Prague in Black and Gold: Scenes from the Life of a European City (70 page)
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Authors: Peter Demetz
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In 1867, Kapper finally returned to Prague, opened a physician’s office at the corner of Wenceslas Square and Vodi
kova Street, announcing that he was welcoming patients with “secret diseases”; every day he worked five hours in his office and devoted the rest of his time to writing. He may have been a rather restless and irritable character, as attested by his contemporaries, but he was not easily deflected from his literary interests. Early in his life, he had begun to study South Slav literature, or rather ancient Serb heroic poetry, and encouraged by the philologist and poet Stefan Vuk Karadži
, he translated many old epic songs into German and Czech, or imitated them in his own way. His German stories and novels are forgettable, but he was a first-rate travel writer, in his admiration of the Serbs often anticipating Rebecca West’s classic account of a century later,
Black Lamb and Grey Falcon
; his reports of the brutal Hungarian-Slav battles of 1849 deserve to be reread, and not only by historians. It is interesting that he always considered himself a Czech when traveling (never mind Havlí
ek), and when, one evening, in a cosmopolitan group in Belgrade, everyone was asked to sing a song close to his heart, he intoned the old Hussite battle hymn “Kdož sú Boží bojovnici” (“Those who are soldiers of God …”).
kova Street, announcing that he was welcoming patients with “secret diseases”; every day he worked five hours in his office and devoted the rest of his time to writing. He may have been a rather restless and irritable character, as attested by his contemporaries, but he was not easily deflected from his literary interests. Early in his life, he had begun to study South Slav literature, or rather ancient Serb heroic poetry, and encouraged by the philologist and poet Stefan Vuk Karadži, he translated many old epic songs into German and Czech, or imitated them in his own way. His German stories and novels are forgettable, but he was a first-rate travel writer, in his admiration of the Serbs often anticipating Rebecca West’s classic account of a century later,Black Lamb and Grey Falcon
; his reports of the brutal Hungarian-Slav battles of 1849 deserve to be reread, and not only by historians. It is interesting that he always considered himself a Czech when traveling (never mind Havlí
ek), and when, one evening, in a cosmopolitan group in Belgrade, everyone was asked to sing a song close to his heart, he intoned the old Hussite battle hymn “Kdož sú Boží bojovnici” (“Those who are soldiers of God …”).In his Prague years, Kapper loyally participated in the cultural life of the Czech middle class; he did not entirely cease to publish in German, but he mostly contributed to important Czech periodicals, joined the M
št’anská Beseda, where he met Jan Neruda, the most important Czech author of the later nineteenth century. Kapper continued to translate Serb heroic poetry, mostly into Czech, published artful Dalmatian fairy tales, and his yearly lectures on his South Slav researches, presented to the literary section of the Beseda, were well attended. His quarrel now was with the Prague Jewish community; he did not want to pay the community tax, complained to the government in Vienna, and finally left the community—only to return to it, humbly and quietly, when he was
gravely ill. He spent his last two years in Italy hoping against hope to cure his tuberculosis and died on June 7, 1879, in Pisa, where he was buried at the Jewish cemetery.
št’anská Beseda, where he met Jan Neruda, the most important Czech author of the later nineteenth century. Kapper continued to translate Serb heroic poetry, mostly into Czech, published artful Dalmatian fairy tales, and his yearly lectures on his South Slav researches, presented to the literary section of the Beseda, were well attended. His quarrel now was with the Prague Jewish community; he did not want to pay the community tax, complained to the government in Vienna, and finally left the community—only to return to it, humbly and quietly, when he wasgravely ill. He spent his last two years in Italy hoping against hope to cure his tuberculosis and died on June 7, 1879, in Pisa, where he was buried at the Jewish cemetery.
Kapper would have been immensely pleased to know that the Prague Czechs did pay homage to his literary achievements; Neruda himself, in a two-part necrology in the
Národní Noviny,
the organ of the dominant Young Czech party, praised his lyrical talents and untiring efforts in the service of the Slavic cause. Earlier, in 1869, Neruda had published an essay in which he had argued against Jews, who, he said, constituted a “polyglot” and “international nation” that watched Czech striving with “icy coldness.” Kapper, however, was different—“he felt a Slav and remained a Slav”—and though Neruda had once quoted Richard Wagner’s diatribes against Jewish sterility in the arts, he now spoke highly of Kapper’s unusual gifts and falconlike thought. He passed over Kapper’s German publications, about three-quarters of his production, in a single sentence, and insisted that Kapper was the first Jew to take his rightful place on the Slavic Parnassus, the seat of the muses. Then times changed (somewhat); in 1876, a Spolek
eských Akademik
-Žid
(Club of Czech-Jewish Professionals) was established in Prague, and by 1919 it changed its name to commemorate Siegfried Kapper, who had never feared to challenge his fellow citizens.
