Authors: Monika Zgustova,Matthew Tree
Tags: #Literary, #Biographical, #General, #Fiction
Goya's Glass (18 page)
“What do you mean, I’m right? What is truth?”
“Paradoxical, always.”
“What does that mean?”
“That you have to bend. If you don’t want to be broken, bend.”
“How can I bend when I have a goal? I feel that I should become a kind of educator. Or a writer who teaches.”
“An educator, a master? I would only accept the second meaning of the latter word: a good person is the master of a bad one.”
“I have set myself a goal, namely, to conquer ignorance.”
“You, conquer? What is victory? The most appropriate way of celebrating a victory is by organizing a funeral service, a sensible person would say.”
“Come down to my level. Although there is much I do not know, I know much more than most: I know Czech history, the Czech language, Czech culture. What I want to do, what I need to do, is share this knowledge of mine with other people, so that they may follow me if they wish.”
“Have more humility! Nobody knows anything, you included.”
He grabbed his cane and hat, and took a long look at her from the doorway, saying, “Recognize that too, dear friend, and you will be happy.”
She leaned back on the window frame and watched him leave. He didn’t swing his cane; the points of his mustache no longer pointed all the way up. Neptune did not illuminate him with torches. On the contrary, the light emanated from him, she thought.
“Fräulein Zaleski, we do not have enough information on the activity of the writer N
ě
mcová during the revolutionary upsets of 1848. Unfortunately, during that period we had not yet started to intercept correspondence. We have asked you for a
minute description of this writer’s activity then. I do not need to add that this material is of the utmost importance to us. Do you have it?”
“In 1848, when N
ě
mcová was twenty-eight years old, her husband was transferred to Všeruby, a small mountain village on the border between Bohemia and Bavaria. The N
ě
mec family was billeted at the home of the pharmacist. The people in that area tended to speak the German language and prefer German culture. Once in the village, N
ě
mcová dedicated herself—as she had done wherever she moved—to bringing Czech culture to these people, to popularizing Czech culture, to spreading the use of the Czech language. She ordered Czech books from Prague booksellers, paid for them with her own money, and then set up a kind of mobile library and bookshop.”
“Have you any proof the writer was involved in these activities?”
“Of course. I have a copy of a letter of hers addressed to Pospíšil, a Prague publisher, dated April 17 1848: ‘Last year, during my stay in Prague, you and I decided that I could run a bookshop aimed at educating these country people. The people here know almost nothing about the world. I consider it most important, as would anybody concerned with the well-being of their nation, that country folk be better informed. For the time being, the only way to educate people is through reading. Which is why I have set all my hopes on the idea of a mobile library and bookshop, an enterprise that would prove to be of great value to ignorant people.’
“How did this enterprise fare?”
“As was to be expected, N
ě
mcová lost a lot of money with it. Not only that, but also the inhabitants of that geographical area, who had at first been indifferent toward the N
ě
mec couple, became openly hostile. This is natural enough: N
ě
mcová woke them up from their lethargy and somnolence. Should you require proof in writing, here is a note of hers dating from that period: ‘They’ve shown their true colors, these people from the villages and the town of Domažlice. My husband and I cannot so much as step out into the street, because they have threatened to beat us and throw us out by brute force. This churlishness instead of gratitude for our sincere concern for them.’”
“Could it be said that this writer launched a campaign of political agitation?”
“Yes, what she was doing was mobilizing the poor against the rich.”
“Have you proof of that?”
“Yes, a letter of hers dating from March 1848: ‘How human misery upsets me! Oh, Lotty, you have no idea of the poverty suffered by humble people. Believe me when I say that a wealthy man’s dog would not eat what the poor have to eat every day. How much money is wasted, how many fortunes are lost to gambling, or spent on clothes and other trifles, while all the time there are people who are dying of hunger! What justice, what Christian love! When I see all of this, I feel like walking among the poor to show them where to search for justice.’ That is literally what she says.”
