could be set up without a whole lot of investment . . . all you’d need is a small office and a telephone . . .