THE SLAVIC TRANSLATIONS 
 BY LEO WIENER 
 
 MAGDALEN 
 
 BY T- S' MACHAR
 
 MAGDALEN 
 
 AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION 
 FROM THE BOHEMIAN OF 
 
 T'S'MACHAR 
 
 BY LEO WIENER 
 
 PROFESSOR OF SLAVIC LANGUAGES AND 
 
 LITERATURES AT HARVARD 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 MITCHELL KENNERLEY 
 
 1916
 
 COPYRIGHT 1916 BY 
 MITCHELL KENNERLEY 
 
 PRINTED IN AMERICA
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 THE Bohemians have been the torchbearers 
 in the Slavic revival which has awakened the 
 dormant national consciousness of the minor 
 Slavic peoples, and which had indirectly brought 
 Russian literature to its fullest fruition. This 
 
 V 
 
 task was accomplished by the great Cech philolo- 
 gists and historians of the first half of the nine- 
 teenth century, but the Cechs have also contrib- 
 uted substantially to the great and growing Slavic 
 literature, which bids fair to occupy the foremost 
 rank in the near future. 
 
 Bohemia is particularly rich in its poetic out- 
 put. Until the appearance of J. S. Machar, 
 
 V 
 
 Vrchlickjr, the Cech Longfellow, was considered 
 the leading poet, even as he was the most volum- 
 inous. Machar himself, who was born at Kolin 
 in 1864 of poor artisans and for the last twenty 
 years has been a bank official at Vienna, began his 
 
 2034515
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 literary career in Vrchlicky's style, but he showed 
 from the very start a strong tendency to neglect 
 mere form and to treat reality in a straightfor- 
 ward and sober way, hence his poems lose little by 
 being rendered in prose form. In his earnestness 
 of purpose he is not unlike Tolstoy, from whom 
 he differs by his advocacy of a life full of vigor, 
 and not of asceticism. With Tolstoy, however, 
 he shares a hatred of all shams ; hence, though an 
 ardent patriot, he despises the banality of the 
 demagogues and of political charlatanism. This 
 attitude is expressed most trenchantly in his 
 " Tristium Vindobona," considered by his coun- 
 trymen as having killed jingoism and the high- 
 sounding patriotic phrase in Bohemia. 
 
 In 1894* appeared his " Magdalen," in which he 
 mercilessly attacked those provincial philistines 
 who would block the fervent endeavors of a fallen 
 woman to be restored to a life of decency. Of his 
 later poems probably the most remarkable is 
 " Golgotha," in which he glorifies Christ, as he ap- 
 peared to him to have been in reality, and not in 
 St. Paul's philosophic transmutation.
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 The pronunciation of the Cech names should 
 cause no difficulty. The stress accent is always 
 on the first syllable. The vowels have the Italian 
 values, those with an accent being the correspond- 
 ing long ones, and e sounding as ye. J sounds as 
 y, c as ts, ch as Teh; c, s, z, r are respectively eh, 
 sh, zh, rzh. Thus Jiri sounds Yeer^-zhee t Machar 
 is Mah'-khar, VrchUcJcfi is Virkh'-lits-kee, etc. 
 
 L. W.
 
 MAGDALEN 
 
 MY reader! You, no doubt, know 
 many a well-drawn and many a hid- 
 eous picture that in glowing colors, in 
 ruby, blood, gold, jasper, paints the set- 
 ting sun. You will forgive me this assump- 
 tion, nay, perchance, will laud the author for 
 saying briefly: The sun has just set over 
 Prague. . . . 
 
 It is Saturday, in the month of May. 
 The scene is in the Fifth Ward. 
 
 The sultry day for the first time draws a 
 deep breath after the sun's decline. Mois- 
 ture is borne through the air ; ill odors, grow- 
 ing more intense, are wafted through 
 the short, narrow, crooked streets. The 
 wretched shops of the pious children of
 
 10 MAGDALEN 
 
 Israel are shut, but the pulse of life still 
 beats around them in boisterous measure. 
 A variegated crowd of people surges here, 
 talking, laughing, jesting: laborers who 
 come in their grimy clothes after having 
 received their pay; soldiers and loiterers; 
 factory girls with yellow faces, their hair 
 combed over their brows; prattling do- 
 mestics vociferate around the water basin; 
 women, with their pale babes in their arms, 
 are standing at the doors of the houses, con- 
 versing in shrill voices ; in the basement tav- 
 erns the gaslight, subdued through the red 
 curtains, already flickers, and here and there 
 are heard the sounds of the accordion. The 
 pulse of life is beating strong. 
 
 Eight o'clock. The bells are tolling over 
 Prague. The proud harmonious tones fall 
 upon this scene of animation. A sacred 
 moment ! Over this extinct sultry day, over 
 this sea of red roofs, over this varied mass 
 of spires, over this grey that is flooding the 
 tangle of sweltering streets, over all that
 
 MAGDALEN 11 
 
 is there in motion, over its empty pleasure, 
 its sorrow, pride, misery, passion, hypocrisy 
 and love, over this weak, puny, ephemeral 
 human "ego," the hollow brass sends forth 
 into the vault of heaven its Ave Maria! 
 
 At the corner of two crooked streets rises 
 a freshly white-washed house, towering by 
 a whole story above the red roofs of its 
 neighbors. The blinds are drawn in all the 
 windows; a dead silence is everywhere. 
 Only above, in a dormer window, are seen 
 a white head and two folded, sere hands, 
 those of an old woman who, praying, looks 
 up to the ruddy clouds. A beautiful con- 
 trast : below, the wild, whirling, untram- 
 melled life; here, its end. The white 
 hair, the prayer, and . . . 
 
 Like some sentimental poet, I came very 
 near spinning out a beautiful simile, but for- 
 tunately the old woman, blinded by the 
 splendor of the sky, looked down upon the 
 whirling life below. Her kindly old eyes 
 suddenly flashed with surprise, and her dry,
 
 12 MAGDALEN 
 
 wizened hands unfolded themselves from 
 their attitude of prayer and smoothed her 
 hair, and the old woman disappeared 
 from the window. 
 
 Some one had just entered the house. 
 With sure steps he walked up the creaking 
 staircase, touched the bell at one of the 
 doors, stepped in, and crossed a small ante- 
 chamber. There stood the pious woman of 
 the dormer window: "Ah!" and she gave 
 him her hand. He pressed it with the tips 
 of his fingers. With her other hand the 
 woman opened a door, and she began to tell 
 him things, a senseless chaos, but her 
 guest, without saying a word, stepped into 
 the opened apartment, though it was merged 
 in darkness. 
 
 "I should sooner have expected death to- 
 day, than you," proceeded the old woman's 
 hoarse voice. "How many weeks have 
 passed since you last honored us with your 
 visit? Why, 'tis half a year! Just dread- 
 ful! Your acquaintances told me that you
 
 MAGDALEN 13 
 
 were married! I only laughed, for I am a 
 doubting Thomas! He and marrying! 
 Never, said I !" 
 
 A tall waiter lighted the three large chan- 
 deliers, and the parlor, with its gold-red wall 
 paper and its multitude of small marble 
 tables, was disclosed to the eye. Chromos 
 of half-naked female figures in baroque 
 frames looked down from the walls. A 
 piano stood behind a drawn portiere. In 
 the air was a strange odor of wine, tobacco, 
 and the scent of unbraided hair. 
 
 My hero (my reader will forgive me for 
 dragging him into parentheses, but these are 
 my study, where I will converse at liberty 
 with my reader without witnesses. So, this 
 my "hero" is not a hero in the sense of those 
 ancient romanticists; I call him so only by 
 habit, before announcing his name) , my hero 
 seated himself in a corner, crossed his legs, 
 placed his silk hat upon the table, cast his 
 gloves into it, and smiled at the old woman 
 who sat opposite him.
 
 14 MAGDALEN 
 
 "Well, how is it with you?" he said, wring- 
 ing his hands so that they cracked in their 
 joints. 
 
 "Everything has gone as usual. . . . 
 But no, something has happened: my Kata 
 has died!" 
 
 "Ah, when?" 
 
 "Five or six weeks ago. I just happened 
 to call upon her at the hospital. Poor little 
 creature! Would you believe it, she was 
 but sixteen? She was so loath to die! 
 How timidly and pitifully her eyes looked 
 at me! And she was so changed, beyond 
 recognition. . . ." Tiny tears glistened on 
 the old lady's lashes. 
 
 "Hem, you are sentimental, madam, I de- 
 clare," and the guest smiled. 
 
 "That moment is never to be forgotten," 
 added the madam. 
 
 The conversation slowly proceeded from 
 one thing to another. The guest made 
 ironical glosses, and the old lady, whenever 
 possible, returned to the broad stream of her
 
 MAGDALEN 15 
 
 feelings. Then the parlor brightened up. 
 There entered female figures in gay, fantas- 
 tic raiments, a bold glance in their burning 
 eyes, their alabaster bosoms uncovered, their 
 hair exhaling pungent perfumes, their arms 
 bare, their calves filled out, in short, these 
 are the bankrupts of feeling, who in this 
 gambling-house of the world play for a piece 
 of bread. To-day they have youth, beauty, 
 jests and smiles, to-morrow another card 
 will fall for them, and everything is forever 
 lost. . . . 
 
 They greeted the guest with a mute incli- 
 nation of their heads, while he scanned them 
 with a forced and cold glance. They 
 lighted their cigarettes, hummed tunes, 
 made careless jests, just as they had the 
 day before, and as, perchance, they would 
 again on the morrow. 
 
 "There, that slender one in the black 
 dress," the madam whispered to the guest. 
 "I take the liberty of recommending her to 
 your kind attention."
 
 16 MAGDALEN 
 
 But that slender one in the black dress, 
 which daintily draped her bosom, was the 
 only one among these Venuses of whom you 
 might have said that she reminded you some- 
 how of Marguerite: her face was fresh, her 
 blue eyes had not sunk in their sockets, her 
 hair was beautifully combed over her fore- 
 head. She tried to smoke a cigarette, but 
 it was difficult work, as the smoke choked 
 her and she coughed and laughed, until her 
 small teeth shone like a row of pearls. 
 
 "Miss Lucy !" called the madam. 
 
 She came and bowed to the guest with 
 graceful playfulness. She seated herself 
 opposite him, looked into his eyes, and 
 burst out laughing. The madam went 
 out. 
 
 The laughter of those blue eyes shook 
 every nerve of my hero: his ironical apathy 
 fell from him, and a gentle warmth pervaded 
 his whole soul. Something urged him on to 
 laugh aloud with the careless laughter of 
 a child, to joke harmlessly, and then again
 
 MAGDALEN 17 
 
 to speak entertainingly. Oh, that witch- 
 ery of woman's eyes! 
 
 (My reader, pray, listen! The psycholo- 
 gist will regard my weak attempt at depict- 
 ing the characters of my dramatis personce 
 in general as a kind of somersault, so I 
 will announce in advance : I do not believe 
 in what people call character. My view 
 differs from that of the best philosophers, 
 I see in character a little matter, a little 
 mysticism and mystery, yet it is fit for my 
 discourse. Our "ego" is nothing but a slave 
 of the stomach, the weather, and the nerves, 
 and it generally submits to another "ego" 
 of our neighbor, if that be stronger, or more 
 inviting, or the opposite of our own "ego." 
 In fact, we are nothing but chameleons, 
 though I do confess that we preserve a weak 
 layer of our elementary color which gener- 
 ally shines through the mass of borrowed 
 hues. Or, to speak in the language of the 
 scientists, man is the result of external 
 forces, and the soul is a photographic plate.
 
 18 MAGDALEN 
 
 Magnetism, but enough of grey theories.) 
 So the two were discoursing quite viva- 
 ciously and laughing. 
 
 What beautiful themes they touched 
 upon! Whitsuntide pilgrimages and our 
 country people, fireworks on the Moldau 
 River, the gay life in the streets, and so forth, 
 and so forth, themes that have interested 
 many people, even of finer mettle than my 
 hero. 
 
 The parlor grew more noisy. The guests 
 sat at the tables drinking wine and soda- 
 water. Here, near the table of my hero, 
 Mr. Plojhar knitted his beautiful brow as 
 he started his third cigarette, and then some- 
 how grew pale. There Mr. Broucek re- 
 lated his endless travels, until a lithesome 
 maiden closed his lips with her hand; there 
 Verunsky, a dissipated sculptor, bent his 
 head upon the table, while his friend, la Vie, 
 kept on dinning into his ears poisonous 
 maxims. Farther away Mr. Klement (I 
 do not know his surname) sat alone in a cor-
 
 MAGDALEN 19 
 
 ner writing a sentimental letter (I think the 
 fourth) to his friend on the subject of his 
 platonic love, all the time stealthily eyeing 
 a seductive brunette. In another place 
 
 V 
 
 Bohdan, a landed proprietor from Sumava, 
 who had had bad luck with his country- 
 women, threw himself at once upon the slip- 
 pery path of life, and to all appearances was 
 better off here: with one arm he embraced 
 the neck of a black-eyed bayadere, while 
 with the other he smilingly carried a glass to 
 her lips. There again gloomy Ronovsky 
 made a desperate attempt to rival Onyegin's 
 frosty calm. 
 
 (I have a long poem on Ronovsky, I think 
 some ten thousand verses, all in rhyme, put 
 away in my desk. Like all poets I at one 
 time wrote a Faust, but a higher Providence 
 has watched over him: my Ronovsky is for- 
 ever buried in my desk, labelled: antiqua.) 
 
 A few more men, some older, others 
 younger, whom I do not care to mention 
 specially, were passing their time with the
 
 20 MAGDALEN 
 
 maidens. The air was soon filled with 
 smoke, and became stifling with the hot 
 breaths of people, but our acquaintances 
 peacefully continued their conversation. 
 
 "So you have been in Italy? I envy you. 
 I should gladly give half of my life for half 
 a year there." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, it is something grand, and it can- 
 not be easily expressed in words. I feel a 
 breath of it in the poem: 'Kennst du das 
 Land 3 . . ." 
 
 "Dreams, dreams! It is but a poetic tra- 
 dition. Just listen, I pray, to my impres- 
 sions: On a hired donkey I crossed the 
 Apennines. Well, there was Florence, the 
 blue Arno, blue skies, immense olive groves, 
 but over everything lay the traces of mil- 
 lions of stupid eyes, open mouths, and echoes 
 of Baedeker quotations." 
 
 Just then Mr. Ploj bar's contemptuous, 
 indignant look reached my hero from the 
 neighboring table.
 
 MAGDALEN 21 
 
 "Rome," he continued, "is indeed a thing 
 of beauty. I have run through the churches, 
 have taken in the art collections, have 
 crawled through every catacomb, have seen 
 a couple of cardinals, the Pope, and in the 
 Parliament have witnessed a fine sally of 
 the Opposition, have wearied myself in 
 walking through the Campagna, have 
 cursed its stage-coaches, its heat, its flies, the 
 radishes, and the garlic, the terror of the 
 Italian cuisine, suddenly one's breast is 
 torn by a painful longing for one's smoky 
 Prague, and the fastest express that takes 
 one north seems to one to be moving at a 
 snail's pace. . . ." 
 
 Here the sharp, whirling sounds from the 
 piano interrupted my hero. They were 
 playing a waltz. 
 
 The wave of tones brought new life to 
 the company. One of the maidens marked 
 time with her foot, another clapped her 
 hands; a young fellow with a big shock of 
 hair put his arm around the waist of a slen-
 
 22 MAGDALEN 
 
 der blonde, and they danced between the 
 tables. 
 
 As if in a dream, Lucy sang in a soft 
 soprano voice : 
 
 "Only once we live down here: 
 Beauty, youth soon disappear ; 
 Age runs riot with our face, 
 Of our youth leaves not a trace." 
 
 She bent her head. Suddenly sadness 
 flashed in her eyes, but only for a moment. 
 She stroked her forehead with her open 
 hand. She threw her head back, as if in 
 defiance, and laughed: "Well, what else?" 
 
 Reader, do not judge from the characters 
 and from the surroundings that the author 
 of this poem is a worldly or licentious man, 
 rebelling against the order of things, an 
 immoral, worthless cynic, who wishes to hurl 
 poesy from its pure azure heights into the 
 mire of orgies. No, he is a common Philis- 
 tine, a slave of his office, a citizen who pays 
 his taxes and is peaceably inclined ; who eats
 
 MAGDALEN 23 
 
 and drinks in measure ; who at supper reads 
 the editorials and the news in the daily 
 paper, for which, as is proper, he has paid 
 his subscription in advance; who at times 
 borrows a book that has been favorably 
 reviewed, and, reading it, is glad if on the 
 last page everything ends with a marriage; 
 who retires after ten o'clock and sleeps a 
 peaceful, restful sleep until half past 
 seven. . . . The verses, which he has 
 written in leisure hours, were at first a little 
 strange, yet sounded harmonious and con- 
 tained an approved moral, so he is proba- 
 bly not far from right when he thinks that 
 after his demise he will be pleasantly remem- 
 bered by his acquaintances. Such, in real- 
 ity, is the author. 
 
 Furthermore, he makes the solemn prom- 
 ise that from this place we shall issue among 
 decent people, that he will describe peaceful 
 life, christenings, weddings, the conversa- 
 tions of our good neighbors, and so he
 
 24 MAGDALEN 
 
 hopes that on the last page of his book he 
 will bid his reader good-bye in the best of 
 friendship. . . . 
 
 ". . . Tell me, how could you with such 
 a pure soul, with those clear eyes of yours 
 have come to this bagnio? Did not the 
 world have some other place for you?" 
 
 "Oh, Lord," she smiled, "you are not the 
 first man to ask me this. It is easy enough 
 to get here, before one knows how. . . . 
 A pretty face and a little misfortune, and 
 the world is at once as an inclined plane: 
 one step, and you are below. However, 
 I often think that there is probably an eter- 
 nal law that for some there is no other place 
 than here below . . . below. ..." 
 
 "With what enviable calm you look upon 
 your life!" he said, with some irony. 
 "What, is there not a moment in this impure 
 atmosphere when you feel yourself choking 
 terribly? Do you ever think of that? Do 
 you ever think of the future?"
 
 MAGDALEN 25 
 
 "What good would it do? How will it 
 help me? No, I do not think, and there is 
 no time for such foolishness as thinking." 
 
 My hero was in a strange state. A cer- 
 tain solemn moral rectitude took possession 
 of him. Every word which he spoke hov- 
 ered for a while in his soul. He secretly 
 admired himself, and somehow valued him- 
 self more highly on account of the wealth 
 of morality which was suddenly manifested 
 within him. He was, however, unpleas- 
 antly irritated by the calm of the girl. He 
 would have preferred to see her sad, and in 
 tears ; would have wished to hear some story 
 colored with romance; would have liked to 
 see her press her hands to her brow in 
 despair, but no. She sat opposite him at 
 a small table in her narrow room, her hands 
 resting in her lap, her blue eyes, two brilliant 
 points beaming in the pupils, looking into 
 the flame of the lamp. 
 
 From below came the sounds of the piano, 
 laughter and trampling of feet, but softly
 
 26 MAGDALEN 
 
 and subdued, as if it were some echo from 
 far, far away. . . . 
 
 "Future! Why should we think of some- 
 thing that is not yet?" she said calmly. 
 
 "No, you lack the proper understanding 
 of this life," he continued excitedly, "and 
 what a fairy thing this life is ! The sun, the 
 stars, the fragrance of spring, just think! 
 Your dead eyes are lying somewhere down 
 below in a coffin, and above, everything 
 keeps growing, shining, blooming, do you 
 not feel a terrible, endless sorrow? And 
 your life. ... I swear to you, I would 
 rather see you in that coffin than here. 
 How will it all end? Just as with Kata, of 
 whom your madam has been telling me to- 
 day? Or will you grow old here in misery, 
 slime, and shame?" My hero drew a deep 
 breath, partly from moral excitement, 
 partly from a feeling of pity. 
 
 "No, no, no, it will be different. It must 
 be." 
 
 "How?"
 
 MAGDALEN 27 
 
 "I do not know. I shan't grow old. I 
 shall go away before that." 
 
 "You will go away? Where, how? It is 
 too ridiculous ! You are talking at random ! 
 Tell me. . . ." 
 
 "I will. Listen. I have attacks of vir- 
 tue, I know not why, moments, when sud- 
 denly everything overpowers me, my youth, 
 my life of to-day, my life of to-morrow, and 
 I feel only an infinite pity for myself, and 
 nothing else. And sometimes I think that 
 some day I must, at such a moment, leave 
 this house, must fly like an arrow through 
 the muddy street and down to the water. 
 . . . That's the stronghold from which I 
 look at my life, and at the future. . . . 
 But the terror that freezes every nerve dur- 
 ing such consolation! . . . The river is 
 terrible, and greenish, and cold, ugh . . ." 
 and a chill shook her body, her white hand 
 fell upon the table, and the slender fingers 
 tapped it nervously. 
 
 My hero, a man fond of complete effects
 
 28 MAGDALEN 
 
 (we are all moderns), felt that something 
 was lacking, as he beheld that attitude of the 
 fair girl. 'Tis true, he felt a sympathetic 
 pity, but that sympathy was only hunger 
 (do you know, my reader, that the suffer- 
 ings and sorrows of others are soothing to 
 our nerves?) and he was the more hungry, 
 since she had permitted him to taste a piece 
 of her suffering soul. He wanted to have 
 all of her, he again asked for her past, and 
 he asked it in a sympathetic and subdued 
 voice, looking all the time earnestly into her 
 eyes. 
 
 She spoke softly, in short, abrupt sen- 
 tences. 
 
 Her father had been a teacher in a coun- 
 try town. Her mother had died young. 
 Lucy grew up by herself, without guidance 
 or surveillance. Her father began to dissi- 
 pate. He played at cards through whole 
 nights, drank, and gave himself up to de- 
 bauches. She, in the meantime, at home, 
 read anything that fell into her hands.
 
 MAGDALEN 29 
 
 While still young she allowed herself to 
 be misled, not from love or passion, but 
 simply from curiosity. Then her father was 
 discharged. They went to Prague. Here 
 she became a governess to two children of a 
 rich townsman. Her master was a man of 
 the world, and her mistress pursued her at 
 every step with groundless jealousy. 
 
 Her father took every penny from her, 
 all the time complaining that it was too 
 little. . . . Oh, that father! In all her life 
 she had not heard one word of love from his 
 lips. She held her mother in pious memory, 
 and did not believe in the love of fathers. In 
 three months that house was a veritable hell 
 to her. She left. Her father found her a 
 place as a saleswoman in a shop. A new 
 hell. She did not manage to earn sufficient 
 wages there. Her companions tormented 
 her with biting remarks. Her employer 
 scolded her with coarse words. She soon 
 left the place. 
 
 Her father held a lengthy discourse with
 
 30 MAGDALEN 
 
 her upon the whole misery of life and upon 
 so-called virtue which, he said, was but a 
 word with women; then he hinted to her 
 that she should walk upon another road. 
 So she did. She was now living better than 
 in that other world : her father was satisfied, 
 the old madam loved her, what else could 
 she wish? Of course, she understood the 
 motives of the madam's love, but she ac- 
 cepted it gratefully, for love had, indeed, 
 been a rare thing in her life. My hero was 
 satisfied. With his right hand he drummed 
 upon the table, with his left he supported 
 his chin. They both remained silent for 
 quite a while. Finally he arose. He 
 pressed her hand and dryly remarked: 
 
 "It will be well, if to-day I leave you 
 thus. . . ." 
 
 He went. 
 
 Reader, I see you looking with misgivings 
 at the author of these lines! In fact, I am 
 telling you of this hero, drag out hundreds
 
 MAGDALEN 31 
 
 of verses on him, analyze his soul for you, 
 and yet, contrary to all proprieties, I have 
 forgotten to describe him or at least to intro- 
 duce him! You have probably said ten 
 times: behold, the older generation is right 
 when it says that the younger is slovenly in 
 everything! Reader, I ask you in all 
 earnestness, recall all the books that you 
 have read, recall all the descriptions of 
 people, which authors have given with praise- 
 worthy minuteness! Your word of honor, 
 tell me: are you able to reproduce a single 
 one of them? I am not. 
 
 If I told you that my hero had scanty 
 hair, as is the case with modern youths, a 
 pointed moustache, dark eyes with nothing 
 in them to attract you, his nose not more 
 characteristic, a swarthy face, a not more 
 distinctive figure, long nails on short fingers, 
 that he was fashionably dressed, tell me, 
 would you know him any better? Then 
 that is superfluous. His given name was 
 Jifi.
 
 32 MAGDALEN 
 
 That name is not my poetic license, 
 though it may seem to be so: we have not a 
 poem, romance, sketch, or novel, in which 
 the hero's name is not "Jiff." His deceased 
 father, he had a large estate, extensive 
 fields, and a mill in the country, two leagues 
 from Prague, was a reader of Bohemian 
 history, and with his whole soul loved our 
 Podebrad, 1 so his son had to be called 
 Jiff. 
 
 He was early sent to school. The kind 
 eyes of an aunt watched over him; the old 
 widow was childless and soon became the 
 slave of the small despot. He passed the 
 Gymnasium with honors, drank deeply from 
 the ancient well of the eternally fresh 
 classics, as we have drunk; and there were 
 permanent traces of it in his soul: he knew 
 that Cassar was a great Roman with a big 
 bald head, and that, alas! he had written 
 dreadfully insipid memoirs; that Horace 
 
 JJiff (George) of PodSbrad, born 1420, was the last 
 and most famous of Bohemia's native kings (1458-1471).
 
 MAGDALEN 33 
 
 had kept his poems for nine years in his desk 
 (Jiff, by the way, thought they ought to 
 have remained there forever) ; that Lucullus 
 was sweet-tongued ; that Cicero had spoken 
 a great deal. The refined youth had with 
 difficulty carried away from the Greek 
 world an equally valuable store of informa- 
 tion. Besides, he remembered the jokes 
 and anecdotes about all the funny profes- 
 sors, in short, he brought as much from 
 school into life as we once did. . . . 
 
 Then he studied law, during which time 
 he danced at all the great balls, talked in 
 students' circles, dragged the carriages of 
 famous singers, and in the morning thun- 
 dered with his companions the national air 
 in the sleeping streets, proudly wearing the 
 Panslavic tricolor under his laced coat. 
 
 He had read a little. He remembered 
 best such passages as he could use to inter- 
 lard his talk with speeches. Finally he said 
 forever "vale" to his studies and entered 
 life. Being rich, he became the master of
 
 34 MAGDALEN 
 
 his time. He rose late, and cursed the tire- 
 some forenoons which he passed in the de- 
 serted Pffkopi. After dinner he sat with 
 his companions in the coffeehouse, where 
 jokes, jests, anecdotes were told, and the 
 daily papers run over, and then he went back 
 to the Prikopi. 
 
 Here Jif i was in his element. A chain of 
 lamps flickered in the darkness. Feminine 
 eyes glistened from behind curtains. The 
 rustling of dresses, the conversation, the 
 clatter of steps, the passing of various forms 
 gave him a pleasant thrill. He exchanged 
 greetings with his feminine friends. Here 
 and there he dropped a few words in pass- 
 ing: a new debauch, a new scandal, some- 
 times a new toilet. . . . 
 
 Then, towards seven, he visited the thea- 
 tre, not from any predilection, but be- 
 cause some of his friends went there, and be- 
 cause the next day he could wittily criticise 
 the play and the actors. The ballet, in par- 
 ticular, was honored by his hearty applause.
 
 MAGDALEN 35 
 
 A year before, his father had died. He 
 had buried him with ostentatious pomp (five 
 priests, fine music, all kinds of societies), 
 at once ordered for the tomb a marble monu- 
 ment with a gilt inscription, jumped into a 
 coach, and had himself driven back to 
 Prague. . . . 
 
 So he walked through the damp night. 
 The gaslight merged upon the wet sidewalk 
 with the pale reflection of the moon. The 
 rows of houses were hid in a grey darkness. 
 The windowpanes glistened with a feeble 
 light. Nearby rattled a coach, dully re- 
 sounding in the empty street; a citizen, 
 stepping heavily on the sidewalk, muttered 
 something to himself ; a woman rushed by in 
 the shadow of the walls. 
 
 Jiff strolled on with bent head. He was 
 not meditating. He saw there in the room 
 the slender maiden looking into the lamp 
 light. Her lips said, "There is not time for 
 such a foolish thing as thinking." Jifi
 
 36 MAGDALEN 
 
 softly and unconsciously repeated these 
 words. 
 
 Suddenly a crowd of persons crying, bel- 
 lowing, scolding, rushed out of a small inn 
 in front of him. In the stream of light 
 which burst forth from the open door 
 gleamed heavy fists; laughter resounded, 
 they were beating some one. Then the light 
 and the disturbance disappeared, and from 
 the interior of the inn were borne the dead- 
 ened sounds of singing and the wailing of 
 an accordion. 
 
 From the dark pavement arose the figure 
 of a man, who kept on cursing: "Mob! 
 Rascals! Rascals! Scoundrels! I a cheat 
 at cards! . . . You, sir," turning to Jifi, 
 "you know yourself how easily a card will 
 fall from your hands upon the ground! 
 Serves me right, serves me right! Why do 
 I, an educated man, have anything to do 
 with such scoundrels!" He walked by the 
 side of Jifi. 
 
