by Karel Čapek
“That’s me,” a voice rang back. “Good evening, Mr. Brych. I’ve got the postman and the gamekeeper with me.”
“Come up then, brothers,” said Mr. Brych. “We can begin while Mr. Kuzenda is getting the coffee ready. Who else is coming?”
“I am,” came a voice from the side of the dredge. “My name’s Hudec, and I’d very much like to hear you.”
“You are very welcome, Mr. Hudec,” the stoker shouted down. “Come up, will you?—there’s a ladder here. Half a minute and I’ll give you a hand, Mr. Hudec, seeing you’ve never been here before.”
“Mr. Brych,” three people shouted from the bank. “Send the boat across for us, will you? We’d like to come over.”
“Go and fetch them over, you below,” said Mr. Brych, “that all may hear the word of God. Brothers and sister, please sit down. It’s not dirty here now that we do our heating with a Karburator. Brother Kuzenda will bring you some coffee, and then we can start. Welcome, young people. Come right up.” With this Mr. Brych took, his place by the opening down which ran the ladder to the interior of the dredge. “Halloa there, Kuzenda, ten on deck.”
“Right!” cried a beard-muffled voice from the depths. “I’m just bringing it.”
“Come, friends, sit down,” said Brych, briskly indicating suitable seats. “Mr. Hudec, we have nothing but coffee here; I don’t expect you’ll mind.”
“Why should I?” returned Mr. Hudec. “I just wanted to see your—to be present at your—séance.”
“Our service,” Brych mildly corrected him. “We are all brothers, here, you know. Let me tell you, Mr. Hudec, that I was a drunkard and Kuzenda was in politics, and the grace of God came upon us, and our brethren and sisters here,” he said pointing round him, “come to us in the evenings to pray for the same gift of the spirit. The baker here had asthma, and Kuzenda cured him. Come now, baker, tell us yourself how it happened.”
“Kuzenda laid hands on me,” said the baker softly and rapturously, “and all at once such a feeling of warmth began to pour through my chest. You know, something just snapped in me, and I began to breathe as if I was flying about in the sky.”
“Wait a bit, baker,” Brych corrected him. “Kuzenda didn’t lay his hands on you. He hadn’t any notion he was going to work a miracle. He simply went like this with his hand, and then you said that you could breathe easily. That’s the way it was.”
“We were there when it happened,” said the young girl from Stechovice. “And the baker had a ring of light around his head, and then Mr. Kuzenda charmed away my consumption, didn’t he, Joe?”
The young fellow from Stechovic said, “That’s the honest truth, Mr. Hudec. But what happened to me is queerer still. I wasn’t straight, Mr. Hudec; I’d already been in jail for theft, and for another job besides. Mr. Brych here could tell you.”
“Oh, it wasn’t as bad as all that.” Mr. Brych dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “All that you needed was grace. But there’s some very queer things happen here, Mr. Hudec, on this spot. But perhaps you will find it out for yourself. Brother Kuzenda can give it you properly because he used to go to meetings before. Look, here he comes.”
Everyone turned towards the opening leading from the deck to the engine-room. From the opening there emerged a bearded face, wearing the forced, embarrassed smile of one who is being shoved from behind and is trying to pretend that nothing is happening. Mr. Kuzenda was visible now from the waist up, carrying in both hands a large tin tray on which stood cups and tins of preserves; he smiled uncertainly as he rose higher and higher. His feet could soon be seen on a level with the deck, and still Mr. Kuzenda and his cups went on rising in the air. About eighteen inches above the opening he stopped and began groping with his feet. There he hung unsupported in the air, apparently doing his utmost to get his feet to the ground.
Mr. Hudec was like a man in a dream. “What is the matter, Mr. Kuzenda?” he exclaimed, almost in terror.
“Nothing, nothing,” Kuzenda replied evasively, still trying to draw himself down from the air with his feet; and Mr. Hudec was reminded of a picture of the Ascension that in his childhood had hung above his little cot, and how Our Lord and the Apostles in precisely the same manner were hanging in the air and paddling with their feet, but showing less amazement on their faces.
