“Have you proof of that?”
“Yes, a letter of hers dating from March 1848: ‘How human misery upsets me! Oh, Lotty, you have no idea of the poverty suffered by humble people. Believe me when I say that a wealthy man’s dog would not eat what the poor have to eat every day. How much money is wasted, how many fortunes are lost to gambling, or spent on clothes and other trifles, while all the time there are people who are dying of hunger! What justice, what Christian love! When I see all of this, I feel like walking among the poor to show them where to search for justice.’ That is literally what she says.”
“And what was Němcová’s realtionship then with the Catholic church, one of the mainstays of our empire?”
“Our writer published a few markedly anticlerical articles. On May 24, 1849, she wrote in Prague’s Afternoon Post, about an event in the district of Klatovy. The title of the article was ‘A Little Story about the Religious Beliefs of Jesuits.’ In it, she detailed how the Jesuits visited some dying people with a miraculous cross on which the crucified figure shook his head and moved his eyes. When they had left, a citizen of Klatovy got hold of the cross and saw that it was put together with wire: when one wire end was pulled, the crucified figure moved his head and eyes.”
“Thank you, Fräulein Zaleski. I am most pleased with your work today. Write a report about these educated ladies who are friends of Němcová: what they do and what they are like, what their relationship is with the writer and vice versa. We will see each other again shortly, Fräulein.”
She went out onto the street and had the sensation again that the wind was lifting her and taking her over the city, over the river. “Dear friend,” echoed his voice in her ears. She was flying fast, gaining height. Today she was heading for the steeple of Saint Vito’s Cathedral. “More humility . . . ” Everything was whirling around in her brain. She looked down and in front of the cathedral she saw a beggar. She descended in order to approach him with a few coins in her hand, all that she had. But that’s not a beggar! she realized. The old sage was half-kneeling, hands joined under the wide sleeves of the worn kimono he wore. He looked at her as she came zigzagging down toward him, but he did not see her.
Like the last time, she reached out to the old man, to take hold of him and bring him flying into the air, up to the furthest heights of happiness. He looked beyond her, through her, to where he had been before he was born and to where he would return after death.
Seeing him so concentrated, she left him there and took flight once more. Her hair was loose and she wanted to share the happiness she felt with the castles of clouds and the networks of sunbeams, with each and every ribbon of smoke from the chimneys.
Then she flew in the direction of her room. She sat at her table and started to write a folktale. The title she chose was: “The Willow Tree and the Maiden.”
A dangerous woman, whichever way you look at her. She thinks logically, like a man. Everything she does has something to do with forwarding the cause of women’s emancipation. She has reached the conclusion that customs and social prejudices should not stand in the way of women and defends their equality vis-àvis men. She is convinced of it, and as if that weren’t bad enough, she even puts it in writing. She must be destroyed. Not in a violent or underhanded way. In that case, the Czechs would have a martyr, like their beloved Havlíček, whom we have imprisoned far from Prague and who continues his attacks against us even so. Fräulein Zaleski is taking her task as an informer to heart. I do believe that the envy and jealousy that she feels toward this other woman are greater by far than any admiration she might feel. She leaves no stone unturned in search of material that can do her harm, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she weren’t preparing some kind of surprise for us, some revelation that we have not asked her for, simply out of spite. I would swear that she is probing into the most private corners of Němcová’s life in order to sabotage her. I imagine that Zaleski wouldn’t balk at the need to invent something, or at the pleasure of inventing it, even if it comes to her in a dream; she, all of whose amorous advances must surely have been spurned.
For years we have been humiliating Němcová’s husband and we will go on doing so. Mrs. Němcová, we will make a beggar of you. We will let you die of hunger. Alone, friendless, you will be an example so that people will fear all suspects under police surveillance, as if they had the plague.