 "There you have our people! What a
 
 MAGDALEN 37 
 
 race we are! Eh? A cancer which de- 
 stroys us nationally and politically, no 
 foundation . . ." he coughed. "I know 
 the people. ... I, sir, have been a teacher 
 . . . you are surprised? I now no longer 
 wonder . . . the product of circumstances 
 and of the times . . . thus does fate hurl a 
 man down. . . . 'Tis my good luck, sir, 
 that I have a daughter. ... A good child 
 . . . she is the Antigone of my misery. . . . 
 No doubt, sir, your heart is in the right spot, 
 and you sympathize with me, I thank you. 
 Permit me to make you acquainted with my 
 daughter, there in that house, don't be 
 surprised." 
 
 Jiff quickened his steps, and he at once 
 turned around the corner of the first street. 
 He shook himself, as if a spray of mud had 
 fallen upon him. 
 
 In some tower a clock droned out the 
 hours in even measure. ... At the distant 
 railroad station a locomotive whistled . . t 
 Again quiet . . . quiet. . . .
 
 38 MAGDALEN 
 
 "The daughter a prostitute, her father a 
 scoundrel of the worst type, to-day I have 
 had the honor of making the acquaintance 
 of a charming family ..." Jifi said iron- 
 ically to himself, but immediately came the 
 head with the unbraided hair, and those eyes, 
 those pure eyes looked long at him with an 
 unspeakable reproach.
 
 II 
 
 READER, I warn you against psycho- 
 logical authors ! Do not believe in the 
 logical sequence of thoughts which, they say, 
 manifests itself in the souls of heroes and 
 heroines. Do not believe in their long-spun 
 monologues, nor in the reminiscences which 
 are drawn out in chainlike order from souls 
 stirred by dreams, those are old, well- 
 known nets which the sly author, following 
 the good examples of others, casts for your 
 unwary faith: he spreads them out, rubs his 
 hands in glee, and whispers softly: "Only 
 read, and you will be mine." 
 
 Our soul . . . just look into it: it is as 
 though you saw the surface of the water. 
 Upon it is beautifully reflected the azure of 
 the skies, the white cloud, the splendor of the 
 sun, the ruddy west, the bird that flits some- 
 
 39
 
 40 MAGDALEN 
 
 where into the distance, the tree that leans 
 over it. A soft breeze gently ripples it, but 
 the raging storm destroys that pure mirror, 
 and you see the dark waves towering and 
 driving each other, you hear their despairing 
 disconsolate melody, even thus we know 
 our soul to be. 
 
 Below, somewhere in the depth, a strange 
 world is hidden from your view. There 
 may be there an abyss, sand, rocks, a coral 
 reef, nacre, whirlpools, strange creatures, 
 there is something within you that you know 
 not of. ... Only rarely, during quiet 
 sleep, do you for a moment look into its 
 mysterious depth. Sometimes a mighty 
 storm throws up upon the shore some tiny 
 shells, or some monstrous thing. 
 
 Our thoughts are nothing more than 
 silvery fishes, daughters of the deep, which 
 we see for a moment leisurely swimming in 
 masses near the sunlit surface. Here and 
 there one will flash like a silver coin in the 
 air, will flash and disappear. . . . Where
 
 MAGDALEN 41 
 
 are here the logical steps? Why did it flash 
 by, why at that particular moment? 
 Whence did it come, and whither does it 
 swim? . . . 
 
 My reader, I warn you against psycho- 
 logical authors! 
 
 Nine o'clock. Jifi raised his head a little 
 from his white feather bed, and looked with 
 a sleepy eye at the green shade, through 
 which the thin sunbeams burst into the room 
 like rods of gold. He glanced at .the cage 
 where a canary was just then dipping its 
 bushy head into its bathtub. Then he 
 yawned loudly and looked at the ceiling, and 
 at the lamp, around which tiny flies were 
 whirling and softly buzzing. 
 
 Suddenly there flashed through his brain 
 this picture, just this picture: he saw the 
 maiden with unbraided blonde hair looking 
 into the lamplight: "I do not think, and 
 there is no time for such foolishness as think- 
 ing." The picture disappeared. 
 
 Another scene. The dissolute old man
 
 42 MAGDALEN 
 
 approached him with wavering step: "She 
 is my Antigone," said he. A weak smile 
 twitched Jifi's lips. He stretched himself 
 and placed his arms under his head. . . . 
 
 Then he saw a bit of Italy : a golden coun- 
 try, burnt by the sun. The air in mo- 
 tion. The Apennines. Rocks everywhere. 
 Veined stones all around him. The view 
 was open only in one direction : there, tower- 
 ing sharply against the azure sky, a cy- 
 press stood out, black, sad, disconso- 
 late. . . . 
 
 That flashed by. ... "Rather would I 
 see you lying dead in a coffin, than here 
 alive," thus his own words now were dinning 
 in his soul, and he kept repeating them to 
 the slender maiden who drooped her head to 
 one side. 
 
 "Was I not a fool last night? Did not 
 the girl secretly laugh at my words?" the 
 thought suddenly passed through his brain. 
 And thus through his soul flashed scenes, 
 pictures and words without logic or connec-
 
 MAGDALEN 43 
 
 tion, like silvery fishes that gleam near the 
 calm surface of the sunlit waters. . . . 
 
 Some one knocked softly at the door. 
 
 "Aunty?" 
 
 Into the room stepped a small, wizened, 
 yellow-faced old woman, in a white cap, with 
 pale-blue, kindly eyes, her sere lips mutter- 
 ing a "Good morning." She placed a tray 
 with coffee upon a small table near the bed, 
 looked lovingly at the disheveled head upon 
 the pillows, but did not speak. 
 
 "Well, Aunty," began Jifi, "how did you 
 rest? What is the news? Well, how are 
 your poor people?" he asked in a careless 
 manner, as he drank his coffee. 
 
 "I dreamt of the country and of your 
 father, a mixed-up dream. I really do 
 not understand what it all comes from. . . . 
 My poor? I sent yesterday a few rags to 
 the mason's wife nearby. That woman has 
 five children. Her husband was killed a 
 month ago while at work. ... So I have 
 now five families upon my hands. . . ."
 
 44 MAGDALEN 
 
 "I see," smiled Jiff, "the whole Ward will 
 soon be depending upon you. You will 
 have more orders than the best tailor in 
 Prague. Your whole house will be a small 
 store for children's clothing!" 
 
 "Laugh as much as you please ! I would 
 not mind that. If only my eyes would serve 
 me better. . . . O Lord, that is my 
 pleasure, my amusement. Jificek, 1 I just 
 wanted to ask you what we are to do this 
 year about going into the country? When 
 shall we leave? It is already hot, and half 
 of Prague is already away." 
 
 "Foolish woman, what is it that drives you 
 out into the country ? A fine life it is ! To 
 sit in a room, where through the windows 
 you may smell manure. At night the frogs 
 croak you to sleep. In the morning there is 
 the cock. No end of flies everywhere. 
 And then the gossips of the best local 
 society, of Mrs. Judge, Mrs. Taxcollector, 
 Mrs. Doctor. And those homely, awkward 
 
 i Diminutive of Jiff (George).
 
 MAGDALEN 45 
 
 maidens, with their tiny brains. . . . Well, 
 if you want to, go," 
 
 "No, Jiricek, don't be angry, I shan't go. 
 I meant it for your own good. You look 
 bilious, and you are thin. Believe me, Italy 
 did not do you any good." 
 
 "Oh, leave me alone with your care of 
 me! Thin! Do you expect me always to 
 be well, until I give up the ghost?" 
 
 "My Jiricek." His aunt wrung her 
 hands, and two large tears glistened in her 
 dim eyes. She shook her head and went 
 out. 
 
 This nettled Jifi a little. Thus fre- 
 quently ended their conversations. He felt 
 pity for the good old soul, and often a kindly 
 word stood on his lips, but was choked in his 
 throat by some customary inconsiderateness. 
 Perchance it was the fear lest he should sud- 
 denly find himself in a ridiculous, stupid 
 attitude of sentimentality. 
 
 So he waved his hand, arose, and washed 
 himself, dressed himself, combed his hair for
 
 46 MAGDALEN 
 
 a long time, curled his mustache, poured 
 some perfume upon his shirt front, handker- 
 chief, and coat, rapidly surveyed himself in 
 the mirror, pulled on his yellow gloves, and 
 went out, whistling the march from Faust. 
 
 The day dragged on painfully, endlessly, 
 and he waited for the evening. As if at- 
 tracted by some magnetic power, he has- 
 tened at twilight to the house in the Fifth 
 Ward. 
 
 (Enough. The reader will permit me to 
 become a dry, businesslike, precise reporter. 
 I have reasons for it. Many people, honest, 
 respectable people, pastors of pious souls, 
 virtuous ladies, will perhaps bid farewell to 
 the author and this, his story. I should not 
 like that, for I have in my head some six 
 thousand verses more, and they echo within 
 me and press me on, may I not be so neg- 
 lected as that famous man in the fable, who 
 whispered his woe into the bosom of a hollow 
 old willow.)
 
 MAGDALEN 47 
 
 Jifi was for a whole evening drowned 
 in the glitter of Lucy's eyes. For a whole 
 evening he felt within himself a sense of 
 moral rectitude, and he chid and pitied her. 
 He spoke impassionately, and he spoke 
 much. At midnight he pressed her hand, 
 and went home through the damp night. 
 
 As he walked, the icy calm returned to 
 him. He called himself an ideal ass and 
 fool, to allow himself to be seduced by 
 treacherously clear eyes to play a stupid 
 comedy. He swore he would never put his 
 foot again in that house. . . . On reaching 
 home, he retired and slept a peaceful sleep, 
 as ever, until nine. 
 
 So passed five or six days. Jiff became 
 a target for the jokes of his friends. They 
 teased him in the coffeehouse and in the 
 street. They asked for his "Manon," his 
 "charming Manon." They told him how 
 the old madam was cursing him. They said 
 that Lucy had for several days been as coy
 
 48 MAGDALEN 
 
 as a nun, that she shut herself up in her room 
 for the whole day and the whole evening, 
 and that she neither spoke nor smiled, and 
 only answered with a nod of her head all 
 the questions of the old madam. They 
 maintained that she would carry away the 
 prize at an exhibition of virtue. Jifi 
 laughed at all these remarks, but inwardly 
 he felt their biting irony: 
 
 "They are right," thought he; "I am 
 acting ridiculously. A fine ending that! 
 After all that life has taught me, after all 
 that I have experienced, I have sunk into 
 this mire. And what is it that attracts me 
 to it? Is it that ancient Romanticism 
 which they call love? Nonsense, nonsense! 
 These strings have broken in me long ago. 
 It is nothing but an every-day paradox, a 
 flower cast into the mud, which I should 
 otherwise never have noticed in my life. . . . 
 Let us make an end of it!" 
 
 All kinds of things occurred to him: to 
 disappear, to travel, but then the final
 
 MAGDALEN 49 
 
 effect would be lacking. He would only be 
 over and again ridiculous, like a detected 
 schoolboy. But why run? He would go 
 once more into that place, would look her 
 up like anybody else, would treat her like 
 anybody else, would pay her like anybody 
 else, for had she not a superb body, and 
 would it not be glorious to abate the fire of 
 his passion by it? . . . a dainty morsel . . . 
 why had he not thought sooner of it? Then 
 he could again sit with a clear brow in the 
 circle of his friends. 
 
 A gloomy, leaden night descended upon 
 the jumble of streets. The sky was filled 
 with heavy clouds, and stifling vapors rose 
 into the hot air. The gaslight flickered 
 weakly. Here and there a few small drops 
 fell on the dust of the pavement. A murky 
 moment that chokes the human throat. The 
 soul is crowded in an awful circle, in which 
 it tosses about aimlessly and hopelessly. 
 Gloomy thoughts strike it; gloomy scenes
 
 50 MAGDALEN 
 
 arise in it ; disconsolate melodies stir its very 
 depths. It would gladly fly out of the 
 heavy fetters of its body, away from this 
 beclouded earth, higher, higher, some- 
 where into the ether, beyond the darkling 
 heavens. . . . 
 
 These moments Lucy was passing alone 
 in her room. On the round table before her 
 lay a book, nearby, some needle-work; per- 
 chance both had occupied her since noon. 
 She was sitting with her hands folded in her 
 lap. A lamp with a colored shade stood at 
 the edge of the table, and threw a faint light 
 upon her profile. 
 
 Her bewildered eyes scanned the paper on 
 the opposite wall. At times she closed 
 them, and she sighed, as if exhausted from 
 thinking; at others, again, she softly turned 
 her head, as if answering her own questions. 
 For two or three days she had been thus 
 inwardly agitated. It seemed to her that 
 some illness was overpowering her. The 
 nerves of her head were strained. She
 
 MAGDALEN 51 
 
 often thought she could hear her blood beat- 
 ing in her temples. 
 
 At times she recalled how it all was a 
 month, two weeks before, and she was 
 frightened, for it appeared to her to have 
 happened long, long ago, two or three years 
 ago. She was a stranger to herself, as if 
 some one had withdrawn from under her feet 
 the soil on which she had been standing 
 firmly heretofore, as if, after a dizzy flight, 
 she had fallen into some strange, unknown 
 place. 
 
 She felt a constant sadness. Within her 
 all was black, in her childhood she had 
 seen thus the church on Good-Friday, 
 some one had died. Ah, and her merriment ? 
 She would never laugh again. . . . And as 
 a complement to these pictures appeared to 
 her the head of a man, with thin hair, dark 
 eyes, and impassioned, fervid speech, who 
 said to her: 
 
 "You are wretched, you are miserable in 
 this life! How can you breathe here? Do
 
 52 MAGDALEN 
 
 you think of the future? Will your fate be 
 like Kata's? Or, perhaps, otherwise? I 
 would rather see you in the coffin!" 
 
 When that man for the first time crossed 
 her thoughts (it was that Saturday evening, 
 when she had unbraided her blonde hair), it 
 occurred to her that he was not good-look- 
 ing, but nothing else. Then he came again 
 with that speech. And the words sounded 
 in her soul like the buzzing of a bee in flight, 
 as she wantonly laughed in the circle of her 
 teasing companions. She was angry with 
 herself, and wanted to laugh louder, but the 
 voice whispered sternly to her: "You are 
 wretched! You are judged!" The laugh- 
 ter was choked in her throat. . . . The 
 evening came. She awaited him with secret 
 fear. He came. He again looked at her 
 with pity. And he again spoke sternly. 
 "You are wretched!" 
 
 Strange man! How many others had 
 come before with such reproachful words!
 
 MAGDALEN 53 
 
 But here, in her room, they all were 
 silenced, and only showered kisses upon her 
 body. ... A feeling of disgust and loath- 
 ing overcame her at the recollection of those 
 moments. . . . He did not wish anything 
 else from her but the pressure of her hand ! 
 
 She was instinctively seized by terror in 
 the presence of that man. It would be 
 better, if he did not come at all, if he never 
 came again! Why did he always speak of 
 that which could nevermore be changed? 
 
 She now felt like one who had carried a 
 heavy burden for many hours. Her hands 
 lay helpless in her lap; all her limbs were 
 relaxed ; she felt a heavy weight pressing her 
 down. . . . 
 
 An old, dim picture of childhood kept 
 stubbornly returning to her ; she was sitting 
 somewhere in a distant room upon the floor, 
 playing with a doll. Her mother, whose 
 features she saw but indistinctly, was lean- 
 ing over her, and with dried-up hand was
 
 54 MAGDALEN 
 
 smoothing her hair: "May the Lord give 
 you happiness, my angel!" she heard her 
 whispering. 
 
 She was heavy with grief, and she felt like 
 weeping: "Why did that man come? 
 Why did he tear away from my eyes the 
 veil through which I had been looking at the 
 world and at myself? And at my life! 
 'Judged . . . and outcast !' Will he come 
 to-day?" And she was worried lest he 
 should not come. 
 
 She heard steps, and she recognized them. 
 
 She rapidly cast a look into the mirror, 
 and with her soft hand smoothed the hair 
 over her brow. Jifi entered, faultlessly 
 polite, his hat in his hand, and, as ever, with 
 a civil greeting upon his lips. 
 
 The first raindrops were beating against 
 the windowpanes. There was lightning 
 and thunder. 
 
 He sat opposite her and again looked at 
 those eyes that formerly were gay and smil- 
 ing, but now veiled with sadness. He
 
 MAGDALEN 55 
 
 looked at her, and he felt embarrassed by all 
 his latest plans. He did not wish to think 
 of them even. The blood rushed to his head, 
 and whole streams of great speeches flooded 
 his brain and dinned in his soul. 
 
 In a subdued voice he told her that to-day 
 was the last time he had come to see her; 
 that for days and nights he had been doing 
 nothing but thinking of her, and that now 
 he wanted her decision. He asked her 
 whether she wanted to give up her 
 present life, and that poisonous atmosphere; 
 whether she wished again to live in the 
 world, among decent people, and he con- 
 tinued speaking in that strain. A feeling 
 of elation took possession of him, and he 
 chose words, expressions, and elevated 
 phrases from the poems and novels which 
 he had read at some time or other. 
 
 He told her that he was sufficiently well- 
 to-do, that he was endowed with an active 
 mind, that he was experienced in the ways 
 of the world, and that he also was quite cul-
 
 56 MAGDALEN 
 
 tured, but that, like that man in Holy Writ, 
 who had buried his treasure in the lap of the 
 earth, he had not made use of his life before, 
 neither for his good, nor for the good of the 
 world. . . . He was a cipher among men, 
 and his life had no aims. He had paid for 
 it dearly; had despaired, had suffered cruel 
 losses, much unspeakable torment, and he 
 had nothing from all that but a series of 
 wearisome hours. He knew full well that 
 he would not in the future be any better, 
 that his bones would be lying in a forgotten 
 grave. . . . 
 
 Now, if he could at least draw her out of 
 this mire, and turn her pure eyes once more 
 to the light into which she was now looking, 
 there would then be in his life at least one 
 proper tabula rasa. . . . 
 
 He told her he had an aunt, a good 
 woman, like a child, like an angel, he had 
 himself sinned so much against her that he 
 was ashamed of himself, and he intended
 
 MAGDALEN 57 
 
 to take Lucy to her. Her silvery hair 
 would be Lucy's shield. He was sure she 
 would take care of her as of her daughter. 
 He intended to take her there soon, 
 even that day, right away, if she only 
 wanted. . . . 
 
 Lucy looked with clouded eyes at one 
 spot: at his hand which was nervously 
 twitching upon the table. Without a word, 
 she suddenly seized it, pressed it to her lips, 
 and sobbed out loud. 
 
 The door was softly opened, and the old 
 madam looked discretely into the room. 
 
 "I knocked at least five times, so pardon 
 me for interrupting you. I just wanted to 
 say a few words to you, sir. . . ." 
 
 "And I to you," Jifi answered. "We 
 shall both leave together this evening, the 
 young lady and I, forever." 
 
 "So there will be a wedding?" 
 
 "No, no," Lucy quickly answered, her 
 face and neck burning.
 
 58 MAGDALEN 
 
 "The young lady will return to the world, 
 to respectable people," Jifi explained with 
 dignity. 
 
 "I wish you luck, Lucy, with all my heart, 
 only I do not know, I do not know. . . . ." 
 
 "Enough, enough talking, let us rather 
 pass to business, dear madam," Jifi sternly 
 interrupted her speech. 
 
 "Godspeed, Lucy, Godspeed, my sweet 
 dove ! Remember this : if you do not feel at 
 home in that world, my house will always be 
 open for you." 
 
 Saying this, the old madam kissed Lucy's 
 brow. . . . 
 
 A beating rain fell slantingly upon the 
 street pavement. The gaslight flickered in 
 the lamps ; the sky was black, the city empty. 
 Only here and there a watchful janitor in a 
 dark mantle pressed against the house gate. 
 
 That night Lucy walked to Jifi's house, 
 to begin a new life. . . .
 
 Ill 
 
 A GREY head with a white morning 
 cap, with pale-blue, kindly eyes, 
 looked in through the door. Lucy opened 
 her eyes. 
 
 "What, already up! Good morning! 
 Once more welcome to our home ! Through 
 sleeping? And did you rest well? Dear 
 child, I did not close an eye from joy of 
 having you here," chattered the old lady as 
 she approached the bed. 
 
 She offered her withered hand, and Lucy 
 was about to imprint a kiss upon it, but the 
 old lady exclaimed loudly, "Never mind!" 
 and stroked the girl's forehead and luxuriant 
 hair. 
 
 "I just wanted to ask you whether I might 
 offer you something of my old wardrobe. 
 Poor girl, your garments are so dreadfully 
 
 59
 
 60 MAGDALEN 
 
 wet! To be sure, there was a downpour 
 last night, but why could not my Jin have 
 found a carriage somewhere? Well, well, 
 done is done, I will pick you out some- 
 thing of my own, just for to-day; to-morrow 
 the tailor will bring you new raiment. Per- 
 haps my clothes will fit you. I once was of 
 your height, but that was very long ago, to- 
 day I am but a dried-up old woman. . . . 
 I will be back in fifteen minutes." 
 
 She went away. Lucy was all that time 
 as if on burning coals before that pure, dim 
 eye. She drew her coverlet up to her chin. 
 
 Then she drew a deep breath, jumped out 
 of bed like a doe, and slipped with lightning 
 speed into her stockings and shoes. She 
 threw on a morning gown of a flowery pat- 
 tern, which the thoughtful old lady had left 
 with her the night before, washed herself, 
 arranged her hair a little, and looked curi- 
 ously around the room. 
 
 The living room of a nascent old bachelor. 
 The care of a woman's hand lay over it, but
 
 MAGDALEN 61 
 
 the slovenliness of the inmate peeped out 
 everywhere. Lucy could not harmonize 
 that room with the man who had been so 
 earnest, deep, and stern with her. The 
 table, with photographs of half -naked ballet 
 dancers upon it; the picture of some club 
 upon the wall, the photographer had im- 
 mortalized it during a drinking bout, with 
 Jifi standing in the middle, smoking a pipe 
 and grinning in a peculiar manner; the 
 locked bookcase, with beautifully bound but 
 dust covered books; the hopping canary in 
 its cage, looking playful with its chubby 
 head, these impressions fell like molten 
 drops into the depth of Lucy's soul, where 
 lay the picture of the man, the first who had 
 held her respect. 
 
 She stepped abashed to the window. 
 Drawing the shades, she saw before her a 
 large garden in all its flowery beauty. A 
 fresh breeze bore upwards the scent of the 
 elders and flooded the room with it. The 
 trees were in bloom. Their tops looked as
 
 62 MAGDALEN 
 
 though they had been powdered; their 
 leaves, still wet, moved to and fro, glistening 
 like diamonds. The grass lay prostrate, 
 bent by the weight of the raindrops. The 
 flowers gleamed in fresh colors in their beds. 
 White and blue butterflies flew out of them 
 and flitted upwards. A bird with an irides- 
 cent breast, a finch it was, flapped its 
 wings in the damp sand of the walk, then 
 flew upon a tree, and began to chirp. . . . 
 Beyond the garden could be seen the red 
 roofs of the houses. . . . Over every- 
 thing lay the immeasurable azure of the 
 heavens. . . . 
 
 The calm and peace of that morning, with 
 the smile and power of the spring upon it, 
 stirred Lucy's heart. All suddenly became 
 clear to her oppressed and crushed soul. A 
 new life, a new life! The past was shut 
 out, and she would turn upon her new road 
 with fresh vigor. . . . 
 
 She folded her hands: she was moved by 
 the pious faith of her childish years. From
 
 MAGDALEN 63 
 
 the depth of her soul poured forth fervent, 
 whispered words of prayer. 
 
 She was praying for herself, her father, 
 her dead mother, the kind lady, under whose 
 roof she was living, Jifi, the old woman, her 
 wretched companions, who were still welter- 
 ing in the mire, sympathy for everybody, 
 love for everything flowed from her soul. 
 
 "Dear child, pray, forgive me," were the 
 gentle words which she heard. With gen- 
 tle care, such as we use towards holy relics, 
 the old lady spread strange, old-fashioned 
 garments upon the table and the couch. 
 The perfume of lavender issued from the 
 folds of those raiments. In those colors, 
 ribbons, and frills breathed the forties, by- 
 gone pleasures, bygone beauty, bygone peo- 
 ple, a bygone life. . . . 
 
 "Now this one here I had on as I went 
 with my dear departed husband to the wed- 
 ding of Jifi's father." The old lady handed 
 her a green silk garment which glistened 
 with a reddish-golden sheen.
 
 64 MAGDALEN 
 
 Lucy timidly took off her robe, and still 
 more timidly, began to put on that old-fash- 
 ioned dress. . . . 
 
 "Don't be afraid, dear child," said the old 
 lady, helping her to dress, "it will not tear 
 so easily, for it is good old material. . . . 
 This gown has lasted a long while," she 
 said, as she laced the girl's waist in the back. 
 "My husband was so fond of it ! Ah, he has 
 been lying in God's earth these twenty-five 
 years !" 
 
 She drew a sigh, straightened out the 
 skirt, ruffled the sleeves a little, stepped three 
 steps back, and smiled : 
 
 "Just see how becoming it is to you! 
 What a beautiful girl you are! O Lord! 
 At least take a look at yourself !" 
 
 She led her to the mirror, and, with folded 
 hands, proudly gazed at her. In the look- 
 ing-glass appeared the lithe form of a fair 
 maiden; the bell-shaped skirt hung down 
 from her slender waist, while a girdle of 
 black ribbons wound around it. The bodice
 
 MAGDALEN 65 
 
 was gathered in front into a series of ruffles, 
 and was held below by a gold buckle. The 
 large, puffed-up sleeve made her hand ap- 
 pear as small as a child's. Her neck stood 
 out against the green garment like white 
 marble. Her eyes glistened with a soft, 
 liquid brilliancy. 
 
 "This is the way, my child, the hair used 
 to be combed." The enthusiastic old lady 
 showed her how. "Here over the temples, 
 and down to the cheeks, and then back again, 
 and behind, gathered into a braid, you see, 
 that is the way they wore it then, O Lord, 
 while I am talking to you, the coffee is get- 
 ting cold! Come to breakfast!" 
 
 She led her into the next room. Lucy 
 cast a passing glance around her. In the 
 middle stood a round table, and the cloth, 
 with its floral design, reached the floor. 
 The coffee was steaming in dainty cups. 
 
 She saw a wealth of flowers in the win- 
 dows: cacti, myrtles, azaleas and begonias. 
 On a tall chest of drawers gleamed a gilt
 
 66 MAGDALEN 
 
 crucifix under a glass bell, and nearby stood 
 two wax candles and a clock, the face of 
 which was supported by winding pillars of 
 alabaster. 
 
 Above them, the wall was covered with 
 ambrotypes, with black silhouettes and wax 
 profiles, all in pretty frames. Between 
 the windows, at the head of the room, hung 
 an oil painting of a stern-looking man, in 
 a blue coat and black neckcloth. Under- 
 neath it, behind glass, were a few withered 
 leaves, a dried-up wedding wreath. Near 
 the door was fastened a water basin, and 
 from it peeped fresh twigs of pussy willow. 
 In the corner stood a china closet lined with a 
 shining mirror and full of cups, vases, and 
 silver, and tiny porcelain figures. A yel- 
 low filigree spinet glistened dimly on the 
 other side. Solid antiquity looked out 
 of all corners with a soft and peaceful 
 glance. 
 
 "Do take one more cup! The cream is 
 not very good, city quality ! Do you see
 
 MAGDALEN 67 
 
 there," she pointed at the portrait between 
 the windows, "that's he, my husband. He 
 looks so stern, that was his habit, but his 
 heart was golden. Here you see him once 
 more." She took down from the wall an 
 ambrotype: "You, my dear one, are rest- 
 ing in the Lord!" and she shook her head 
 over it. 
 
 "And this Jiff is just like him: he growls 
 and gets angry, but that is only his shell; 
 the kernel is gold, gold, I tell you," and the 
 old lady continued in that strain. 
 
 Jifi was in the meantime sleeping, in his 
 room that had been changed to the other 
 end of the corridor. She told of his child- 
 hood, his parents, the town where Jifi had a 
 mill and an estate, she spoke with the 
 pleasure of a person who had for a long time 
 been deprived of her full say. 
 
 Then, without saying a word, an old 
 wizened servant cleared off the table and, 
 measuring Lucy with the eye of a basilisk, 
 put upon the table linen, cloth, patterns,
 
 68 MAGDALEN 
 
 ribbons, needles, and thread, each in its 
 proper place, as if by habit. 
 
 The old lady was not disturbed by all 
 this, but continued speaking, holding her 
 hands all the time upon her breast, while her 
 eyes shone with the fire of joyful recollec- 
 tions. 
 
 The blood beat strongly in Lucy's 
 temples. She had not yet spoken a word; 
 she was waiting with trembling for some 
 question, though she did not know what it 
 was to be. She was waiting, like a captured 
 animal, for some sudden injury; but the old 
 lady kept on talking, never asking a ques- 
 tion, and resting her eyes from time to 
 time upon her with unspeakable kindness. 
 Something was choking Lucy, and she 
 would fain have put all her strength in one 
 painful cry, suddenly, some strange tor- 
 rent carried her off her feet, sent her head 
 a-whirling, she sobbed out loud, tears 
 burst forth in her eyes, and with a subdued 
 cry she fell to the feet of the old lady.
 
