# The Jail/Chapter XXV

XXV.
A few carts were proceeding slowly through the “Long Mile".
The "LongMile", is a high-road leading from the foot of the White Mountain to Kněževes. A broad white line, without a bend, and so long that it seems to reach somewhere to the end of the world. It is bordered with poplars. From my childhood I have loved high-roads, those arteries of our country-side, and this "Long Mile" has always been especially dear to me.
But here I remembered it it a curious kind of way. A number of carts were passing along it, covered with a grey awning; the horses were proceeding at a walking pace, and perhaps slept as they went; the drivers, with their extinguished pipes between their teeth, were dreaming to the sluggish creaking of the wheels, a grey dust covered them, covered the horses, covered the carts, the goal of their journey is somewhere in the boundless distance,—and so they move on from poplar to poplar, softly, monotonously,—at the most, a driver, through force of habit, mutters his drowsy: "hia".
I thought of that high-road, of those grey carts, and I compared them with our days in number 60. They pass on drowsily and sluggishly,—whither? Somewhere or other. When will they arrive? God knows. The way is unending.
Every day I did my few miles, otherwise I lay down. Shivering ​fits alternated with fever. Kranz slipped in several times each day, sat down on my bed, brought cognac, rum, sometimes a glass of hot tea, precious cigarettes, and always a new tale from his life. He related the story of how he had burgled the goldsmith's shop, and then did not know what to do with the watches, rings and chains;—he was not a tap to rig himself out with such valuables, nor did he have time to wind up some ninety watches daily; so he sold everything and then sat down in a café, and read in the paper that the police were looking for the burglar. He related how he had once left jail, proceeded to the wife of one of his fellow-prisoners, introduced himself to her as a locksmith who did jobs in the Grey House, and suggested that she should send ham, wine, a hundred crowns in small change, and a cycling suit to her husband; he obtained the lot, went into the Prater, transformed himself into a respectable man, ate and drank, and was so honest about it that he drank to the health of that good woman and her husband who was in prison. He related how he, with several companions, had procured military uniforms, he a sergeant-major's, had put on war decorations, and at night had masqueraded as military police in the streets of Vienna. They had pounced on volunteers and N.C.O's, had taken them off to the nearest commissariat, to be kept and watched there until they came for them. And how once,—that was a black Friday for Kranz,—they had planned to catch someone with a golden tassel; "I was loaded like a cannon, it was the devil who got me into mischief,—and so we stopped one of them just as he was coming out of a café in Mariahilferstrasse, but he wasn't one of the reserves, as we had expected, but one of these smart regulars, and no sooner had we asked him for his papers, than he began to swear and carry on, and within five minutes we were all at the commissariat; and that was my last performance as a free ​man, from there I came here. If a man is free, he shouldn't soak his senses in alcohol".
It was difficult to judge whether he was speaking the truth or whether he was making it up, but he was able to describe everything so vividly that it was poetical truth. I was fond of listening to him because he took my mind from where I was by making it a witness of his adventures,—and the greatest happiness in that place was to be somewhere else and to forget that we were there.
Papa Declich also used to sit with us and listen,—it was hard to say how much he understood, but one day he came out with the following paradox: Kranz, he said, was one of the best people he knew, and certainly the most honourable man here in the jail.
And new people came and went. They arrived like actors on the stage, said their parts and disappeared in the wings.
Volunteer Rosenstein. A subtle little fellow, a typical specimen of his race. Fidgety, nervous, timid. He displayed his right hand which had been shot through,—by a Russian bullet, he said. Tears trembled in his voice, the horror of war shuddered through his words,—the authorities declared that it was not a Russian bullet, but a bullet from his own rifle with which he had committed the crime of self-mutilation.
Dr. Povich-Rosetti. A tall, powerful Italian from Dalmatia. A sort of super-man. A dramatist, it was said, whose plays had been performed at several theatres. The story was that he had acted as a doctor in military hospital hutments, had been suddenly arrested and brought here. He did not know why,—indeed, his wife was the daughter of an Austrian major-general. He went off in triumph to be cross-examined, and returned extremely abashed. "They know everything there, they know that I invented a new rifle, and offered my invention to the Entente States. And that I have been in touch ​with Italy. And that I have obtained a divorce from my wife, the General's daughter. And they are acquainted with my literary work, and asked me what tendencies I followed in it. They know everything".