After a few hours of writing, she looked out of the window and saw the day’s first light. The most appropriate way of celebrating a victory is by organizing a funeral service, she thought again. She crossed out the title “The Willow Tree and the Maiden” and in its place wrote “Victoria.” Yes, it has be Victoria, Victory, she told herself, and went on writing:
A man and his wife had been living together for quite a time already, when one night, Vítek woke up. A full moon was lighting up the fields as if it were day. With indescribable pleasure he watched his wife as she slept peacefully, and bent forward gently to kiss the black curls that twisted their way down the length of her body, over the pillow and the white sheets. He looked at the sleeper’s beautiful face, when suddenly startled, he moved closer: it seemed to him that this beautiful woman was no longer breathing. He placed a hand over her heart: it wasn’t beating. Her hand was cold, his beloved lay lifeless, like a flower fallen from an apple tree. Desperate, Vítek jumped out of bed and called his mother-in-law for help. “Do not fret, my son,” she answered him, “because there can be no good reason for your fright.”
Together they entered the bedroom. Lo and behold, Victoria had revived and, surprised by the commotion, asked what the matter was. Full of joy, Vítek took her in his arms and told her about his shock. “Listen, Vítek, and I’ll tell you about my dreams: on clear moonlit nights I dream I hear the tempting voice of the willow tree calling me. I open the window, the willow tree bends in my direction, and I cannot help but throw myself into its arms. But then it is no longer just a willow, but a great lady, a noble lady who leads me through her palace toward a resplendent golden throne. As far as the eye can see, there stretches a magnificent, perfumed garden. Everything is alive, blooming. The trees, the flowers, bend toward each other like lovers, telling each other secret legends in silvery voices, and I understand their language. Then from the rivers and the fountains, from the cliffs and the mountains arise nymphs dressed in white. They dance amorously, sing and laugh, and invite me to join them. I understand what they say; I hasten to revel in their embraces; I too sing and dance and have such fun with them. The queen, this eternally young and splendorous queen, is delighted with her daughters. When I have to leave my friends, I can still hear their seductive voices in my heart, and when a long time passes without the queen calling for me, I feel sad,” said Victoria, finally.
“I don’t like your dreams, Victoria.” her husband said. “I fear that you will forget about me in that realm of beauty, and that one day you will remain there.”
“Do not be afraid, Vítek. It is only for a very short while that I am allowed to visit the fairy queen and that palace I love so much. I always know I have to come back.”
Even so, Vítek did not like her dreams, as they came back again and again after that night. He feared for the life of his beloved and wanted to free her from that mysterious power. He told himself that the best way to do it would be to cut down the willow tree. But he didn’t want to do so without Victoria’s consent. So one day, while she was basket weaving by the window, he said to his wife:
“That willow tree is blocking the light. Maybe I should cut it down.”
“No, Vítek, you should do no such thing,” Victoria implored. “I love that willow tree too much. If you love me, do not do it. You never know, you may regret it afterward.”
But the man could find no peace. He didn’t want his wife to disappear into a world that he could not enter. One night, when Victoria was sleeping, showing no apparent signs of life, he went out with an axe and a single goal in mind. With four well-placed blows he felled the willow tree an
d a cry of pain shot through his soul. He threw the axe away and went into the house. In her mother’s arms, Victoria was dead. The blows of the axe, which had destroyed the willow tree, had put an end to Victoria’s life.
They have asked me for a report on Božena’s female friends. That means writing about Johanna and Sophie Rott. Sophie told me delightedly about her first meeting with Němcová. It took place a few years after Božena’s definitive return to Prague. Johanna’s husband, who was then her fiancé, spoke to the two sisters about the writer Božena with admiring enthusiasm. Johanna agreed to meet her although she had reservations: the sisters were from an aristocratic family and had been educated in a private school for noble young ladies. Johanna had turned into a proud and unapproachable woman. For Sophie, who was younger, the idea of meeting the famous writer filled her with panic.
