Christopher Ulwing raised one eyebrow in sign of derision. “Is it the censor who says that?”
“It is I,” came the answer, emphatically, as if an incontrovertible argument had been thrust into the discussion.
“Literary people in Pest have a different opinion,” grumbled the builder.
“Perhaps it would be better not to drag them in. As censor, I am a literary man myself....”
The builder was getting more and more impatient. The censor turned to the chaplain.
“The written word must not serve the ideals of the individual but the purposes of the State and Church.”
Christopher Ulwing went to the door. He would have liked to let a little fresh air into the place. Suddenly he turned back angrily: “I suppose, gentlemen, you only approve of mediocrity?”
“Well said, Mr. Builder. Nothing but the mediocre is useful to the organization of the State. That which is above or below only causes uncomfortable disorder.”
He did not himself know why, but, all of a sudden, Christopher’s thoughts went to the bookshop of Ulrich Jörg in Pest. He remembered the young authors who frequented it; their plans, their manuscripts, detained in the censor’s sieve. All those ambitious hopes, new dreams and awakening thoughts, younger than he, a little beyond his ken, but which he loved as he loved his grandchildren.
He turned his back furiously on the censor and went to the bottom of the room feeling that if he spoke he would say something rude.