One day, when I was holding forth, I indulged in a bit of prophecy—“The time will come,” I said, “when no one will keep the Sabbath and the Passover, when we will not eat unleavened bread or believe in God.” Just then the teacher who gave us religious instruction came in. He had evidently listened to what I said, and, taking me by my curly hair, proceeded to drag me out of my seat and make a prophecy which is much more likely to come true than my own. “When you are dead and gone,” he said, “and the worms shall have eaten your body, millions of people will keep the Sabbath and the holy days; and the time will never come when men will not believe in God.” Then he demanded that I recant my unbelief, but being of fairly stern stuff, I refused. He then told me to lie down on a chair, and drew forth a grape-vine switch, the customary instrument of punishment. Again he commanded that I take back what I had said and again I refused, and the switch descended upon me. This order of exercises was repeated until I felt the trickling blood on my back, but not until I rolled from the chair half lifeless, did he stop the “torture of the heretic.” I did not say anything to my mother about it, but when I went to bed, she discovered my blood-stained clothing and knew by the groans I could not suppress and by my fever, that I was in great pain. The next day the doctor came and the news of my punishment spread through the town. The candy-maker, the direct cause of my suffering, called on me and after hearing my side of the story, left the house in a boiling rage. He went directly to school and thrashed the teacher so fiercely that he was in bed nearly as long as I was. Thus justice seemed to be meted out.
Some time after this, the candy-maker became ill from a painful and torturing disease. Death was coming in a very grim way to claim him. One day he sent for me. I was shocked by his wasted frame, his face pale and haggard, and his eyes looking into another world. He took both my hands and drew me to him, half over the bed, so that my face touched his bushy beard, and with trembling lips he began to make amends for the wrong he had done me. Trying to lead my own wayward little soul back the same way his was travelling, he said: “My boy, there is a God and I always knew it; I denied Him with my lips, but in my heart I felt Him. I denied Him and Heaven and Hell, because I had grievously sinned against Him years ago, and I wanted to make myself believe that there was no God to punish, and no Hell in which to suffer. Now I can see it all, as clear as day.” Then, embracing me with his trembling arms, he continued, “I denied my Saviour, Jesus, and that’s the greatest sin of all; for He loves me, poor, wretched sinner, and I don’t dare die without telling you how grievously I offended Him.”
A paroxysm of pain took hold of him and they sent for the priest, that he might administer the last communion. I left the room, but lingered in the workshop, among half-finished cakes and dried up candy papers. My eyes wandered to the Bohemian newspapers, pamphlets and books, many of which I had read, and whose half-truths and lies had so misled me. Then came the solemn tinkling of bells, which announced the coming of the priest and the acolytes. I can hear it now—a high note and a low-toned bell, and the shuffling steps of those who came to minister in the name of a forgiving God. An austere look this smoothly shaven priest wore; as if he were a judge rather than an advocate. I followed him into the sick-room but I do not recall a word he said; yet the solemn chanting melody of those Latin phrases I have often in my ears. He left, and again the high note and low-toned bell—dying away in the distance.
I stayed in that room until dusk; I think I waited more than two hours, and all the time the sick man cried in varying tones of agony: “Yeshishe! Yeshishe! Boshe muy! Boshe muy!” “Jesus, my Jesus!” “My God! My God!”
Then there was silence and the watchers lighted the candles.
XIII
MY FIRST LIBRARY
IN a country where brass buttons, gold braid and epaulets are of supreme consequence, the man who bore all these insignia of office was an important individual indeed. Of such a man our town boasted. Sheriff—Justice of the Peace—Tax-gatherer, he felt the weight of his onerous duties, or rather he let those feel it who did not pay proper respect to his lordship—the “Kisbir”—as this manifold official was called.
The sound of his drum woke the sleepy town, for it meant that such news as it needed to hear would be announced. Much too long for the news-hungry crowd did he continue the imperative beat upon his drum, and it was at such a time, when I crowded too close to him, that he played with his drumsticks on my head and did it hard enough to make a decided impression.
There were usually three classes of news announced: First: news of the state, which meant taxes; the date of prescription, or some new law to be enforced. Second: news of the church, which related to feast or fast days; local news which concerned lost dogs and their owners, cattle which had been prematurely killed, whose meat was for sale at reduced prices, and lastly, the sale of property left by those who had no further use for their feather-beds, wash-tubs, sheepskin coats and kindred mundane things.
On this particular day, the crier informed us that the state would send its examining officers on the 26th of April and that all men of military age must present themselves at the town hall (which made mothers and sweethearts tremble and weep). He then announced that the late candy-maker’s estate would be brought under the hammer, and that all those who cared to buy his furniture, tools of his trade or anything pertaining thereto, were invited to be at the market-place in front of the statue of St. Florian, at ten o’clock the next morning.