The girls awaited her arrival in the sitting room of their home, an ancient mansion furnished in a style that was equally ancient. Both sisters wore navy blue dresses. I imagine them with their dresses buttoned up tightly and the tension showing on their faces. All of a sudden, Božena appeared: smiling, fresh faced, in a comfortable sand-colored dress with a pleated skirt and a pale hat over her black hair. At thirty, she looked as youthful as a girl of nineteen. Her overall appearance had something of a classical air, her features and dark hair bound at the nape in a Greek chignon, her big green eyes, her slender neck, her long, fine fingers. The writer’s appearance alone captivated the two girls.
After she left, the sisters talked about her excitedly and so began the friendship among the three women.
At least you, Božena, at least you have friends with whom you can share your secrets. But I, what have I got?
I’ve got you. You are the only one who will listen to me. What a twist of fate! And then there is Herr von Päumann, he’s interested in me as well, he needs me too. I shall now write to the police and tell them about your slipups and your sins both great and small. The police will keep you under surveillance, they will persecute you, they will harm you. Yes, that is what they will do. But, even so, you will have lived better than I have; your life will always be more meaningful than mine.
Do not cease to watch Němcová’s every step, and every meeting.”
“With scientists and men of letters too?”
“Naturally!”
“She has many admirers . . .”
“Her readers and literary admirers do not interest me at all; they are a shameless crowd and a bunch of idiots, that’s what they are, to admire a woman who writes in Czech. Czech, a dead language!”
“Do you think so, Herr von Päumann?”
“I most certainly do, and if it hasn’t died off altogether, we will take the necessary measures to make sure it does so soon. You would not, surely, be comparing Czech to the greatness of the German language?”
“Jawohl, Herr von Päumann, natürlich. Without a doubt. Now, then, is there anybody else I have to keep an eye on?”
“You have talked of her admirers. Is it possible that she has any lovers?”
“Bitte?”
“Do you know anything about this writer’s possible lovers?”
“Well, I’m not altogether sure. Even though . . . I would say . . . ”
“You must clear up this doubt. It is essential. Quickly.”
“You know . . . In fact, I . . . ”
“Auf Wiedersehen, Fräulein.”
Němcová has friends who are important scientists. She has close female friends who are ladies from rich and influential families, and who knows if some of these people might not also be lovers of hers. And with all of them she is scheming against the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Very well. People must either be coddled or thoroughly annihilated. They would take revenge if only slightly wounded, but would be unable to do so at all if wounded seriously, which is why the wound that we inflict on a person must be of the sort that prevents him from taking revenge. That’s what Machiavelli said. Accordingly, we shall put an end to Němcová’s friendships. She will have no more financial backers, nobody to give her enough change to buy a loaf of bread. Her lovers, if she has any, will abandon her. Her female friends will want nothing further to do with her. You have underestimated us, my dear. In fact, we don’t have to do anything except have the police keep a protective eye on you. We don’t have to lift so much as a little finger and your Czechs will end up helping us achieve our goals, the same Czechs for whom you always sacrifice yourself. Yes, the Czechs, those cowardly people! Nobody will be left, only this informer, she’ll be there for you! And for us, naturally. To achieve final victory, one must be implacable, that was Napoleon’s motto.
What a disagreeable creature, that Fräulein Zaleski. Had she been born in another era or into another family, she would not need to earn her living as a spy, and could dedicate herself entirely to culture and to writing, like Němcová. But she was born into a nation without a future, into an impoverished family. You only have to look at her, a glance even. A horrible sight. Like watching an insect squirming in a cobweb.
Why does she always blink nervously, look away, and shiver all over whenever she hears the word “lover?” It can’t just be envy. Clearly, she must be planning something.
I should get rid of her as soon as I can. Misfortune is as contagious as cholera.
The doctor is late. It is a full half hour since the appointed time. She had taken off her clothes, then put them back on again, and is now on the lookout for him, her forehead resting against the windowpane. Even the milk and the post have arrived. On the street there is a boy looking up at her window, as if he were searching for someone. He is carrying some sky-blue object, like a bunch of forget-me-nots, or a shawl given to him by a lady breathless from dancing at a society ball. That sky-blue paper in his hand troubles her. Yes, the boy enters her house, climbs the staircase, knocks at the door.