 MAGDALEN 69 
 
 "Dear child, my child, what is the matter 
 with you?" The old lady was frightened, 
 and she lifted her up. 
 
 Lucy hid her face in her hands and 
 made a confession. Words, incoherent, 
 bitter, terrible, poured forth from her 
 stormy breast. Self-accusations followed 
 each other without evasion; she read the 
 blackest pages in the book of life, comment- 
 ing upon them pitilessly. 
 
 The old lady could not grasp it all and 
 kept silent for a moment ; then she suddenly 
 closed the reproachful mouth with a kiss. 
 
 "I know it all. Jifi told me. Calm 
 yourself. It will be different now. That 
 happened long ago," and large tears 
 dropped on the girl's blonde hair. She 
 pressed her to her breast and sobbed aloud : 
 "Calm yourself, dear child!" 
 
 "My presence is a sin, a sin against you, 
 kind lady, against this room, against every- 
 thing," Lucy sobbed again. "As I look at 
 the mire in which I have been. . . ."
 
 70 MAGDALEN 
 
 "Dear child, last night, before Jiri came to 
 me, my thoughts were heavy, you see, I 
 can't sleep much, I was thinking what 
 little good there was in dragging along my 
 old bones . . . why should I be living, since 
 I am alone in this world, like a lonely pear- 
 tree in a wide field? My husband is dead, 
 I have no children, Jiff has long been as a 
 stranger to me, just then he entered. I 
 was frightened, but he kissed my brow, he 
 had never done so before, and he said: 
 'You have a guest. I want to return to life 
 a fallen girl, but it can be done only with 
 your help, dear aunt.' You see, it is the 
 will of the Lord. You are mine. When I 
 saw you, wet through and through and 
 trembling, I pitied you with my whole heart. 
 You will stay here for my sake." 
 
 Saying that, she kissed her brow and 
 gently smoothed her hair, wiping her wet 
 face with her handkerchief. 
 
 A new peace took possession of Lucy's 
 soul. She felt as though she had ascended
 
 MAGDALEN 71 
 
 the summit of a mountain. A soft breeze 
 circled around her. Infinity lay stretched 
 out before her eyes. Beautiful colors 
 gleamed in the splendor of the sun. Man 
 was lost unto himself. . . . 
 
 Women's tears. . . . Reader, they are a 
 salutary property of Eve's daughters in this 
 world. There is not a sorrow of a woman, 
 not a grief, burden, memory, not one 
 shadow, that cannot be washed away by a 
 few salty, bitter tears! Once again, her 
 soul is changed and free, playing like the 
 many-colored butterfly that flits about in the 
 golden light over a flowery meadow. . . . 
 
 Lucy was sitting at the spinet. The old 
 lady placed a sheet of music before her. 
 
 "Here is the song of which my deceased 
 husband used to be very fond. It is 
 a German song, yet he was a patriot and 
 a good Bohemian. As a student he used to 
 frequent Jungmann's * house ! My child, 
 
 i Josef Jungmann (1773-1847) was the most prominent 
 of the founders of a New-Bohemian literature.
 
 72 MAGDALEN 
 
 how many tears we used to shed over it ! ... 
 My husband too . . . both of us, both. . . ." 
 Lucy read the inscription of the song: 
 "Die Thrane, ein Lied von Kiicken" Her 
 hands then fell upon the keys. The weak, 
 subdued tones sounded like the whispered 
 words of a toothless old man. The old lady 
 rested her left hand upon her side, and with 
 beaming eyes looked at that yellow paper, 
 while with her right hand she beat time; 
 then she fell to singing: 
 
 "Macht man in's Leben 
 Kaum den ersten Schritt." 
 
 It was a thin voice, which got to rasping 
 in the upper tones, as it trembled forth from 
 her lips. Her old heart was more and more 
 strongly agitated by the breath of recollec- 
 tions, and her sered face became colored with 
 the red hue of an autumn leaf. . . . 
 
 "Bringe man als Kind schon 
 Eine Thrane mit, 
 Und Freudenthranen 
 Giebt, als ersten Grass,
 
 MAGDALEN 73 
 
 Dem Kind die Mutter 
 
 Mit dem ersten Kuss; 
 
 Man wachst empor dann 
 
 Zwischen Freud' und Schmerz, 
 
 Da zieht die Liebe in das junge Herz, 
 
 Und offenbart 
 
 Das Herz der Jungfrau sich, 
 
 Spricht eine Thrane: 
 
 Ja ! ich liebe dich ! . . ." 
 
 A strong voice in the door sang out the 
 refrain with them. The women grew 
 silent. 
 
 "I see, Aunty," laughed Jiff, "y u are 
 making a good display of all your favorite 
 things." 
 
 He stood there, foppishly dressed, in all 
 his glory, and bowed urbanely. 
 
 Lucy rose from her seat. She offered 
 him her hand for a greeting. 
 
 "That was not a bad idea, Aunty, this 
 gown is becoming to the young lady," he 
 remarked in a careless way, as he looked at 
 her. 
 
 They seated themselves at the table, and
 
 74 MAGDALEN 
 
 talked. The old lady told Lucy about her 
 poor, about her sewing for the little folk, 
 showed her the patterns, the cloth, the linen, 
 needle, thread, and asked her opinion of this 
 and that. Lucy seemed to be interested in 
 everything. She listened attentively and 
 announced her views with a clear voice. 
 Jiff, in the meantime, looked at her with the 
 usual scornful and ironical expression about 
 his lips. From time to time he cracked a 
 joke, put in a word or a short sentence, or 
 yawned. 
 
 A secret unrest nestled in the souls of 
 these three people. The old lady felt pro- 
 voked for having been so moved by her 
 "Thrane" Then she was seized with terror 
 at the lack of consideration which showed in 
 Jiffs words, and at this glimpse of the soul 
 from which she had become estranged. 
 
 To Lucy his appearance brought the 
 memory of her past days and of the place 
 where she had lived, where she had seen him 
 for the first time. Besides, he seemed to her
 
 MAGDALEN 75 
 
 to be somehow changed, in some way smaller, 
 more trifling, and empty. She thought of 
 his room, those photographs of women, and 
 the pictures on the wall, and something 
 urged her to watch every word and smile and 
 motion of his. She felt a strange rustiness 
 growing in her soul, and effacing his picture 
 which was imprinted somewhere in its depth. 
 Jiff again saw himself in a very peculiar 
 situation: he had sobered down from the 
 enthusiasm of the night before, and that girl 
 was a stranger to him in his aunt's house, 
 at that table, and in that gown. There was 
 no longer that penetrating perfume of 
 orgies, and this was not the large parlor in 
 that house. What would happen next? It 
 occurred to him that he really had had no 
 intention beforehand of doing what he later 
 did, what was it that had impelled him to 
 take her away and bring her here? It was 
 stupid and ridiculous ! It was as though he 
 had carelessly stepped upon the edge of a 
 steep and precipitous rock: one unwary
 
 76 MAGDALEN 
 
 moment, and he would be flying down- 
 wards. . . . As that picture arose in his 
 mind, he closed his eyes a little, with the 
 resignation of a fatalist. 
 
 They continued their conversation. An 
 hour later Jifi rose from his seat and bade 
 them good-bye. He said he would look in 
 at the tailor's to order some gowns for Lucy, 
 then he would buy a few things, and so forth, 
 in reality, ennui and his old habits drove 
 him to the coffeehouse, to the Pf fkopi, and to 
 his friends. . . . 
 
 The women sat down to work. The old 
 lady started again on her recollections, all 
 the time sewing, cutting and measuring. 
 Lucy with dainty stitches was hemming 
 some babies' shirts. A gentle warmth filled 
 their souls. Outside gleamed a bright 
 spring day. The voices of chirping spar- 
 rows reached them from the street. . . . 
 
 Then Lucy burst out laughing, for the 
 first time here. The old lady was telling of 
 her wedding: the bridegroom had arrived,
 
 MAGDALEN 77 
 
 all dressed up; he ran into the room, imme- 
 diately turned about, and ran back; he once 
 more jumped into the coach, hunted in all 
 the corners, and gloomily returned, he had 
 somewhere lost his bridal bouquet ! Only at 
 the dinner, after the toasts, did he suddenly 
 fish it out from his endless folds, all crushed 
 and withered. The old lady laughed so 
 much that her eyes were filled with 
 tears. . . .
 
 IV 
 
 see, you see, dear child, what the 
 fashions can do? How it fits you! 
 What a tailor that is! However, it is your 
 figure that really does it !" 
 
 Up to noon a golden light fell into the 
 room. Everything looked neat and trim, as 
 in a show-case. The glass and the frames 
 of the pictures, the surface of the spinet, and 
 the armchairs, shone with a pale gleam. 
 Lucy was standing before the looking-glass, 
 buttoning her new gown. The grey cloth 
 and the English cut were beautifully becom- 
 ing to her slender body. Her eyes were 
 beaming (there is not a woman, reader, who 
 could pass that moment with frosty calm ! ) . 
 The aunt shook her head, as she walked all 
 around her and commented: 
 
 "Where are our old fashions! Where 
 
 78
 
 MAGDALEN 79 
 
 are those times! Where are those customs! 
 I alone am left . . . and the scythe-bearer 
 has forgotten me! . . ." 
 
 "Enough, Aunty, not another word, 
 you should be ashamed to talk that way!" 
 Lucy threatened her. 
 
 "Well, may you wear the dress out in 
 health," the old lady laughed merrily, and 
 from an old habit tapped Lucy's ear. 
 
 In those few days she had found a new 
 life through Lucy. Her soul was like one 
 of those winding plants that grow only when 
 they can climb up something stronger, a tree, 
 a bush, or even a withe. They gently enfold 
 it with their vines, leaves and flowers, run- 
 ning together with it into one inseparable 
 life. A blow that is aimed at one, also 
 reaches the other; with the death of the one, 
 ends also the life of the other. 
 
 Even thus Lucy had attracted to herself 
 that weak soul; she held the authority of a 
 mother over the old lady. In the morning 
 she combed her grey hair, put on her cap, and
 
 80 MAGDALEN 
 
 had to tell her what should be prepared for 
 dinner. Every moment the aunt asked: 
 "What do you say, Lucy?" 
 
 Lucy lived her new life with a vim. In 
 that atmosphere she breathed freely and 
 softly. If at times she thought of the olden 
 days, she felt as though she had a horrible 
 dream from a long bygone past. Indeed, 
 it was hard to identify her with that "Lucy" 
 of the ill-famed house. 
 
 There was one thing which annoyed her: 
 Jiff. She saw him but rarely, a moment in 
 the morning, at dinner, and sometimes in 
 the evening. She never felt at ease in his 
 presence. The more she knew him, the 
 more she saw his emptiness. She disliked 
 his wit, which he ostensibly employed to 
 sparkle with; in his remarks there was a 
 breath of that perfume which she had scented 
 in her former impure life. She was always 
 in a rage over the inconsiderate tones in 
 which he addressed his aunt. She would 
 gladly have thrown herself upon him, would
 
 MAGDALEN 81 
 
 have struck him with a clenched fist, would 
 have choked him like a cat. . . . 
 
 Both were again sitting at their work. 
 The old servant entered the room to an- 
 nounce the janitor, her basilisk eyes all the 
 time measuring Lucy, who was bending over 
 her sewing. The man stepped after her into 
 the room, holding his cap under his arm. 
 He hemmed, and his grey eyes rested upon 
 Lucy, a dumb terror made them bulge out, 
 but only for a moment. Like a messenger 
 of great things, he assumed a solemn pose : 
 
 "Madam, three times to-day a certain per- 
 son has asked for our young gentleman. I 
 got rid of him: 'He is not at home.' 
 'When will he be back?' Said I: 'I do not 
 know.' Then he kept asking for a young 
 lady. I think he meant that one there . . . 
 that young lady there. Madam, it is a 
 dreadful thing I have come to see you about. 
 It is a disgrace, a deception, a frightful sin 
 that the young gentleman has perpetrated
 
 82 MAGDALEN 
 
 against you, madam! A fine guest he has 
 brought into our honorable house ! I know 
 everything !" 
 
 The old lady grew suddenly pale: 
 "Enough, enough! Not another word!" 
 
 But the janitor proceeded: "She is a 
 fallen woman!" 
 
 "Out of here! And not another word!" 
 
 "I am only thinking of your honor. . . ." 
 
 "Out of here!" and trembling with rage, 
 as he had never seen her before, the old lady 
 fell to the ground. 
 
 "It makes no difference to me," the 
 guardian of the house mumbled angrily at 
 the door. The wizened old servant hur- 
 riedly followed after him. 
 
 "Those servants," stormed the old 
 lady. . . . "But, Lucy," she turned with a 
 gentle voice to Lucy, from whose eyes large 
 tears were trickling, "please don't. I will 
 have a talk with him. At heart he is a good 
 man. You see for yourself, he means to 
 protect me. He does not know the situa-
 
 MAGDALEN 83 
 
 tion." And she kissed her, and smoothed 
 the hair over her temples. 
 
 "Yes, this way," was heard the jani- 
 tor's voice behind the door. Some one 
 entered. . . . Lucy's blood curdled in 
 her veins, her father! . . . He looked 
 around, joy sparkled in his dim eyes, 
 they rested upon Lucy. Then he bowed to 
 the aunt: 
 
 "Pardon me, lady. A sacred right brings 
 me here, a father's right to his daughter!" 
 and he pointed theatrically at Lucy. "Yes, 
 my child. . . ." 
 
 Just then the door slammed behind him, 
 and Jiff, with burning face, flew into the 
 room. The two women breathed sighs of 
 relief. 
 
 "You wished?" Jiff asked him with a 
 trembling voice, as he recognized him. 
 
 "I am the father of this girl, and you, sir, 
 are that bold man who have dared to snatch 
 her out of my care. ..." 
 
 "Care?" Jiff cried in rage.
 
 84 MAGDALEN 
 
 "Care," said the drunken man in a per- 
 suasive bass. "We have different views of 
 life, sir. What is honor? But an empty 
 name. But to business. I was once a 
 teacher, yes, sir, a teacher, you are sur- 
 prised? But to-day. . . . Fate can easily 
 cast down a man. I will not, however, allow 
 any one to trample upon my rights. . . . 
 My daughter belongs to me. I have the 
 points of law all at hand. . . ." 
 
 "Enough of this," Jifi interrupted him 
 with a sudden calm, smiling scornfully. He 
 drew out his pocketbook, and pressed some- 
 thing into the hand of the drunkard. 
 
 Being disarmed, and at the same time 
 tamed, he grasped Jiff's hand. 
 
 "Sir, you are an honorable man, you are 
 in sympathy with us," his deep bass 
 trembled with unexpected gratefulness, "I 
 entrust my daughter to you. She is my 
 happiness, the Antigone of my misery. 
 You, sir, will come to value her . . . Lucy, 
 make a note of my good fatherly advice:
 
 MAGDALEN 85 
 
 esteem your benefactors! . . . Permit me," 
 this to Jiff, "to call from time to time," and, 
 inclining his head to him, he added, with a 
 sly whisper : "My daughter may rebel, but 
 the paternal authority will keep her within 
 bounds." 
 
 Jifi opened the door for him. The good 
 father shook his hands, bade the old lady 
 good-bye, and, threatening Lucy with his 
 finger, went away. 
 
 Quiet, an oppressive quiet, took possession 
 of the room. Jiff stepped to the window, 
 and drummed the quick measure of a march 
 upon the pane. He suddenly turned to his 
 aunt, who was looking sorrowfully at Lucy: 
 
 "We will go into the country to-day." 
 
 "To-day?" 
 
 "We will start right after dinner. Get 
 everything ready. I have already ordered a 
 coach." 
 
 He had, indeed, ordered it. He had 
 flown like an arrow out of the coffeehouse. 
 A real hell was seething within him. They
 
 86 MAGDALEN 
 
 had been conversing. Some one remarked 
 that Lucy had disappeared. Laughter. 
 Questions rained down on Jiff. Just 
 then a better sentiment took possession of 
 him, just as if the glance of those blue eyes 
 were resting upon him, and the maiden 
 seemed to him purer, higher, better than all 
 the company around him. He told them 
 the truth. He spoke with fervor and con- 
 viction, from the depth of his soul. There 
 was a burst of Homeric laughter. Sly Jif i ! 
 What a mantle! How cunningly he had 
 done it all! He had taken her under his 
 roof, had given her at home his simple- 
 minded old aunt for a Cerberus, to whom he 
 ranted of the penitent Magdalen with her 
 untainted soul, in order to revel secretly in 
 her beautiful, youthful body! What a sly 
 fellow! What a sly fellow! 
 
 Jiff gave his word of honor that he spoke 
 the truth. He was answered with renewed 
 laughter. His blood boiled: he called them 
 rascally good-for-nothings, fools, and people
 
 MAGDALEN 87 
 
 without honor. He would forever turn his 
 back upon their society. And he went home. 
 On his way he hired a coach. He seized 
 upon a journey into the country as a saving 
 anchor. . . . 
 
 Pale, and breathing heavily, Lucy rose 
 from her seat. Whole sentences were on 
 her lips, but she only said: "Do not go. I 
 shall go myself!" She fell back into the 
 chair with the whole weight of her body. 
 She did not weep, nor speak. Her eyes 
 were fixed somewhere in space, as if she 
 wished to reach something that was escaping 
 her. The old lady went up to her. Jifi 
 spoke more sternly: "Nonsense I We will 
 go!" 
 
 Reader, how futile are our intentions! I 
 had planned to sketch with epic calm a few 
 pictures from the life of common, every-day 
 people, and behold, I must confess that 
 my hand is trembling, my eyes are somehow 
 moist, and the darkness of vain, barren
 
 88 MAGDALEN 
 
 anxiety is upon my soul. Against all se- 
 rious rules I push myself forward in place 
 of my puny heroes. 
 
 A recollection. . . . Reader, suddenly a 
 picture of my distant home rises in my soul. 
 Under my window are the noises of Vienna, 
 the steps and the conversations of the 
 passers-by, and the din of the tinkling tram- 
 way, but I see a road, far, far away. It 
 leads out of Prague. A broad swath of dust 
 winds through a sea of green fields, cuts 
 through a few small villages, now goes down, 
 now again rises. Here it turns, there it goes 
 straight, like an endless strip of cloth, and it 
 runs and runs, until at last it appears in the 
 horizon as a narrow, grey ribbon. . . . The 
 telegraph posts hum their monotonous 
 song. . . . The rattle of the wagons that 
 pass over it in slow, measured steps re- 
 sounds afar. ... 
 
 I see a little boy hurrying over it ... 
 happy little man ! He is hurrying home for 
 his vacation. Behind him lies the dreary
 
 MAGDALEN 89 
 
 series of days, before him, eight weeks of 
 bliss, and the boy weeps with joy as he sees 
 the sparkling spires on the church towers he 
 knows so well ... I know that face . . . 
 I see by its faint resemblance that it is my- 
 self sixteen years ago. . . . 
 
 No, reader, I will not write here an elegy 
 on my bygone youth, it was only a sigh, 
 and enough of it. Here, in this abominable 
 place one has, indeed, nothing but sighs and 
 recollections. 
 
 The coach passed Vysocany. It slowly 
 ascended a serpentine road. The two ladies 
 protected themselves with parasols against 
 the burning rays of the sun. Jifi was sit- 
 ting opposite them, his hat pulled down over 
 his brow, and leisurely smoking a cigarette. 
 Lucy had just taken off the heavy veil from 
 her face, and her blue eyes looked timidly 
 around her. 
 
 The coach was still climbing the hill. To- 
 wards the left towered, like a phantom in
 
 90 MAGDALEN 
 
 some weird story, grey Prague, shrouded in 
 thick smoke. At the right lay the open 
 plain. Burning through the pure air, the 
 gleaming light of the sun trembled upon 
 it like fleeting gold. All the colors were 
 fresh as if the country had been newly 
 washed. 
 
 Parallelograms of many hues ran, nar- 
 rowing down, to the very edge of the hori- 
 zon. The railroad track, roads with dimin- 
 utive rows of trees, brown hills, villages that 
 seemed to be drowning in the verdure of gar- 
 dens, farther away dark-blue forests, and 
 still farther, blue summits, lightly breathed 
 upon the background, a mere airy cur- 
 tain, an idyllic panorama, over which 
 white cloudlets softly swam in the azure 
 vault of heaven. Invisible sky-larks sent 
 their gladsome shouts into the clear heights. 
 On both sides of the road sounded the drum- 
 mings of hosts of insects. The voices of 
 men, the neighing of horses, the sharp click 
 of whips now and then reached them from
 
 MAGDALEN 91 
 
 afar. The air was intensely redolent with 
 intoxicating freshness. . . . 
 
 Lucy was looking fixedly into the dis- 
 tance, her eye did not take in the details, 
 but her soul imbibed its full import, and felt 
 the whole summer day within itself. Under 
 its influence her spirit bent in indolence, but 
 she felt blissful, it was the feeling of an 
 animal that after a cheerless, cold winter is 
 warmed by the hot sun. She did not recall 
 what had lately happened, nor thought what 
 would come in the future, but, compress- 
 ing her long eyelashes, she kept on looking 
 and looking. . . . 
 
 Reader, only a woman knows how to live 
 a real life! For her there is no past; only 
 at times there flashes an old picture through 
 her spirit, while feeling is wisely silent. For 
 her, too, there exists no "to-morrow," except 
 when it is to bring her a happy moment. A 
 woman knows how to be happy. To us, 
 happiness is a flighty dream, a flash of light. 
 Her delicate nerves seize the flighty dream,
 
 92 MAGDALEN 
 
 the gleam of light, and gourmandize on 
 every atom of it. A yielding and soft soul 
 lives on that dream and light, like a flower 
 whose leaves turn their whole surface to- 
 wards the rays of the sun. If it is uprooted 
 and transplanted, it at once sends its roots 
 into the new soil, and with its leaves drinks 
 the sun, the sun. . . . 
 
 The coach reached the summit of the hill. 
 All around lay the expanse of a level coun- 
 try. At both sides of the road stood the 
 grain in greyish-green waves. There the 
 rape seemed to shine with its ducat hue. In 
 the straight-drawn rows of beets and pota- 
 toes stood laboring people ; they shaded their 
 eyes with their hands, conversed with each 
 other, and looked into the road. 
 
 The horses began to trot. An endless 
 avenue of chestnuts, full of pyramidal blos- 
 soms, lay before them, as if opened for their 
 reception. A pleasant, greenish shade fell 
 into the carriage. The old lady looked at 
 the country through a black lorgnette. The
 
 MAGDALEN 93 
 
 shade refreshed her. She saw &ip, and 
 Jested, and Milesovka, familiar villages 
 about her, and familiar roads, and she 
 pointed them all out to Lucy. Thus they 
 travelled on, the sunshine now and then 
 beaming on their faces. 
 
 Lucy began to talk : she spoke of her child- 
 hood, and of the country, where she had 
 lived, happy recollections bubbled up un- 
 bidden in her soul. 
 
 Jiff was silent. Only, from time to time, 
 he complained of the heat, the gnats, and the 
 small flies. He took off his hat, wiped his 
 forehead, yawned, and continued smoking. 
 His soul was like a house from which people 
 had just moved: no object, no picture, no 
 voices, no motion, only a wearisome 
 calm. . . . 
 
 They travelled on. A village. Again 
 the road. Again a village. A small pond. 
 A mill nearby. Off the road grew some 
 small trees, cherry and plum trees. They 
 travelled on.
 
 94 MAGDALEN 
 
 Suddenly the old lady pressed Lucy's 
 hand. Two rude towers, whose gilded 
 cupolas sparkled like two stars, appeared on 
 the horizon. 
 
 "We are at home now," she whispered. 
 
 There came a flash like lightning in Jif i's 
 eye, then he yawned again until the tears 
 came to his eyes. 
 
 The horses began to trot faster, without 
 being urged on by words or whip strokes, as 
 if they felt the goal of their journey to be 
 near.
 
 THE town of the realm and crown has 
 three thousand inhabitants, one church, 
 twenty inns, a brewery, and a distillery, and 
 two newspapers which appear once every 
 two weeks, the ys Gazette, a faith- 
 ful organ of the conservative fathers of the 
 town and The Free Citizen, the militant 
 voice of the ruthless Opposition (the reader 
 will find their genesis a few lines farther 
 down). 
 
 The common is large and beautiful, the 
 patrician houses about it forming a square. 
 Above them rises the townhall with a dilap- 
 idated reddish tower, in the spire of which a 
 two-tailed lion 1 turns with the wind. In 
 the centre there is a stone statue of Jan of 
 
 iThe coat of arms of Bohemia. 
 95
 
 96 MAGDALEN 
 
 Nepomuk ; 1 once a year, in the beautiful 
 month of May, he is painted in a bright 
 brown color, at the town's expense. 
 
 A hunchbacked, crooked sidewalk runs 
 along the rows of houses, and is intercepted 
 by malodorous rills that flow from the dwell- 
 ings, and that form a filigree stream on the 
 common. Throughout the day an old 
 sweeper heaps small piles of straw, dust, and 
 dirt, but the wind, or wanton youths, regu- 
 larly disperse them at nightfall. 
 
 From the common there is a beautiful 
 view towards the west. The streets lie 
 somewhat lower here, and one can see 
 through them the cemetery with its chapel 
 and its crosses, its darkling cypresses, its 
 grave-stones, where rest in peace the heroes 
 
 i-A canon of Prague in the fourteenth century, who, a 
 pious tradition tells, was drowned by the King under 
 the bridge of Prague for not divulging the confession 
 of his wife, Queen Johanna. He was canonized a saint 
 in 1729, since which time he has been regarded as the 
 patron saint of Bohemia. Most bridges have statues of 
 Jan of Nepomuk. Pilgrimages in his honor are made in 
 the month of May.
 
 MAGDALEN 97 
 
 of local tradition; and farther off, the fields, 
 the rows of trees along the roads, and brown 
 cliffs. In one place the surface of the Elbe 
 gleams on sunshiny days. Then there is the 
 blue distance, against which is clearly drawn 
 the bell of Hip with its white spire. 
 
 The pride of the town is its castle. The 
 extensive and massive building with its 
 tower, covered with colored tiles, rises majes- 
 tically above the Elbe. The ages that have 
 passed through it have here left their traces : 
 a castle moat, strong ramparts, walls pro- 
 vided with battlements, old windows, coats 
 of arms upon the wall, dark dungeons 
 and corridors; and in the old, dilapidated 
 park are mysterious pavilions, fountains, 
 and large vases with moss-covered Cupids. 
 One wing of the castle has purely mod- 
 ern windows, plush curtains, and a ther- 
 mometer on a frame; and there, in the 
 park, you suddenly pass from the ludicrous 
 time of the rococo into beds of verdure. 
 Thus does the silent conglomerate of the
 
 98 MAGDALEN 
 
 past and present breathe majestically upon 
 you. 
 
 Here the lords of Krajek once held sway 
 over the Picards, 1 and pious songs then hov- 
 ered over the treetops in the park. From 
 that tower pensive Rudolf, the emperor, 
 used to watch the course of the stars with 
 master Tycho. 2 Banner 3 sat here in judg- 
 ment, the people to this time remember 
 those Swedish scourges and his minions. 
 The duchess of Berry had had her gallant 
 adventures in the park during moonlit 
 nights, and the patrician daughters up to 
 this day like to visit those places, where they 
 blush and sigh. 
 
 The park was thrown open to the town. 
 The owner of the castle lived far away. 
 His superintendent, a stolid German, dwelt 
 
 1 Corruption of "Beghards"; thus the opponents of the 
 Church were called in Bohemia in the fourteenth and 
 fifteenth centuries. The lords of Krajek were the de- 
 fenders of the Brotherhood. 
 
 2 Tycho de Brahe, Danish astronomer. 
 
 3 Jan Gustavson Banner, or Bane>, Swedish field-mar- 
 shal under Gustavus Adolphus.
 
 MAGDALEN 99 
 
 in the wing of the castle, where the thermom- 
 eter appeared in the window. He was ad- 
 vanced in years, solemn and stern, and peo- 
 ple avoided him; although the poor and the 
 children, by an old custom, kissed his hand 
 when they came near him. He was an im- 
 portant personage in the life of that town. 
 He was not active in the townhall, for that 
 he had not time enough, having had the care 
 of the estate and the office of district elder 
 for twenty-five years ; but, being an intimate 
 friend of the burgomaster's, he was an ad- 
 viser in all complicated affairs. 
 
 The Free Citizen often made profane 
 allusions to this : the town's head, it said, was 
 in the townhall, but the Holy Ghost was in 
 the castle. In the feuilleton it hinted quite 
 openly between the lines that the superin- 
 tendent was even more intimate with the 
 fat wife of the burgomaster, however, the 
 whole town saw nothing incriminating in 
 that. 
 
 A new bridge runs over the Elbe.
 
