“What do you say?” asked the other.
“Is … anyone … here … named … Mar … ek, an … Eng … i … neer?” the messenger stammered out with a reproachful look.
“That’s me,” the thin gentleman cried. “Have you something for me? Let me see it, quick!”
Marek tore open the telegram. It read:
“Your predictions confirmed. Bondy.”
Nothing more.
XXII
The Old Patriot
In the Prague office of the People’s Journal everyone was working at top speed. The telephone operator was yelling furiously into the telephone and quarrelling with the young lady at the Exchange. Scissors clicked and typewriters clattered, and Mr. Cyril Keval sat on the table and dangled his legs.
“I say, they’re holding a meeting at Vaclavak,” he said in a low voice. “Some Communist’s up there preaching voluntary poverty. He’s haranguing the people, telling them they ought to be like the lilies of the field. He’s got a beard right down to his waist. What a frightful lot of long-bearded chaps there are about nowadays! All looking like apostles.”
“Mhm,” answered old Rejzek, turning over the papers from the Czechoslovak Press Bureau.
“What makes their beards grow so long?” Mr. Keval ruminated. “I say, Rejzek, I do believe the Absolute has something to do with that as well. Golly, Rejzek, I’m afraid of something of the sort growing on me. Just imagine it, right down to the waist!”
“Mhm,” Mr. Rejzek said ponderously.
“The Free Thought Society is holding a service in Havliček Square today. Father Novaček is performing miracles in Tyl Square. There’s sure to be a row between them, you’ll see. Yesterday Novaček healed a man who had been lame from birth. Then they had a procession, and just think, the fellow who’d been lame gave a Jew an awful hiding. Broke three of his ribs or more. He was a Zionist, see.”
“Mhm,” remarked Mr. Rejzek, marking some items of news.
“There’s certain to be a dustup today, Rejzek,” Keval expatiated. “The Progressives are holding a meeting in the Old Town Square. They’ve trotted out ‘Away from Rome’ again. And Father Novaček is organizing the Maccabeans; you know, a sort of Catholic armed guard. You wait, there will be a scrimmage. The Archbishop has forbidden Novaček to perform miracles, but his Reverence is like one possessed; he even goes and raises the dead.”
“Mhm,” said Mr. Rejzek, and went on marking copy.
“I had a letter from my mother,” Cyril Keval confided in subdued tones. “At home in Moravia, you know, near Hustopec and thereabouts, they’re simply raving mad with the Czechs—say they’re heathen and heretics and idolaters and want to set up new gods, and all that stuff. They’ve shot a gamekeeper there because he was a Czech. I tell you, Rejzek, things are fairly seething everywhere.”
“Mhm,” came Mr. Rejzek’s sign of acquiescence.
“They’ve even gone for each other in the synagogue,” continued Mr. Keval. “The Zionists gave the people who believe in Baal a fearful licking. There were even three people killed. And have you heard about the split among the Communists? There you are, I nearly forgot about it; that’s another grand mix-up. Now we’re going to have the mystic Communists, a sort of left wing; then the Christians, Marians, Scientists, Resurrectionites, textile Knights of St. John, iron Knights, miner Knights, and about seven other parties. Now they’re squabbling about the sick benefit funds and the workmen’s dwellings. Just wait, I’m going to slip over to Hybernska Street this afternoon. My boy, the garrison was confined to barracks this afternoon; but in the meantime the Vršovice barracks have sent an ultimatum to the Černin barracks calling on them to recognize the Vršovice dogma of the Three Degrees of Salvation. If they don’t accept the doctrine, they are to report for battle at Sandberk. The Dejvice artillerymen have gone to the Černin barracks to disband. The Vršovice garrison has barricaded itself in, the soldiers have planted machine-guns in the windows and declared war. They are being besieged by the Seventh Dragoons, the Castle Guard, and four light batteries. They’ve been given six hours, then the firing will begin. Rejzek, it’s a real pleasure to be alive in these days.”
“Mhm,” said Mr. Rejzek.
“Yes, and at the University today,” Keval went on quietly, “the natural science faculty and the history faculty came to blows. You know, the natural science faculty, being rather pantheistic, so to speak, disputes the Revelation. The professors conducted the fight, and Dean Radl himself carried the flag. The historians fortified the University Library in the Klementinum and defended themselves desperately, armed with books. Dean Radl got hit on the head with a bound volume of Velenovsky and was killed on the spot. Probably concussion of the brain. The Rector, Arne Novak, was seriously injured by a volume of Invention and Progress. Finally the historians buried the attacking party under the Collected Works of Jan Vrba. Now the sappers are at work on the scene of the battle, and so far they’ve recovered seven corpses, among them three lecturers. I don’t think there were more than thirty buried, though.”
“Mhm,” observed Mr. Rejzek.
“Then there’s the Sparta Club, my boy,” Keval rattled on with mild enthusiasm. “The Sparta has proclaimed that the only God is the Greek Zeus, whereas the Slavia votes for Svantovit, the old sun-god. On Sunday there’s to be a match between the two Gods on the Letna. Besides their footballs, both clubs will bring hand-grenades, and the Slavia will also have machine-guns and the Sparta a twelve-centimetre gun. There’s a terrific rush for tickets. The supporters of both clubs will be armed. Rejzek, believe me, there will be a shindy! I bet Zeus will win.”
“Mhm,” said Mr. Rejzek, “but now you might have a look at the post.”
“Well, I don’t care,” cried Cyril Keval. “A man can get used even to a God, can’t he? What’s the latest from the Press Bureau?”
“Nothing special,” growled Mr. Rejzek. “Bloodshed at demonstrations in Rome. They’re going for each other in Ulster—you know, the Irish Catholics. The St. Kilda agreement