“Good morning. I am to give you this.”
She invites him in, but the boy doesn’t have time. He is already running down the stairs and she will never know who . . . what . . .
The blue envelope burns her fingers as if it were a lit match. She passes it from one hand to the other before placing it on the table.
She picks it up firmly and goes out, to throw it into the Vltava. She is in a hurry to get rid of it. She knows only too well what is in it. A message: the treatment is over. And a cold wish: stay healthy. Instead of a signature, two initials: H.J. They are so clear, as if printed in a cloud, with calligraphical ornamentation at the end. She is standing on a bridge, and inside her who knows what awakens . . . who knows what kind of animal. Yes, an animal that stretches its neck out of curiosity and whose paws reach for the letter. She doesn’t want to give it to the beast, but it grabs the envelope so fast that she doesn’t have time to protest. It removes a sheet of paper out of the envelope: the initials H.J. are the first thing she notices. The beast takes the sheet of paper in its claws, unfolds it, and against her will her eyes run over the lines. When she has finished reading, the beast looks at her sarcastically, as if to say: Can’t you see, you fool! It yawns, lazily stretches its limbs, and returns to its lair inside her.
She didn’t understand what she was reading, ignorant of the meaning of those long letters that leaned off to the left like cornstalks bent hard by a strong wind. But suddenly her surroundings lit up and she started to laugh. A few rays of sunlight made their way through the dense clouds, spreading light onto the golden tips of the bell towers and the Gothic steeples, among which she liked so much to fly in the company of the ancient sage. The leaves of the trees brightened with gold and purple, their dead flowers blossomed forth once more, giving off a sweet scent. Out from among the flowers stepped trumpeters, holding up their instruments: pah-pa-rah, pah-pa-rah! she heard. Between the snapping of the flags and the thunder of the trumpets, she could hear these words: I’ll be back . . . I’m going to the village to care for someone who is dying . . . how I look forward to seeing you again . . . an unusual, extraordinary wom
an . . .
Darkness had fallen some time ago and she went back home. Without thinking anything, she made dinner, patted her children’s heads, and quickly closed the door of her room behind her. Her husband was grumbling about something on the other side, but she couldn’t hear him because in the middle of the room, surrounded by Bengal lights, there was the flute player leading a train of followers. She sat at the table with a cup of tea and picked up her pencil.
She wrote nothing, not that evening, nor the day after. She took all kinds of old clothes out of the cupboard, tried them on in front of the mirror, which was too small to see herself full length in, and started to mend them. She decorated her hats with new ribbons and paid special attention to the undergarments, to which she added lace, both new as well as some that was still serviceable from old blouses. On the table she placed the garnet necklace, inherited from her grandmother, and the earrings that were a gift from the Duchess von Sagan. After a few days, when she was once more able to write, she would get up from time to time, look at herself in the mirror, and hold the jewels next to her face. She did not watch herself with her own eyes but with a masculine perspective. Her eyes were as lively as they were when she was little Miss Betty, and the mirror offered her the face of a beautiful and resplendent young woman.
A week went by, then another, then a third one. She spent whole nights writing, and when daylight spoiled her concentration, she stretched out on the sofa and took a nap. After which she prepared breakfast. She had fallen in love with a strong blend of black tea, taken with a little sugar.
To write a report on Božena’s lovers. On the prefect’s lips, the word smelled like a tiny, poorly ventilated room. For me, this word is beautiful. In themselves, words mean nothing; meaning is given to them by one’s own experience.
The first lover was Celestial. He showed her the way. In a professional sense, of course, but also in another way. He accompanied her through Šárka, and Betty, the forsaken dreamer, turned herself into a lady who knows what she wants, into a writer with talent and discerning of admiration. And into a passionate woman. Later came her friendship with young Doctor Čejka. And with Ivan, that man from Brno . . .
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