 100 MAGDALEN 
 
 Through a beautiful grove of lindens and 
 oaks, whose branches meet above and form a 
 fantastic, rustling vault, one passes to a 
 neighboring town. Every pious soul in 
 Bohemia is thrilled by its name: it is a holy 
 place for pilgrims, and has a temple, the 
 sacred image of which, they say, has wrought 
 thousands of miracles. To this day a chap- 
 ter of stout priests grows fat upon the visi- 
 tors. Hundreds of these holy men sit the 
 whole autumn and winter in low huts, like 
 spiders in their hiding places; but when in 
 summer the banners of the country people 
 begin to be unfurled, and songs of the Virgin 
 Mary fill the air, and pious women, sturdy 
 lads, and buxom maidens hasten from all 
 parts of our land to this place, they come 
 forth with their canvas booths, and catch the 
 pious souls, and suck them dry. 
 
 Those are the places to which the old lady 
 took Lucy the day after their arrival. 
 
 Reader, have you ever seen the life in an 
 ant hill? These Philistine insects live in an
 
 MAGDALEN 101 
 
 unvaried, provincial manner. Everybody 
 knows everybody else, and everybody has his 
 precise daily work to do. They go out in the 
 morning, meet friends, their feelers touch, 
 as if they were telling their last night's 
 dreams, their trifling gossip, and the news of 
 the day, and they move on, and again meet 
 some one else, and again stand a while and 
 talk, and then hurry on. 
 
 They know every motion of each other's 
 bodies, every minutest shade of their souls, 
 everything connected with their past, and 
 yet a sweet habit urges them in passing to 
 talk again and again of the same thing, as 
 yesterday, so to-day, and so to-morrow. 
 They somehow finish their work, as though 
 it were of secondary importance. In the 
 evening they return to their ant hill, and 
 again they gather by twos, threes or fours 
 upon their sidewalks and at the doorsteps, 
 where they stand conversing pleasantly until 
 deep into the night. 
 
 What an uproar, if something from with-
 
 102 MAGDALEN 
 
 out falls among them! They run around 
 wildly and inquisitively, neglecting their 
 daily toil; their feelers are in a convulsive 
 tremor; they are curious; they congregate 
 and discuss matters; the more courageous 
 rush upon that object, and investigate it 
 from all sides, touch it, and again run away 
 to take counsel, their little heads shaking all 
 the time. 
 
 The news ran like lightning through the 
 town,: Jifi had arrived with his aunt, and 
 they had brought with them a strange young 
 lady. Who was she? Who was she? She 
 was not of the family, for in the town they 
 knew well the genealogies of all its members ; 
 so there flew over the city fantastic stories, 
 guesses, anecdotes, which those who con- 
 cocted them could not themselves believe. 
 
 There was not a window in the whole 
 town, where, if the ladies passed by, a head 
 with its critical pair of eyes did not appear. 
 Whoever met them in the street, on the com- 
 mon, or in the castle park, stopped and
 
 MAGDALEN 103 
 
 looked around, and, finding a friend, stood 
 long talking with him. 
 
 In the afternoon, about two o'clock, the 
 fat wife of the burgomaster ventured out of 
 the house. The peony-colored velvet of her 
 gown, the light gloves that reached to her 
 elbows, her hat full of nodding cherries, 
 flowers, and many-colored feathers, an- 
 nounced to all good people some errand of 
 great importance. It was a hot day. 
 Pearls of perspiration, gathering in two 
 streams under her eyes, ran down her plump 
 cheeks. She walked under the dark-red 
 shade of her parasol with a small, unwaver- 
 ing step, as though she were sailing, nodding 
 her head to the right and to the left, thank- 
 ing all polite people with a "Guten Tag" 
 and a "How are you?" 
 
 Jifi's house bordered with its back wall 
 upon the castle park, and fronted on the 
 open country. The burgomaster's wife en- 
 tered the spacious yard. She did not see 
 any other creature but chickens, geese,
 
 104 MAGDALEN 
 
 ducks, a flock of sparrows, and a few pigeons 
 that were flying about a round dove-cot. In 
 the sultry air was the odor of the stable and 
 the aroma of hay. The burgomistress strut- 
 ted by the steward's dwelling to the one- 
 story building in the back of the yard. A 
 woman came out of it and, seeing her, wiped 
 her hands on her apron, and ran up to her 
 to kiss her hand. 
 
 "The Lord protect you, never mind, never 
 mind!" and the burgomistress graciously ex- 
 tended her hand. "Is the councilor ess at 
 home?" 
 
 "Yes, if you please, gracious lady" 
 ( "counciloress" was the title of Jiffs aunt). 
 
 "Mr. Jifi?" 
 
 "He is at home, too, gracious lady. He 
 is busy with the steward, writing some ac- 
 counts. The master wants to take the estate 
 into his own hands. He wants to remain 
 here. They are figuring up." 
 
 "And that young lady? Who is she?" 
 
 "I do not know, gracious lady. One
 
 MAGDALEN 105 
 
 might think she would be the lady's 
 daughter, but she is not. I really do not 
 know. They are together there. . . ." 
 "Very well, very well, that will do. . . ." 
 It was a large whitewashed room. A few 
 chairs, a table, a large safe of dark oak with 
 carved ornaments, were its only furniture. 
 On the wall were hung oil paintings of Hus 
 and Zizka; between them, on a pedestal, 
 stood a statue of Podebrad, Jifi's father 
 had here passed the greater half of his life, 
 and those pictures and furniture were remi- 
 niscences of him. 
 
 The old lady was sitting with Lucy at the 
 open window. Outside, in the shadow of 
 the house, was a field of clover. Dande- 
 lions with their ducat hue burst everywhere 
 through the dark verdure. Crickets were 
 chirping merrily in the grass. Lucy was 
 thoughtlessly holding a long, narrow book 
 in old leather binding and gilt ornamenta- 
 tion. The old lady had found it for her. It 
 was the faithful companion of her youth,
 
 106 MAGDALEN 
 
 "Novalis." And the old lady sighed softly: 
 
 "Read it, child! Ah, that Heinrich of 
 Of terdingen ! Blaue Blume! Just read it ! 
 I used to read them all night long." 
 
 The burgomistress entered. 
 
 A loud exclamation: "Ah, Frau Rathin!" 
 
 "Ah, Frau Burgermeisterin!" 
 
 They embraced each other. There fell 
 cataracts of indistinguishable words. Fi- 
 nally the burgomistress seated herself. 
 With a rapid glance she measured the 
 maiden two or three times, and the aunt 
 caught her look. 
 
 "My Lucy," she introduced her. 
 
 "Ah, I am happy, 's freut mich, J s freut 
 mich, will she stay long with us?" 
 
 Lucy blushed. 
 
 "Forever, forever," the aunt hastened to 
 reply. 
 
 "The young lady used to live in Prague?" 
 
 "Yes, in Prague," Lucy said hurriedly. 
 
 "I do not know how Miss Lucy will like 
 this life of ours. It is a wearisome, small,
 
 MAGDALEN 107 
 
 dead, uninteresting country, and we are 
 plain people, Miss Lucy, I suppose, has 
 been used to a different sphere. . . ." 
 
 "No," the old lady interrupted her, "my 
 Lucy will be entirely happy here. This 
 country will soothe her nerves which are 
 somewhat shattered. . . ." 
 
 "In that case, Miss Lucy, you will find 
 health here. In that case, indeed. We live 
 an idyllic life here. We arrange picnics, 
 games, oh, dare I ask you? Are you not, 
 perchance, betrothed, and ought I not to 
 congratulate? I suppose, Mr. Jifi . . ." 
 
 Lucy was consumed with internal fire. 
 
 "The Lord protect her," the old lady 
 quickly interrupted her, "that would be a 
 nice match for her! Sooner would I tie a 
 stone about her neck with my own hands and 
 drown her there in the Elbe. Aber sag en 
 Sie mir, liebe, werthe Burgermeisterin, 
 what's the news? How is the town? How 
 are our acquaintances?" 
 
 "Ach, Frau Rathin," the burgomistress
 
 108 MAGDALEN 
 
 drew a deep breath from the bottom of her 
 heart, "a great deal of news, a great deal. 
 Just think of it, the doctor's wife . . ." 
 (that doctor, the head of the local opposi- 
 tion, the editor of the Citizen, was a sworn 
 enemy of the burgomaster), "well, she is a 
 woman without shame, she was seen lately 
 in the woods in a dreadfully intimate tete a 
 tete with the adjunct! You know, she has 
 had experience in such things, and God 
 knows, how many times! However, at 
 times I think that that is a family character- 
 istic. Denken Sie sich, the doctor looks 
 calmly at all that is going on, of course, 
 it's a case of bad conscience ! Frau Rathin, 
 last week he had to send the chambermaid to 
 Prague ! Just think of it, it is he who is the 
 town moralist! He wants to stain my 
 honor ! His paper wrote lately, it is a 
 shame to mention it, about me, about me 
 and our administrator! What meanness!" 
 The wife of the town's head blushed crim- 
 son from her forehead to her neck. Then
 
 MAGDALEN 109 
 
 there followed disgusting and scandalous 
 stories, and the whole local Opposition stood 
 in half an hour in soiled negligee. "This 
 one thing may, however, console us," ended 
 the burgomistress, "our whole party is in this 
 respect as pure as crystal. . . ." 
 
 She several times made attempts to pene- 
 trate the shell under which was hidden the 
 mysterious kernel of the strange young lady, 
 but all in vain, so she betook herself once 
 more to the turbid stream in which the local 
 life flowed. 
 
 She remained two hours. 
 
 "So, Frau Rathin, I bid you good-bye. 
 Good-bye, Miss Lucy, we shall see each 
 other at some picnic. We will drum up 
 something soon." 
 
 Elated, as every person is, who has found 
 a mote in his neighbor's eye, the burgo- 
 mistress went out of the door like a peacock 
 in noisy conceit. 
 
 "You see, Lucy, what she is," sighed the 
 old lady. "Just watch: to-day or to-mor-
 
 110 MAGDALEN 
 
 row will come her rival, the doctor's wife; 
 and again you will hear precisely the same 
 thing, only the names will be changed. But 
 the saddest thing about all this is, that it 
 will be the truth, just as what was told to- 
 day was the truth. It is a terrible world! 
 It was quite different in my day!" 
 
 Lucy awoke from her dreaming, for until 
 then she was looking meditatively at the 
 waving clover. 
 
 "But, Aunty, what is it all about? 
 Whence comes all that hostility between the 
 ladies?" 
 
 "Well, that is a fine story, really, it is 
 amusing. A few years ago the two, the doc- 
 tor's and the burgomaster's wives, lived in 
 great friendship, like two sisters. The third 
 in their company was the wife of the judge, 
 she is dead now. These three were to- 
 gether everywhere, at parties, at outings, at 
 games, and they made matches among them- 
 selves for their children, while they were
 
 MAGDALEN 111 
 
 still in their cribs, in short, their friendship 
 became a byword. Then the judge was 
 made a councillor in some district court. 
 Their friendship continued. The doctor's 
 wife and the burgomistress wrote daily let- 
 ters to the wife of the councillor. So it went 
 on for two or three years. 
 
 "The councillor's wife died. The coun- 
 cillor, who was a wag and a malicious old 
 satyr, sent the two friends a large box in 
 remembrance of his wife. They called to- 
 gether a few young women, and opened it, 
 sighing and sobbing all the time. There 
 were two packages within, with the inscrip- 
 tions: 'For the burgomistress,' 'For the 
 doctoress.' The ladies were divided into 
 two groups. The packages were carefully 
 opened : within were letters, nothing but let- 
 ters! Those which the burgomistress had 
 written to the wife of the councillor were 
 now given to the doctoress, and vice versa! 
 Do not ask me how that scene ended ! It is
 
 112 MAGDALEN 
 
 a wonder they did not fall to fighting! All 
 the letters, from a to z } were nothing but 
 calumny, gossip, dastardly stories, in fact, 
 each had told the worst about the other! 
 The next day the town was full of it, and 
 there was turmoil and agitation, as if a revo- 
 lution had broken out! From that day the 
 two hate each other as their sins. And the 
 excitement kept on growing. 
 
 "Their husbands took part in it. The 
 doctor and the burgomaster, who had been 
 friends heretofore, transferred the quarrel 
 to the townhall, and into the affairs of the 
 town. The doctor began calling himself a 
 'Young Bohemian,' .and the burgomaster 
 an 'Old Bohemian.' * The doctor started 
 a paper, and in it thundered every 
 two weeks. Naturally the burgomaster, 
 too, vaulted into the saddle, and founded his 
 paper. They are fighting to the knife. . . . 
 Speak of angels, do you see that slender 
 
 iTwo political parties of Bohemia; they are humorously 
 described on pp. 204-205.
 
 MAGDALEN 113 
 
 lady over there?" She pointed across the 
 cloverpatch and the field to the road. 
 "That is the doctoress. She is coming to 
 see us. So be prepared. . . ."
 
 VI 
 
 BETWEEN the Elbe and the nearby 
 forests lies an expanse of blooming 
 meadows, and through the middle of these 
 runs a narrow, sandy path. On that path 
 there moved a slow and long procession of 
 undulating parasols, one, two, three, four, 
 five, six, you might have counted thirty of 
 them. The bright toilets of the ladies 
 gleamed in the sun, while to the right and 
 left of them, and half turned towards them, 
 skipped their gallants, balancing their canes. 
 The sun poured like fire from the blue- 
 grey heavens upon that meadow. The earth 
 was burning under foot. The dusky blades 
 of grass hung down as though scorched. 
 The flowers drooped, as though broken. 
 Strong, heavy odors were wafted through 
 the air. Crickets uttered their hellish din, 
 
 114
 
 MAGDALEN 115 
 
 as though millions of drops of molten metal 
 were beating against a glass pane. 
 
 The stouter ladies of the gathering were 
 drawing their handkerchiefs over their faces, 
 and kept on saying: "What weather! 
 But it is hot to-day !" 
 
 The light-haired, blue-eyed patrician 
 daughters walked about, overflowing with 
 happiness. For them such a picnic was, in- 
 deed, a holiday. Each old joke and stupid 
 anecdote of their gallant cavaliers was re- 
 warded with a grateful smile. Their empty, 
 trifling life was to have a new landmark with 
 that day. They would say of future events : 
 "That happened two weeks, a month, two 
 months after the picnic. ..." 
 
 Poor patrician daughters! Until they 
 are fourteen they sit in their short dresses, 
 their hair combed back, on the school- 
 benches of their towns. Then, by an old 
 custom, they are sent to the pious sisters at 
 Zakupy. By Christmas their mothers, with 
 tears of joy, are able to show their daugh-
 
 116 MAGDALEN 
 
 ters' cleanly written congratulations in pure 
 German. So pass two years, when they re- 
 turn in long, old-fashioned gowns, their hair 
 combed over their foreheads, and two braids 
 hanging behind, their eyes continually 
 turned earthward, and their heads filled with 
 information. 
 
 The happy mother now leads her daugh- 
 ter into society. They call on the adminis- 
 trator, the burgomaster, on all the aldermen, 
 on all the local dignitaries. The daughter 
 is as quiet and as modest as a violet. Her 
 mother is beaming: her child expresses her- 
 self faultlessly. She has brought with her 
 from the nuns a lot of holy pictures for dili- 
 gence and good behavior. She is helpful 
 to her in the house, with the washing, the 
 cooking, and the ironing. She secretly 
 makes a pair of colored slippers as a holiday 
 gift for her father. At about five o'clock 
 each afternoon, with her prayer-book in her 
 hand, she crosses the bridge that leads to the 
 other town, and there, after the blessing,
 
 MAGDALEN 117 
 
 always kneels in the church, before the mira- 
 cle-working image. 
 
 Three months, or half a year later, a 
 change suddenly conies over her: the braids 
 disappear, the hair over her forehead is 
 clipped ; her gown is made according to the 
 latest fashion; she gives her holy pictures 
 to her younger relatives ; on Sunday she still 
 goes to the church of the Virgin, but it is 
 only from habit. She finds new friends to 
 whom, after two weeks' acquaintance, she 
 vows eternal friendship, though it only lasts 
 a month. 
 
 She keeps a diary, in which she writes 
 every occurrence. An itinerant dancing 
 master initiates her in his art, and once a 
 year, during carnival-time, she goes with 
 her mother to Prague, to attend the Stu- 
 dents' Ball. She is fond of reading, and 
 her mother, who does not want her to for- 
 get her convent knowledge, subscribes for 
 the Gartenlaube. She often weeps over 
 her reading, and she devours Mrs. Werner
 
 118 MAGDALEN 
 
 and Mrs. Heimburg, as her mother, once 
 upon a time, used to devour Marlitt. 
 
 Of our poets she values the poems of 
 Jablonsky x and Halek. 2 
 
 She borrows them somewhere, sighs over 
 them, and in a clear hand-writing copies 
 them into a gilt-edged album. Two hours 
 daily she sews for her trousseau, doing this 
 in good faith, filled with expectations. 
 
 In the evening she takes a walk on the 
 common with her girl friends, exchanging 
 confidences with them, their anxieties, their 
 dreams, but not all of them: in the depth 
 of her little soul some hero is always hidden, 
 a baron, a count, a dignitary, perhaps a doc- 
 tor. She has two or three platonic love af- 
 fairs with students; she is protected from 
 the pitfalls and persecutions of the provin- 
 cial Don Juans, not by the eye of her mother, 
 though she keeps a sharp lookout on her, 
 
 i Boleslav Jablonsk^ (pseud, of Karel Eugen 
 was born 1813. 
 
 2Vftezslav Halek (1835-1874), a prolific poet and 
 dramatist.
 
 MAGDALEN 119 
 
 but by her inborn shrewdness. . . . Thus 
 the years pass by. 
 
 In their twenty-fourth year, our patrician 
 girls begin to fade. They realize it, and 
 withdraw from publicity: with poisoned 
 resignation they again attend the church; 
 down to the bottom of their hearts they de- 
 spise those younger companions who are 
 still in full bloom. Their tongues are the 
 terror of the whole town. 
 
 It is quite different, however, if the cau- 
 tious mother finds a husband for her daugh- 
 ter: they come to terms, and the obedient 
 daughter exchanges the hero of her dreams 
 for a common, every-day bourgeois, and is 
 happy that she has escaped the preposterous 
 fate of an old maid. 
 
 She lives. . . . The silenced heart begins 
 suddenly to rebel ; she subdues it for a while, 
 but immediately throws herself into the first 
 open arms, the voice of conscience does not 
 chide her, for do not all the others live the 
 same way? With all that, she remains a
 
 120 MAGDALEN 
 
 decent, exemplary woman, properly manag- 
 ing her house, caring well for her husband, 
 and bringing up her children as well as her 
 mother had brought up hers; and she grows 
 stout, and is honored by the whole town. 
 
 Old loves of the spring of my life, my 
 faded reminiscences! You are wretched, 
 patrician girls! 
 
 Young bureaucrats, sons of the townsmen, 
 who were helping their fathers in their es- 
 tates, or in their stores, and whose houses 
 declared themselves for the ruling party, 
 were busy amusing the young ladies. Jifi, 
 with the composure of an older man, strolled 
 by the side of the burgomistress. The 
 burgomistress was retailing to him all her 
 spicy stories about all the known and un- 
 known people of the other party. Jifi 
 laughed from time to time, like any civil 
 person, or said something to her, but he was 
 in the meantime thinking of his mill and es- 
 tate. 
 
 He had departed from his life at Prague
 
 MAGDALEN 121 
 
 in despair and with a heavy heart. When 
 the coach drove into the yard of the home in 
 which he was born, a great idea struck him : 
 he would peacefully look after his father's 
 estate, would watch the field work, would 
 himself keep the accounts, strangers were 
 all the time cheating him, he would work 
 to fatigue during the day, and would lie 
 down in peace at night, a breath of Ver- 
 gil's idyls was in all these dreams and plans. 
 He fell in love with his new occupation, and 
 he appeared to himself to be greater and 
 better, which comforted him very much. He 
 did not consider what would be later, ex- 
 cept that he would take everything into his 
 hands, and manage the estate. He man- 
 aged, while his servants looked in dismay 
 at most of his orders, without daring to dis- 
 suade him. And Jifi kept on making new 
 plans. 
 
 The burgomistress referred several times 
 to Lucy, as if by chance, but Jiri answered 
 her questions evasively.
 
 122 MAGDALEN 
 
 He was tired of his relations to Lucy. In 
 the depth of his soul he felt that, though he 
 had acted foolishly, he had done the proper 
 thing. Lucy was now living in retirement, 
 unknown to any one ; she was the whole life 
 of his aunt, to whom he owed so much, and 
 that was well. "Tis true, the enchantment 
 which had once blinded his eye had paled: 
 he looked at her now with an entirely differ- 
 ent eye, with the eye of a man that sur- 
 veys a maiden's attractive body. 
 
 When he saw her bending over a book or 
 some sewing, her full bosom heaving in even 
 measure, he felt a mad desire to embrace 
 her, to clasp her in his arms, but he only 
 passed his hand over his brow, and chided 
 himself with scornful irony. Otherwise, her 
 whole presence annoyed him. When they 
 were together, the weight of her soul fell 
 upon him. He always felt something 
 stronger and purer in her, and that annoyed 
 him. Before his eyes hovered her past, but 
 in vain; at last, in his vanity, he convinced
 
 MAGDALEN 123 
 
 himself that it was he who had transformed 
 and purified her, that it was he who had re- 
 turned her to the world so peaceful and 
 so strong, and he proudly raised his 
 head. 
 
 The vanguard of picnickers had already 
 entered under the vault of the woods, and 
 they were breathing more at ease. 
 
 Lucy, clinging to the aunt, walked close 
 behind her. The judge's wife was enter- 
 taining her. She was a Prague lady whose 
 husband's fate had brought her to this nest. 
 She was longing to return, and she was talk- 
 ing of her Prague acquaintances and of fa- 
 miliar places. She spoke rapidly and in 
 abrupt sentences. The aunt barely had a 
 chance to get in a word or a short sentence. 
 Lucy was silent. She was fatigued, partly 
 from the heat, partly from the occurrences 
 of the last few days. The feelers of the 
 whole local ant hill had touched her all over, 
 Oh, those terrible moments ! She felt like 
 a thief hiding with his booty, while the steps
 
 124 MAGDALEN 
 
 of his persecutors are heard all the time 
 around his hiding place. 
 
 They had all come: the wives of the judge, 
 of the tax collector, of the doctor, and of 
 four aldermen, and three portly widows, in 
 short, all the somebodies. Their inquisitive, 
 quick eyes and glib tongues kept prodding 
 her, and the good old lady warded off their 
 attacks with remarkable dexterity. Lucy 
 trembled with terror at the thought that they 
 might find all out. 
 
 How different this new life appeared to 
 her now! She felt it, she lived it with the 
 whole power of her soul; but she trembled 
 with burning shame at the pictures from the 
 past, which, unbidden, at times flashed be- 
 fore her soul's eye. She was pure, but some- 
 thing was lacking, she did not herself know 
 what, or how to name it, some goal towards 
 which to aim, some purpose for which to live. 
 The horror of this vacuum frightened her 
 at night, when she looked from her bed 
 through the open window at the stars, or
 
 MAGDALEN 125 
 
 when she suddenly heard the mournful song 
 of the chorus of frogs in the nearby pond. 
 
 She had come to the picnic only to please 
 the old lady, whose dim old eyes were all the 
 time turned watchfully upon her, with the 
 suspicion that the country ennui was oppress- 
 ing the dear young soul. The company met 
 in front of the old castle. All the local gal- 
 lants beset Lucy with clever speeches upon 
 their lips. They were all so abominably 
 funny! Lucy felt like a strange hen that 
 had gotten into a flock of cocks, that aban- 
 doned their hens, their familiar, good old 
 hens, and ran to her. They beat the earth 
 oddly with their wings, strutted about 
 proudly, drove away their rivals, and crowed 
 their merriest. The icy coldness of her eyes 
 repelled them. They returned to the good 
 patrician daughters who looked at her with 
 jealous eyes. 
 
 The picnickers reached the place agreed 
 upon, a slope in the shade of oaks. They 
 seated themselves in the thick grass. Here
 
 126 MAGDALEN 
 
 the air was even hotter than in the open. 
 The mothers took pears and candy out of 
 their bags. The gallants brought water 
 from a nearby well. Brows and faces were 
 shining with perspiration. Jif i, too, brought 
 a glass of water. Lucy drank it. The old 
 lady handed her children some cold pigeon. 
 They ate. The elder ladies seated them- 
 selves also. Only the burgomistress was 
 walking about among the young people, and 
 she called out in a loud voice: 
 
 "Frau von Fischmeister, please, take these 
 young people under your wing!" 
 
 The alderman's wife, Frau von Fischmeis- 
 ter, arose, she was a dried-up woman, with 
 masculine features, she called the young 
 ladies and the gentlemen together into a cir- 
 cle, and gave them a short talk on the game 
 of "secretary." Then they began to play. 
 They sat around in the grass, and each one 
 wrote a statement on a small slip. Frau 
 von Fischmeister led the game. Lucy could 
 not be persuaded to take part in it, but sat
 
 MAGDALEN 127 
 
 at one side with the aunt. The old lady 
 followed the familiar game with interest, and 
 she laughed, as she leaned on Lucy's arm. 
 Jiff, who was sitting near the slender daugh- 
 ter of the tax collector, at first hesitated, but 
 finally joined the game. 
 
 That charming blonde, with eyes as blue 
 as cornflowers, and with beautiful sunburnt 
 hands, took her hat off while she played. By 
 accident Jiff leaned over her head and 
 breathed in the intense perfume of the pom- 
 atum which her hair exhaled. He breathed 
 it again, and a third time. She turned her 
 eyes a little towards Jiff, and he saw some- 
 thing mysterious flash in them as though 
 hundreds of tiny gnomes were dancing there 
 in sparkling violet garments. A sweet feel- 
 ing set all his nerves atremble. He said 
 something to her. She smiled. The direc- 
 tress called her to order. They went on 
 playing. 
 
 The directress again invited Lucy, and the 
 aunt, too, urged her to play. Lucy arose,
 
 128 MAGDALEN 
 
 looking almost out of sorts. The directress 
 arranged a "Blind man's buff," the blind 
 man's part falling to Jifi. He was blind- 
 folded and the circle dispersed with loud 
 laughter, but Jifi, with eager eyes, had none 
 the less time to notice the direction which 
 the slender blonde had taken. He ran after 
 her through the thick grass. She stood still 
 . . . she did not move ... he was already 
 near her . . . yet she did not move ... he 
 stretched out his hand . . . she quickly 
 slapped it hard, and ran away. . . . 
 
 Then Lucy withdrew with slow step, 
 something drove her away from that strange 
 merriment. She looked around her. She 
 was standing in the midst of a pine wood. 
 The white dresses of the picnickers flashed 
 by behind her. She increased her steps, and 
 hurried on : the strong odor of the balsam was 
 soothing to her, and she inhaled it with a 
 deep breath. At the same time she wiped 
 the thin threads of cobwebs from her face 
 and looked around her once more.
 
 MAGDALEN 129 
 
 Everything was silent. She saw only the 
 red shining trunks of the old firs. 
 
 She wanted to walk on, but she suddenly 
 stopped in terror, it was strange, she did 
 not cry out, before her, on a large grey 
 plaid under a tree, lay a man, looking calmly 
 and steadily at her. His large dark-brown 
 eyes looked askance, as those of a man in 
 the habit of reading falsehoods. There 
 seemed to be a fire in those dark, fallen sock- 
 ets, and the green shade of the tree gave a 
 ghost-like appearance to the lean, waxen 
 face, which was covered with a beard of 
 sparse brown hair. His pale lips were 
 closed. Thus did that strange man look at 
 her without a word, without a movement. 
 
 In terror, and spellbound by his glance, 
 Lucy asked him ( she could think of nothing 
 else then) : "Are you a picnicker, too?" 
 
 The stranger answered softly: "Yes." 
 
 "Of our party?" 
 
 "Of yours ? Which is that ?" 
 
 "The burgomistress'. . . ."
 
 130 MAGDALEN 
 
 "Ha, ha," he hissed as he laughed, "a good 
 guess ! So there is some one who has a bet- 
 ter opinion of me! Well, thanks! I, who 
 am declared a fool by my own community, 
 am taken to be at a picnic of the best society ! 
 No, I am here my own picnicker!" and he 
 fell to coughing. "My good old mother 
 thinks that these trees will restore my af- 
 fected lung!" He cleared his throat, and 
 stretched himself as though fatigued by that 
 speech. "I am just doing so to please 
 her . . ." and he coughed again. 
 
 "Take care of yourself, and do not talk," 
 Lucy said, imploringly, clenching her hands. 
 
 He laughed aloud: "Ah, a human being 
 that has sympathy for me !" 
 
 "Do you not believe it?" 
 
 "Yes, I do. You pity me, but in your 
 heart you whisper to yourself : Lord, I will 
 give thanks to you to-day that I am not in 
 the same fix as that fellow." 
 
 "Do not believe that!" Lucy exclaimed,
 
 MAGDALEN 131 
 
 provoked. "I will tell you what I think. I 
 should wish to be . . ." 
 