“And what was N
ě
mcová’s realtionship then with the Catholic church, one of the mainstays of our empire?”
“Our writer published a few markedly anticlerical articles. On May 24, 1849, she wrote in Prague’s
Afternoon Post
, about an event in the district of Klatovy. The title of the article was ‘A Little Story about the Religious Beliefs of Jesuits.’ In it, she detailed how the Jesuits visited some dying people with a miraculous cross on which the crucified figure shook his head and moved his eyes. When they had left, a citizen of Klatovy got hold of the cross and saw that it was put together with wire: when one wire end was pulled, the crucified figure moved his head and eyes.”
“Thank you, Fräulein Zaleski. I am most pleased with your work today. Write a report about these educated ladies who are friends of N
ě
mcová: what they do and what they are like, what their relationship is with the writer and vice versa. We will see each other again shortly, Fräulein.”
She went out onto the street and had the sensation again that the wind was lifting her and taking her over the city, over the river. “Dear friend,” echoed his voice in her ears. She was flying fast, gaining height. Today she was heading for the steeple of Saint Vito’s Cathedral. “More humility . . . ” Everything was whirling around in her brain. She looked down and in front of the cathedral she saw a beggar. She descended in order to approach him with a few coins in her hand, all that she had. But that’s not a beggar! she realized. The old sage was half-kneeling, hands joined under the wide sleeves of the worn kimono he wore. He looked at her as she came zigzagging down toward him, but he did not see her.
Like the last time, she reached out to the old man, to take hold of him and bring him flying into the air, up to the furthest heights of happiness. He looked beyond her, through her, to where he had been before he was born and to where he would return after death.
Seeing him so concentrated, she left him there and took flight once more. Her hair was loose and she wanted to share the happiness she felt with the castles of clouds and the networks of sunbeams, with each and every ribbon of smoke from the chimneys.
Then she flew in the direction of her room. She sat at her table and started to write a folktale. The title she chose was: “The Willow Tree and the Maiden.”
A dangerous woman, whichever way you look at her. She thinks logically, like a man. Everything she does has something to do with forwarding the cause of women’s emancipation. She has reached the conclusion that customs and social prejudices should not stand in the way of women and defends their equality vis-àvis men. She is convinced of it, and as if that weren’t bad enough, she even puts it in writing. She must be destroyed. Not in a violent or underhanded way. In that case, the Czechs would have a martyr, like their beloved Havlí
č
ek, whom we have imprisoned far from Prague and who continues his attacks against us even so. Fräulein Zaleski is taking her task as an informer to heart. I do believe that the envy and jealousy that she feels toward this other woman are greater by far than any admiration she might
feel. She leaves no stone unturned in search of material that can do her harm, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she weren’t preparing some kind of surprise for us, some revelation that we have not asked her for, simply out of spite. I would swear that she is probing into the most private corners of N
ě
mcová’s life in order to sabotage her. I imagine that Zaleski wouldn’t balk at the need to invent something, or at the pleasure of inventing it, even if it comes to her in a dream; she, all of whose amorous advances must surely have been spurned.
For years we have been humiliating N
ě
mcová’s husband and we will go on doing so. Mrs. N
ě
mcová, we will make a beggar of you. We will let you die of hunger. Alone, friendless, you will be an example so that people will fear all suspects under police surveillance, as if they had the plague.
After a few hours of writing, she looked out of the window and saw the day’s first light. The most appropriate way of celebrating a victory is by organizing a funeral service, she thought again. She crossed out the title “The Willow Tree and the Maiden” and in its place wrote “Victoria.”
Yes, it has be Victoria, Victory,
she told herself, and went on writing:
A man and his wife had been living together for quite a time already, when one night, Vítek woke up. A full moon was lighting up the fields as if it were day. With indescribable pleasure he watched his wife as she slept peacefully, and bent forward gently to kiss the black curls that twisted their way
down the length of her body, over the pillow and the white sheets. He looked at the sleeper’s beautiful face, when suddenly startled, he moved closer: it seemed to him that this beautiful woman was no longer breathing. He placed a hand over her heart: it wasn’t beating. Her hand was cold, his beloved lay lifeless, like a flower fallen from an apple tree. Desperate, Vítek jumped out of bed and called his mother-in-law for help. “Do not fret, my son,” she answered him, “because there can be no good reason for your fright.”
