Discusses the question of guides and guide-books, and tries to explain
the author's method, or lack of it, when making himself acquainted with
places of interest. Contains also remarks on terraces, which are
expected to edify. There is a good deal about the weather of Prague,
about the gardens at different seasons, also an account of merrymaking
in bygone days, and some reflections, in the same spirit, on present-day
rejoicings.
There are various ways of becoming acquainted with an interesting city.
Some people invest in a guide-book before starting out on the journey,
others do not rest until they have bought one or more on arriving at
their destination. You may notice these people studying the book on the
boat perhaps, certainly in the train; they even let the book interfere
with the proper attention that is due to meals; and allow me to remark
here that the wagon-lit people are very sound on the question of food.
These people are slaves to the guide-book; they leave it not, day or
night, and the more methodical they are in conforming to the cramped
spirit of the book, the less do they discover things by themselves. No
guide-book ever can initiate you into the atmosphere of a city like
Prague.
The sight of the guide-book slave "doing" an ancient and glorious city
always fills me with sorrow, sometimes, indeed, with annoyance. These
slaves frequently hunt in couples, male and female, sometimes with
progeny at heel, and it is generally the male who discovers things--in
the guide-book--and then drags the rest of his outfit in search of his
discovery. As this is usually done at a reckless pace, the performance
is apt to upset the repose of the inhabitants whose perambulations of
their native place are in marked contrast to the silent, ruthless hurry
in the streets of our large towns. The good burghers of foreign towns
seem to have plenty of their own and other people's time to spare; they
also possess the gift of unlimited conversational powers. I have known
many a pleasant chat rudely interrupted by a group of British or
American travellers who, with nose well inside a book, blue or red but
obviously "guide," push their way, ruthless as Juggernaut, through
bunches of inoffensive natives. There is one consolation: those slaves
of the guide-book frequently miss the prettiest bits, just because they
are looking into the book instead of around them.
Ask such as they about the atmosphere of some old-world haunt, and you
will probably hear complaints about the food or the service.
Some tourists aggravate their position by hiring a guide. Every city of
any historic importance breeds a class of mortals that are born guides;
they have come to belong to the "staffage" of picturesque surroundings;
and in this respect Prague is happily yet unspoilt. The born guide, when
young, is generally to be found running after you barefooted, clamouring
for coppers or cigarettes. His picturesqueness is due to the fact that
he does not disclose the incipient traits of villainy in his face by
washing it. The adult of the species does wash his face sometimes, but
he has no other virtues. The species "guide" is found in its perfection
in Southern Europe. Some day I must write a book on "Guides I have
Spurned"; there were many, and I have had to acquire a cursory
acquaintance with several foreign languages in order to deal adequately
with the spurning action which is chiefly vocal and invective. For the
present I can only remember one of the many spurned ones. He had been
following me about all over the ruins of a Moorish castle, and finally,
breathless, came up with me by a little pile of stones leaning, with
some faint attempt at symmetry, against a wall. In gusts a
garlic-charged voice explained, "Zat modern. Zat rabbit-'ouse!" In his
case the spurning could be done quite conveniently in English.
We cannot all afford to be original. I lay no claim to that quality for
myself; my method of making the acquaintance of such an interesting old
city as Prague may be that of thousands of other wayfarers. However this
may be, I propose to explain my method, not necessarily in order to
induce others to adopt it, but rather because it explains the title of
this work. I look upon cities, landscapes, in fact upon life in general,
from a terrace--not over or through the leaves of a guide-book.
There is a deal more interest in a terrace, and you can always find one
if you really want to do so, than the casual passer-by is inclined to
realize. It is easy to reconstruct the scene of building up the first
terrace. Some fairly primitive man had emancipated himself from the
old-fashioned ancestral habit of just letting the rain wash away the
hillside, and with it the family's prospects of green food for the
season. Squatting outside his cave he had done some hard thinking which,
transmitted into action, had led him to build up a wall here and there
on the hillside, a wall of clumsy stones kept in place by stakes
hammered into the ground, yet a wall, indeed a terrace, and an advance
upon the methods of his neighbours whose struggles he could watch from
the surer footing he himself had gained--a terrace and a point of view.
It is not suggested that the wayfarer on arriving in a strange city
should make a bee-line for the nearest terrace.