 "... in your place !" he added laughingly. 
 For a while he could not proceed on account 
 of coughing. "So does every girl say before 
 her twenty-fourth year." 
 
 There was a moment of quiet. Lucy 
 looked fixedly into his eyes, while a super- 
 human and terrible power was working in 
 her soul ; then she asked him softly : 
 
 "Do you know who I am?" 
 
 "Lucy! Lucy!" the quavering voice of 
 the old lady sounded through the woods. 
 Lucy looked around her. A mist hung over 
 her eyes. The old lady, the burgomistress, 
 and the judge's wife were hastening in her 
 direction. 
 
 "Good-bye, good-bye," whispered Lucy. 
 
 A look full of contempt reached the burgo- 
 mistress from the dark eyes of the sick man. 
 
 "My child!" the old lady grasped both her 
 hands.
 
 132 MAGDALEN 
 
 "Some gentlemen have just come, Miss 
 Lucy, and they are very anxious to make 
 your acquaintance," said the judge's wife. 
 
 "Our administrator, and our judge, and 
 my husband," the burgomistress hastened to 
 add. 
 
 Lucy walked back silently, and with bowed 
 head. 
 
 "That fellow there," the burgomistress 
 pointed to him, "is a dangerous fool, a Jac- 
 obin, a runaway student, a good-for-noth- 
 ing. Has he not done you any harm?" 
 
 Lucy only turned her head. 
 
 "What an unlucky woman his old mother 
 is!" the burgomistress said, pityingly. "She 
 wanted to have a doctor! His father was 
 but a blacksmith's apprentice. Well, blood 
 will out. What is mob, remains mob. His 
 consumption, I always say, is her good for- 
 tune." 
 
 Excited, laughing, singing, the picnickers
 
 MAGDALEN 133 
 
 returned home, as the last beam of the sun's 
 reflection was paling in the sky. 
 
 In the meantime, a disgraceful old man 
 was sitting in an inn amidst a circle of daily 
 guests. His legs were crossed, his feet were 
 encased in dilapidated, dusty shoes. He 
 spoke in a loud voice, beating his fist upon 
 the surface of the oak table. His attentive 
 audience from time to time expressed its sat- 
 isfaction, its approval. Here were owners 
 of small cottages, shopkeepers, and one al- 
 derman; they treated the old man to beer, 
 drank with him, and clinked glasses. The 
 old man harangued about his rights, a 
 father's rights to his daughter. He said he 
 would not allow her to be carried off and 
 taken away by any count ; he had all the stat- 
 utes at his fingertips, and the police were 
 with him ; he was a cultivated gentleman ; he 
 had been a teacher somewhere in a distant 
 village ; fate had struck him a grievous blow ;
 
 134 MAGDALEN 
 
 his daughter had been the support of his old 
 age, his good Antigone ; she had lived lately, 
 it is true, in a bagnio, but whose affair was 
 that? What did honor mean now anyway? 
 Only a word! A foolish word! Though a 
 prostitute, his daughter could for her inner 
 worth be compared with any decent woman ! 
 He who had secretly carried her off, who 
 had caught her in his net, should return her ! 
 He must, he must ! 
 
 Nor would he escape his punishment! 
 We are not in the East, where one may kid- 
 nap daughters ! He talked, and drank, and 
 became excited, and talked again. Every 
 word of his fell like divine manna upon the 
 souls of his hearers, and they continued 
 treating him to beer, wine, and brandy, until 
 at last his grey head fell upon the table. 
 He began to snore loudly. . . .
 
 VII 
 
 AT the corner of the common, there stood 
 a low, clean, little brown house with 
 latticed windows. The passers-by (pro- 
 vided they rallied about the banner of the 
 ruling party) politely and, apparently with- 
 out seeing anybody, bowed towards the cor- 
 ner window. The Free Citizen aimed its 
 wit at it every two weeks, and its partisans 
 grinned maliciously and provokingly at it, 
 though it was quiet within and not a human 
 face appeared there the whole day long, and 
 two curved wings of lace curtains hung un- 
 disturbed to the very floor. 
 
 Hidden behind them, however, the lady of 
 the house sat all day over a stocking. She 
 seemed to have grown into her armchair, 
 like a malicious old sphinx ; she neither rose, 
 nor bent, but her fat fingers moved the fleet 
 
 135
 
 136 MAGDALEN 
 
 knitting needles. Over the broad nose of 
 her ruddy face, thick eyeglasses were sad- 
 dled, and under the glasses two grey eyes 
 flitted about like two drops of mercury. She 
 watched the common to the right and to the 
 left, up and down, and nothing escaped her : 
 no man, no beast, no sheet of paper carried 
 by the wind, no window facing the common, 
 no dormer window on the roofs. . . . 
 
 That aged widow, whose husband, a pre- 
 siding alderman, had been killed in the au- 
 tumn by an awkward hunter who emptied a 
 full charge into his abdomen, had a daughter 
 whom thirty summers were making as bitter 
 as meadow-saffron. A modest income from 
 the house and the fields barely permitted 
 them to lead an existence proper for pa- 
 trician women, and thus life enraged them 
 against their own fate, and filled them with 
 hatred for the whole human race. Like that 
 Merlin of old, of whom the Romanticists 
 sing, the widow passed her days at the win- 
 dow, where with her quick glance she
 
 MAGDALEN 137 
 
 watched the rise and fall of life. In her 
 head were deposited all the past and future 
 events, all the most secret deeds of her weak 
 town neighbors, and all that was as balsam 
 to her angry soul. 
 
 It was the day after the picnic. Early in 
 the morning, about eight o'clock, when the 
 children of the town were disporting them- 
 selves with their book bags on the common, 
 the burgomistress walked out of her house, 
 at an unusually fast gait. In a long coffee- 
 colored cloak, which, as she walked, showed 
 her white petticoat, without powder on her 
 face, her hair evidently not combed and not 
 curled, with trembling nostrils, she went 
 straight to the little house in the corner of 
 the common. 
 
 She entered the room. On the elevation 
 near the window sat the dignified lady of 
 the house, knitting her stocking. Frau von 
 Fischmeister was sitting near her in a 
 straight military pose. Further away, in a 
 semicircle, sat the wife of the commissary, a
 
 138 MAGDALEN 
 
 woman covered with freckles and cross-eyed, 
 the wife of the postmaster, a thin woman 
 with a waxen face, and Frau von Janik, a 
 poor widow, the owner of four houses, all 
 of the women in cloaks, beneath which their 
 white petticoats showed, and all with their 
 hair done up in a hurry. Towards one side, 
 resting her arm upon the piano, stood the 
 thin, faded daughter of the lady of the 
 house. 
 
 The burgomistress stopped in the middle 
 of the room, without saying a word. Her 
 eyes met in a twinkle the eyes of all the 
 ladies, and she knowingly shook her head 
 three times, as if to say: "There we have 
 it! A nice affair!" and she silently placed 
 her chair in the semicircle. 
 
 "A scandal!" suddenly exclaimed Frau 
 von Fischmeister, and all shook their heads. 
 The full bosom of the burgomistress heaved 
 high: "I said so! I am always right, 
 I have a good nose! Now we are all dis- 
 graced! The whole town is disgraced!
 
 MAGDALEN 139 
 
 Only the doctor will be rubbing his hands in 
 glee ! His yellow paper will have something 
 to chew on for half a year ! Scandal! Scan- 
 dal!" 
 
 "One of Jifi's escapades!" said Frau von 
 Janik. "Well, Prague! That is life at 
 Prague !" 
 
 The lady of the house motioned to her 
 daughter: "Clotild, you had better go to 
 the kitchen. This is not for your ears." 
 
 "But, Mamma!" 
 
 "Clotild!" 
 
 And Clotild went out, slamming the door. 
 
 "The whole family is like that," dryly and 
 solemnly began the lady of the house. "His 
 father ..." and from the treasury of her 
 recollections she drew immoral, shameless 
 stories about Jifi's father. The ladies inter- 
 rupted now and then with: "ScJ&eckUchl" 
 "Scandal!" The burgomistress : "I de- 
 clare! That's what I always say!" The 
 lady of the house happened to recall another 
 incident about his grandfather. Again those
 
 140 MAGDALEN 
 
 exclamations, again wonderment. She fin- 
 ished. A small pause. 
 
 "The poor councilloress !" now sighed the 
 burgomistress. "I wonder with what sly 
 pretext he deceived her?" 
 
 "The councilloress is a little off," the com- 
 missary's wife moved the fingers of her right 
 hand about her forehead, "that's what I 
 mean." 
 
 "And that father of hers, Kavka has re- 
 ported to me early this morning about him," 
 explained the burgomistress (Kavka, the 
 town watchman, was in the habit of calling 
 early in the morning at the burgomaster's 
 kitchen, and the burgomistress would listen 
 at breakfast to his report, when any one had 
 gone home in the night, in what condition, 
 from what inn, and so forth) , "went at seven 
 o'clock to their house, and returned again 
 in a few minutes. Kavka, I tell you, is a 
 shrewd fellow. He started a conversation 
 with him, and that old man began to praise 
 his daughter, the old lady, Jif i, and our town,
 
 MAGDALEN 141 
 
 thanks ! Kavka soon found out that Jif i 
 had lined his pockets with money, you see, 
 pleasure is expensive. The old fellow has 
 gone back to Prague. He told Kavka that 
 he would be back, that there were good peo- 
 ple here, that nothing would please him bet- 
 ter than to settle here, a pleasant out- 
 look!" 
 
 Again a pause. The commissary's wife, 
 seeing now a favorable moment for an ef- 
 fective speech, coughed, her eyes looking 
 more cross-eyed than ever, and with a sub- 
 dued voice she began to speak of that cate- 
 gory of girls to which Lucy belonged, and 
 she told of those houses where, they say, they 
 are to be found, in tens and twenties, of those 
 small rooms, of how they are furnished, of 
 those orgies which are celebrated there in the 
 hours of the night. The burgomistress 
 looked all the time with a side glance at her: 
 the commissary's wife seemed to her, as she 
 spoke, like a starved person that pictures 
 to himself savory dishes ; the other ladies lis-
 
 142 MAGDALEN 
 
 tened attentively, as one listens to old, long 
 familiar speeches, which, however, one likes 
 to hear again, the commissary's wife con- 
 tinued speaking, choosing full, pregnant 
 words, now elaborating the story with jests, 
 and now winking. 
 
 The subject was more universally dis- 
 cussed, and Frau von Janik could add many 
 a beautiful detail. 
 
 Then Frau von Fischmeister arose : "Did 
 you notice yesterday how persistently Jifi 
 clung to Anda, the tax collector's daughter? 
 Anda is a clever girl, but it would be well to 
 give the tax collector's wife a hint. Such a 
 bird as he ought to be kept away from her." 
 
 "If one only knew what the councilloress 
 thinks of it," said the postmaster's wife, re- 
 turning to the old theme. 
 
 The lady of the house allowed the stock- 
 ing to fall into her lap : "We know her fool- 
 ish affection for her nephew. In the end she 
 will give in, and will be glad that Mr. Jiri 
 has his fair magnet at home."
 
 MAGDALEN 143 
 
 "Scandalous! Scandalous!" confirmed 
 Frau von Janik. 
 
 "Did you notice yesterday how this our 
 pure dove kept on refusing to play?" started 
 again the burgomistress, "and how she ran 
 away ? She had bites of conscience in decent 
 society. She found the Jacobin somewhere 
 in the woods. Birds of a feather . . ." 
 
 Just then the clock began to whirr, like a 
 sick man who is about to cough, and then it 
 struck eleven. 
 
 "Oh, it is already eleven!" The burgo- 
 mistress jumped up. "Dinner time!" The 
 ladies all jumped up. The burgomistress 
 opened the door. Clotild, with burning 
 face and sparkling eyes wide open, almost 
 fell into the room. The burgomistress 
 smiled. 
 
 "Adieu!" the ladies bid good-bye and went 
 out. 
 
 "Clotild, that is not proper. You must 
 not listen behind the door," began the lady of 
 the house.
 
 144 MAGDALEN 
 
 Lucy stepped out of the gate about two 
 o'clock in the afternoon, with a book in her 
 hand. The old lady was taking a nap after 
 dinner. The room was hot and oppressive, 
 and the troublesome flies were everywhere, 
 they seemed to be most annoying at just 
 that time of the day. 
 
 At dinner Jifi ironically gave her her 
 father's regards. Oh, that father! She 
 shook in disgust, and did not ask any farther, 
 when or how he had come, or whether he had 
 left again. She had that moment a feeling 
 as if a bony hand had stretched out from 
 somewhere in her past, as if it drew her back 
 and down by the hem of her garment. She 
 ate little, and did not speak. 
 
 She was walking slowly, in a bright striped 
 gown and with her parasol open, towards the 
 castle park. She walked in the sun, for in 
 the street there was no shade. She happened 
 to look at the sunlit wall from which the heat 
 was reflected in a burning stream. A feel- 
 ing of inexplicable anxiety was upon her, and
 
 MAGDALEN 145 
 
 she was not thinking of anything. She 
 watched the swarms of flies that were warm- 
 ing themselves upon the wall ; frightened by 
 her steps, they rose in a semicircle, flashed 
 their metal-colored bodies, and fell like ar- 
 rows further away. 
 
 Suddenly she looked up. Frau von Fisch- 
 meister and the commissary's wife were com- 
 ing from the opposite direction. Lucy 
 stepped more firmly, but the two ladies 
 crossed on the other side . . . they came 
 nearer . . . they were in one line . . . 
 Lucy bowed politely . . . they did riot an- 
 swer the greeting . . . they were looking 
 sidewise, deep in a lively conversation . . . 
 they passed. . . . 
 
 Again, as before, Lucy walked more lei- 
 surely; she felt a stinging sensation, as if 
 some one were looking at her from behind. 
 She turned around: both the ladies were 
 standing and looking at her. Lucy bowed 
 once more, rather timidly and undecidedly, 
 they did not answer, but sharply turned
 
 146 MAGDALEN 
 
 around, and walked on. Lucy at once 
 blushed ; hosts of instinctive fears surrounded 
 her. . . . She allayed them with this and 
 that, but the sting had entered deep into her 
 heart. 
 
 She walked into the park. A mixture of 
 different odors reached her. On the left 
 were many-colored pinks : somewhere nearby 
 she scented bird cherries, and the first roses. 
 The smell of walnut leaves was stronger than 
 all, as she entered into a gigantic avenue. 
 A footpath to the left led to the old rococo 
 part. Near the road an ousel softly hopped 
 from time to time in the rank grass, and 
 looked queerly at her with its blinking eyes. 
 ... A finch called loudly over her very 
 head. The bees buzzed about her ears, 
 otherwise everything was quiet, solemnly 
 quiet. 
 
 She walked down some stone steps where 
 the posts of the former banister rails were 
 still standing, into the old park. Here ash-
 
 MAGDALEN 147 
 
 trees, planes, and old birches cast impene- 
 trable shadows upon the ground. The air 
 was fresher and moister. In an old foun- 
 tain, where a moss-covered, armless nymph 
 had long ago ceased to pour forth water, lay 
 a heap of rotting leaves. Here and there a 
 broken bench clung in the shade of the 
 foliage. The tree-tops trembled with a mel- 
 ancholy noise. 
 
 Lucy walked softly, warily, as if afraid 
 to disturb the dreams of that dead past. 
 
 "Walk more softly!" she suddenly heard 
 some one say. 
 
 She stopped, frightened. The branch of 
 a hornbeam was moved aside, and there, on 
 a bench, sat the consumptive man, that 
 strange acquaintance of hers of the previous 
 day. He looked peacefully at her, his right 
 eye was turned away, the green shade lay 
 upon his sunken cheeks. Lucy stood still, 
 something kept her back, and she looked 
 at his bony hand. Pity took possession of
 
 148 MAGDALEN 
 
 her, and she wished to say something pleas- 
 ant to him, so she asked him gently: "Are 
 you feeling better to-day?" 
 
 He smiled: "No, but I shall some time." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "What are you reading?" he asked softly. 
 
 She gave him her book. 
 
 "Poetry!" and he burst out with a con- 
 temptuous laugh. He looked interroga- 
 tively at her. 
 
 "From the .bottom of my soul I despise 
 our modern rhyming," he said excitedly. 
 "The poet is now-a-days a disreputable fel- 
 low! If he has to write a line, he becomes 
 swollen with conceit, begins to model words, 
 sentences, and rhymes, the devil knows 
 what he is about, if only he said something 
 sensible! And what does he write about? 
 About love and troth, about the moon and 
 stars; he glorifies the good, curses rascals, 
 kisses the boots of old kings, and knights, 
 and their fair maidens, prophesies good times 
 to his country and to humanity in general
 
 MAGDALEN 149 
 
 Oh, those ossified conceptions that have 
 long lost their significance! 
 
 "And again, for whom does he write? 
 For our bourgeois! And they are every 
 inch of them practical people! If they are 
 going to give six kreuzers for that book, they 
 want to have something for it! The praise 
 of ancient, good days, prophecies that better 
 times are coming, such things the bour- 
 geois like to read. Then hymns of human- 
 ity, justice, sympathy, light, virtue, and 
 goodness, only sing these ideals to them, 
 it is like scratching their backs, that 
 pleases them, and they like it so much, that 
 they are willing to stretch out their hands 
 for a small volume of these verses from time 
 to time! Do you suppose all that finds an 
 echo in their souls, their hearts, and their 
 blood? No, no, no! They have only been 
 inoculated at school with the idea that this 
 is beautiful, that this is good, that it will not 
 hurt them, their sons, or their daughters, as 
 long as it is all quiet! Only no militant
 
 150 MAGDALEN 
 
 spirit! That unnerves them! They are 
 afraid of catastrophes and revolutions. And 
 thus our whole poetry flows in a conserva- 
 tive stream!" He threw the book down on 
 the bench. 
 
 "What good is it to us?" he said more 
 quietly, measuring Lucy with his eyes. Her 
 expression evidently told him that there was 
 much she did not understand. 
 
 But her eyes were sparkling with delight. 
 That voice sounded pleasant to her, and it 
 seemed to her to be true and convincing, and 
 so she was absolutely sure that all this was 
 the truth. . . . 
 
 "Hide yourself," he suddenly whispered 
 to her, pointing to the bench on which he 
 was sitting. Lucy looked around her and 
 at once sat down. The steps of two persons 
 were heard upon the sand, the heads were 
 already visible: one belonged to the slender 
 blonde, the daughter of the tax collector, the 
 other to Jiff. He was looking into her face, 
 and she was glancing sideways, a girl's
 
 MAGDALEN 151 
 
 scheming pose: "I will never fall in love; 
 my ideal would be to live somewhere within 
 the walls of a cloister," she said, sentimen- 
 tally. 
 
 They passed by, their steps and voices 
 died away. 
 
 "Jiff, Jiff, silly carp," the sick man 
 laughed loud. 
 
 "Do you know him?" 
 
 "My schoolmate, formerly my friend. 
 It is comical," he suddenly burst out laugh- 
 ing, "how he, a connoisseur of female hearts 
 (so he deemed himself to be), he, who was 
 tired of all those joys and pleasures, who re- 
 garded himself as a blase, a sly fellow, a dip- 
 lomat of love, is deceived by the first toad 
 that has crossed his way! It is too funny! 
 Well, there will soon be a wedding. The 
 young lady has a good instinct : a little coun- 
 try jollity, some remarkable restraint, and 
 yet is a little provoking, add to this a ve- 
 neer of romantic sentimentality, and be- 
 hold that is the creature which our blase
 
 152 MAGDALEN 
 
 carp, 'god of fortune' my mother calls him, 
 has caught. In two years they will begin to 
 get stout, to be tired of each other, to quar- 
 rel, and again to make up, ugh, it's an 
 insipid life! Of course, our whole life is 
 something incidental and temporary, and it 
 does not make much difference, how we go 
 through it. . . ." 
 
 Lucy displayed true feminine curiosity, 
 curiosity, and nothing else, for she was in- 
 terested only in this new park. As they 
 passed by, a peculiar peace fell upon her soul. 
 It occurred to her that a tree must feel that 
 way, when a lifeless branch is cut from it. 
 Her relation to Jiff now became clear to her, 
 it was a pure, sisterly relation. With her 
 whole heart, she wished the two happiness, 
 and Jifi suddenly appeared to her as some- 
 thing better, and she felt that she would 
 from now on be more lenient with him, that 
 she would make peace with him, and would 
 press his hand at home. Then she felt that
 
 MAGDALEN 153 
 
 something brought her nearer to that stran- 
 ger by her side. 
 
 "My appointed time, too, will soon come," 
 he added, firmly, but more to himself. 
 
 "But you have not coughed yet," she con- 
 soled him. 
 
 "What is not, that may . . ." his hand 
 suddenly grasped hers. She drew back in 
 surprise, and looked at him, but immediately 
 caught him up with her other hand. A sud- 
 den weakness overcame him, a pale mist lay 
 over his eyes, his face looked ghastly white 
 in the green shade, and he breathed heavily 
 and with effort. She looked at him in 
 fright: all of a sudden an infinite pity took 
 possession of her, pity? . . . She took his 
 head in her hands, kissed his brow, held it, 
 and tenderly passed her fingers through his 
 hair. . . . At that moment there was a din 
 in her breast, as if a broad torrent were 
 pouring through it; an intoxicating weak- 
 ness fell upon her head, her eyes, and her
 
 154 MAGDALEN 
 
 ears. . . . Everything around them disap- 
 peared, only they remained; that empti- 
 ness grew broader and broader, it grew above 
 them and below them, and they were in the 
 midst. . . . 
 
 He slowly opened his eyelids. 
 
 He did not speak a word; he only looked 
 somewhere into the distance, between the 
 branches. Then he gently dropped her 
 hands, and sat a little longer : 
 
 "Not yet to-day, but, perhaps, in ten or 
 fourteen days," he coughed, "it will all be 
 
 over." 
 
 Tears sparkled in Lucy's eyes. 
 
 He looked a long time at them, as if they 
 were a relief to him. . . . "Well, it is a fine 
 sundown," he whispered softly. 
 
 "Is it true," he suddenly asked in a strong 
 voice, "that you are ... his mistress?" 
 
 "I am not, I am not !" 
 
 "Of course," he again spoke quietly, in 
 apathetic peace, "what difference does it 
 make? To-day the whole town knows your
 
 MAGDALEN 155 
 
 history; your life is as open as a book, and 
 all will cast mud upon it. ..." 
 
 Lucy wrung her hands : "I swear to you : 
 I am not, I am not ! Mire . . . yes, I have 
 walked through the mire, but I want to live 
 a new life, another, a pure life. . . ." Tears 
 gushed from her eyes. 
 
 "The bourgeois will not permit that; they 
 will crush you," he said sadly. "The new 
 life!" he repeated. "What is that for? That 
 people should look differently at you? That 
 they should consider you their equal?" He 
 shook his head: "In vain, never! The 
 bourgeois will not permit anything, they will 
 not forget. Oh, I should like to live to the 
 moment when this rotten world of theirs, 
 with all its lying wisdom, deception, un- 
 truth, stupidity, and malice, will go to ruin!" 
 
 He shook with internal anger, and looked 
 into space, while the green reflection of the 
 leaves swayed like needles in his pupils. 
 Then, as if seeing the absurdity of his anger, 
 he spoke more softly:
 
 156 MAGDALEN 
 
 "I should like to hasten the stream of time 
 by some twenty years! In twenty years it 
 will be different. In twenty years from 
 now you would be happy ; in twenty years I 
 myself would not be so willing to die. To- 
 day we are both j udged, both lost. In short ; 
 this life ... it does not make any differ- 
 ence how we live it ... it is something tem- 
 porary . . . maybe later it will be some- 
 thing, and maybe not . . . who knows?" 
 
 Lucy was not listening. Her meeting 
 with the ladies at once became clear to her. 
 The feeling of a coming storm overcame her. 
 The whole park seemed to her to be hostile. 
 She thought of the room at the estate and 
 of the old lady, of her good, pale eyes, and 
 she longed for them, as a child longs for 
 its mother. She arose. With face turned 
 away, she quietly gave him her hand. He 
 pressed it, without saying a word. She went 
 away, faster, faster, until she found herself 
 almost at a run, where the walnut leaves 
 smelled more strongly. Then she walked
 
 MAGDALEN 157 
 
 more slowly, with downcast head, in dull 
 resignation, like an animal scenting the blood 
 of the slaughterhouse. . . .
 
 VIII 
 
 FREE CITIZEN gave in its 
 J- newest number a fine surprise to its 
 readers. They turned the two sheets over 
 and over again, but there was not a word of 
 it in it! It kept stubborn silence on every- 
 thing, on the picnic, the young lady, the 
 disgrace of the ruling party, bah, the bur- 
 gomistress got off with her usual share of 
 abuse, but otherwise not a word! That 
 caused the heads of the town, of the Opposi- 
 tion itself, to shake knowingly : "Evidently 
 the doctor is losing his teeth. . . ." 
 
 The sly doctor had put the hand of a diplo- 
 mat upon that muddled situation. 
 
 The town was all in a flutter. Cupidi 
 novarum rerum they now were in the ant 
 hill. They wanted to know more and still 
 
 158
 
 MAGDALEN 159 
 
 more. Matters were discussed on the com- 
 mon, in the inns, in the offices, and at home. 
 Men of the world retailed all their expe- 
 riences to a wondering crowd, and married 
 women listened to them with blushes. The 
 patrician daughters, while out for a walk in 
 the evening, went as far as the house, and 
 there stealthily looked into the row of win- 
 dows, hoping to find "her" sitting there. 
 
 After taking council in a full meeting, the 
 burgomistress and Frau von Janik went as 
 delegated to Jiff's aunt. They went full of 
 praiseworthy purposes: to open the eyes of 
 that good old lady who had been tricked in a 
 shameless manner ; to point out to her Jif i's 
 contemptible action; to place that reptile, 
 "her," with her fine past, in the right light; 
 to say everything politely, yet openly, in 
 short, to purify the atmosphere in the poor 
 old lady's own house. 
 
 The aunt received them as usual. They 
 seated themselves, and spoke for a long, long 
 time of this and that; at last the burgo-
 
 160 MAGDALEN 
 
 mistress hemmed. She spoke softly, im- 
 pressively, with dignity, as behooves the 
 worthy spouse of a town's head. Frau von 
 Janik now and then uttered a word or two, 
 or put in a whole sentence. The old lady 
 listened with surprise, then told them that 
 she had known all the time what the girl had 
 been before, that she had taken her into her 
 house in order to return her to the world and 
 decent society, that now the girl was as pure 
 as a child. She praised her, and she said that 
 she could hardly have been more satisfied 
 with her if she had been her own daughter. 
 The burgomistress and Frau von Janik only 
 exchanged cold glances: how that Jifi had 
 deceived her, how he had put a cobweb be- 
 fore her eyes ! Terrible, terrible ! 
 
 Now Frau von Janik began to speak. 
 She turned her attention to Jiff. It was 
 evident, she said, that he was the fabricator 
 of that whole story about her new innocence, 
 that he wanted only to throw a mantle over 
 his passion before the town and before her,
 
 MAGDALEN 161 
 
 his aunt; that the whole town was deeply 
 agitated by that trickery, and that everybody 
 pitied the councilloress for having so much 
 shame cast upon her white hair. 
 
 The old lady replied emphatically, but 
 curtly, that that was not true. The two 
 ladies arose in undisguised indignation and 
 went away. 
 
 The town was once more in a turmoil. 
 The old lady was in the foreground of the 
 situation. People wrung their hands in dis- 
 gust over the blind love for that worldly 
 man, and over her credulity. 
 
 Just then the doctor, the head of the Oppo- 
 sition, called upon Jifi. A great plan had 
 ripened in his head. Jifi had been a neutral 
 spectator of that war of the town mice, and 
 only occasionally leaned towards the ruling 
 party, as was proper for a rich man and a 
 patrician. In the depth of his soul, the op- 
 position of the democracy was distasteful to 
 him. In Prague he had, in political discus- 
 sions, often quoted with conviction Horace's
 
 162 MAGDALEN 
 
 Odi profanum, and as long as his breast was 
 beset by longings, he dreamed of some day 
 attaching a "von" to his name, or of some 
 well-sounding baronetcy. 
 
 The doctor did not find him at home. He 
 was told that he was in the field. 
 
 He went down to see him there. The two 
 walked among acres of beets, where a crowd 
 of perspiring peasants were swarming in the 
 heat of the sun, amidst the singing of larks, 
 and in the blue smoke of cigarettes ; and they 
 talked for a long time. 
 
 At once the news flew through the town 
 that Jifi had gone over to the Opposition, 
 that he had become co-proprietor of The 
 Free Citizen, that he would be a candidate 
 for representative at the Diet, that he would 
 speak on Sunday, when the banner of the 
 white veterans would be consecrated upon 
 the island ; that The Free Citizen would from 
 now on appear with an illustrated satirical 
 addition, and many more things flew 
 through the town like lightning.
 
 MAGDALEN 163 
 
 The burgomaster was very angry at his 
 dinner : "It is your talking that has done it 
 all!" he accused his spouse. "You have at- 
 tacked that girl like hornets! Besides, the 
 whole lot of you are no better! There will 
 be now an end of Mr. Burgomaster!" 
 