Mr. Fels then sat down with me and gave it as his view that there must be much more against the doctor than this "everything". A man with two names and at least three pasts. On the other hand, the credulous Budi was enchanted by his Dalmatian fellow-countryman, and called upon Papa Declich to produce his provisions and entertain the "patriot". Papa Declich gave a black look, but nevertheless he laid the table. And the patriot stated eating,—what an appetite. He ate and ate. Our suppers disappeared as if he were throwing them into a pit, and when the orderlies a little later brought in the dinner, the doctor was the only one who disposed of several portions of the second or third new edition of the beans with the stinking fish (he then filled his plate up again, for the afternoon, so he said), belched contentedly, drank up half a litre of water, and annouced that "the food here is quite good". The whole of number 60 watched his exploits in some terror and with a little repugnance,—the super-man had become an under-man, and Papa Declich classified him as a "Fallot". Budi certainly protested, but Papa Declich led him into a corner, explained his views to him in a long, excited whisper of Italian, whereupon Budi departed to the office.
One night,—it was about two o'clock,—there was a rattle of keys, the door opened, and in came a lean, elderly defence- corps soldier.
​The defence-corps man laid a small bundle on the table, and looked around him.
"What have you been up to?“ Sergeant Kretzer asked him from his straw mattress.
"Nix dajtch" replied the soldier bashfully. "Me bemisch".
"Why have they locked you up?" said Karl mustering his small supply of Czech.
"I have murdered my wife and mother-in-law" sighed the defence-corps man.
"As far as the mother-in-law goes, he'll get off scot-free" remarked Mr. Fels in German.
Number 60 burst out laughing. A feeble jest,—but after midnight in this grey and monotonous jail existence, it nevertheless kindled a flame and flashed up.
"And how was that?" enquired Karl further.
"I came home on leave and saw that while I was away she had been carrying on with somebody else" he began in a slow and tedious manner. "I said to her: Wife, stop that, you'll bring disgrace on yourself and me too. But she said to me: Why, you fool, are you going to believe what the people say? And her mother, or, if you like, my mother-in-law, went for me too: Son-in-law, you're like a little child; anybody can fool you with a story, and you believe it. My Liza is respectable. When they talked like that, I said no more. That was in the morning. And towards evening, Liza ran off; I sat and waited for an hour, for two hours,—Liza didn't come back. So I said to her mother-in-law: Where's the woman got to? Where should she be? She's gone out. And then she went for me and said that I'd like to tie her up by her leg to the table. I said I didn't want to tie her up, but that I thought when a man came home on leave after eighteen months at the front, his wife ​might stay with him a bit. And my mother-in-law again started nagging. Then my wife came in, we had supper,—she was quite excited, and absent-minded as if her thoughts were somewhere else. I didn't want to make a row, and so I asked no questions, but when she ran off again next day and came back so late. I said that she could and should stay at home for the short while I was there, and go gadding about when I went away. Then she burst out crying. It was an angry crying, and she had no excuse, but kept pitying herself and abusing me. I begrudged her the least thing, she said, and wanted to keep her cooped up at home, and army life had turned me into a wild animal, and I was like a tyrant,—and my mother-in-law had her say too. So I again said nothing. But when it went on like that for two weeks,—and I hadn’t been allowed to touch her the whole time,—you know, gentlemen, that was more than I could stand. My leave was up and I saw that I was only in the way at home. She had somebody else, she went with somebody else,—she gave somebody else what she refused me,—a fine sort of husband I was! And so the last evening when she came back from her gadding about, I took the poker and gave her one on the forehead, until the blood came out like water from a pump. And when my mother-in-law began to go for me, I gave her one too with the poker. There they lay side by side, the blood kept on flowing, and I went to the police and gave myself up".
"When was that?" asked Karl yawning.
"A week ago. They took me, sent me here and there, always kept me locked up,—here I'm to be tried, they said".
The room was quiet. The defence-corps man looked around him, took off his clothes, put his bundle between two straw mattresses, and then lay down. I heard him sighing for a while, then he began to breathe with the regularity of a man who is sleeping peacefully.