Suddenly Mr. Kuzenda moved forward and floated, floated over the deck through the evening air as though a gentle breeze might carry him away; now and again he raised his feet as if he wanted to step out firmly or something, and he was visibly concerned for his cups.
“I say, come and take this coffee,” he said hastily. Brych, the stoker, held both hands up to him and took charge of the tray and the cups. Then Kuzenda let his feet hang down, crossed his arms on his breast, and hung there motionless, with his head a little on one side, and said, “Welcome, brothers. Don’t be afraid because I’m flying. It is only a sign. Will you take the cup with the flowers on, young lady.”
The stoker passed the cups and tins round. No one dared to speak. Those who had never been there before gazed in wonder on the levitation of Kuzenda. The guests of longer standing sipped their coffee slowly, and seemed, between the sips, to be praying.
“Have you finished?” asked Kuzenda after a while, opening wide his colourless, rapt eyes. “Then I’ll begin.” So saying, he cleared his throat, meditated for a while, and began: “In the name of the Father! Brethren and sisters, on this dredge, where signs of grace are shown to us, we are gathered together for worship. We need not send away the unbelievers and mockers as the spiritualists do. Mr. Hudec came as an unbeliever, and the gamekeeper has been looking forward to a little bit of fun. You are both welcome; but listen so that you may see that it is by grace I know you. You, gamekeeper, drink far too much; you drive the poor from the forest, and curse and swear even when there is no need. Do it no more. And you, Mr. Hudec, are a better-class thief. You know very well what I mean. And you’re shockingly bad-tempered. Faith will reform and redeem you.”
Utter stillness reigned on the deck. Mr. Hudec gazed steadfastly at the floor. The gamekeeper sobbed and sniffed, and fumbled with trembling hands for his pocket.
“I know what it is, gamekeeper,” said Kuzenda gently from above. “You’d like to smoke. Don’t be afraid to light up. Make yourself quite at home.”
“Look at the little fish,” whispered the young girl, pointing down to the smooth surface of the Vltava. “Look, Joe, the carp have come to listen, too.”
“They’re not carp,” came from the exalted Kuzenda. “They’re perch or dace. And, Mr. Hudec, you mustn’t worry about your sins. Look at me: I once cared for nothing but politics. And I tell you, that, too, is a sin. There’s no need to weep, gamekeeper; I didn’t mean to be hard on you. He who once experiences grace can see right into men’s hearts. You can see into people’s souls too, can’t you, Brych?”
“I can,” said Mr. Brych. “The postman here is thinking this minute how fine it would be if you could help his little daughter. She’s got scrofula, hasn’t she, postman? Mr. Kuzenda will help her right enough if you bring her here.”
“It’s easy to mock and talk about superstition,” said Kuzenda. “Brothers, if anyone had told me about miracles and God before this, I should have laughed at him. That’s the kind of man I was. When we got this new machine that runs without fuel for the dredge, all our dirty heavy work ceased. Yes, Mr. Hudec, that was the first miracle that happened here—this Karburator, that does everything by itself, as though it had a mind. Even the dredge floats by itself wherever it ought to go. And look how steady it is. Do you notice, Mr. Hudec, that the anchors aren’t down? It stands still without being anchored, and floats off again when it’s needed to clear the river-bed; it starts itself and stops itself. We, that’s Brych and me, don’t have to touch a single thing. Will anyone dare tell me that isn’t a miracle? And when we saw all this, we began to think it over, didn’t we, Brych, until it all became clear to us. This is a sacred dredge, it is an iron church, a
nd we are only here as its priests. If in old times God could appear in a well or in an oak-tree, and sometimes even like a woman, as with the ancient Greeks, why should He not appear on a dredge? Why should He shun machinery? A machine is often cleaner than a nun, and Brych keeps everything here as bright and shining as if it was on a sideboard. However, that’s by the way. And let me tell you, God is not so infinite as the Catholics assert. He is about six hundred metres in diameter, and even then is weak towards the edges. He is at His strongest on the dredge. Here He performs miracles, but on the bank He only does inspirations and conversions, and in Stechovice, with a favourable wind, you only notice a kind of holy fragrance. Not long ago some oarsmen from the Czech Rowing Club were paddling by in the Lightning, close to us, and grace descended on all of them. Such is His power. And what this God wishes