The Good Soldier Svejk (7 page)

Quelled and contrite the black-yellow beast of prey flinched from the gaze of Schweik, the guileless lamb, and plunging his eyes into official documents, he said :

"I thoroughly appreciate your enthusiasm, but I only wish it had been exhibited under other circumstances. You yourself know full well that you were brought here by a police officer, because a patriotic demonstration of such a kind might, and indeed, inevitably would be interpreted by the public as being ironical rather than serious."

"When a man is being run in by a police officer," replied Schweik, "it's a critical moment in his life. But if a man even at such a moment don't forget the right thing to do when there's a war on, well, it strikes me that a man like that can't be a bad sort after all."

The black-yellow beast of prey growled and had another look at Schweik.

Schweik met his eye with the innocent, gentle, modest and tender warmth of his gaze.

For a while they looked fixedly at each other.

"Go to blazes, Schweik," said the jack-in-office at last, "and if you get brought here again, I'll make no bones about it, but off you'll go before a court-martial. Is that clear?" ,

But before he realized what was happening, Schweik had come up to him, had kissed his hand and said :

"God bless you for everything you've done. If you'd like a thoroughbred dog at any time, just you come to me. I'm a dog fancier."

And so Schweik found himself again at liberty and on his way home.

He considered whether he ought not first of all to look in at The Flagon, and so it came about that he opened the door through which he had passed a short while ago in the company of Detective Bretschneider.

There was a deathlike stillness in the bar. A few customers were sitting there, among them the verger from St. Apolinnaire's. They looked gloomy. Behind the bar sat the landlady, Mrs. Palivec, and stared dully at the beer handles.

"Well, here I am back again," said Schweik gaily, "let's have

a glass of beer. Where's Mr. Palivec? Is he home again too?"

Instead of replying, Mrs. Palivec burst into tears, and, concentrating her unhappiness in a special emphasis which she gave to each word, she moaned :

"They—gave—him—ten—years—a—week—ago."

"Fancy that, now," said Schweik. "Then he's already served seven days of it."

"He was that cautious," wept Mrs. Palivec. "He himself always used to say so."

The customers in the taproom maintained a stubborn silence, as if the spirit of Palivec were hovering about and urging them to even greater caution.

"Caution is the mother of wisdom," said Schweik, sitting down to his glass of beer. "We're living in such queer times that a man can't be too cautious."

"We had two funerals yesterday," said the verger of St. Apolinnaire's, changing the subject.

"Somebody must have died," said another customer, whereupon a third man inquired :

"Did they have a regular hearse?"

"I'd like to know," said Schweik, "what the military funerals are going to be like now that there's a war on."

The customers rose, paid for their drinks and went out quietly. Schweik was left alone with Mrs. Palivec.

"I never thought," he said, "that they'd sentence an innocent man to ten years. I've already heard of an innocent man getting five years, but ten—that's a bit too much."

"And then my husband admitted everything," wept Mrs. Palivec. "What he said about the flies and the pictures, he repeated it word for word at the police station and in court. I was a witness at the trial, but what could I say when they told me I stood in a relation of kinship to my husband and that I could decline to give evidence? I was so scared of the relation of kinship, thinking it might lead to more trouble, that I declined to give evidence, and, poor fellow, he gave me such a look, I'll never forget the expression on his face, not to my dying day I won't. And then when they passed the sentence and they were taking him off, he shouted in the passage, as if he'd gone off his head : 'Up the rebels !' "

"And does Mr. Bretschneider still come here?" asked Schweik.

"He was here a few times," replied the landlady. "He had one or two drinks and asked me who comes here, and he listened to what the customers were saying about a football match. Whenever they see him, they only talk about football matches. And he fairly had the jumps as if any minute he'd go raving mad and start rampaging about. But the whole time he only managed to get hold of one gentleman, and he was a paper hanger."

"It's all a matter of practice," remarked Schweik. "Was the paper hanger a soft-headed sort of fellow?"

"Much the same as my husband," she replied, weeping. "Bretschneider asked him if he'd fire against the Serbs. And he said he didn't know how to shoot. He'd been once, he said, to a shooting gallery and had some shots for a crown. Then we all heard Mr. Bretschneider say as he took out his notebook : 'Hallo, another nice bit of high treason !' And he took the paper hanger away with him and he never came back."

"There's lots of them'll never come back," said Schweik. "Let me have a glass of rum."

Schweik was just having a second glass of rum when Bretschneider came into the taproom. He glanced rapidly round the empty bar and sat down beside Schweik. Then he ordered some beer and waited for Schweik to say something.

Schweik took a newspaper from the rack and glancing at the back page of advertisements, he remarked :

"Look here, that man Cimpera who lives at Straskov is selling a farm with thirteen roods of land belonging to it situated close to school and railway."

Bretschneider drummed nervously with his fingers, and turning to Schweik, he said :

"I'm surprised to find you interested in farming, Mr. Schweik."

"Oh, it's you, is it?" said Schweik, shaking hands with him. "I didn't recognize you at first. I've got a very bad memory for faces. The last time I saw you, as far as I remember, was in the office of the police headquarters. What have you been up to since then? Do you come here often?"

"I came here to-day on your account," said Bretschneider.

"They told me at the police headquarters that you're a dog fancier. I'd like a good ratter or a terrier or something of that sort."

"I can get that for you," replied Schweik. "Do you want a thoroughbred or one from the street?"

"I think," replied Bretschneider, "that I'd rather have a thoroughbred."