Národní Noviny,
the organ of the dominant Young Czech party, praised his lyrical talents and untiring efforts in the service of the Slavic cause. Earlier, in 1869, Neruda had published an essay in which he had argued against Jews, who, he said, constituted a “polyglot” and “international nation” that watched Czech striving with “icy coldness.” Kapper, however, was different—“he felt a Slav and remained a Slav”—and though Neruda had once quoted Richard Wagner’s diatribes against Jewish sterility in the arts, he now spoke highly of Kapper’s unusual gifts and falconlike thought. He passed over Kapper’s German publications, about three-quarters of his production, in a single sentence, and insisted that Kapper was the first Jew to take his rightful place on the Slavic Parnassus, the seat of the muses. Then times changed (somewhat); in 1876, a Spolek
eských Akademik-Žid(Club of Czech-Jewish Professionals) was established in Prague, and by 1919 it changed its name to commemorate Siegfried Kapper, who had never feared to challenge his fellow citizens.Many generations of admiring poets, patriotic critics, and, at times, official propagandists have long transformed the bitter life of Božena N
mcová, the first Czech woman writer of importance, into a cherished national myth. Critics traditionally incline to read her more sentimental novellas as if they were biographical testimony, and in a recent spate of books and essays tell us that she was really of high aristocratic origins; in these genealogical fantasies the adventurous duchess of Sagan and none other than Metternich, the imperial chancellor, figure prominently. All talented Czechs of the past century, including T. G. Masaryk, came from rather humble circumstances—it could not be otherwise sociologically—and Božena N
mcová, christened Barbora, was the daughter of a Czech servant girl working, as thousands of others did, in Vienna, and Johann Pankl, an Austrian
feschak
and horse groom, who legitimized his relationship and his newly born daughter in 1820 after a brief delay. He was honest and faithful in the service of his master, moved his family to the Bohemian estate of Ratibo
ice, where he was put in charge of the stables while his wife worked as manorial laundress, insisting that she belonged to the higher servant ranks. She preferred to speak German and
looked askance at her Czech family, all poor weavers originally. The stable master spent the winter season in Vienna and returned to Ratibofice in the late spring, fathered twelve more children, of whom six survived, and overworked Frau Pankl, as she called herself now, invited her widowed mother to help with the children. The old woman could not stand her daughter’s cantankerous ways, moved to another daughter, living in Vienna with a herring merchant, died there, and was buried at the Matzleinsdorfer cemetery in 1841. In Božena N
mcová’s novel
The Grandmother
(1855), she lives on as the true incarnation of Czech folk wisdom and kindness, forever surrounded by sublime forests and green meadows.
mcová, the first Czech woman writer of importance, into a cherished national myth. Critics traditionally incline to read her more sentimental novellas as if they were biographical testimony, and in a recent spate of books and essays tell us that she was really of high aristocratic origins; in these genealogical fantasies the adventurous duchess of Sagan and none other than Metternich, the imperial chancellor, figure prominently. All talented Czechs of the past century, including T. G. Masaryk, came from rather humble circumstances—it could not be otherwise sociologically—and Božena Nmcová, christened Barbora, was the daughter of a Czech servant girl working, as thousands of others did, in Vienna, and Johann Pankl, an Austrianfeschak
and horse groom, who legitimized his relationship and his newly born daughter in 1820 after a brief delay. He was honest and faithful in the service of his master, moved his family to the Bohemian estate of Ratibo
ice, where he was put in charge of the stables while his wife worked as manorial laundress, insisting that she belonged to the higher servant ranks. She preferred to speak German andlooked askance at her Czech family, all poor weavers originally. The stable master spent the winter season in Vienna and returned to Ratibofice in the late spring, fathered twelve more children, of whom six survived, and overworked Frau Pankl, as she called herself now, invited her widowed mother to help with the children. The old woman could not stand her daughter’s cantankerous ways, moved to another daughter, living in Vienna with a herring merchant, died there, and was buried at the Matzleinsdorfer cemetery in 1841. In Božena N
mcová’s novelThe Grandmother
(1855), she lives on as the true incarnation of Czech folk wisdom and kindness, forever surrounded by sublime forests and green meadows.
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