There are terraces and terraces, each one with its own definable point
of view, and it is this quality which should influence the traveller's
choice. Prague offers considerable variety in terraces suitable to every
conceivable outlook on life. You may choose a terrace that looks out
over the factory quarter of Prague, over grimy Smichov for instance, and
make notes on the growing industrial prosperity of the city. You will
probably be smoked out of your position, for a cheap and nasty variety
of brown coal is used by local industries. If you belong to the eclectic
you may be privileged to look down on Prague from a terrace with a
background of diplomacy, and find the outlook somewhat limited.
Again, there are terraces where you can get beer and other refreshment.
Such terraces are generally so contrived as to give you an outlook too
varied to allow of concentration on the essentials of the city; the
background to these terraces is generally some little building where the
waiter lurks for orders. But there are other, real terraces to be found
by those who search diligently and know how to discriminate, terraces
with a background that has grown up with the city, that strikes no
foreign note in that harmony of form and colour, of clustering red-tiled
roofs surmounted by domes, towers and spires, which is Prague. Such a
terrace is that from which I write. It is a real terrace, serving its
original purpose in supporting a garden on a hillside. A garden
carefully, fondly tended by generations of those who lived useful lives
and looked out over the city from this point of view.
It is old, very old, this terrace, and it has witnessed many terrible
scenes, fire and slaughter and religious strife, but it has also seen
more that is ennobling and inspiring. In its strength this terrace has
supported those who passed their days upon it, imbuing them, and those
who live there yet, with the serenity that comes of a faith built on a
sure foundation. This terrace is a bridge to the "Abiding City." It is
not my intention to disclose the locality of this terrace; let every man
find one to suit his own particular outlook.
Having found your terrace, settle down to a serious contemplation of
your surroundings and of the outlook before you; absorb as much as you
can of the atmosphere of the place, let it sink into you. For this
purpose a guide-book is not only useless, it is a let and a hindrance.
After all, what does a guide-book tell you? Either it recites dry facts
in an utterly soulless voice, or else, if it make any pretence at
_belles-lettres_, as some of them painfully do, it goes off into
sentiment and rapture before you have decided whether these be suited to
the occasion. Anyway, a guide-book is the expression of some one else's
opinion or experience, and as such is harmful to the soul as likely to
exert undue influence.
From your terrace you take in a more or less comprehensive view of the
city and its surroundings, and also form some conception of its inner
meaning. Then descend from your terrace and wander at random about the
streets, choosing as the more appropriate time the long twilight of a
summer morning which brings the cruder modern aspect of the place into
harmony with the fundamental values. Then, before she awakens to the
stir and activity of everyday life, old Prague will speak to you of
herself and take you into her confidence; she will tell you some
startling stories, for she has a lurid past, has the city of Prague.
I do not know what was Rodin's method of appreciating Prague, but can
easily imagine him looking out over the city from the terrace of his
choice, looking out over Prague and recalling memories of Rome as seen
from the Pincio. There are certain obvious points of resemblance. First
there are several hills on which Prague is built; they are said to be
seven in number, as in the case of the Eternal City. Personally I can
only make out five hills, and I have counted them carefully. It seems to
be the right thing in cities of venerable antiquity to claim seven
hills; to me this seems a mixture of superstition and snobbery. Prague
can well afford to be original and rest content with standing on five
hills. This, by the way, does not include all the suburbs which have
lately been added in order to make up Greater Prague; the innovation is
much too recent, and no "Terrace in Prague" can embrace a view of all
the latest additions to the urban district.
Further superficial points of resemblance to Rome are the towers and
cupolas that rise above a sea of houses, and the winding river; to find
yet more would be a serious strain on the imagination. But there is a
deeper resemblance, and this perchance is what Rodin meant when he
described Prague as "the Rome of the North." I say "perchance," because
Rodin never gave any closer reason for the comparison he drew, so I can
only give my own personal impression of what he may have meant. There
are, to my thinking, two distinct Romes as there are two distinct
Pragues. The old original Rome seems to me fundamentally, gloriously,
and, indeed, unblushingly pagan. All the top-hamper even of such beauty
as Michel Angelo conceived does not alter this my impression. Churches
arisen out of an Emperor's bath, or resting on some pagan shrine, are
superimposed on Rome. Rome and all that Rome stands for down the ages is
that glorious mass of ruins which cluster about the Capitoline Hill or
come upon you in unexpected places. And so it is with Prague;
Prague--the real Prague--is to be found in the graceful and enduring
monuments erected by Kings of Bohemia in the Middle Ages; Prague of the
Luxemburg monarchs, with echoes, faint yet insistent, of remoter
legendary times. Over this ancient Prague rise structures of an alien
nature, _baroque_ creations of the Jesuits, in spirit foreign to all
that the capital of Bohemia stands for. Indeed, most of these buildings
are imposing; some are beautiful, but despite the mellowing influence of
time it seems as if they had not been completely merged into the soul of
the city; they do not express its inner meaning unreservedly. And modern
Prague is built up among and about the gracious relics of past ages; at
first it appears detached, as it were hesitant between the serenity of a
former golden age, the forcefulness of the Jesuit era and the vigour of
modernity, but at heart it is one with the Prague of many centuries, is
"at unity in itself" by virtue of reverence for noble tradition and hope
for a glorious future.
