The Good Soldier Svejk (26 page)

" And I am sending it -' " said Schweik in the quavering

voice of tragedy.

"That's right,

"—I am sending it back and beg to remain, with best respects to your wife and yourself, Yours truly,

"Josef Schweik, "Orderly to Lieutenant Lukash."

"Got it all down?"

"Beg to report, sir, there's the date to go in yet."

" 'December 20th, 1914.' That's it, and now address the envelope and put these 400 crowns inside and take it to the post office. Here's the address."

And Lieutenant Lukash began to whistle blithely to himself a tune from
The Lady Who Was Divorced.

"There's just one thing more, Schweik," said the lieutenant, when Schweik was leaving for the post office. "What about that dog you went to look for?"

"I've got my eye on one, sir, and a very fine animal it is, too. But it's going to be a hard job to get hold of him. All the same, I hope I'll manage to bring him along to-morrow. He don't half bite."

Lieutenant Lukash did not hear the last few words, and yet they were very important. "The brute bites for all he's worth," was what Schweik was going to add, but then he thought: "What's it matter to him? He wants a dog, and he'll get one."

Now it is all very well to say : "Get me a dog," but the owners of dogs are very careful of their pets, even though they may not be thoroughbreds. The dog is a faithful animal, but only in schoolbooks or natural history primers. Let even the most faithful dog sniff at a fried sausage and he's done for. He'll forget his master, by whose side he was just trotting along. He'll turn round and follow you, his mouth watering, his tail wagging, his nostrils quivering with gusto in anticipation of the sausage.

In that quarter of Prague near the steps leading to the castle there is a small beer shop. One day two men were sitting there in the dim light at the back. One was a soldier and the other a civilian. They were sitting close together and whispering mysteriously. They looked like conspirators at the time of the Venetian Republic.

"Every day at eight o'clock," whispered the civilian, "the skivvy takes him along Havlicek Square on the way to the park. But he's a fair terror. Talk about bite ! There's no doing anything with him."

And bending down still closer to the soldier, he whispered into his ear :

"He don't even eat sausage."

"Not when it's fried?" asked the soldier.

"No, not even when it's fried."

They both spat.

"What does the brute eat, then?"

"Blowed if I know. Some of these dogs are as pampered and petted as a blessed archbishop."

The soldier and the civilian clinked glasses and the civilian went on whispering :

"There was a black Pomeranian once that I was after, and he wouldn't touch sausage either. I followed him about for three

days till I got sick of it, and so I went as bold as brass and asked the lady who was taking him round what they fed him on to make him look so nice. That tickled her no end and she says his favourite grub was cutlets. So I bought him a cutlet. I thinks to myself, that'll do the trick. And believe me or believe me not, that bloody tike wouldn't even look at it, because it was a veal cutlet and he'd been brought up on pork. So I had to buy him a pork cutlet. I let him have a sniff at it and then I starts running, and the dog follows me. The lady yells : 'Puntik, Puntik,' but he'd done a bunk. He follows the cutlet round the corner and when he gets there I put him on the lead, and then next day he was where I wanted him to be. He had some white tufts under his chin, a sort of patch, but they blacked it over and nobody recognized him. All the other dogs I've ever come across, and there's been a tidy few of them, fell for a fried sausage. So the best thing you can do is to ask her what the dog's favourite grub is. You're a well set-up chap, and with your uniform and all, she'll tell you quick enough. I asked her, but she looked daggers at me and said : 'What's that got to do with you?' She's not much to look at, in fact, if you ask me she's a bit of a frump, but she'll talk to a soldier all right."

"Is it a real fox terrier? The lieutenant won't take any other sort."

"Oh, it's a fox terrier all right. A very fine dog, too. Pepper-and-salt, an out-and-out thoroughbred, as sure as your name's Schweik and mine's Blahnik. All I want to know is what grub he eats and I'll bring him to you."

