# The Czechoslovak Review/Volume 3/The Man Who Published Poems

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The Man Who Published Poems
By SVATOPLUK ČECH.
Translated by Paul Selver.
Still moist, it lies there before him. As he looks at it, he seems to see thousands of heads bending over his shoulders, and thousands of eyes resting with all kinds of expressions upon these his thoughts and feelings, that appear to him so strange and new in their solemn garb of printer’s ink, in which they are making their first entry into the world.
For a whole week he has not stirred out of doors, and during this time he has read through the whole of his twenty free copies. On the evening of the eighth day, a messenger brought him a note from the publisher. When he had torn open the envelope with feverishly trembling fingers, he found inside it some money and the latest number of a certain critical journal. To his credit it must be added that he first seized upon the letter; an article on his poems at once caught his eye. Over and over again he read, with eyes aflame, that his verses were creating a new epoch in Czech literature, that he had bestowed upon the nation a garland of enchanting blossoms, filled with the dew of exquisite emotion and the loveliest fragrance of poetry.
It was not until he had read through this hackneyed eulogy for the sixth time, that with a gesture of contempt he stretched out his hand towards the money, and at the same time towards some shapeless object in the wardrobe. He went out into the dark street and in an out-of-the way and dimly lighted shop he bought some new clothes.
As in a vision he saw an angel hovering above him and bearing a laurel wreath, and the features of the maidenly countenance of this angel were familiar and lovely.
On the next day he went out early with a radiant face. It seemed to him as if many people whom he did not know were gazing respectfully upon him. He met a friend who from afar stretched out both hands towards him and exclaimed: “Congratulations, congratulations.”
“Not at all,” replied the poet modestly, lowering his eyes. “Still, I should be very interested to hear your opinion. Speak openly, without keeping anything back,—how do you like them?”
“They’re fine, they really are. Perhaps the colouring is a little too dark and—”
“They bear the tinting of my soul.”
“But excellent as regards stuff and workmanship. Their form is free and yet elegant, in the latest French style.”
“You are wrong,” objected the poet, somewhat offended. “I am not at all fond of the French manner. If you were to charge me with it, I would admit to some extent the influence of the great English models.”
​“It’s all the same,” remarked his friend who was only half listening. “Whether French or English, the’re excellent anyway. If I simply had to raise my objection, I should point out one single fault—”
“A fault?” exclaimed the autor eagerly, assuming a defensive attitude. “And what might that be?”
“They have too many pockets.”
The poet drew back from his defensive position, his eyes rested with horror upon his friend, his face took on an expression of bitter disappointment, as he stammered: “What are you talking about?”
“Why, about your new clothes, of course. What else should I be talking about?”
“A funny mistake,” explained the poet with a forced smile.
“I thought you were talking about the poems I’ve just published.”
“What, you’ve published some poems? That’s the first I’ve heard about it. Of course, you must keep a copy for me with your autograph.” ***
A little while later he stopped another friend with the question: “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
“To the bookseller’s.”
“What for?”
“Fancy asking that! As if you could have the slightest doubt about it.”
“Well, come with me. You shall get it from me for nothing.”
“Repeat those heavenly words!” exclaimed his friend joyfully, taking the poet by the arm. “I was just going to spend the remains of my cash on it. I tell you, I’m enraptured, crazy, off my head.”
Our hero observed rather suspiciously this outburst of enthusiasm on the part of his friend, and interrupted it with the question: “And which of them do you like the best?”
“The smallest one with the Alpine rose in her hat. My word, what eyes, what a figure, what—”
The poet let go of his enthusiastic friend’s arm and said in an icy tone:
“We must both be making some mistake. I thought you were going to the bookseller’s for a volume of my poems.”
“Your poems? I never dreamt of such a thing. I was hurrying to get a ticket for today’s performance of the Tyrolese girl singers.”
“I can’t oblige you with that.”
“Oh, hang you and your poems. Now I’ve got to go all that way back to the bookseller’s.” ***
Our hero entered a café. He knew that there, behind a certain pillar in a dim recess, a set of young men regularly threshed out the events of the day. No actress had so blameless a reputation, no chorus-girl had wings of such transparent gauze, that this private tribunal could not discover in them some blemish to form the butt of their malicious sneers. The most skilful imitation tresses in the Row, the slightest discord in the orchestra, the remotest new tavern, the most stupid ball-room joke,—nothing, absolutely nothing escaped their attention, or was spared by their unmerciful criticism. “They can’t have missed seeing my big volume of poems. I’ll listen to their opinion,—it may be abusive and unfair, but still it’s an opinion.”
He sat down behind the pillar and listened. He did not have to wait long.
“No, nothing fresh at all,” began one. “Things are horribly dull.”
“But what do you think of this collection?” said another.
“I can’t understand how anyone can waste his time over such nonsense! Besides, there’s nothing new or special about it. This childishness only shows how lacking in originality they are nowadays. Nothing but hackneyed decoration. They’ve all got the same old stars, lilies, eagles, goddesses, banners and suchlike trash.”