 Then the burgomistress arose, returned 
 ten words for every word of his, and splen- 
 didly defended her honor and that of her fol- 
 lowers; then a few tears trickled down her 
 cheeks, she wept out loud, and the burgo- 
 master turned his eyes to the ceiling, and 
 began peacefully his defence : ' 'A ber, Katz- 
 chen, I did not say all that. . . ." 
 
 It was now twenty years since Corporal 
 Vaclav Benda had come home from the war. 
 On his breast gleamed a cross (he had earned 
 it at Solferino) and a silver medal (at 
 Sadowa). He returned to his native home 
 with the idea of forming a society of brave 
 veterans, according to the custom of other 
 towns. Some fifty good men joined it. It
 
 164 MAGDALEN 
 
 bore the name of Radecky. 1 On holidays, 
 such as Corpus Christi, the eighteenth of 
 August, Easter Sunday, and at funerals, the 
 society came out in all its glory. At the con- 
 secration of the banner, the princess herself 
 had been godmother. 
 
 Each member was covered with gold, the 
 lace, the stripes of the trousers, and the 
 lapels, everything was of gold, while upon 
 their hats waved majestically black panaches. 
 Their president was Vaclav Benda. It was 
 a pleasure to look at those stately men and 
 to see the military spirit revive in them dur- 
 ing such parades! Just as though an old 
 warhorse, drawing a plough, suddenly heard 
 the march of Prince Eugene! He struts 
 along proudly, keeping measure, neighs, and 
 raises his head, just so our veterans filed 
 by with sure steps before the local dignita- 
 ries! 
 
 But two years before another society of 
 veterans had been formed, at the instigation 
 
 i Field-marshal Count Radecty (Radetzky).
 
 MAGDALEN 165 
 
 of the doctor. There were quite a number 
 of men who were anxious for decorations, but 
 whom proud Benda had turned away, on the 
 ground that they had never worn the em- 
 peror's uniform. The doctor called to- 
 gether these rejected men, and wrote them 
 out some by-laws. A new society came into 
 life. Everybody, without exception, could 
 be its member. The society had about one 
 hundred men. Their uniforms were even 
 more expensive than those of the others. 
 There was still more gold upon them, 
 but from their hats waved white pan- 
 aches. The society bore the name of 
 even a greater person than the grey marshal 
 himself, in short, it was a dangerous rival. 
 It grew and grew. Many black ones left 
 Benda soon, and went over to the white 
 panaches. Now these white ones were also 
 to get a banner, and the doctor's wife was to 
 be godmother. (There was no princess 
 present, therefore the doctor made a mighty 
 democratic speech at one 'of the meetings:
 
 166 MAGDALEN 
 
 "We no longer have any aristocracy, the 
 people is everything," etc.) 
 
 Sunday came. At a high mass about noon 
 the banner was consecrated, and then it was 
 carried to the island. Here, in the shade of 
 oaks and amidst restaurant tables, rose a 
 platform adorned with bunting, flags, and 
 pine boughs. The island was filling up. The 
 dignitaries had their table near the platform. 
 The doctor was there with his wife, the aunt 
 with Lucy, the tax collector's wife with her 
 blonde daughter (being a wise mother, she 
 had gone over to this camp, for she had well 
 noticed the fire for her daughter in Jifi's 
 breast) . She had heard, it is true, of Jifi's 
 relations with Lucy, but her daughter's ex- 
 istence was more to her than everything else. 
 She had made up her mind to tell him at the 
 first favorable moment that there was but 
 one conditio sine qua non: To send that girl 
 away from his house. The tax collector was 
 there, a speechless bureaucrat, two adjuncts, 
 the merchant Jiskra with his wife, Captain
 
 MAGDALEN 167 
 
 Knotek, Aiaerman Vrzal, the apotnecary, 
 the flour-dealer Vrba, Doctor medicinse 
 universe &ehak, and the wives and daugh- 
 ters of the celebrating veterans, who now 
 stood in a circle around the platform. All 
 was quiet, and only the branches of the oaks 
 rustled to the ripple of the nearby water. 
 
 Jifi was the speaker. At first he spoke 
 calmly, cleared his throat in places, looked 
 into his notes, and at times passed his fingers 
 through his thin hair. The farther he pro- 
 ceeded, the more excited he became : he em- 
 phasized, thundered, now and then made ef- 
 fective pauses and proper gestures, and 
 shook his head. 
 
 He began with the White Mountain, 1 and 
 the two centuries' deep sleep of our lion, 
 then spoke of the marvellous awakening, and 
 here he quoted Kollar 2 (about the shepherd's 
 
 iThe battle at the White Mountain took place in 1620; 
 here the independence of Bohemia and many of its liber- 
 ties were forever lost. 
 
 2 Jan Kolldr (1793-1852), famous poet who was one 
 of the chief promoters of the literary regeneration of 
 Bohemia.
 
 168 MAGDALEN 
 
 hut) ; then he related the effects of the con- 
 stitution, and Bach's * despotism, analyzed 
 the February Patent? discussed with fire 
 the Diplomas? spoke long of the passive 
 Opposition, of entering the Austrian Par- 
 liament, of the sad, grovelling politics, of 
 the rotten opportunistic party, of the venal 
 government, of that new, approaching era 
 that demanded new men, new organizations. 
 (Here he again quoted Kollar: "Let all 
 men work," etc.) 
 
 Then, by a nice turn, he passed over to our 
 white veterans: he called them a national 
 legion, to whom the realm might appeal in- 
 deed at any moment ; and that banner, which 
 was to be a holy symbol to them, should be 
 borne to the honor and glory of their society 
 and their country. 
 
 The standard bearer raised the banner to a 
 
 1 Alexander Bach, famous Austrian minister after 1848. 
 
 2 A charter granted to Bohemia on February 26, 1861. 
 
 3 The most important Diploma is the one granted by 
 Emperor Frank Josef in 1860, by which the absolutism 
 was abolished in favor of an equality of all the lands of 
 the realm.
 
 MAGDALEN 169 
 
 dizzy height, and the music fell in with: 
 "Where is our home?" The island shook to 
 its foundation from the storm of applause 
 and the cries of "Glory!" Kutzendorfer, 
 the concert master, followed with: "Hej, 
 Slavs, you ask, Moravian maid," and 
 again there was a deafening noise and ap- 
 plause. Jifi, his face red, stepped down. 
 The doctor embraced him and kissed him. 
 Then came congratulations from all sides, 
 drinking, and cries of: "Glory! Glory!" 
 The blonde wife of the tax collector, congrat- 
 ulating him half comically, half seriously, 
 patted his open hand with hers. Jifi seated 
 himself near her. 
 
 Then the doctor arose. "Silence, silence !" 
 was the cry. The doctor swung his glass 
 and drank to Jifi. Again: "Glory!" 
 The glasses clinked, and the music thundered 
 a flourish. Jifi drank to the godmother of 
 the banner. 
 
 Then a terrible furor rhetoricus (a specific 
 Bohemian ailment) took possession of the
 
 170 MAGDALEN 
 
 crowd. Speeches followed upon speeches, 
 and then two or three speakers were talking 
 at the same time. Kutzendorfer gave the 
 company a full force of marches in breathless 
 succession. The beer poured down the 
 throats. The white panaches shook slowly 
 on the veterans' heads, though somewhat to 
 one side. 
 
 The red glow of the setting sun, reflected 
 on the surface of the Elbe, flooded the island. 
 The golden air was filled with grey tobacco 
 smoke, which rose, snakelike, through the 
 branches of the oaks to the sky. Here and 
 there a swarm of gnats flew by in a whirling 
 mass. Tiny waiters placed candles in glass 
 globes upon the tables. There was a noise 
 and din. 
 
 Lucy sat like a lifeless statue. That mer- 
 riment was strange to her ; she did not under- 
 stand it, and she looked at it as if from some 
 far distance. No one spoke to her, except 
 the old aunt. Not a word. She felt that 
 all were shielding themselves from contact
 
 MAGDALEN 171 
 
 with her. If she looked anywhere, she saw 
 somebody's eyes turning aside, though they 
 had but just been fixed upon her. She 
 heard within her the well-known old song : 
 
 "Only once we live down here : 
 Beauty, youth soon disappear; 
 Age runs riot with our face, 
 Of our youth leaves not a trace." 
 
 That song kept on returning to her all the 
 time, and she hummed it inwardly. On that 
 day it sounded so melancholy, so despairing, 
 as if she were to bury with it her young, 
 empty life. For a moment the face with the 
 dark glance would flash in her mind, the 
 right eye looking sideways, again she was 
 gazing at it. That stung her. . . . Where 
 was he now ? How much more gladly would 
 she have been sitting there in the park, by his 
 side ... his cough dinned distinctly in her 
 ear, and she trembled. 
 
 "Only once we live down here." 
 If she could only redeem his life by her lost,
 
 172 MAGDALEN 
 
 worthless life! Her room of former days 
 stood before her. There, in that house, she 
 saw herself clearly before the mirror, she 
 was combing her hair. . . . 
 
 "Only once we live down here." 
 
 She almost felt that in the bagnio she was 
 happier. . . . What would be next? She 
 shuddered. The presentiment of some 
 dark, terrible catastrophe chilled her. 
 
 It was evening. The tables were lighted. 
 The colored lamps that were strung on poles 
 between them were swinging to and fro. 
 The people were surging up and down on the 
 island. Confectioner Curcek, a clever local 
 pyrotechnist, sent up a swarm of colored 
 rockets. 
 
 The doctor leaned for a moment down to 
 Lucy, pinched her cheek, and, looking pro- 
 vokingly into her eyes, asked her: "Well, 
 what do you say, deary?" That tone re- 
 minded her again of that house, of that life. 
 She looked scornfully at him, but did not say 
 a word.
 
 MAGDALEN 173 
 
 The doctor stepped aside abashed. Just 
 then Jifi came by, and took him away; but 
 Lucy saw him patting him on the shoulder 
 and saying : "Friend, you have a fine lassie ! 
 I must say, you show good taste !" 
 
 Jifi drew him aside, and explained some- 
 thing to him ; the doctor smiled, and shook his 
 head. 
 
 The old lady was fatigued by all the sights, 
 and soon fell asleep. Then suddenly the 
 doctor's wife seated herself by Lucy's side. 
 Her silk garment rustled at every motion; 
 her little head was redolent with powder; in 
 her pale-blue eye was reflected an eternal 
 longing for luxury; her every turn, glance, 
 and smile was graceful and charming. She 
 spoke two or three sentences, and lightly 
 vaulted over to the burgomistress and to 
 those ladies who gathered every morning for 
 gossip in the house at the common. She 
 called them very humorously the holy inqui- 
 sition of the town, then sarcastically, but in 
 a half -whisper, told her the salacious stories
 
 174 MAGDALEN 
 
 of their lives ; she at times put such questions 
 to Lucy or cast such a glance upon her, that 
 the blood rushed to Lucy's face. Then she 
 began to flash confidences upon her, and to 
 hint and indicate this and that, and bid- 
 ding with all that for Lucy's confidence, she 
 asked in veiled terms, and with the naivete of 
 a young girl, for the secrets of free love. 
 
 Lucy opened her eyes wide in shame, ter- 
 ror, and surprise. 
 
 The doctor's wife made her questions 
 clearer. 
 
 Lucy, fixing her eyes upon the white table- 
 cloth, whispered: "Madam, spare me. I 
 cannot speak of these things. . . ." 
 
 "You do not need to act the virtuous per- 
 son before me," whispered the doctor's wife 
 with biting irony, and walked gracefully 
 away. 
 
 "My dear aunt," Lucy gently shook the 
 old lady's hand; "Aunty dear, let us go away 
 from here, I beg you. My head is in a 
 whirl."
 
 MAGDALEN 175 
 
 "Where is Jifi?" 
 
 "He will probably stay here." 
 
 "Come, child!" 
 
 When they had passed the narrow path 
 and seated themselves in the coach, Lucy 
 threw her head in the aunt's lap, and sobbed 
 out as loudly and pitifully, as if she wished 
 to unburden all the bitterness of the day, all 
 the bitterness of her life.
 
 IX 
 
 v r 
 
 JIRI fixed up a room in the corner of the 
 house for a study. 
 
 The heavy portieres of the windows ad- 
 mitted but little light. There was an evident 
 attempt at emulating the imposing duskiness 
 of the studies of great men. The furniture, 
 it had been bought somewhere in Vien- 
 na, heightened the sublime impression: it 
 was of massive ebony, covered with shining 
 plush of a moss color. 
 
 He hung excellent woodcuts of Havlicek 
 and Sladkovsky upon the large wall, by the 
 side of Brozik's Hus. The seven famous 
 
 v 
 
 Young Cechs, who were the first to defend 
 their holy rights at the Austrian Diet, he had 
 hung above his table, in expensive gilt 
 frames. Long bookshelves ran along the 
 walls, and these were filled with fat, learned 
 
 176
 
 MAGDALEN 177 
 
 pamphlets on political economy, with books 
 of the great philosophers, histories, and some 
 hundreds of booklets, and all the political 
 speeches from Demosthenes up to Bismarck. 
 Then there were anthologies of quotations, 
 which industrious Germans collect and 
 classify according to subjects, and which are 
 of great use for oratorical ornamentations. 
 The minutes of the Diet were bound in 
 leather. The statutes and laws of Bohemia 
 and Austria lay in a big heap, from which he 
 sometimes took out a volume to read a page 
 and, yawning, put it back. 
 
 His large writing-desk was covered with 
 papers and a mass of documents, and there, 
 from day to day, he carefully deposited his 
 campaign speeches, speeches full of fire, full 
 of promises to the voters of all the classes, 
 full of sulphury flashes and thunder against 
 unyielding Vienna, the great and famous 
 July elections were not far off! 
 
 The doctor called on him often. He 
 smoked, while Jifi read to him his weighty
 
 178 MAGDALEN 
 
 philippics. The doctor corrected him in 
 places, smiled, and predicted great success 
 for him and a seat in the Diet. He said that 
 the committee of the party would send him a 
 trusty man from Prague, whose glib tongue 
 would advance his cause in the district. 
 Now and then he advised him in a fatherly 
 way to finish that affair with Lucy. He told 
 him he was convinced that he was acting in 
 an honorable manner, but the voters were in 
 that respect a dull lot of people, and would 
 not understand such a rehabilitation of a 
 girl's virtue. He also advised him to be wise 
 and get married : the tax collector's Anda, he 
 said, was a girl full of life, full of fire, whose 
 embrace promised many happy moments to 
 her husband. Jifi always warded him off 
 with a motion of his hand, and promised that 
 he would consider it, but he never gave it any 
 thought. He had no time and no inclination 
 for that. 
 
 While smoking his cigar, he dreamed en- 
 ticing dreams of the future. He was sure he
 
 MAGDALEN 179 
 
 would soon take unto himself the tax collec- 
 tor's Anda. A sweet sensation thrilled him, 
 whenever he thought of her embrace, but 
 he drove away these pictures like golden 
 flies. His soul was divided, its greater half 
 was tending elsewhere. He would be called 
 to the Diet, he would speak there, and would 
 be a great man. His name would be known 
 to the whole country, the whole nation would 
 read his speeches in the party's press and in 
 the foreign papers, and then they would be 
 reprinted in pamphlet form. At times dep- 
 utations would come, and they would ask him 
 this and that ; he would receive them here, in 
 his study (he proudly looked around him, 
 passing his fingers through his sparse hair) , 
 he would answer them this way or that, would 
 shake hands with them, would see them to 
 the door. . . . The mandate to the Bohe- 
 mian Diet would only be a step to higher 
 honors. He would be chosen to the Aus- 
 trian Diet, he would speak, storm, and 
 thunder in Vienna, beyond that he could
 
 180 MAGDALEN 
 
 not think, his dream passed away in a whirl, 
 he inclined his head, closed his eyes, and 
 drifted off in a pleasant and blissful sea of 
 the mysterious future days. 
 
 Then the ys Gazette began the fight 
 
 in earnest. In its editorials and in the news 
 of the day, it shot off its arrows at Jiff, his 
 candidacy, his principles, thoughts, and 
 plans. The speech which he delivered on the 
 island was called the babbling of a political 
 baby; his life at Prague was laid bare, and 
 they asked the question, whether that was a 
 preparation for the serious, heavy struggle 
 for the holy national rights. The feuilleton, 
 which bore the title "Behind the Curtain," 
 was interlarded with a series of spicy gossip 
 which, as everybody in town knew, was com- 
 posed at the feminine sessions in the house 
 near the common, and which the editor of the 
 ruling party ( a runaway student whose light 
 hair of the color of straw hung down to his 
 shoulders) put into literary form; this feu-
 
 MAGDALEN 181 
 
 illeton told of penitent Magdalens, of Mag- 
 dalene of Egypt and of Palestine, one with 
 the skull, the other with the lion, and still of a 
 third, a more modern Magdalen, who, fol- 
 lowing the example of the earlier ones, was 
 travelling on the thorny road of virtue, 
 whither the future leader of the nation had 
 brought her, accompanied by the wise old 
 aunt, who was giving them her blessing, 
 quotation marks played a great role in 
 these attacks. 
 
 The Free Citizen was not behindhand, and 
 repaid every thrust with full measure. It 
 had the scoffers of the town upon its side, 
 and in its illustrated supplement it trampled 
 upon its adversaries: the burgomaster was 
 there represented with big horns, which orna- 
 ment the burgomistress and the councillor 
 were laughingly attaching to his temples; 
 Frau von Janik, the commissary's wife, Frau 
 von Fischmeister, and the whole house at the 
 corner of the common were artistically rep- 
 resented, their heads were scaly, and from
 
 182 MAGDALEN 
 
 their mouths issued long, thin tongues, 
 forked like those of serpents, or they ap- 
 peared as a crowd of witches flying at night 
 on broomsticks. Every two weeks five or 
 six such cartoons hovered above the greedy 
 eyes of the town. And the texts ! . . . 
 
 The passion of fighting took possession of 
 the whole town like a contagious disease. 
 Suddenly the Guelphs and Ghibellines were 
 revived in the once simple-minded people. 
 The courts had much to do : to return to some 
 their lost honor, and to punish the slanderers ; 
 but after the summons the witnesses fell to 
 again in the hallowed corridors of the court- 
 house, whence arose new trials, new punish- 
 ments, and higher and higher appeals. The 
 Hussite blood was throbbing in the veins of 
 the good citizens ; in the evenings the children 
 of God's fighters proved their opinions in the 
 inns with their fists and glasses. Sons 
 parted from fathers in anger, brothers from 
 brothers, old men sternly shook their grey 
 heads and wrung their hands.
 
 MAGDALEN 183 
 
 Lucy's life flowed listlessly along, like a 
 long autumn day. No pain, no bitterness 
 disturbed her, for her soul no longer had any 
 strength for eruptive ebullitions. A dull 
 resignation, like a November cloud from 
 which no storm issues, veiled her thoughts. 
 She sat at the window, mechanically knitting, 
 while her eyes roamed over the waving clover 
 field, without seeing it. Only common, 
 every-day thoughts passed through her mind. 
 
 Frequently a word occurred to her, and it 
 kept on repeating itself inwardly ; she heard 
 it, she understood it, until she said: "Lo, 
 this word, how foolish it is!" Or there 
 occurred to her a novel which she had read 
 some time before : a scene which then had in 
 no way impressed itself upon her, now stood 
 out vividly; she saw its characters walking, 
 speaking, and smiling, but it all lasted so 
 long, and those people seemed unable to get 
 through. Lucy impatiently moved her 
 hand, as if to hurry them up, but immediately 
 she thought : "How foolish I am !"
 
 184 MAGDALEN 
 
 She saw the picture of a man, it was a 
 poor woodcutter, who was pushing a 
 wheelbarrow full of wood up Vysocany Hill. 
 She plainly saw his strength slowly leaving 
 him, the dark veins in his swarthy temples 
 were filling up and beating fast, and she saw 
 his knees tremble, and that hill was still 
 towering above, and the summit was not to 
 be seen. Warm drops of perspiration 
 trickled down Lucy's forehead and cheeks, 
 she breathed heavily, as if she herself were 
 pushing that load. She opened her eyes 
 again, and drew a deep breath, the picture 
 disappeared. 
 
 There occurred to her a few bars from 
 familiar songs, and a few words that went 
 with them, strange, incoherent words, and it 
 all sounded in her soul endless and mo- 
 notonous, like the telegraph wires in some 
 deserted garden on a murky November 
 day. 
 
 Only rarely a sharp, nameless feeling, like 
 the prick of a fine needle, stung her, but
 
 MAGDALEN 185 
 
 only for a moment, her soul at once fell 
 again into its heavy semi-sleep. 
 
 The old lady frequently looked into her 
 eyes: something yellow quivered in them 
 now, and blue rings around them made them 
 appear deeper in their sockets. The light 
 breath of playful merriment and mobility 
 had vanished, and there remained only a 
 long, apathetic, retired, quiet glance. Her 
 face was emaciated and of the color of yel- 
 lowish alabaster. Her thin, light red lips 
 had somehow become immovable. Her 
 every motion had grown heavier and more 
 feeble. For the remarks and jests of the 
 old lady, for books and reminiscences, for 
 everything, she had but a weak, melancholy 
 smile. 
 
 "She is like a caterpillar," often thought 
 the old lady, "but she will change to a chrysa- 
 lis." Only rarely and but for a moment, she 
 saw Lucy's whole suppressed life, but with 
 the childish optimism of her soul she thought 
 that everything would soon be different.
 
 186 MAGDALEN 
 
 People would change, and would look upon 
 Lucy with other eyes; all would be well. 
 The old lady had managed through her long 
 life to preserve a firm faith in some higher, 
 unfailing justice. 
 
 One holiday forenoon she took Lucy to 
 church. They seated themselves upon one 
 of those old benches that gleam with a dark, 
 red-brown sheen. The church was empty: 
 Lucy happened to be looking at the altar, 
 an old altar. An indistinguishable black 
 picture in a gold frame was hanging between 
 two windows whose variegated panes colored 
 the light from without. Four saints, sculp- 
 tured by the inexperienced hand of a country 
 artist, were standing at the sides. They 
 were gleaming in new, bright colors. Lucy 
 looked at them. Their smooth faces seemed 
 comical to her, for the renovating painter had 
 indicated with a bluish-grey paint the traces 
 of their shaven hair and beard upon their 
 sunken cheeks. She looked at the pillar of 
 dust that rose obliquely from the chequered
 
 MAGDALEN 187 
 
 floor to the colored windows. ... It was 
 blue, wavy, and light, like the smoke of the 
 censer, and reminded her of the little church 
 in her native village in the distant mountains. 
 
 The church then began to fill rapidly. 
 The flower of the local dignitaries, in costly 
 garments, bedecked with jewels, stepped, 
 rustling noisily, to the front. 
 
 The burgomistress, in her peony-colored 
 dress, wearing heavy gold circles in her ears, 
 sailed in; the doctor's wife balanced herself 
 to the bench like a pale-rose fairy. Lucy 
 saw her neck and the cunning coiffure of her 
 mobile head right in front of her. 
 
 Then in came Frau von Fischmeister, 
 straight and stiff, her black dress fitting her 
 like a uniform. 
 
 Frau von Janik arrived in an odd, but ex- 
 pensive yellow garment. Clotild, and the 
 wives of the commissary, the postmaster, Mr. 
 Jiskra, and the worthy veterans came and 
 seated themselves. The ruling party was in 
 the right row, the ladies of the Opposition on
 
 188 MAGDALEN 
 
 the left. Nobody else stepped into their 
 pews. The ladies who came later turned 
 back and stood in the rear. 
 
 That bench was the goal towards which 
 the eyes of the curious and the sedate of both 
 parties were turned. Nay, excitement was 
 in the faces of the pious people, as if their 
 glances said: "How did she dare come to 
 the temple of the Lord?" 
 
 An old deacon, in white, gold-covered vest- 
 ments, served high mass, with the assistance 
 of chaplains and ministrants. From the 
 choir thundered the organ and the violins, 
 accompanying the voices of the patrician 
 daughters, they were playing Fiihrer's 
 Mass. 
 
 Sad memories stirred Lucy's soul during 
 that playing; she thought of those Sundays 
 and those masses when, as a young child, she 
 used to sing at mass. Her father then 
 played the organ. The sunlight used to fall 
 through one window upon a gilt angel, her 
 first love. The old parish priest used to give
 
 MAGDALEN 189 
 
 her a bright silver coin after every mass. 
 Meanwhile the mother was waiting at home 
 in the kitchen where they used to eat. In 
 that whitewashed kitchen golden-green flies 
 flew over the windowpanes. 
 
 Lucy folded her hands in her lap, she 
 prayed. Her lips were closed, but she 
 prayed inwardly, mechanically, from mem- 
 ory, without aim or purpose, that music, 
 those memories, that air heavily-laden with 
 incense, that lonesome emptiness that lay 
 like a black shroud over her once bright life, 
 evoked in her an ebullition of repining piety. 
 
 They remained alone in the pew after the 
 service. 
 
 Even in the open, the heat of the July 
 sun and the noisy stream of the townspeople 
 left her in a stupor. She drew the old lady 
 along with her faster, faster. . . . 
 
 There was a big dinner. The promised 
 trusty man had arrived from Prague. 
 Upon his lips were jests and sweet words 
 (these he showered upon Jifi) ; he wore a
 
 190 MAGDALEN 
 
 light suit, and his trousers were most prop- 
 erly creased ( Jifi frequently cast an envious 
 glance at them, thinking to himself : "What 
 a fine fashion! He is a nice fellow!") He 
 knew everything and spoke of everything. 
 He was all things imaginable, a politician, 
 a critic, and a literary man ; he was a soldier 
 of the press in Prague, and he supplied five 
 country sheets with weighty discussions on 
 our situation; in the columns which were at 
 his disposal, he now and then vented his 
 spleen upon this and that man, sullying his 
 name, his honor, and all his labors (referring 
 to these articles, he used to say: "I have 
 this day written some social news from 
 Prague"). He knew all about French, 
 Russian, Croatian, and Polish affairs. He 
 was a phenomenon, a pillar of social purity, 
 a secret messenger of embassies, a man of 
 strength who knew how to make excellent 
 use of every bit of gossip, in short, a man 
 worth his weight in gold. 
 
 At dinner he treated the two ladies with
 
 MAGDALEN 191 
 
 exquisite civility, but he looked at Lucy now 
 and then, as if to say: "We know a thing 
 or two, but we keep quiet, as becomes a gen- 
 tleman." 
 
 His conversation was exclusively with Jiff, 
 that is, he spoke, and Jiff listened. He 
 knew all the political wires behind the cur- 
 tain, all about representatives, journalists, 
 and ministers, he knew some spicy gossip 
 or anecdote about each, and at every oppor- 
 tune moment he flattered Jiff with: "Such 
 and such a fellow, well! But you are all 
 right!" 
 
 Jiff was charmed with him. After dinner 
 he took him to his study, where the gentle- 
 man remarked that he here found all the 
 familiar signs of the Bohemian land, which 
 he promised to take a look at. Jiff read his 
 speeches to him. In the meanwhile the 
 trusty man drank wine (good wine!), 
 smoked, now and then praised, and now 
 again burst forth into full, enthusiastic 
 agreement.
 
 192 MAGDALEN 
 
 Thereupon Jiff brought out from the cor- 
 ner a big bundle containing one thousand 
 copies of The Free Citizen, which were just 
 ready to be distributed. The paper was 
 headed by a fine poem (the local young as- 
 sistant teacher had written it secretly upon 
 order), which apostrophized the elections, 
 the famous elections, the July elections! 
 Then there were references to the knights of 
 Blanik, 1 to the White Mountain, to the 
 Hussites, the older and the more recent ones, 
 to the new era in the history of the Bohemian 
 land, and so forth, two long, closely writ- 
 ten columns. 
 
 Dexterously evolving his speech from that 
 poem at the head of the paper, the trusty 
 man fell to talking about poems and poets, 
 about himself and about criticism. He said 
 he was stern and unbending, and therefore 
 he had enemies among the poets. But what 
 was our poetry for anyway? Had any one 
 
 i A legend tells that there are enchanted knights on 
 mount Blanik, who will awaken only when Bohemia is 
 hardest pressed, in order to free it from its foes.
 
 MAGDALEN 193 
 
 among us ever written an "Orlando Fu- 
 ioso"? or a "Paradise Lost"? "Lusiads"? a 
 "Faust"? a "Divine Comedy"? Vain con- 
 ceit ! What then have we ? Only a few thin 
 booklets of verses, "Morning songs," "New 
 songs," then "Songs of Zavis." (It was he 
 who had discovered and properly valued 
 them.) What was there else? Vrchlicky? 1 
 Hem! He at once subjected them to his 
 venomous criticism, though he admitted that 
 he had talent, that it was possible that he 
 would soon write a great work, that his forty 
 books so far were nothing but flimsy toys. 
 And the others? Shame, shame! We have 
 versifying artisans, but no poets. WTiat 
 about Sladek? Nothing. He does not 
 write like Homer, Krasnohorska 2 does not 
 write like Zola, and Zola himself ought to 
 write not as he does, but as Tolstoy. He 
 was not striking at them now for the first 
 
 1 Emil Bohu Frida (pseudonym Jaroslav Vrchlick^), 
 1853-, greatest poet of the older generation. 
 
 2 Eligka Krasnohorska, one of the more prominent women 
 novelists, born 1857.
 
 194 MAGDALEN 
 
 time, nor calumniating them, he had 
 written publicly about this matter. 
 