The two friends again clinked glasses. It was from Blahnik that Schweik had obtained his supply of dogs when he used to deal in them before joining the army. And now that Schweik was a soldier, Blahnik considered it his duty to assist him in a disinterested spirit. He knew every dog in the whole of Prague and environs, and on principle he stole only thoroughbred dogs.

At eight o'clock the next morning the good soldier Schweik might have been seen strolling along by the Havlicek Square and the park. He was waiting for the servant girl with the Pomeranian. At last his patience was rewarded. Around her frisked a

dog with whiskers, a bristly, wiry haired animal with knowing eyes.

The servant girl was rather elderly, with her hair tastefully twisted into a bun. She whistled to the dog and flourished a leash and an elegant hunting crop.

Schweik said to her :

"Excuse me, miss. Which is the way to Zizkov?"

She stopped and looked at him to see whether he was in earnest, and Schweik's good-natured face convinced her that this worthy soldier did really want to go to Zizkov. Her expression showed signs of relenting, and with great readiness she explained to him how he could get to Zizkov.

"I've only just been transferred to Prague," said Schweik. "I'm from the country. You're not from Prague either, are you?"

"I'm from Vodnany."

"Then we're almost neighbours," replied Schweik. "I'm from Protivin."

Schweik's familiarity with the topography of southern Bohemia, which he had once acquired during the manœuvres in that region, caused the servant girl's heart to warm to her fellow-townsman.

"Then I expect you know Pejchar, the butcher on the market square at Protivin?"

"I should think I do. Why, he's my brother. He's a regular favourite in the whole neighbourhood," said Schweik. "He's a good sort, an obliging fellow, he is. Sells good meat and gives good weight."

"Then don't you belong to the Jaresh family?" asked the servant girl, beginning to take to the unknown warrior.

"Yes, of course."

"Which Jaresh is your father, the one at Kertsch or the one at Razice?"

"The one at Razice."

"Does he still go round selling beer?"

"Yes."

"Why, he must be well over sixty."

"He was sixty-eight last spring," replied Schweik with composure. "Now he's got a dog to pull his cart for him. Just like the

one that's chasing those sparrows. A nice dog, a beautiful little animal."

"That's ours," explained his new lady friend. "I'm in service at the Colonel's. You don't know our colonel, do you?"

"Yes, I do. He's a fine chap, clever, too. We used to have a colonel like him at Budejovice."

"Master's very strict, and a little while ago, when people were saying we'd been beaten in Serbia, he came home in a regular paddy and threw all the plates about in the kitchen and wanted to give me notice."

"So that's your dog, is it?" Schweik interrupted her. "It's a pity that my lieutenant can't stand dogs, because I'm very fond of them."

He lapsed into silence, but suddenly blurted out :

"Of course, it's not every dog that'll eat anything you give it."

"Our Lux is awfully dainty. There was a time he wouldn't eat any meat at all, but he will now."

"And what's he like best?"

"Liver, boiled liver."

"Calves' liver or pig's liver?"

"He doesn't mind which," said Schweik's fellow-countrywoman, with a smile, for she regarded his last question as an unsuccessful attempt at a joke.

They strolled along together for a while, and then they were joined by the Pomeranian. He seemed to take a great fancy to Schweik and tried to tear his trousers as best he could through his muzzle. He kept jumping up at him, but suddenly, as if he guessed Schweik's intentions towards him, he stopped jumping and ambled along with an air of sadness and anxiety, looking askance at Schweik, as much as to say : "So that's what's in store for me, is it?"

The servant girl meanwhile was telling Schweik that she came this way with the dog every evening at six o'clock as well, that she did not trust any man from Prague, that she had once put a matrimonial advertisement in the paper and a locksmith had replied with a view to marriage, but had wheedled 800 crowns out of her for some invention or other and had then disappeared. In the country the people were more honest, of that she was cer-

tain. If she were to marry, it would have to be a man from the country, but not until the war was over. She thought that war marriages were a mistake, because it generally meant that the woman was left a widow.