(“I’m sure they’re talking about my poems,” sighed our hero to himself.)
“Oh, come , here’s a dragon as well!”
(“He’s alluding to my fable of the dragon,” thought the poet to himself.)
“That’s really Japanese style.”
“Still, it doesn’t seem as if it were original.”
“I shouldn’t think so. I’ll bet a good third of this collection are sheer imitations.”
They passed on to another topic.
The poet stood up, and as he went by the plain-spoken young gentlemen, he swept them with a glance of the deepest contempt. As he did so, he observed one of them holding an open collection—of foreign postage stamps. ***
In a certain well-to-do family our poet used to give piano lessons. The young lady who was his pupil,—but no; I will not dishonour her angelic beauty with my prosaic pen; you must read the first of my hero’s poems where he describes her with the aid of gold and snow, sunset and dew, where he implants upon her gleaming tresses a crown formed from the most beauteous diamonds of his poetry.
The father of this adorable being was a prominent nationalist, a citizen held in high esteem by all, a member of numerous patriotic institutions and associations, a champion of popular education, whose portrait with the motto: “The nation’s shield and sword is its character and its language!” adorned the showcases of the booksellers. There could be no doubt that he bought at least the better works of the native literature, and that amongst these, our hero’s poems had found their way into the hands of the young lady of his affections. Perhaps the reading of their introductory poem had already acquainted her with the ardent avowal of love which he had there set forth.
With a beating heart he entered the room.
​She came towards him with an elaborately bound book in her hand.
Ah, a proof ad hominem!
“How does this binding suit you, Mr. Světlý?”
“Oh, these poor attempts are not worthy of such a splendid garb.”
“Not at all. They are very pretty little poems. I read two of them yesterday, before I went to sleep.”
Světlý conjured up a vision of the poems resting upon the snowy surface of her bosom, his heart trembled with bliss, it shimmered over, and from his lips burst forth the question: “How do you like the first poem?”
“Ha.ha.ha!” was the answer in a peal of meloidous laughter.
“Oh, how can you laugh? Did it convey no thing to you, nothing at all? Did you not recognize in the person described there, in those features, the neck, the eyes, someone you know,—yes, I will speak painly,—someone you know from your mirror?”
“What! Really, that’s too much!” exclaimed the girl angrily. “You’re not exactly flattering, Mr. Světlý.”
Thoroughly abashed, the wretched poet caught sight of the book in her hands. On the cover gleamed the title in German, amid a wreath of golden oak-leaves: “Hans Sauerkohl’s Poems,” and the first poem bore the superscription: “To my Angora cat.”
As he passed from the room with the increasing conviction that his fair pupil had not the faintest idea of his poetical abilities, he was stopped by her father, who led him into his study.
The old gentleman sat down majestically in an armchair, and beckoned Světlý to bring up a seat for himself.
“I have noticed that you are a young man of considerable gifts,” he began condescendingly.
Světlý stammered something about too much kindness.
“I want to ask you a favour,—in the interest of a matter which is sacred to us both,” continued the happy father. “Have you not observed that the national spirit amongst us is weakening, that it is being crippled by a sort of weight which is resting upon it, that faintness and despondency are creeping in on all sides? It is the highest time for this to be remedied, for an electric spark to be flung among the people, which would brace them up to new activity, kindle a new enthusiasm for the sacred cause. For this purpose it is no use at all to go fussing about in the clubs and riding the high horse of politics. We must descend among the people, address them with tongue of fire, point out to them their eternal safeguards, their ancient rights, their language, their literature, their science, inspire them for these things with energetic, fiery winged words . . . Well, wouldn’t you like to contribute your talent towards this object?” The poet was pleasantly surprised. So after all, he had read the volume, and now he wanted to rouse him up to patriotic poetry. He replied modestly: “Sir, you overrate my feeble powers. I have certainly tried various kinds of lyric poetry, but I do not feel myself possessed of sufficient capabilities to venture on poetry which is to exert a mighty influence.”
The old gentleman’s eyes bulged with amazement. “What’s all this about poems? Ha, ha, ha! I never even dreamt of misleading you into so thankless an occupation. Ha, ha, ha!”
He laughed heartily for a while, then he once more arranged his countenance in solemn lines and restored the humiliated poet who had been again disappointed, with these words: “There’s no harm done. Listen to what I mean. I am going to issue a political pamphlet. I have just completed it. But I must confess that I have had neither time nor inclination to attend to the latest literary productions, with the result that my spelling has remained rather old-fashioned. This new spelling of yours is the very dickens. Well, I wanted to ask you to revise my manuscript in this respect where necessary. That’s all. I have chosen for the title of my pamphlet my motto: ‘“The nation’s shield and sword is its character and its language.” ***
In the night after this triumphant campaign Světlý dreamt that all his poems came flying back to him with tears in their eyes and bitterly reproached him for having issued them.
“We’ll stick some new covers on, and a new edition will be ready,” was the comfort he received from the publisher a year later. “We’ll send ’em off to all the patrons of literature,—though I expect a few copies will gather dust for all that.”
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