 Our younger generation? A barren wil- 
 derness. Machar had lately published some 
 political poems, he had given them a fine 
 raking over ! What impudence ! A poet to 
 meddle with politics! He wants to over- 
 throw public orators, state rights, and Pan- 
 slavism with the work of a journalist! He 
 wants to be the nation's physician! As if 
 he did not have stars, the moon, spring, flow- 
 ers, the rustle of the forest, brooks! Our 
 poesy has been so long growing fat on such 
 subjects, why should it all of a sudden be 
 different? And he proceeded not only to 
 berate him for this, but also for his whole 
 activity, and not only the activity of the self- 
 confident rebel, but his honor and name as 
 well. 
 
 Jiff, who listened to him only with half an 
 ear, and did not quite understand what he 
 did hear, showed him the further contents 
 of the spicy news: his own life, written in a
 
 MAGDALEN 195 
 
 very elaborate style; the platform on which 
 he was to stand before the voters; a sharp 
 review of the whole labors of the man who 
 had represented that district for ten years; 
 some terrible statistics of the tribute that 
 flows from our country to Vienna; a few 
 paltry figures of what returns to us from 
 there, and many more bombs, every one of 
 which was sufficient to blow up the safest 
 stronghold of the adherents of the ruling 
 party. The trusty man promised future 
 glory and future greatness for him. They 
 continued drinking, and talked enthusiasti- 
 cally until late in the evening. 
 
 After dinner Lucy went into the castle 
 park. It was quiet. On the horizon rose 
 gloomy, ill-boding clouds. Not a leaf was 
 stirring. Grey dust was lying everywhere, 
 on the trees, the bushes, and the grass. The 
 heavy odor of acacias was mixed with that of 
 the walnut leaves, sage, and yellow roses. 
 Hundreds of shrill-voiced swallows circled
 
 196 MAGDALEN 
 
 up in the air, around the many-colored tower. 
 
 Lucy walked over the old steps, over the 
 path which looked as though covered with 
 snow, the white petals of the bird-cherry 
 blossoms lay there. 
 
 All around was quiet. Lucy looked in- 
 quisitively into all the side-paths. It was 
 quiet everywhere. A small woodpecker was 
 pecking somewhere at the trunk of a tree. 
 The chatter of the swallows reached her from 
 the tower, now lightly, now more distinctly. 
 
 Lucy walked faster. 
 
 There was the bench, how strongly her 
 heart beat then! The blood rushed to her 
 face like fire. . . . The bench was empty. 
 . . . The stifling air around her was oppres- 
 sive, as with some old perfume. . . . 
 Threads of cobwebs stuck to her cheeks, and 
 pestering gnats beat into her face. 
 
 Lucy said to herself that she was out for 
 a walk only, that she did not expect any- 
 thing, but she walked on more rapidly, and
 
 MAGDALEN 197 
 
 she kept on looking into every corner, at 
 every bench, all was deserted. 
 
 Twice she crossed the whole park. The 
 sunlight grew more yellow. A heavy mist 
 was thickening for rain. The leaves began 
 to stir gently, as if from fear of the coming 
 moment. 
 
 Suddenly the bell in the tower of the town 
 church tolled the knell of death. Those 
 groaning, penetrating sounds spread with 
 their full force, and, reflected by the wall 
 and the trees, re-echoed here a second time. 
 
 A certain terror suddenly took possession 
 of Lucy. She inclined her head and hurried 
 on, and it seemed to her as if some one was 
 looking at her from somewhere, some one for 
 whom she had to-day been searching in vain. 
 The last few days she had not succeeded in 
 bringing his picture before her eyes, but now 
 she saw him clearly outlined : he was looking 
 so peacefully at her, and yet there was so 
 much terror in his pale features.
 
 198 MAGDALEN 
 
 The funereal bell continued ringing. She 
 walked rapidly over the steps and through 
 the avenue of trees, and out of the park. 
 
 The aunt was standing in the yard and 
 speaking with the stewardess. 
 
 "They think, Lucy, the poor fellow has 
 died," she called out to her. 
 
 That short sentence stirred every nerve of 
 hers. And yet, it seemed to her, she had 
 known it before, that somebody had told her 
 so in the park. She did not ask who it was, 
 she did not ask anything, she knew it 
 all.
 
 fTlHE Bohemian crown was gleaming on 
 A the facade in its golden splendor, and 
 below it hung the familiar wreath of dry, 
 pine twigs. Through a passage-way, per- 
 meated with greasy smells which issued from 
 the open door of the kitchen, one crossed the 
 yard, mounted seven steps, and entered a 
 garden. Here chestnut trees spread their 
 thick foliage over white tables. In the mid- 
 dle of every one of these stood large lamps, 
 against which gnats and moths were beating 
 blindly. Around these tables, in careless po- 
 sitions and at ease, sat the citizens of the 
 town, only those, of course, who had joined 
 the banner of the Opposition, for the foot 
 of the ruling party would never, never stum- 
 ble against the "crown." They sat there 
 conversing, talking politics and judging this 
 
 199
 
 200 MAGDALEN 
 
 or that man, as the case might be, drinking 
 three or four glasses of liquor, smoking, sub- 
 mitting to the enticement of cards, and 
 then they went home. 
 
 Under the veranda, whose walls were cov- 
 ered with a whole mass of pictures cut out 
 of our leading periodicals, the dignitaries sat 
 at a round table. Here they discussed poli- 
 tics in the higher style : local, national, Aus- 
 trian, and European affairs were rummaged 
 through in all seriousness. Here the strate- 
 gical doctor placed his men on the town- 
 hall chessboard, ready for any attack. Here 
 the initiated ones learned from still wet man- 
 uscripts of the little scandals and inventives 
 that The Free Citizen would contain in its 
 next number. In her anxiety, the burgo- 
 mistress frequently saw that veranda, at 
 about half past eight in the evening, blown 
 up by the dynamite of anarchists, an en- 
 chanting picture, what a pity that it was 
 only a picture ! 
 
 Nine o'clock. The garden was merged in
 
 MAGDALEN 201 
 
 a yellow light. It was filled. A small rain- 
 storm had in the afternoon cooled off the 
 stifling heat, and the air felt fresh and pleas- 
 ant. 
 
 A long table was placed upon the veranda. 
 The cream of the Opposition was in full at- 
 tendance. The doctor, Jiff, with the trusty 
 partisan from Prague, Captain Knotek, 
 merchant Jiskra, the tax collector, the apoth- 
 ecary and both the adjuncts, Alderman 
 Vrzal, Doctor medicinse universes Hehak, 
 grocer Vrba, the president of the citizen's 
 club, the veteran worthies (only the white) , 
 all were there, and all were elated, for 
 they had with them, as the guest of Jifi, a 
 good friend of the doctor's, the gentleman 
 from Prague, who was a part of the centre 
 of politics, and who brought them a light 
 from there, together with a variety of spicy 
 stories. They listened with apparent atten- 
 tion to what was being said at the table, but 
 at the same time they were racking their 
 brains to think of something to say them-
 
 202 MAGDALEN 
 
 selves, and when to say it, in order to pass 
 for very brilliant fellows, and to attract the 
 attention of all around the table. 
 
 They were debating in a lively manner. 
 
 Grocer Vrba was praising the latest article 
 in the National Gazette, entitled: "Well, 
 Bohemian people, judge for yourselves!" 
 ( Our people, reader, pardon your author's 
 precision in reporting, have to be the su- 
 perior stern judges of all the steps of their 
 representatives. Our people are an enlight- 
 ened nation, who, with their sound instinct, 
 will find out what is for their good, and what 
 will harm them. Our people have long ago 
 seen through the cowardly, degenerate poli- 
 tics of the impoverished ruling party. Our 
 people will drive the party before the judge's 
 seat, and will judge it. They will find de- 
 termined, energetic men for an extreme op- 
 position, and they will thunder at the Bo- 
 hemian Diet in quite a diif erent voice. Our 
 people will also send different people to 
 Vienna. There they will speak in quite a
 
 MAGDALEN 203 
 
 different manner. Our two-tailed lion must 
 show himself in all his power. For twelve 
 years has the venal ruling party been leading 
 him in chains around in the circus, to be 
 laughed at by rascals, to the country's shame. 
 That carnal sin must be stopped at once. 
 Our people support the whole Empire by 
 their labors, and so they are asking only for 
 their sacred rights, and they will get them. 
 To those who knock, it shall be opened. 
 New people will be knocking with their 
 mighty fists, and so forth. In all, there 
 were some three columns of that matter.) 
 
 The trusty man smiled significantly and 
 mysteriously, as one who always and in 
 everything looks behind the curtain. 
 
 The apothecary had been hemming for a 
 while, and he seated himself in another chair 
 and wrung his hands. Something was try- 
 ing to issue from his throat but would not 
 come, until the gentleman from Prague cast 
 a kindly glance at him, which gave him cour-
 
 204 MAGDALEN 
 
 It was no wonder, he said, that in the coun- 
 try, away from the main stream, everything 
 was not quite clear. The patriots were al- 
 ways fighting shoulder to shoulder, and all 
 present belonged to the Opposition, he, the 
 apothecary, too, yet he was not quite clear 
 about some things, for example, what was 
 the difference between the Old-Cechs and 
 the Young-Cechs ? 
 
 Having said that, he drew a deep breath. 
 
 The doctor jumped up, flushing. 
 
 "It is a joke, just a little joke of our 
 friend, the apothecary," and he turned to the 
 trusty man, as if burning with shame. 
 
 The latter laughed, apparently accepting 
 the challenge. 
 
 "It would not be strange, however," he 
 began in a dignified manner, "if the gentle- 
 man meant it in all seriousness. That ques- 
 tion has been put hundreds of times in Bo- 
 hemia. The distinction can easily be dem- 
 onstrated by the following metaphor : Here 
 is a corner," and he turned up the white
 
 MAGDALEN 205 
 
 table cloth from the edge of the table, "the 
 
 V 
 
 Old-Cech comes, tries it, pulls it, twists it, 
 but the corner does not budge. That cor- 
 ner, notice, is Vienna's good will. The Old- 
 Cech sits down peacefully, and with his nails 
 scratches off a few splinters, and is quiet. 
 The Young-Cech comes, takes a look at it, 
 the corner is immovable, so he bangs at it 
 with his fist, until the corner falls into his lap. 
 That is the distinction." 
 
 Saying this, the trusty man banged upon 
 the corner of the table. 
 
 As if overhearing the sigh of relief which 
 alderman Vrzal breathed, the trusty man 
 continued with importance to discuss the 
 opposition of the Croatians and that of the 
 Irish. He colored his speech with much 
 humor and many witticisms, which Bismarck 
 and Napoleon had used before him. In 
 places he wove in a whole anecdote, which 
 was very entertaining, though it had nothing 
 to do with the purpose at hand. After an 
 effective sentence (the trusty man wanted
 
 206 MAGDALEN 
 
 to pass once more to our affairs), captain 
 Knotek swiftly rose to his feet and took the 
 floor. 
 
 He was a pensioner who had joined the 
 Opposition for no other reason than because 
 it was an opposition. He passed in the 
 town for a tactful and many-sided man, who 
 always knew what to do, and who always 
 spoke interestingly upon any subject. His 
 opinion carried weight. He had entered the 
 military career from pique. He was one of 
 those old sons of Mars, who everywhere im- 
 press people by their rounded culture, 
 they attentively read Weber's "Democritos" 
 five or six times, the only book they ever 
 read through. 
 
 He spoke solemnly and deliberately of the 
 Armada, by two or three leaps passed over 
 to Temesvar, where, he said, he had stayed 
 ten years, then led up to Hungary, to their 
 sharp political contest, to their nobility who 
 were always in the van of every action. He 
 made comparisons and similes, and finished,
 
 MAGDALEN 207 
 
 measuring with his eyes the sympathy of his 
 hearers. 
 
 So time flowed on. A tiny waiter kept 
 bringing the dark-brown fluid in glasses 
 with colored lids. There was a subdued 
 murmur around the table, and the tobacco 
 smoke hovered in bluish circles about the 
 lights. 
 
 The conversation became more trifling. 
 Now Jiff, now the doctor, or the apothecary, 
 dropped a few remarks. Our nobility was 
 condemned by all. Our strength and our 
 salvation lay only in a pure democracy. In 
 half a century there would be no such thing 
 as aristocracy, just as America no longer 
 had any. 
 
 Merchant Jiskra spoke in elegiac tones of 
 that real aristocracy of our blood which went 
 down on the Old-Town Square, 1 or was 
 drowned in a far-off, foreign sea. 
 
 A weak smile appeared on the doctor's 
 
 i On June 21, 1621, twenty-seven of the leaders of the 
 insurrection were executed there.
 
 208 MAGDALEN 
 
 dry face, as much as to say: "Merchant 
 Jiskra spoke in the same elegiac tones of 
 the aristocracy a week ago, and in the same 
 words," but he kept silent. 
 
 "Maybe," added Jiskra, this time going 
 beyond his usual custom, "things would have 
 been different with us, if that aristocracy 
 still existed." 
 
 The collector shook his head, but contin- 
 ued smoking. The adjuncts drew a deep 
 sigh. 
 
 The trusty man again unbent himself for 
 another speech. No other European na- 
 tion, he said, was in such a position as we. 
 The blood of slaves runs in our veins. Who 
 was left after the battle at the White 
 Mountain? Cowardly people, renegades, 
 traitors of their faith. Their thin blood had 
 mingled with the blood of a mob of foreign 
 intruders. It is true, there was once such 
 a crowd in ancient Rome, outlaws, thieves, 
 and rough soldiers, the town of Romulus 
 had grown up and flourished with them ; but
 
 MAGDALEN 209 
 
 with us it was different. The accursed blood 
 is even now coursing through our veins. 
 Our people are wretched, without principle ! 
 Here is an example: in his journeys through 
 Austria he had found countrymen in the 
 most distant places, but always in the em- 
 ploy of the police ! Shame, shame ! 
 
 These words produced a strong impres- 
 sion. Captain Knotek shook his head ; Vrzal 
 in despair ran his fingers through his hair, 
 which was parted in the middle; merchant 
 Jiskra looked in dismay at the National 
 Gazette, and at the words "Well, Bohemian 
 people, judge for yourselves!" but he was 
 afraid to say anything. The tax collector 
 took long and rapid puffs at his cigar ; a sad 
 expression shone in the eyes of the adjuncts. 
 Only Jifi and the doctor were unmoved: 
 they had heard those flourishes at least 
 twenty times before ; there was a time when 
 they had been powerfully affected by them, 
 but now they were impervious to them. 
 
 Doctor medicinse universae Hehak cleaned
 
 210 MAGDALEN 
 
 his glasses, blinking his grey eyes at the 
 trusty man in a provoking manner : 
 
 "You, sir, I judge," said he, in a rasping 
 voice, "are a follower of the theory of 
 heredity. I will tell you straight that it is 
 nonsense. ... It is just so with diseases. 
 Somebody, somewhere, sits down to-day, 
 scowls, then opens his eyes wide, takes up his 
 pen, and begins to scribble: I have found 
 
 a new disease, morbus icus, and so 
 
 forth. He writes a book about it, or sends 
 an article to some magazine, and three 
 months later three hundred people really are 
 
 affected with morbus icus, and they go 
 
 to the dogs. So it is with everything. 
 People do not know what to do, so they con- 
 coct theories and systems, and put them 
 into print. Suddenly the thought comes 
 to somebody: theory of heredity! Good! 
 Drive everybody into this straight- jacket, 
 here a family, there a family, or a whole 
 nation, what difference does it make? 
 These stories are exceedingly clever, they
 
 MAGDALEN 211 
 
 are striking. And when hatched out, 
 they all have a philosophical shell. Keep 
 on driving! Reimf dich oder ich tress* 
 dich. . . ." 
 
 "Hold on!" cried the apothecary in a 
 loud voice. "Put six kreuzers in the box! 
 That's the fine for talking German," he said, 
 turning to the trusty man. 
 
 Hehak threw a ten kreuzer piece into a tin 
 box. "I assert," he continued even more 
 earnestly, "that the people are good. They 
 are of better stuff than you will find any- 
 where else. How many are there of us? 
 Count them up ! And yet think of the taxes 
 we have to pay! We do it all without a 
 murmur, bah, what do I say? Our nation 
 pays them with a sense of pride. It submits 
 to discipline, and what discipline! I beg 
 you, think of the elections in the seventies! 
 That was a time of trial and of strength! 
 How those hard skulls stood out like a wall 
 against Vienna! You call this degenerated 
 blood? The devil! Goto! The people are
 
 212 MAGDALEN 
 
 all right, may the lightning strike only 
 their leaders! . . . 
 
 "Again I ask you to consider the stacks of 
 books which the printing-press distributes 
 every year in the country ! What a mass of 
 printed sheets ! I mean your newspapers ! 
 Do you know, gentlemen, what gigantic 
 tribute the nation pays for its enlighten- 
 ment? If you only gave the nation enlight- 
 enment! Bah, here you place it on the 
 throne as your sovereign, just look here, 
 I beg you," he pointed to the National 
 Gazette, "and if the people do not elect 
 you, they are a lot of blind dullards. You 
 excite their enthusiasm, which you ought to 
 guard like gold, to a wild passion. A 
 hundred times a year you strain their 
 strength to shoot at an ephemeral tar- 
 get. . . . You throw them like a ball some- 
 where into the skies, and then let them drop 
 again to the ground. You promise them 
 paradise, and when they, when the people, 
 come like spoiled children and begin to cry,
 
 MAGDALEN 213 
 
 you say : 'Hem, our nation has inherited 
 accursed, degenerate blood, it's all in vain. 
 Shame, shame. . . .' 
 
 "I could go on endlessly. . . . 
 
 "But I will only say: Our people are a 
 stream of a great and mighty river, and he 
 who wants to be in the lead, ought to make it 
 his aim to find out their strength and to 
 utilize it intelligently for the great work, and 
 he ought not to seat himself in a boat and, 
 raising a little banner, let himself be carried 
 God knows whither." 
 
 Doctor medicinse universes Hehak was 
 red in the face, and he took a mighty 
 draught. 
 
 (Reader, the author in no way identifies 
 himself with &ehak : it is the latter who said 
 these things, let the inquisitorial sentence 
 fall upon him. The author washes his hands 
 of the affair. It was imprudent of &ehak 
 to contradict that gentleman from Prague, 
 that gentleman with influence and a sharp 
 pen, who, when the proper time comes, will
 
 214 MAGDALEN 
 
 pay ftehak back for it in his customary 
 manner.) 
 
 The speech had very little effect at the 
 table. Everybody felt the painfulness of 
 the situation: &ehak had too sharply crit- 
 icised the gentleman from Prague. Indeed, 
 &ehak had gotten into the ranks of the Op- 
 position by mistake. He was not liked 
 there, but he remained imperturbed, like a 
 blind man. He opposed every speech. He 
 had but one good point : he did not get into 
 discussions, he said what he had to say, 
 then he remained silent. 
 
 The trusty man began once more to speak 
 tactfully. He smoothly deduced from the 
 speech just made that in its main points it 
 exactly agreed with what he himself would 
 have said in regard to the social question. 
 He then sketched conditions abroad and at 
 home. He proclaimed that our nation never 
 dared show its color, or it would cease to 
 exist. The townspeople and the peasantry, 
 in them was the strength of the real Bo-
 
 MAGDALEN 215 
 
 hemian people, the laboring class was our 
 Hecuba. The problem must be solved, but 
 not by us. Our nation had solved European 
 questions twice, in the case of the Hussites 
 and at the White Mountain, he came very 
 near getting excited (Doctor llehak again 
 moved impatiently and softly mumbled in 
 his beard : "Eternally that one theory ; gen- 
 tlemen, it will some day spoil your reputa- 
 tion !" ) That may be the task of other great 
 nations, but we will simply take the shelled 
 kernel, thus the trusty man proceeded, and 
 again he became humorous, and wove in an- 
 ecdotes, and won applause, awakening a 
 whole swarm of ideas, opinions, dreams, and 
 wishes. 
 
 After that the conversation threw off its 
 high buskin. 
 
 Hostinsky (a fat, portly man, who had in 
 his youth served for ten years in the infantry 
 as trumpeter, and who was the second in 
 command of the veterans, the white ones, 
 a rich man whose yearning was all
 
 216 MAGDALEN 
 
 directed towards one goal, an alderman's 
 seat in the townhall) placed his chair at the 
 table and addressed himself to Jiff, saying 
 that he, Jiff, ought, as a representative, to 
 see to it that their native town was properly 
 recognized. He showed vividly how the 
 whole district would be abloom, how the town 
 would be flowing with gold. He further 
 urged that Jiff ought to persuade the gov- 
 ernment to give the town a garrison, say, of 
 dragoons (he adorned his whole speech with 
 conjunctions: "howbeit," "whereas," "there- 
 fore," "if") , and he thought Jiff should take 
 a local deputation to the ministers, should 
 talk to them, and intercede for his people, 
 just as is usually done. 
 
 Jiff promised that he would do so. 
 
 So time passed, and they drank and 
 smoked. The peaceful conversation cen- 
 tred about the town, its hopes, its people. 
 The ruling party came in for their share, 
 first the men, then the women, and spicy
 
 MAGDALEN 217 
 
 gossip touched now this one, now that one. 
 All were laughing. 
 
 The apothecary told about Clotild, the 
 faded beauty of the house in the corner of 
 the common, and he told of that meeting and 
 of the racy conversation of the town ladies, 
 which Miss Clotild had overheard behind the 
 door. Then he suddenly stopped, he had 
 to mention Lucy, but he did not know how. 
 
 Here the doctor helped him. "We all 
 know that . . ." and he proceeded to tell 
 the story himself. There was a burst of 
 laughter. 
 
 Then he turned excitedly to Jifi. "Tell 
 us yourself, what are the real facts concern- 
 ing the girl? All the women are so down on 
 her. Of course, I understand, she is a fine- 
 looking girl. My wife is quite liberal, but 
 she will not hear of her. Is it true, what 
 they say of you and her? You are among 
 friends here!" 
 
 Jifi slowly lighted a cigarette. Some-
 
 218 MAGDALEN 
 
 thing was agitating his breast, as if the next 
 moment he were to vault into the saddle of a 
 tall horse, and, when up there, to catch the 
 look of admiration which the people would 
 cast at him. 
 
 He told the whole incident : the meeting in 
 that house, the first pure impression, her 
 father, her soul, his desire to bring her back 
 to decent society (he mentioned himself only 
 in a superficial, off-hand way). He spoke 
 of the reserved manner which had since 
 fallen upon her, and of the pleasure which 
 his aunt had in her; excitedly he denied all 
 the contemptible tales which were told of her 
 in the town, and he said that he did not un- 
 derstand it, but that he knew the people well 
 enough to realize that they were only judg- 
 ing her by themselves, just as every judg- 
 ment in general was only a sentence of the 
 judger's faults. 
 
 He stopped. The doctor arose, lifted his 
 glass, and gave a solemn address in praise 
 of pure humanity, and in praise of Jiri.
 
 MAGDALEN 219 
 
 There were cries of "Glory!", and they 
 drank, and clinked their glasses. Jifi 
 bowed. 
 
 Subjects of conversation were running 
 low. Only a word fell here and there. 
 Old gentlemen began to look at their 
 watches: it was eleven. The garden was 
 getting empty. Only in a few places were 
 cards being played. The surfaces of the 
 empty tables reflected the lamplight. The 
 tiny waiter was falling asleep in a dark cor- 
 ner. The gentlemen arose, paid their ac- 
 counts, and went away. 
 
 It was a beautiful night. Thousands of 
 gleaming stars were twinkling in the dark 
 heavens. A moist, fresh breeze was waft- 
 ing fragrance from the nearby gardens. 
 
 The doctor, the trusty man, and Jifi were 
 walking together. Their steps re-echoed at 
 the other end of the street. They walked in 
 silence. A night watchman was somewhere 
 singing off the eleventh hour. The mourn- 
 ful barking of a dog was heard somewhere
 
 220 MAGDALEN 
 
 in the distance. Below was the roar of the 
 water falling from a dam of the Elbe. 
 
 The doctor stopped: "But do tell me, 
 Jifi, how can a man do so? Is your relation 
 to that girl really so pure, let us say, pla- 
 tonic?" 
 
 "Yes," said Jiff, sharply and confidently. 
 
 The doctor burst out: "Do you know, 
 my dear fellow, forgive me for saying it, but 
 I think you're an ass!" 
 
 " A-ass, a-ass !" he added, accentuating the 
 words with a tune from the "Troubadours," 
 sung in a dry, rasping bass.
 
 XI 
 
 IN black clothes, just as Jifi had brought 
 her away that night, and in a black hat, 
 from which a long veil fell over her face, with 
 her sunshade tilted more to guard against 
 the eyes of the people than against the sun, 
 Lucy walked at about two o'clock in the aft- 
 ernoon over the common to the cemetery. 
 
 The day was clear. Again there had been 
 a rainstorm in the night, and the walls of 
 the houses were still wet in places. Some- 
 thing blue and shining was tremulously fall- 
 ing through the air to the ground, as if the 
 pure azure were descending from the im- 
 measurable, smiling heavens. 
 
 Chattering swallows, flying low, shot 
 through the streets, and their little, metal- 
 blue bodies sparkled in the sunlight. Full- 
 blown, many-colored heads of roses, azaleas, 
 221
 
 222 MAGDALEN 
 
 violets, fuchsias, and geraniums, were bend- 
 ing out of the open windows, and slender ole- 
 ander trees with their bunches of rose-col- 
 ored flowers were standing at the doors of 
 houses. School children, walking up the 
 street towards the common, stopped now 
 and then. A merchant, a candy seller, a toy- 
 shop, an unreadable advertisement on the 
 wall, everything interested and fasci- 
 nated them. People stood in the doors of 
 their shops, looked out of windows, or gath- 
 ered in groups in the street, everybody 
 seemed to enjoy living that day. From 
 their eyes, their movements, and their car- 
 riage, from their smiles and conversations, 
 breathed the elasticity of energy. 
 
 Lucy's soft, passive soul took in all that 
 splendor with delight. She was like a pris- 
 oner who, while taking the air, feels the heat 
 of the sun: she drew herself together, half 
 closed her eyes, and dreamed, and warmed 
 herself. While she watched the swallows, the 
 flowers in the windows, the crystal air, the
 
 MAGDALEN 223 
 
 azure of the sky, the school children, the peo- 
 ple who walked by, she thought of the de- 
 ceased man. She thought of him so peace- 
 fully, so simply, without pain, without pity, 
 that she was frightened at herself. 
 
 "I am going to his funeral," she thought, 
 "and yet I am walking as if I were out for 
 pleasure, unfeeling, dull. He is dead!" 
 and there was a rumbling within her, "The 
 only man who did not run away from poor 
 me!" 
 
 In vain. The words resounded in her 
 soul, but only distantly. 
 
 "How wretched I am, how dull I am!" 
 she accused herself. "Who could forget so 
 soon? And how can one forget at all?" 
 But her soul could not enter into the circle 
 of pain, from which she had escaped. With 
 blinking eyes she looked about her in the 
 heat of the sun, breathing freely, and she 
 went on dreaming, God only knows 
 what. . . . 
 
 Lucy reached the small bridge that
 
 224 MAGDALEN 
 
 spanned the clear, noisy stream. Beyond it 
 the road branched in three directions. Lucy 
 stood undecided, and looked around her. 
 
 A sacristan and a young priest and minis- 
 trants with lamps passed by. They crossed 
 the bridge, and turned to walk along the 
 stream. 
 
 She followed them. 
 
 It was in the quarter of low houses, cov- 
 ered with shingles or straw, the small win- 
 dows frequently pasted up with paper. On 
 the threshold stood slatternly, wizened 
 women gossiping about their husbands, 
 their sorrows, their hopes. Half-naked, 
 dirty children were wallowing in the dust of 
 the road. White geese, a dirty pig, and a 
 flock of chickens were running about noisily. 
 There was an intense odor of farm-yards and 
 filth. This village quarter is part of the 
 town, yet separated from it. It has its own 
 life, its own elders, its distinct interests, and 
 does not busy itself concerning the town, 
 just as the town pays no attention to it.
 
 MAGDALEN 225 
 
 Only before the elections, all kinds of people 
 come with all kinds of speeches, act neigh- 
 borly to them, harangue them, urge them, 
 and bribe them, then there is the election, 
 and everything is quiet again. 
 
 The ministrants, with the priest, went in- 
 side one of those houses. Lucy stopped. 
 A crowd of women in simple holiday attire 
 were waiting outside. They were convers- 
 ing in an undertone. A few of them meas- 
 ured Lucy with an eye of mere curiosity. 
 
 The priest's voice was heard within . . . 
 then the clear voices of the ministrants . . . 
 a short song . . . loud sobbing . . . the 
 women piously crossed themselves ... a 
 mass of people issued from the door . . . 
 musicians, the choir, the sacristan, the priest, 
 the ministrants . . . then the coffin, a black, 
 shining coffin. . . . 
 