"Thither the tribes go up"; indeed, they have been swarming in since
Prague came into her own some few years ago and became the capital of a
free and independent republic. In former years, when Prague was still
accounted a small provincial town of somnolent habits, there were only
two or three hotels that counted at all as accommodation for foreigners;
now there are many yet inadequate to the number of visitors. As to those
that are drawn to Prague, their numbers may be accounted for by the fact
that most of them are native Bohemians who have business in the capital
as the seat of government and also as a commercial, industrial and
intellectual centre; these latter qualities attract an ever swelling
stream of foreigners. To account for this I will draw a comparison all
my own between Prague and Paris.
The true Parisian will probably shrug his shoulders at any idea of
comparing his city with Prague; but as he is above all a logically
minded, reasoning sort of person and, moreover, courteous, he will
listen to my argument, and even should he not agree, is generous enough
to join me in the happy auguries for Prague which my comparison
suggests.
Take a map showing the physical features of France and you will find
that the capital of the country could be nowhere else but exactly on the
spot where Paris stands in a fertile plain where meet a number of
waterways--Seine and Marne just above the city, Oise some little way
down. By these waterways and by high roads that came after, a constant
stream of peoples has been swirling into France and mingling in the
basin of Paris. Among these were Latins from the south coming up the
valley of the Rhone and Saone, over the heights and down the Yonne to
the valley of the Seine. Then came Franks through the gap of Belfort and
over the hills by Nancy, down to the Marne and the Aube; Celts and
Flemings from the north, and Norsemen from the west, all met and mingled
with the native Gauls and eventually became Parisians. Environment acted
its part, and so did the forces of Nature. The soil of the basin of
Paris is fruitful, the climate equable, but neither encourage idlers;
both demand a toll of strenuous labour, yet not so trying to man's
strength as to leave him exhausted at the end of the day's work; he may
recreate himself and bring his mind to bear on the result of his
handiwork.
This made him critical, and the constant flow of foreigners brought him
new ideas to test by the light of his own experience, and so Paris
became, as it were, a crucible in which theories of life were tested and
rendered by science into practical form.
Only the best is good enough for Paris, and this will remain the case
until the disintegration of our planet; no invading hosts, be they never
so numerous, nor the most fiendish inventions in modern chemistry, can
alter this fact, they may beat down the superficial Paris, they cannot
destroy its spirit.
To a lesser degree this is also true of Prague. As we have already seen,
its geographical position marks it out as a centre where meet roads
coming from all directions. This fact was not discovered at such an
early period as that in which Paris arose out of the river swamps.
Possibly this was due to the westward tendency of migratory races during
the first centuries of our era when Teutonic tribes and Celts passed
over Bohemia under pressure from the east. It is strange that the Romans
did not discover the geographical advantages of the site on which Prague
was founded. Roman influence began to make itself felt early in the
first century of the Christian era in these parts, but the trade route
which connected the Danube with the Baltic shore passed eastward of
Prague, it seems via the valley of the Morava and the "Gate of Bohemia"
at Nachod, through Breslau and Stettin, both, by the way, former
Slavonic settlements. There are not many traces of Roman culture, and
what there are seem to have been imposed on the inhabitants themselves
rather than left behind by the Romans. Even Marcus Aurelius, who wrote
about most things under the sun, has little to say of the country north
of his stronghold at the confluence of the Danube and Morava. It was not
till several centuries after the Roman Empire's glory had departed that
Prague became a place of importance, and this was largely due to the
Luxemburg Kings, whose introduction of French culture made of the city a
centre of attraction on the eastern marches of Europe. How and why
Prague lost in importance may be gathered from its history; whether it
will again gain and hold the prominent position to which it is entitled
by its situation must depend entirely on the people of old Bohemia and
the other countries which compose the new Czecho-Slovak Republic in
general and the citizens of Prague in particular; the fortunes of their
country and capital are in their own hands to make or mar. They have
many points in their favour: first, a central position in a country
endowed with great riches; then a sturdy, hardworking and law-abiding
population; and finally a climate that neither encourages idleness nor
puts too severe a strain upon man's power of endurance.