Together they entered the bedroom. Lo and behold, Victoria had revived and, surprised by the commotion, asked what the matter was. Full of joy, Vítek took her in his arms and told her about his shock. “Listen, Vítek, and I’ll tell you about my dreams: on clear moonlit nights I dream I hear the tempting voice of the willow tree calling me. I open the window, the willow tree bends in my direction, and I cannot help but throw myself into its arms. But then it is no longer just a willow, but a great lady, a noble lady who leads me through her palace toward a resplendent golden throne. As far as the eye can see, there stretches a magnificent, perfumed garden. Everything is alive, blooming. The trees, the flowers, bend toward each other like lovers, telling each other secret legends in silvery voices, and I understand their language. Then from the rivers and the fountains, from the cliffs and the mountains arise nymphs dressed in white. They dance amorously, sing and laugh, and invite me to join them. I understand what they say; I hasten to revel in their embraces; I too sing and dance and have such fun with them. The queen, this eternally young and
splendorous queen, is delighted with her daughters. When I have to leave my friends, I can still hear their seductive voices in my heart, and when a long time passes without the queen calling for me, I feel sad,” said Victoria, finally.
“I don’t like your dreams, Victoria.” her husband said. “I fear that you will forget about me in that realm of beauty, and that one day you will remain there.”
“Do not be afraid, Vítek. It is only for a very short while that I am allowed to visit the fairy queen and that palace I love so much. I always know I have to come back.”
Even so, Vítek did not like her dreams, as they came back again and again after that night. He feared for the life of his beloved and wanted to free her from that mysterious power. He told himself that the best way to do it would be to cut down the willow tree. But he didn’t want to do so without Victoria’s consent. So one day, while she was basket weaving by the window, he said to his wife
:
“That willow tree is blocking the light. Maybe I should cut it down.”
“No, Vítek, you should do no such thing,” Victoria implored. “I love that willow tree too much. If you love me, do not do it. You never know, you may regret it afterward.”
But the man could find no peace. He didn’t want his wife to disappear into a world that he could not enter. One night, when Victoria was sleeping, showing no apparent signs of life, he went out with an axe and a single goal in mind. With four well-placed blows he felled the willow tree and a cry of pain shot through his soul. He threw the axe away and went into the
house. In her mother’s arms, Victoria was dead. The blows of the axe, which had destroyed the willow tree, had put an end to Victoria’s life.
They have asked me for a report on Božena’s female friends. That means writing about Johanna and Sophie Rott. Sophie told me delightedly about her first meeting with N
ě
mcová. It took place a few years after Božena’s definitive return to Prague. Johanna’s husband, who was then her fiancé, spoke to the two sisters about the writer Božena with admiring enthusiasm. Johanna agreed to meet her although she had reservations: the sisters were from an aristocratic family and had been educated in a private school for noble young ladies. Johanna had turned into a proud and unapproachable woman. For Sophie, who was younger, the idea of meeting the famous writer filled her with panic.
The girls awaited her arrival in the sitting room of their home, an ancient mansion furnished in a style that was equally ancient. Both sisters wore navy blue dresses. I imagine them with their dresses buttoned up tightly and the tension showing on their faces. All of a sudden, Božena appeared: smiling, fresh faced, in a comfortable sand-colored dress with a pleated skirt and a pale hat over her black hair. At thirty, she looked as youthful as a girl of nineteen. Her overall appearance had something of a classical air, her features and dark hair bound at the nape in a Greek chignon, her big green eyes, her slender neck, her long, fine fingers. The writer’s appearance alone captivated the two girls.
After she left, the sisters talked about her excitedly and so began the friendship among the three women.