“The fire’s still raging,” repeated Bondy, as though in a dream. “The fire’s still raging. My God, then, we have won!”
“The Chairman of the Mining and Smelting Company has shot himself. The Stock Exchange has simply gone mad. We stand at 8,000 today in Berlin. The Cabinet is in permanent sitting, and wants to proclaim a state of siege. This isn’t an invention, Chief, it’s a revolution!”
The Chairman and the General Manager of the M.E.C. looked at each other in silence. Neither of them was a poet, but in that moment their very souls were singing.
The manager drew his chair closer and said in a low voice, “Chief, Rosenthal has gone crazy.”
“Rosenthal!” exclaimed G. H. Bondy.
The manager nodded mournfully. “He has become an orthodox Jew, and he’s gone in for Talmudic mysticism and Cabalism. He has given ten millions to the cause of Zionism. Not long ago he had a terrible quarrel with Dr. Hubka. You’ve surely heard that Hubka has joined the Bohemian Brethren.”
“What, has Hubka got it too?”
“Yes, I think the Board of Directors must have caught it from Machat. You were not present at the last meeting, Chief. It was terrible; they talked religion until morning. Hubka moved that we hand over our establishments to the workers. Luckily, they forgot to take a vote on it. They were like men possessed.”
Bondy gnawed at his fingers. “What on earth am I to do with them?”
“Hm, nothing whatever. It’s a nervous disease of the age. Something of the sort crops up now and again in the papers, too, but they’re so full of the Karburators that they haven’t space for anything else. There’s an appalling number of cases of religious mania. It’s a psychical epidemic or something. The other day I saw Dr. Hubka preaching to a crowd of people in front of the Industrial Bank about seeking the inward light and making straight the path for God. Fearfully incoherent stuff. He wound up by performing miracles. Forst is at it too. Rosenthal is nothing short of insane. Miller, Homola and Kolator came out with a proposal for voluntary poverty. We can’t possibly have another board-meeting. It’s a regular madhouse, Chief. You’ll have to take the whole idiotic business in hand.”
“But, man, this is simply awful,” groaned G. H. Bondy.
“It is indeed. Did you hear about the Sugar Bank? All the officials there were seized with it at one fell swoop. They opened the safes and gave away the money to anyone who came. They finished by burning bundles of banknotes on a bonfire in the main hall. Religious Bolshevism, I should call it.”
“In the Sugar Bank? … Hasn’t the Sugar Bank one of our Karburators?”
“Yes. For central heating. The Sugar Bank was the first to install one. Now the police have closed the Bank. Even the confidential clerks and the directors were affected.”
“Send word round that the sale of Karburators to banks is forbidden.”
“But why?”
“I forbid it, and that’s enough! Let them do their heating with coal!”
“It’s a bit too late. All the banks are already putting in our heating system. It’s being installed in the Houses of Parliament and in all the Government departments. The central Karburator at Stvanice, which is to light the whole of Prague, is finished. It is a fifty-kilo monster, a magnificent machine. It is to be ceremoniously set in motion at six o’clock the day after tomorrow, in the presence of the President, the Burgomaster, the City Council, and the representatives of the M.E.C. You must be present. You of all people!”
“God forbid!” Mr. Bondy shouted, horror-stricken. “No, no, Heaven defend me from that! I will not go!”
“But, Chief, you must. We can’t send Rosenthal or Hubka there. Why, they’re raving mad. They would make dreadful speeches. It’s the honour of the firm that’s at stake. The Burgomaster of Prague has prepared a speech in our honour. The representatives of foreign Governments and the foreign Press will be there. It’s to be a great occasion. As soon as the street lamps light up, military bands are going to play salutes and fanfares in the streets, the Male Voice Choirs and the other Choral Societies will sing, there’ll be fireworks and a salute of a hundred and one guns, the Castle will be illuminated, and I don’t know what. Chief, you simply must be there.”
G. H. Bondy arose in great torment of spirit. “God! oh God!” he whispered, “if it be possible, remove this cup …”
“Will you be there?” repeated the manager inexorably.
“God! oh God! why hast Thou forsaken me?”
VIII
The Dredge
The dredge M.E.28 stood motionless in the evening twilight above Stechovice. The Paternoster shovel had long since ceased heaving up the cold sand from the bed of the Vltava River. The evening was mild and calm, fragrant with new-mown hay and the breath of the woodlands. A tender orange glow still lingered in the northwest. Here and there a wave glittered with unearthly splendour amid the reflections of the sky—gleamed, murmured and blent itself with the shining surface of the stream. A skiff was coming towards the dredge from Stechovice. It made slow progress against the rapid current, and stood out upon the glowing river like a black water-beetle.
“Someone is coming over to see us,” Kuzenda, the skipper, said quietly, from his seat in the rear of the dredge.
“Two of ’em,” said Brych, the stoker, after a pause.
“Yes, and I know who it is, too,” said Kuzenda.
“The sweethearts from Stechovice,” said Brych.
“I’d better