The people of Prague have their theories about the climate of their
country; they maintain that it is governed by certain rules that are
made to apply to Central Europe generally. Thus they will tell you that
the winter is severe, that ice and snow keep the country bound for
several months at a time, that spring comes swiftly but gently with the
melting of the snow and the gradual breaking up of the ice-floes on the
river, that then a fine summer follows, a summer hot indeed but tempered
by cool breezes from the north and showers from south and west; then
through a glorious autumn all russet and gold on a background of hazy
blue mountains, back to a winter as in the Christmas carol about Good
King Wenceslaus. All this is theory; in reality the weather here, as
elsewhere, is not to be trusted, though, indeed, it is not as fickle as
that of our own dear country. Still, the people cling to their theory
about the climate of the country, and if perchance the theory does not
fit, there is always an "oldest inhabitant" handy to declare the weather
quite exceptional. Why is it that the oldest inhabitant is invariably
the greatest local liar? Is it simply a matter of long life and ripe
experience?
Whatever the climate may be, whatever vagaries the weather may indulge
in, the view from my terrace is always lovely, its subtle beauty ever
new. If I were called upon to say which season shows ancient Prague at
her best, I would say the spring time. Then the orchards on the slopes
are arrayed in virgin white of pear and cherry blossom, with here and
there a blush from apple-trees and a faint glimmer of delicate green
against cool grey of stone walls showing among the purples of trunks and
branches warming into new life under the fitful rays of April sunshine.
The sunshine draws out colour from soaring spires or copper domes of
churches and from the quaint towers and pinnacles of old Prague's former
defences against enemies that came like storm clouds from out of the
west or over the giant mountains to northward. A passing cloud throws
into the shade the middle ground of grouped and red-tiled roofs
overtopped by some stately church, and the terraced gardens that descend
into the harmonies of deep reds and greyish purples which is the
dominant note in the colour scheme of the "Mala Strana," the small side
of Prague on the left bank of the river. Far beyond are the encircling
heights--some wooded, others under cultivation; cloud shadows pass over
them like ghosts of the tragic events that made up the history of
Bohemia and its capital. But the sunshine wins over the clouds and draws
out the strength and glory of Golden Prague.
Summer and autumn bring fulfilment of spring's promise of plenty, with
fruit in abundance. Autumn lingers in red and yellow motley, stoutly
resisting winter's attack until boisterous winds from east and north
send the last leaves shivering to the ground and spread out the city's
winter garb. Then Prague assumes a severer aspect; reds and warm greys
have vanished, castle, churches, palaces stand out in marked relief,
their features accentuated by piled-up snow on roof and gallery and
flying buttress. And seen from my terrace, Prague under snow is very
beautiful.
The winter had been erratic; spells of intense cold when ice-floes piled
up about the piers of the bridges, and even gave rise to anxiety
concerning the safety of those structures; then mild winds from the
south driving the smoke of the Smichov factories across Castle Hill.
This, too, has its beauties when reluctant rays of the setting sun try
to dispel it and cloak the Hrad[vc]any in a shroud of purple mist.
Winter lingered on into the beginning of the week of Resurrection. On
Tuesday in Holy Week wild gusts from the north drove powdered snow in
scurries across the uplands through the broad streets and into narrow
alleys, where it lingered during two breathless days until with Good
Friday came glorious sunshine, dispelling the last traces of winter
storms.
As if to attune themselves to the change from winter's bondage to
generous life, from the season of Lent to the Day of Resurrection, the
people of Prague, as is their wont, called music to their aid. On Palm
Sunday, as the last light of a grey day faded away, the church dedicated
to Saint Henry, standing austerely apart from the traffic of the
streets, was filled with the sweet sadness of Pergolesi's "Stabat
Mater." From the organ-loft came the soul-searching harmony of two
voices, a pure white soprano and a rich vibrant contralto, which spread
about the lofty building, penetrated to the secluded corners where the
scent of incense lingers, and then seemed to lose itself in the shadowy
arches of the roof, merging, as it were, into the memories of centuries
of prayer and praise.