 A small bell began to ring in the cemetery 
 chapel. The musicians played a funeral 
 march. 
 
 Behind the coffin walked a small, decrepit
 
 226 MAGDALEN 
 
 old woman. Her eyes were red, but dry. 
 She scanned the crowd. For a moment a 
 sad happiness flashed over her face, and then 
 she turned her head away. 
 
 Lucy mechanically joined the procession, 
 and kept looking in one direction, where be- 
 hind the coffin a bent head in a black ker- 
 chief was trembling. Slowly a gloomy sad- 
 ness stole into her melancholy soul. The 
 funeral march sounded so full of lament and 
 chiding. All the bowed heads in front of 
 her were nodding in even measure. It 
 looked as though the black coffin were swim- 
 ming over them. The golden, burning sun 
 was reflected on two of its surfaces. 
 
 "So there he lies," a painful inner voice 
 whispered to her; "his eyes are now forever 
 closed . . . his hands are crossed on his 
 breast. . . . The end . . . the end. ... It 
 is only two weeks ago that you kissed that 
 head in the park. . . . Now it is cold . . . 
 as if of wax . . ." (a light chill passed over 
 her back) . . . "So you are alone," the
 
 MAGDALEN 227 
 
 voice continued to whisper, "alone . . . 
 alone. . . ." 
 
 The funeral march pierced her heart with 
 its lamenting tones. Her own sorrow lay 
 as a weight on her drooping head, and she 
 softly sobbed at those tones. 
 
 "What will you do with your life? Why 
 live at all? . . . Why? . . . Why? 
 
 As if her soul were secretly reviewing all 
 the impressions of the past days, as if it 
 had now placed before her eyes their crush- 
 ing result, Lucy whispered aloud: "The 
 end!" 
 
 The old aunt with her white head and those 
 kindly eyes now rose before her mind. Lucy 
 sighed, and felt as though she were once 
 more grasping the trembling, sere fingers. 
 But hundreds of strange, furious hands drew 
 her back, the picture of the aunt became 
 more indistinct, and disappeared. . . . 
 Again she was alone . . . strange hands 
 were stirring . . . they were tearing her 
 garments . . . they were drawing her down-
 
 228 MAGDALEN 
 
 wards, and a stern voice kept repeating stub- 
 bornly: "The end, the end! . . ." 
 
 The procession turned into the cemetery 
 gate. The melancholy, sobbing bell rang in 
 the chapel, as if in greeting. . . . The mu- 
 sicians continued playing, and with their mu- 
 sic mingled the funeral singing. 
 
 The coffin entered the cemetery . . . the 
 singing, and the music stopped. . . . 
 
 The procession slowly ascended a narrow 
 path between the graves. 
 
 Lucy saw the tombstones, the gilt inscrip- 
 tions, and the crosses, the palings, the flow- 
 ers, and the lamps, here and there a dry grey 
 wreath, her veil threw a network of small 
 black lines, but inwardly she did not un- 
 derstand anything of what was going on. 
 
 The funereal odor of cemetery flowers 
 blended with the penetrating aroma of the 
 incense and loam, it seemed to Lucy that 
 it was the breath of her soul. . . . 
 
 The procession stopped.
 
 MAGDALEN 229 
 
 The black coffin was put on the ground. 
 The priest mechanically read over it the 
 Latin prayer. "My child! My child!" a 
 hoarse, heart-rending woman's voice bitterly 
 lamented, ending in pitiful sobs. 
 
 "The end, the end!" whispered Lucy. 
 
 The thud of the clod against the boards of 
 the coffin fell heavily upon her soul. A fe- 
 verish longing to see him once more took pos- 
 session of her, and she pushed her way to the 
 grave, and looked down: the dark clay was 
 striking against his coffin ... he disap- 
 peared forever, forever, forever. . . . 
 
 On the other side a few women were sup- 
 porting his old mother. She did not stop 
 sobbing. . . . The shovel went from hand 
 to hand . . . each lifted with it a little clay 
 and threw it down into the grave. ... It 
 resounded against the coffin. Others threw 
 in some clay with their hands. A woman 
 handed the shovel to Lucy: "Do you want 
 it?" she asked her timidly.
 
 230 MAGDALEN 
 
 Lucy shuddered, and filled the shovel, but 
 the clay fell from it, and only a stone rattled 
 down. She stepped aside. 
 
 Then there was a rattling in the grave, 
 the old grave-digger was peacefully finishing 
 the work. The people went away, some 
 home, some to visit other graves. Only the 
 old mother remained, looking with glassy 
 eyes at the growing heap. She no longer 
 sobbed. Her drooping hands were clasped, 
 and her head bent low. 
 
 The grave was filled. Lucy heard the 
 grave-digger say: "To-morrow, Mother, I 
 will put the sod over it, and we will surround 
 the grave with stones, and you may bring 
 some flowers." 
 
 The old woman unconsciously and gently 
 nodded her head. 
 
 Lucy watched the expression of her face. 
 Her brow, her temples, her cheekbones re- 
 minded her of the dead man. 
 
 As if feeling that glance of hers, the 
 old woman lifted her eyes. Wonderment
 
 MAGDALEN 231 
 
 flashed in them, but, as if reminded of some- 
 thing, she walked up to her, and then she 
 stopped, timid and undecided. It occurred 
 to Lucy that she had something to tell her 
 . . . perhaps to thank her, or perhaps to 
 give some message from the dead man, but 
 the woman only turned back to the grave, 
 where she knelt down and made the sign of 
 the cross . . . then she arose again. . . . 
 She looked at Lucy once more, again her 
 eyes flashed and something hovered upon 
 her lips, but, as before, she turned timidly 
 away, and slowly walked out of the ceme- 
 tery. 
 
 Lucy knelt down at the head of the grave. 
 Then, at last, a sea of tears coursed down 
 from her feverish eyes . . . they kept on 
 flowing as if her whole soul had been changed 
 into tears. 
 
 Then all within her became quiet again, 
 the swollen black waves slowly subsided, 
 they only mourned like a melancholy tune 
 for something forever lost. . . .
 
 232 MAGDALEN 
 
 She arose, dried her tears, shook out her 
 dress, opened her black sunshade, and walked 
 towards the gate between a row of flowery 
 graves. She went back by the dusty road 
 over which she had come, and then across 
 the bridge and by the street that led to the 
 common. She protected herself with the 
 parasol, more against the eyes of the people 
 than against the burning sun. She passed 
 the common and walked along the streets. 
 . . . Everywhere was life, and everywhere 
 warmth and joy, but Lucy saw it all through 
 a mist, as though from a distance. . . . 
 
 In the yard of the estate stood a dusty 
 coach. The driver was leading away his 
 sweating, glistening horses. 
 
 Lucy entered the house. 
 
 Jiff was walking up and down with long, 
 heavy steps. He was rubbing his hands. 
 He was excited, and his dark eyes were 
 sparkling. He looked at Lucy, as if taking 
 special notice of her black dress, that fa-
 
 MAGDALEN 233 
 
 miliar black garment of hers, and he stepped 
 close to her, and snapped his fingers : 
 
 "I shall be elected, I shall be elected," 
 he said proudly. "A tremendous success 
 all around, the voters were intoxicated 
 with my speech," and he looked strangely 
 into her eyes that were still moist with 
 tears. 
 
 "I congratulate you," she said, giving him 
 her hand. Jin pressed it hard. 
 
 "But where is aunty?" she asked, freeing 
 her hand. 
 
 "She is still asleep, I suppose." 
 
 "Excuse me, I will change my dress." 
 And she went out hurriedly. 
 
 "How strange he is!" she thought to her- 
 self, as she was standing in her room, taking 
 off her hat. 
 
 The door creaked behind her. Strong 
 arms were thrown around her waist. O 
 Lord, it was Jiff. He was red in the face 
 and said softly: "Darling, you are mine, 
 mine, mine!"
 
 234 MAGDALEN 
 
 His burning lips kissed her, his trembling 
 hand began to unfasten her waist. 
 
 Her head whirled as if some one had struck 
 her. A feeling of shame seized her, as if 
 her own brother had laid his hands upon her. 
 She pushed him away with all her strength, 
 so that he tottered. She sobbed aloud, as 
 she stood before him, and for a moment 
 closed her eyes, while to her lips rushed 
 torrents of accusations and bitter words, 
 not only against him, but against every- 
 body, against all those virtuous and decent 
 people, but she did not speak, for fear 
 of bursting into tears at her very first 
 word. 
 
 She dropped her hands, and looked up at 
 him. 
 
 He stood there, angry and stubborn, fix- 
 ing his eyes upon the ground. 
 
 "The end," Lucy whispered, more to her- 
 self than to him. "It is the end." 
 
 "A stagey, virtuous scene! It is rather 
 too old, too insipid, one would not have ex-
 
 MAGDALEN 235 
 
 pected it from you," he said angrily, with 
 teeth clenched. 
 
 "You see, Jiff, there ... in that house," 
 she spoke with difficulty, "then . . . you 
 know . . . that night when you went away 
 . . . you only gave me your hand . . . then 
 I was thankful to you . . . with all my 
 heart. . . ." 
 
 Lucy stopped. Something told her that 
 she had intended to tell him something else, 
 what it was, she did not know herself, 
 she only motioned with her hand : 
 
 "I do not blame you for anything . . . 
 fate has decided otherwise . . ." and again 
 she was silent. 
 
 "God be with you," she said half aloud, as 
 she quickly took up her hat. 
 
 Jif i saw the situation in a flash : she would 
 actually go away, he had driven her away. 
 ... A touch of pity passed through his soul, 
 and again there flashed through his mind : the 
 elections . . . the future career . . . the 
 ijs Gazette . . . the tax collector's
 
 236 MAGDALEN 
 
 wife . . . her blonde daughter, let her go 
 ... just as well ... it will at least untie 
 the knot, and henceforth all that foolishness 
 must stop ... he turned around, and 
 walked out of the room without a word. 
 
 Lucy hurriedly put on her hat, and went 
 out, walking on tiptoe. She ran down the 
 steps like an arrow, then through the yard, 
 and out, beyond the gate. . . .
 
 XII 
 
 OVER a long and narrow ridge, between 
 two fields of grain, her foot slipping 
 at every step, Lucy hurried, timidly, like a 
 hunted deer. The waving ears beat against 
 her breast, the monotonous chirping of the 
 crickets sounded about her like the ticking 
 of a hundred clocks. In the azure height 
 unseen larks poured forth their clear tones; 
 the air was astir with those dry odors which 
 rise from the fields in July. 
 
 Around her were fields, broad fields. 
 Their surfaces rippled in light waves, like a 
 pale-yellow sea. 
 
 Lucy was hastening on in a dull, whirling 
 stupor. It seemed to her as though there 
 were an endless, swollen, terrible expanse 
 in her soul. Somebody within it called out 
 again: "The end!" That word hovered 
 
 237
 
 238 MAGDALEN 
 
 about like a bird gone astray. "The end 
 . . . the end. ..." Her lips now and then 
 whispered it aloud like an empty echo. She 
 sped on mechanically, without thinking, al- 
 ways onward, onward, onward. . . . 
 
 The narrow ridge soon came to an end. 
 Lucy entered the highway, she recognized 
 it, it was the broad swath of dust that 
 ran between fields, cut through a few vil- 
 lages, now went down, now again rose ; here 
 it turned, there it went straight, like an end- 
 less strip of cloth, and ran on and on, until 
 at last it appeared on the horizon as a 
 narrow, grey ribbon. The telegraph posts 
 hummed their monotonous song. The rat- 
 tle of wagons as they passed over it with slow, 
 measured motion, resounded afar. It was 
 only a few weeks before that she had trav- 
 elled over that road, full of happiness, to a 
 new life. . . 
 
 There below, behind her, lay that town. 
 . . . The curved roofs and the walls of the 
 houses were plainly outlined against the
 
 MAGDALEN 239 
 
 azure of the heavens. Here and there a win- 
 dow glistened like a square of steel. From 
 the chimneys a bluish smoke arose in a light 
 cloud. The black cupola of the church- 
 tower with its golden spire stood out against 
 the sky. The surface of the Elbe glittered 
 like a stream of mercury. She saw the ceme- 
 tery, its cypresses and crosses, its white walls, 
 and the fields which ran straight to the right 
 and left of it. Long roads, with avenues of 
 trees, wound through them. Towards one 
 side of the town lay the castle, with its brown 
 roof and colored tower, and the old trees in 
 the park. Beyond the Elbe were the grove, 
 the church of the pilgrims, the roofs of 
 houses, and farther off, the blue forest and 
 the villages that looked like a handful of 
 bright dots ; and still farther away was a grey 
 streak, where the sky met the undulating 
 earth. 
 
 Everything was merged in the full splen- 
 dor of the sun. The air was astir with the 
 burning heat. That town appeared to Lucy
 
 240 MAGDALEN 
 
 like a hostile being: immovable, firm, 
 haughty, shut against her, and driving her 
 into the distance. 
 
 She looked once more into the castle park. 
 It seemed to her that she could see the bench 
 that was hidden behind the branches. She 
 saw the whirling points around that tower, 
 a swarm of swallows. She glanced at the 
 cemetery: there ... in that place it was 
 . . . that black grave, covered but an hour 
 ago. . . . An hour ago? No, it was long, 
 long ago, a month ago, and maybe even 
 more. . . . 
 
 She recognized the slate roof of the manor. 
 It seemed to her that she could see through 
 it. ... The old lady in her white cap was 
 walking through the rooms, calling : ' 'Lucy, 
 Lucy 1" The plaint strongly clutched at her 
 heart. . . . And did she know already? . . . 
 She had probably run out to the gate, and 
 looked into the fields, shading her eyes with 
 her hand: "Lucy, Lucy!" That familiar 
 voice penetrated her soul, and suddenly she
 
 MAGDALEN 241 
 
 was filled with anxiety and fear, that they 
 would find her, would take her back to that 
 hell. She walked more firmly, more swiftly 
 upon that road towards 'Prague, towards 
 Prague. . . . 
 
 A firm, clear intention suddenly, flashed 
 through her soul: there, under the chain 
 bridge, the greenish stream of the Moldau 
 billowed invitingly . . . there it was quiet 
 . . . hardly ever did any one pass by. . . . 
 The abrupt side of the Summer Mountain 
 rose to the right. . . . There the din of the 
 water falling from the dam sounded hollow 
 and melancholy. One leap from the rail- 
 ing, and there below, there would be 
 peace. . . . 
 
 She walked and walked. . . . Then she 
 looked at herself with sudden calm: "Be- 
 hold, such is life. . . . Thus it will end," she 
 said to herself. 
 
 The telegraph poles, the young trees that 
 cast their oblique shadows upon the road, the 
 heaps of gravel that lay there in gravelike
 
 242 MAGDALEN 
 
 mounds, the oblong fields, the whole hori- 
 zon began slowly to recede. 
 
 Lucy continued thinking of the end. She 
 went to it without remorse, without com- 
 plaining, without resistance. Nay, a certain 
 weak contentment awoke in her: she calmly 
 considered that she would live as purified in 
 the memory of the people that knew her, that 
 the old lady and all the people who had 
 wronged her so much would think of her, and 
 that Jifi would be torn by remorse for to- 
 day's happenings. . . . She forgave him, 
 forgave all. ... In a few hours her lot 
 would be : peace, peace ! 
 
 Proudly she surveyed the landscape: a 
 new scene. The country stretched out be- 
 fore her as though laid on a table. The ob- 
 long fields, the meadows, the villages, 
 everything was clad in colors, and breathed 
 softly in the sunshine. . . . The crickets 
 
 w 
 
 chirped all around her, and in the height 
 above trilled the skylarks, and the swelling
 
 MAGDALEN 243 
 
 cloudlets hung lightly in the azure heav- 
 ens. . . . 
 
 She walked, and walked. . . . Her shadow 
 fell obliquely before her over the dusty road, 
 and the telegraph poles, the young trees, the 
 heaps of gravel, the fields, the whole broad 
 country slowly receded behind her and 
 melted away. . . . 
 
 She stopped but once. It was where the 
 old lady had grasped her hand and had said : 
 "We are at home now." 
 
 She looked about her : two round red tow- 
 ers rose above the horizon. Their gilt cupo- 
 las glittered in the blue sky like two 
 stars. . . . 
 
 And again she walked. . . . There lay 
 everything. . . . There life would flow on 
 steadily, as to-day, so to-morrow. . . . Jifi 
 would soon marry, and the old lady would 
 find some reparation. . . . The dead man 
 would decay in the peace of the black earth 
 . . . to-morrow his mother would go to the
 
 244 MAGDALEN 
 
 cemetery with flowers ... an unspeakable 
 pang thrilled her for a moment, only for a 
 moment, and she looked again proudly at 
 the landscape. 
 
 She passed through a small village of low 
 houses, straw-thatched, with tiny windows, 
 and small yards with heaps of manure, flocks 
 of chickens, and little children playing be- 
 fore the doors. Here and there an old man 
 was warming his parched body in the heat 
 of the sun. A dog lying upon the threshold 
 peacefully fixed his calm, black eyes upon 
 her, everything, everything seemed so 
 happy, so contented to her. She did not in 
 the least begrudge them their happiness, 
 what was the little sun in which a man 
 warmed himself for a moment, in comparison 
 with what was in store for her? 
 
 She walked on and on. . . . Beside the 
 road ran an avenue of shady cherry trees. 
 Their bark glistened with a brownish violet 
 sheen, and upon their branches gleamed an 
 abundance of black fruit.
 
 MAGDALEN 245 
 
 "Where will my body be, when they are 
 picking these cherries?" Lucy thought 
 calmly. 
 
 At the left was a small pond. The heat of 
 the sun beat upon it in a stream of light. 
 Nearby was a mill ... its monotonous click 
 re-echoed in the distance. 
 
 And again all was quiet about her. The 
 telegraph posts, the young trees, the heaps 
 of gravel, the meadows, and the fields, the 
 whole landscape faded away behind her. . . . 
 Half an hour later she again passed through 
 a village. Near the road lay a cemetery. 
 Crosses and trees towered above the white 
 wall. 
 
 "These cemeteries," it occurred to her, "are 
 all alike . . . everywhere they take away 
 that which is dearest to us. . . ." 
 
 And she walked and walked and thought : 
 even thus, somewhere in the mountains, in a 
 distant village, her mother's dust was decay- 
 ing ; and there, behind her, they had this day 
 covered up in the cemetery that head with its
 
 246 MAGDALEN 
 
 strange, black eyes. . . . In what clay would 
 her body soon be lying? . . . 
 
 Now and then she met a solitary passer-by 
 ... or a wagon ... or a coach. . . . Here 
 and there, in the ditch, a traveller slept 
 soundly upon his wallet. . . . Otherwise all 
 was quiet. . . . 
 
 In the meantime the sun was slowly set- 
 ting behind her and to one side. Her 
 shadow grew and stretched out, with long 
 head and shaking arms, like a monster it 
 moved on before her. Fatigue began to 
 overcome her. Her thoughts weighed heav- 
 ily upon her. Faintness made her close her 
 eyes, but she walked on with a surer step. 
 
 The country was changing. 
 
 Lucy no longer looked about her. Her 
 eyes were fixed upon the road, which ran on 
 farther and farther, grey and uninteresting. 
 Upon it were parallel wheel tracks that 
 seemed to touch in the distance. And the 
 trees along the road seemed to disappear in 
 monotonous succession from behind, and the
 
 MAGDALEN 247 
 
 wires above her head buzzed in their melan- 
 choly strain. . . . 
 
 And again she passed through a village. 
 
 She no longer looked about her. Her fa- 
 tigue and f aintness were increasing. In her 
 head, her back, her limbs, she felt a leaden 
 weight. Her legs bent unconsciously for- 
 ward. She heard a heavy, hollow sound in 
 her head, and the blood beating loudly in 
 her temples. The circle of her thoughts was 
 becoming narrower, and hovered about one 
 constant point: there, at the bridge, all 
 would be over. . . . 
 
 And she walked and walked, until she 
 entered a long, seemingly endless avenue of 
 old chestnut trees. They were in bloom 
 when she had seen them first. Now it was 
 all past. The green burrs stood out in cone- 
 shaped clusters. 
 
 The black, cracked trunks of the trees 
 dragged by her. 
 
 As though in a dream Lucy remembered 
 how the old lady, looking there into the dis-
 
 248 MAGDALEN 
 
 tance through her black lorgnette, pointed 
 out to her the villages, the roads, and the 
 summits. 
 
 She looked about her with dim eyes. 
 There they were, Jested, Hip, and Mile- 
 sovka. They stood out a dull blue against 
 the ruddy sky. 
 
 And the trees, black and monotonous, 
 passed by and disappeared, one by one. 
 
 A thin layer of dust from the road lay 
 upon her cheeks, and she felt it on her eye- 
 lashes. "I will wash it off in a few hours," 
 she thought. 
 
 Then a light opening appeared in the dis- 
 tance. She walked and walked, and the 
 opening kept growing. 
 
 Finally the avenue was behind her. A 
 broad plain stretched out before her. "There 
 is that valley, Vysocany, Liben, Prague," 
 she thought. 
 
 The red glow from the sky quivered on 
 the yellow waves of the grain fields. Here 
 were the acres of rape, in which late blooms
 
 MAGDALEN 249 
 
 shone like a shower of ducats. The straight- 
 rowed acres of beets displayed their bright 
 green hue by the side of dark patches of po- 
 tatoes. The figures of men who were has- 
 tening home from their work were sharply 
 outlined against the greyish-blue heavens. 
 
 She walked and walked. The road de- 
 scended into the valley. 
 
 On the right lay Prague, shrouded in grey 
 smoke, like some phantom in a weird story. 
 Hradcany threateningly towered to the sky, 
 and against it the glow of the setting sun 
 looked like pools of fresh blood. 
 
 Accidentally she glanced down at the grey 
 sea. "There, in that place must be the 
 bridge," the thought flashed through her 
 numbed brain. 
 
 She began to descend. 
 
 She paid no heed to anything. Her ex- 
 hausted body moved onward like a machine. 
 The noise in her head sounded more hollow 
 ... at times she thought it was the rush of 
 the water. As if in a dream she passed
 
 250 MAGDALEN 
 
 by a sugar refinery, crossed the glistening 
 railway track, and walked through Vyso- 
 cany. 
 
 The road was now filled with life, men 
 and women were hastening home from their 
 work. 
 
 Bits of low conversation about every-day 
 cares and interests reached her ear, but she 
 did not hear them. . . . She crossed Liben, 
 and went through the row of acacias past the 
 Home of the Invalids. The tinkling of the 
 tramway bells, the clatter of the city was al- 
 ready audible. . . . 
 
 She entered Karlin. She felt the pave- 
 ment under her feet. The air was heavier 
 here, and, full of heat and stifling exhala- 
 tions, it breathed upon her. Her faintness 
 suddenly disappeared. She took a deep 
 breath, and looked around her. The street 
 was noisy with men and vehicles. . . . From 
 the shops streamed a yellow light that 
 gleamed at a distance, as though it were still 
 in vain struggling with the daylight.
 
 MAGDALEN 251 
 
 The nearness of the whirling life buoyed 
 her. She hastened on. 
 
 "Here, these people are walking about, 
 laughing and talking," she thought; "each 
 has his little world, and in it his joys, his 
 cares, his sorrows. . . . This their world will 
 disappear with them. No one else will in- 
 herit it, they will all live their . . . what 
 was it he said that time in the park?" That 
 sentence had never before occurred to her, 
 indeed, she had not heard it that time, the 
 words only fell accidentally upon her soul, 
 and that soul had found them this day: 
 ' * And that life ! It is something tempo- 
 rary, and it does not make much difference 
 how we go through it.' Thus we all con- 
 tinue to live our temporary lives. . . ." 
 
 She walked and walked. . . . The streets 
 dinned and clattered. . . . She crossed Kar- 
 lin and Pof ic. 
 
 She was thinking how it would all be in a 
 few minutes : the greenish water would enter 
 her mouth, her ears, her nose . . . the whirl-
 
 252 MAGDALEN 
 
 ing waters would carry her down, and then 
 far away, somewhere near the dam. 
 
 Fright and terror chilled her bones. 
 
 "This is something temporary, something 
 temporary, and it does not make much differ- 
 ence how I end it," she thought, strengthen- 
 ing herself. 
 
 "Oh, that terrible, terrible water!" And 
 again she was frightened. 
 
 The streets crossed each other, and every- 
 where, everywhere that life. . . . 
 
 "See their faces, forms, voices, motions, 
 and dresses, their cares and their joys, and 
 they live, they live, they live. . . ." 
 
 Then she entered the tangle of narrow 
 streets. 
 
 Moisture is borne through the air ; ill odors, 
 growing more intense, are wafted through 
 the short, narrow, crooked streets. The 
 pulse of life is beating here in more boister- 
 ous measure. A variegated crowd of peo- 
 ple surges past the old, grey houses, talking, 
 laughing, jesting; laborers who come in their
 
 MAGDALEN 253 
 
 grimy clothes after having received their 
 pay; soldiers and loiterers; factory girls 
 with yellow faces, their hair combed over 
 their brows; prattling domestics vociferate 
 around the water basin; women, with their 
 pale babes in their arms, are standing at the 
 doors of the houses, conversing in shrill 
 voices ; in the basement taverns the gaslight, 
 subdued through the red curtains, already 
 flickers, and here and there are heard the 
 sounds of the accordion. The pulse of life 
 is beating strong. 
 
 Lucy stopped. . . . At a corner rose a 
 freshly whitewashed house; it towered by a 
 whole story above the red roofs of its neigh- 
 bors. The blinds were drawn in all the win- 
 dows; a dead silence pervaded the place, 
 she recognized it. ... 
 
 She had only a few hundred steps more to 
 go before she would reach the water. . . . 
 Her legs were powerless and began to trem- 
 ble, and her blood boiled furiously. Red cir- 
 cles flitted before her eyes and swam up-
 
 254 MAGDALEN 
 
 wards. She summoned all her strength, and 
 walked the few hundred steps. She stopped 
 again. 
 
 What quiet reigned all around her! 
 Only the water down there spoke mysteri- 
 ously. 
 
 The bright walls of the Concert Hall stood 
 at the right. Before her the bridge stretched 
 out its grey arm. Beyond, the river Hrad- 
 cany towered mightily against the pure, 
 golden sky. 
 
 The water below roared and roared. 
 
 She went as far as the railing. . . . To- 
 ward the left, in the park, were a few people, 
 lovers, tenderly embracing each other, 
 perhaps they would not notice her. . . . 
 
 How ghastly and weird the water of the 
 dam roared there at one side! 
 
 How the greenish monster rushed against 
 the pier of the bridge! How cold was the 
 air that watery mass exhaled! 
 
 A terror, such as she had never before felt, 
 clutched at her throat. Her legs refused to
 
 MAGDALEN 255 
 
 obey . . . she was about to fall . . . red 
 circles flew before her eyes. . . . 
 
 Her soul was suddenly cut in two: and 
 yet both halves were living, and discussing 
 with each other. The one seemed to be 
 wringing its white hands: "To live, oh, to 
 live ! After all, this lif e is beautiful ! After 
 all, we live but once! After all, it is life!" 
 
 And the other spoke in a hollow voice: 
 "Down, down! You must die!" 
 
 And again the first : "To live, oh, to live ! 
 You cannot die, you have not the strength, 
 and you have no cause to die!" 
 
 And the second: "Down, down!" but it 
 whispered it so sadly, and in so trembling a 
 voice, that it was painful to hear it. 
 
 Cold perspiration in small pearls dropped 
 down her brow. Her knees grew weak from 
 fear. Terror clutched her white throat still 
 tighter. Her glassy eyes bulged out as she 
 looked down into the ghastly green, and 
 the two halves of her soul continued strug- 
 gling with each other. . . .
 
 256 MAGDALEN 
 
 Lucy suddenly motioned with her hand, 
 and faintly whispered: "Perhaps to-mor- 
 row. . . ." 
 
 And she turned back . . . she dragged 
 herself hurriedly away, as if crushed. Her 
 head drooped to one side, like a flower half 
 plucked. Her hands hung down as though 
 dead. Her sunshade struck the stones of 
 the pavement with its point. She walked 
 along in her black dress which daintily veiled 
 her breast, and walked back into the gay 
 whirlpool of men. She walked slowly, as 
 though going to the gallows. She went only 
 a few hundred steps ... to the house where 
 the blinds were drawn in all the windows 
 . . . she raised her hand . . . she pressed 
 the handle of the door . . . she opened 
 it. ... 
 
 Eight o'clock. The bells are tolling over 
 Prague. The proud harmonious tones fall 
 upon this scene of animation. A sacred mo- 
 ment. Over this extinct sultry day, over 
 this sea of red roofs, over this varied mass of
 
 MAGDALEN 257 
 
 spires, over this grey that is flooding the tan- 
 gle of sweltering streets, over all that is 
 there in motion, over its empty pleasure, its 
 sorrow, pride, misery, passion, hypocrisy, 
 and love, over this weak, puny, ephemeral 
 human "ego," the hollow brass sends forth 
 into the vault of heaven its A ve Maria! 
 
 THE END
 
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