us to do, one can only feel here within,” Kuzenda declared, with an emphatic gesture towards his heart. “I know that He cannot bear politics and money, intellect, pride, and self-conceit. I know He dearly loves both men and beasts, that He is very glad when you come here, and that good deeds are pleasing to Him. He is a thorough democrat, brethren. We, Brych and me, that is, feel that every penny burns us until we’ve bought coffee for everybody. One Sunday recently, there were several hundred people here, even sitting on both banks of the river, and behold, our coffee multiplied itself so that there was enough for everybody . . . and what splendid coffee it was! But such things, brethren, are only outward appearances. The greatest miracle is the influence He has on our feelings. It is so intensely beautiful that it fairly makes one shiver. Sometimes you feel as if you could die of love and happiness, as if you were one with the water below, with all the animals, with the very earth and stones, or as if gigantic arms were holding you embraced; oh, words cannot utter what you feel. Everything around you is sounding and singing, you understand the speech of voiceless things, the water and the wind, you see deep into everything, how one thing is linked with another and with you; at one stroke you grasp everything better than if you had read it in print. Sometimes it comes upon one like a fit, so that one foams at the mouth; but often it acts quite slowly and penetrates to one’s tiniest little vein. And now, brothers and sisters, do not be afraid; two police officers are just coming across in a boat to ‘disperse’ us because we are holding an unauthorized assembly. Just keep calm and have faith in the God of the dredge.”
It was already dark; but the entire deck of the dredge and the faces of those present were glowing with a tender light. The splash of oars was heard below the dredge, then the boat stopped alongside. “Hi, there!” cried a man’s voice. “Is Mr. Kuzenda there?”
“Yes, he is here,” answered Kuzenda in the voice of an angel. “Come right up, brethren of the police. I know that the innkeeper of Stechovice has laid information against me.”
Two policemen mounted to the deck. “Which of you is Kuzenda?” asked the sergeant.
“I am, sir,” said Kuzenda, rising higher in the air. “Kindly come up here to me, sergeant.” And forthwith both police officers rose into the air and floated upwards towards Kuzenda. Their feet groped desperately for some support, their hands clutched wildly at the yielding air, and one could hear their quick and frightened breathing.
“Don’t be afraid, officers,” said Kuzenda beatifically, “and say after me this prayer: O God, our Father, who are incarnate in this vessel . . .”
“O God, our Father, who are incarnate in this vessel,” repeated the sergeant in a choking voice.
“O God, our Father, who are incarnate in this vessel,” Mr. Hudec began in a loud voice, and he fell on his knees, and on the deck a chorus of voices mingled with his own.
CHAPTER IX
THE CEREMONY
CYRIL KEVAL, district reporter on the staff of the Prague People’s Journal, hurried into evening-dress for the occasion and dashed off to Stvanice just after six o’clock in the evening, to write up the ceremonial opening of the new Central Karburator Electric Power Station for Greater Prague. He shouldered his way through the curious crowds that overflowed the whole Petrov quarter, penetrated the three ranks of police, and reached a small concrete structure decorated with flags. From inside the little building could be heard the objurgations of the workmen, who were, of course, behind time with the erecting of the machine, and were now trying to catch up. The whole Central Power Station was an insignificant affair, no bigger than a public convenience. Old Cvancara of the Venkov was walking pensively up and down in front of it, looking somewhat like a meditative heron.
“Well, my friend,” he said quietly to the young journalist, “it’s safe to bet on something happening to-day. I’ve never yet seen a function where there wasn’t some silly incident or other. And I’ve been at it now, young fellow, for forty years.”
“But it is amazing, isn’t it, sir?” Keval returned. “Fancy this little building lighting the whole city of Prague and driving the trams and trains for sixty kilometres round, besides supplying power for thousands of factories and—and——”
Mr. Cvancara shook his head sceptically. “We’ll see, my young friend, we’ll see. Nothing nowadays can surprise any of us of the old guard, but”—and here Cvancara lowered his voice to a whisper—“well, just look round and you’ll see that they haven’t even got a reserve Karburator handy. Suppose this one broke down, or even, say, went up in the air, what then—do you see what I mean?”