"Wouldn't you like a police dog?" asked Schweik. "One of those that gets on the scent in a jiffy and leads you to the scene of the crime? I know a butcher who's got one. He uses it for drawing his cart, but that dog's missed its vocation, as you might say."

"I'd like a terrier," said Bretschneider with composure, "a terrier that doesn't bite."

"Do you want a terrier without teeth, then?" asked Schweik. "I know of one. It belongs to a man who keeps a public house."

"Perhaps I'd rather have a ratter," announced Bretschneider with embarrassment. His knowledge of dogcraft was in its very infancy, and if he hadn't received these particular instructions from the police headquarters, he'd never have bothered his head about dogs at all.

But his instructions were precise, clear and stringent. He was to make himself more closely acquainted with Schweik on the strength of his activities as a dog fancier, for which purpose he was authorized to select assistants and expend sums of money for the purchase of dogs.

"Ratters are of all different sizes," said Schweik. "I know of two little 'uns and three big 'uns. You could nurse the whole five of 'em on your lap. I can strongly recommend them."

"That might suit me," announced Bretschneider, "and what would they cost?"

"That depends on the size," replied Schweik. "It's all a question of size. A ratter's not like a calf. It's the other way round with them. The smaller they are, the more they cost."

"What I had in mind was some big ones to use as watch dogs," replied Bretschneider, who was afraid he might encroach too far on his secret police funds.

"Right you are," said Schweik. "I can sell you some big 'uns

for fifty crowns each, and some bigger still for twenty-five crowns. Only there's one thing we've forgotten. Do you want puppies or older dogs, and then is it to be dogs or bitches?"

"It's all the same to me," replied Bretschneider, who found himself grappling with unknown problems. "You get them for me and I'll come and fetch them from you at seven o'clock tomorrow evening. Will they be ready by then?"

"Just you come along. I'll have them without fail," answered Schweik drily. "But under the circumstances I shall have to ask you for an advance of thirty crowns."

"That's all right," said Bretschneider, paying the money. "And now let's have a drink on the strength of it. I'll stand treat."

When they had each had four drinks, Bretschneider announced, after telling Schweik not to be afraid of him, that he wasn't on duty that day and so he could talk to him about politics.

Schweik declared that he never talked about politics in a public house, and that politics was a mug's game anyhow.

In opposition to this, Bretschneider was more revolutionary in his views and said that every weak country was predestined to destruction. Then he asked Schweik what
he
thought about this.

Schweik announced that it had nothing to do with the country, but that once he had to look after a weak St. Bernard puppy which he had fed with army biscuits and it had died.

When they had each had five drinks, Bretschneider asserted that he was an anarchist and asked Schweik which organization he ought to join.

Schweik said that once an anarchist had bought a mastiff from him for a hundred crowns and had failed to pay the last instalment.

Over the sixth drink Bretschneider was talking about revolution and against mobilization, whereupon Schweik leaned over toward him and whispered into his ear:

"There's a customer just come in, so don't let him hear you or it might be awkward for you. And look, the landlady's crying!"

Mrs. Palivec was, in fact, crying on her chair behind the bar.

"What are you crying for, missus?" asked Bretschneider. "In

three months we'll have won the war, there'll be an amnesty, your husband'll come back home and then we'll have a fine old spree here."

"Don't you think we'll win?" he added, turning to Schweik.

"What's the good of chewing the rag about that the whole time?" said Schweik. "The war's got to be won and there you are. But now I must be off home."

Schweik paid his reckoning and returned to Mrs. Muller, his old charwoman, who was extremely scared when she saw that the man who had let himself in with a key was Schweik.

"I didn't think you'd be back for years and years," she said with her usual frankness. "And so, till further notice, as you might say, I took a new lodger—a porter from a night club, and him not having anywhere to go, I felt sorry for him, like, and then the police came and searched the place three times, but they couldn't find anything, so they said you was done for, through being so artful and all."

Schweik immediately discovered that the unknown lodger had made himself extremely comfortable. He was sleeping in Schweik's bed and he had been magnanimous enough to be satisfied with only half the bed, granting the use of the other half to some member of the opposite sex who was asleep with an arm gratefully encircling his neck, while articles of male and female clothing were scattered in a medley around the bed. From this chaos it was evident that the porter from the night club had been in a merry mood when he had returned with his lady.

"Look here, boss," said Schweik, shaking the intruder, "don't you be late for lunch. I should be very upset if people said I'd chucked you out before you'd had a chance of getting any lunch."

The porter from the night club was very sleepy, and it took a long time before he understood that the owner of the bed had returned home and was laying claim to his property.

In the manner of all porters from night clubs, this gentleman announced his intention of bashing anyone who woke him up, and he endeavoured to continue his slumbers.

Schweik meanwhile collected portions of the man's wardrobe, brought them to his bedside and shaking him vigorously, said :

"If you don't get dressed, I'll chuck you out into the street just

as you are. It'd be much better to get away from here with your clothes on."

"I wanted to sleep till eight in the evening," announced the porter, somewhat taken aback and putting on his trousers. "I'm paying the landlady two crowns a day for the bed and she lets me bring girls from the club here. Marena, get up."

By the time he had discovered his collar and was arranging his tie, he had sufficiently pulled himself together to assure Schweik that the Mimosa Club was one of the most respectable of its kind, for the only ladies allowed there were those who were properly registered with the police, and he cordially invited Schweik to pay a visit to the establishment.

On the other hand, his female companion was not at all pleased with Schweik and in reference to him made use of some highly select expressions, the most select of which was :