There was that feeling of impending relief from pain, then as of a
healing touch when glorious sunshine ushered in Easter Sunday. Larks
poured out their soul into a cloudless sky over the battlefield of the
White Mountain, the pale green of larches showed up bravely among the
riot of live purple and crimson and the flashing trunks of birches, over
the wall that confines the park of the Star. The Star itself, that
singular monument, a former hunting-box of Bohemian Kings and built in
the shape of a six-pointed star, is undergoing renaissance: it is being
arranged as a museum for the Czecho-Slovak legionaries. The little brook
that makes such a long detour on its way to join the Vltava, passing
through the rocky gorge and the winding valley of the Sharka, was very
emphatic on the subject of spring's arrival, and its voice must have
penetrated to secluded nooks and crannies, rousing sluggard forms of
life from winter sleep. Spring was asserting itself with all the
glorious certainty of youth, and was calling aloud to all and sundry to
come out and witness a brave display in the many gardens of Prague.
I doubt whether any other town in Europe is so well equipped with
gardens as is Prague for its size. Chiefest among these is the
Stromovka, on the northern slope of the Letna Hill. Your best approach
is from the direction of the castle by a broad and shady avenue which
leads you first down, then up again to a little plateau where stands a
building called Zamek. This building is said to be an old hunting-box of
Bohemian royalty: it certainly tries its best to look ancient, but fails
to convince you. Then by shady winding ways down the slope to a broad
valley deep in verdure. A little stream, which broadens into a lake,
keeps up the necessary moisture, and the grass and the weeping willows
in their loveliness offer it their silent thanks. The trees on the
northern slope grow high: they had to do so to meet the sunshine.
There are broad, shady drives and rides, and many seats, also two
restaurants, with at least one band playing heartily of an afternoon.
But the beauty spot in all this loveliness is right in the centre--a
rose-garden. It is no use trying to describe this rose-garden; only a
poet could do that, so all I say is, Come and see for yourself.
Other public gardens I would mention, at least the larger ones--Kinsky,
Nebozizek, Riegrovy--but there are a number of others, smaller ones,
with shady nooks and plenty of seats. These gardens are dispersed about
the town in its workaday quarters; at midday--in fact, at any time of
day--you may see the workers enjoying a rest and also whatever kindly
fruits of the earth happen to be in season--in July your path is paved
with cherry-stones.
There are rows of trees along many of the streets; there are many
private gardens of palace, hospital, monastery or convent, adding the
freshness of their verdure to the beauty of Prague.
No wonder, then, that with so much loveliness about them the people of
Prague should be gay and intent on enjoying life amid such surroundings.
On a Sunday or feast-day you have music all round you. Look over the
holiday city from your terrace, you will see happy well-dressed crowds
moving to one or other place whence rise the strains of music. From one
side you hear the solemn notes of the fanfarade from Libu[vs]a; a little
farther away a very cheery brass band is stirring its audience with a
rattling march--impossible to keep your feet still; then while the brass
band pauses for breath and beer the insistent cadence of a dreamy valse
floats up to meet you.
Finest of all was Stromovka. Here weeping willows trailed their weeds of
daintiest green; here vigorous chestnut buds threw out their strong
scent; here osier-beds were a living tangle of gold and crimson
reflected brokenly in the lake where frogs made merry, the frogs being
about the only wild animals left in the Stromovka. Things were very
different in this park when it was known as the Thiergarten, Hortus
Ferarum, as long ago as the days of King John, the knight-errant ruler
of Bohemia. It appears that bison, "aurochs," were kept here, and it is
recorded that the sole surviving specimen died in 1566, which fact
Archduke Ferdinand, the Kaiser's lieutenant, reported to Emperor
Maximilian; he was thereupon ordered to ask the Duke of Prussia to
oblige with a new couple of bison.
The Stromovka was at one time described as "where the ox preaches on a
sack of straw," which description was probably meant to be humorous. The
connection comes about by the fact that the tailors of the town held
their revels in the Thiergarten every Tuesday in Easter week, and it
seems that a sack of straw was necessary to their happiness. This sack,
of the finest white linen, was sewn up with great neatness and adorned
with bows of ribbon, red, blue, yellow, green and white, by the
apprentices. The sack was further decorated with a design representing a
lass and a lad.