Keval was annoyed at not having thought of this himself, so he dissented. “That’s out of the question, sir,” he began. “I have reliable information. This power station here is only for show. The real Central Station is somewhere else; it’s . . . it’s . . .” he whispered, and pointed with his finger, “right down underground, I mustn’t say where. Haven’t you noticed, sir, that they are continually repairing the streets in Prague?”
“They’ve been doing it these forty years,” said Mr. Cvancara gloomily.
“Well, there you have it,” Keval lied triumphantly. “Military reasons, you know. A huge system of underground passages, storehouses, powder-magazines, and so on. My information is quite trustworthy. They’ve got sixteen underground Karburator fortresses right round Prague. On the surface there’s not a trace of it, only football fields, a mineral-water stand, or a patriotic monument. Ha, ha! Do you see now? That’s why they’re putting up all these memorials.”
“Young man,” observed Mr. Cvancara, “what does the present generation know of war? We could tell them something. Aha, here comes the Burgomaster.”
“And the new Minister for War. You see, I told you so. The Director of the Technical Institute. The Chairman of the M.E.C. The Chief Rabbi.”
“The French Ambassador, the Minister of Public Works. I say, my friend, we’d better see about getting inside. The Archbishop, the Italian Ambassador, the President of the Senate, the Chief of the Sokol organization; you’ll find that there’s somebody they’ve left out.”
Just then Mr. Cyril Keval gave up his place to a lady, and so was separated from the doyen of the journalists and lost his place near the entrance through which the endless stream of the personages invited was pouring. Then the strains of the national anthem were heard, and the orders to the guard of honour rang out, proclaiming the arrival of the Chief of State. Accompanied by a retinue of gentlemen in top-hats and uniforms, the President advanced along the crimson carpet towards the little concrete structure. Mr. Keval stood on tiptoe, confounding himself and his politeness.
“I’ll never get in now,” he said to himself. “Cvancara is right,” he went on ruminating. “They always do something silly. Fancy putting up that little hut for an imposing ceremony like this. Ah well, the Czechoslovak Press Bureau will supply the speeches, and one can soon work up the trimmings—deep impressiveness of the occasion, magnificent progress, enthusiastic reception for the President——”
A sudden hush within the building made itself felt outside, and someone began to reel off the official address. Mr. Keval yawned and sauntered round the little buil
ding with his hands in his pockets. It was getting dark. The guards were in full-dress uniform with white gloves and rubber truncheons. Crowds of people were standing tightly packed along the banks. The opening address was far too long, as usual. Who was it speaking, anyway?
Then Keval noticed a little window in the concrete wall of the Central Station about two metres from the ground. He looked around, then leapt up like a flash, caught hold of the grating, and drew his clever head up to the window. Aha, the speaker was the Burgomaster of Greater Prague, all red in the face; beside him stood G. H. Bondy, Chairman of the M.E.C., representing the contracting firm, biting his lips. The President had his hand on the lever of the machine, ready to press it down at a given signal: an instant later the festal illuminations of the whole of Prague would flare out, the bands would play, the fireworks would begin to blaze.
The Minister of Public Works was turning and twisting nervously; doubtless he was to speak when the Burgomaster had finished. A young Army officer was pulling at his tiny moustache, the Ambassadors were pretending to be giving their whole souls to the address, of which they understood not a single word, two Trade Union delegates were not moving an eyelash—in short, “the proceedings passed off without a hitch,” Mr. Keval said to himself as he jumped down again.
He then ran five times round the whole Stvanice district, came back to the Central Power Station, and again sprang up to the little window. The Burgomaster was still speaking. Straining his ears, Keval could hear “. . . And then came the disastrous period of the Battle of the White Mountain.” He dropped down the wall again quickly, sat down, and lit a cigar. It was already very dark. Overhead the little stars twinkled through the branches of the trees. “It’s surprising that they didn’t wait until the President pressed the lever to light up too,” Keval said to himself. Otherwise, Prague was in darkness. The black stream of the Vltava rolled on without a lamp reflected in its waters. Everything quivered with expectation of the solemn moment that was to bring the light.