Schweik assured her it was highly probable that he would turn up at six o'clock, and he then took his leave, to inform Blahnik that the dog would eat liver of any species.

"I'll let him have ox liver, then," decided Blahnik. "That's what I collared a St. Bernard dog with, and he was a shy animal, he was. I'll bring that dog along to-morrow all right."

Blahnik kept his word. In the afternoon, when Schweik had finished tidying up, he heard a barking noise at the door, and when he opened it, Blahnik came in, dragging with him a refractory Pomeranian which was more bristly than his natural bristli-ness. He was rolling his eyes wildly and his scowl was such that it suggested a starving tiger in a cage being inspected by a well-fed visitor to the Zoological Gardens. He gnashed his teeth and growled, as if expressing his desire to rend and devour.

They tied the dog to the kitchen table, and Blahnik described the procedure by which he had acquired the animal.

"I purposely hung about near him with some boiled liver wrapped up in a piece of paper. He began sniffing and jumping up at me. When I got as far as the park I turns off into Bredovska Street and then I gives him the first bit. He gobbles it up, but keeps on the move all the time so as not to lose sight of me. I turns off into Jindrichska Street and there I gives him another helping. Then, when he'd got that inside him, I puts him on the lead and took him across Vaclav Square to Vinohrady and then on to Vrsovice. And he didn't half lead me a dance. When I was crossing the tram-lines he flops down and wouldn't budge an inch. Perhaps he wanted to get run over. I've brought a blank pedigree form that I got at a stationer's shop. You'll have to fill that up, Schweik."

"It's got to be in your handwriting. Say he comes from the Von Bulow kennels at Leipzig. Father, Arnheim von Kahlsberg, mother, Emma von Trautensdorf, and connected with Siegfried von Busenthal on his father's side. Father gained first prize at the Berlin Exhibition of Pomeranians in 1912. Mother awarded

a gold medal by the Nurnberg Thoroughbred Dogs' Society.
How old do you think he is?"

"Judging by his teeth, I should say two years."

"Put him down as eighteen months."

"He's been badly cropped, Schweik. Look at his ears."

"That can be put right. We can clip them when he's got used to us. He'd show fight if we was to try it now."

The purloined dog growled savagely, panted, wriggled about, and then, tired out, he lay down, with tongue hanging out, and waited what would befall him. Gradually he became quieter, only from time to time he whined piteously.

Schweik offered him the rest of the liver which Blahnik had handed over. But he refused to touch it, eyeing it disdainfully and looking at both of them, as much as to say : "I've been had once. Now eat it yourselves."

He lay down with an air of resignation, and pretended to be dozing. Then suddenly something flashed across his mind ; he got up and began to stand on his hind legs and to beg with his front paws. He had given in.

This touching scene produced no effect on Schweik.

"Lie down," he shouted at the wretched animal, which lay down again, whining piteously.

"What name shall we shove into his pedigree?" asked Blahnik. "He used to be called Fox, or something of that sort."

"Well, let's call him Max. Look how he pricks up his ears. Stand up, Max."

The unfortunate Pomeranian, which had been deprived both of home and name, stood up and awaited further orders.

"I think we might as well untie him," suggested Schweik. "Let's see what he'll do."

When he was untied, the first thing he did was to make for the door, where he gave three short barks at the handle, evidently relying on the magnanimity of these evil people. But when he saw that they did not fair in with his desire to get out, he made a small puddle in the doorway, thinking, most probably, that they would throw him out, as had always happened on similar occasions when he was a puppy and the Colonel, with military severity, had taught him elementary manners.

But instead of that, Schweik remarked :

"He's an artful one, he is, as artful as they make 'em," gave him a whack with a strap and wetted his whiskers so thoroughly in the puddle that it was all he could do to lick himself clean.