There seems to have been no particular object for the sack, as it was
only fastened to a pole round which danced young men and maidens. As the
gay Czechs of the present day are ready to dance without any such
fortuitous aid, it may be presumed that there was some meaning in the
idea of carrying a sack about and then dancing round it; but the
chronicler does not mention this point--he probably missed it.
Not to be outdone by the tailors, the cobblers of Prague had their day
on the Wednesday after Easter, and went for their diversion in an
opposite direction, namely, to Nusle, which lies tucked away behind
Vy[vs]ehrad. The cobblers' feast-day was called "Fidlovatchka," which
has a cheery ring, and tradition gives the following origin: The
cobblers' guild had built a pair of boots, a most excellent pair of
boots, for Emperor Joseph, who himself had learnt their craft. Every
cobbler's apprentice in Prague had contributed of his labour to this
pair of boots. In token of gratitude the Emperor had given to the guild
a little tree, silver-plated, on which were displayed specimens, also in
silver, of all the implements used in the cobbler's handicraft. This
imperial present was displayed at the cobblers' guildhall and held in
high honour.
Now as it happened the cobblers' apprentices seem to have been afflicted
more than those of other guilds by the complaint called by the Germans
"Blue Monday," which being interpreted meaneth "the morning after the
night before." It was of necessity observed as a holiday. Masters
insisted on abolishing this holiday, apprentices insisted on its
retention. The latter removed the silver-plated tree from its sanctuary
and carried it, to the strains of music and with much vociferation, to a
mill, now no longer, at Nusle, at which place the adventure had been
planned.
Not a single apprentice was to be found in Prague: needless to say, they
had the enthusiastic support and inspiring company of all the cobblers'
errand-boys.
The apprentices kept up the feast for several days until their funds
were exhausted; they then stripped the imperial tree of its ornaments
and sold them. When they had arrived at the stage known as _au sec_ they
passed the time in fighting. Eventually a deputation of masters came
out, a conference was held, the "Blue Monday" feast was reinstituted,
and the apprentices returned to Prague, carrying, in place of the
imperial tree, a maypole--premature, no doubt, but it probably best
expressed their feelings.
The very learned will tell us that the maypole custom of the Prague
cobblers dates back to much remoter times than those of Emperor Joseph,
and may draw attention to the habit prevalent in Saxony and other
neighbouring countries with an originally strongly Slav population of
displaying a birch-tree at the beginning of May. The learned will then
dive down into Slavonic mythology, which process to the dilettante in
such matters, is like "going in off the deep end"--you never know when
or where you may come up again.
At any rate, it appears that the cobblers' apprentices chose to call
their maypole "Fidlovatchka," and that they carried it about on their
feast-day, the Wednesday after Easter. Tradition has it that they all
smoked in turn, from a giant pipe capable of holding two pounds of
tobacco. Here a fastidious chronicler draws the curtain.
The habit of the Prague apprentices in the matter of keeping the feast
remains much the same to-day; moreover, it is not their exclusive right
or privilege. I know few other places in the world where people are more
ready to make merry on the least provocation. I do not know why this
is, nor have I analysed the Czech disposition towards festivities; I do
know that it is contagious. Perhaps it is due to the fact that the
Church of Rome encouraged the converted Hussites to keep things merry
and bright on every available saint's day so as to deaden all
recollection of Hus's martyrdom, but this is a deeper matter which we
will discuss later. The fact is that the Czech is by nature gay and
cheerful and an expert merrymaker, as who would not be in a country like
Bohemia, with its grand natural beauties, its wealth of music and
poetry--and its beer?
The Government has recently abolished all holidays but a few of the very
obvious ones, such as New Year's Day, Good Friday, and May Day. I do not
think that this paternal decree will make the least difference to the
cheery Czech; in fact, only a day or so after the decree was passed into
law the event was celebrated by a very hearty tribute, lasting two days,
to a national saint, followed by a day's strike organized by those who
protest against all such obsolete notions as saints' days. Everyone was
satisfied; everyone's opinion had been freely expressed, and everyone
had enjoyed three holidays in one week, thus, by the way, exceeding the
allowance for the whole year. Oh yes! the Czechs know what they are
about when it comes to merrymaking.
Such a day of merriment is March 7th, very much of a feast-day
indeed--the birthday of President Masaryk. Were I a Czech or Slovak, I
should celebrate right heartily at least once a week the birthday of the
present President, for he is one of the few great men among the swarm
that arrived at the top as a result of the World War.