The Good Soldier Svejk (41 page)

"I'm Lieutenant Lukash," said the lieutenant, approaching Mikulashek unsteadily, "and what's your name?"

Mikulashek said nothing. Lieutenant Lukash drew up a chair to the table, sat down, looked at Mikulashek and said :

"Schweik, fetch me my service revolver from my trunk."

While Schweik was searching in the trunk, Mikulashek stared in mute horror at the lieutenant.

"Man alive, what's your name? Are you deaf or what?" shouted the lieutenant.

Mikulashek still remained silent. As he explained later, the lieutenant's unexpected arrival produced a sort of numbness in him. He wanted to jump down from the table, but could not; he wanted to answer, but could not ; he wanted to stop saluting, but failed.

"Beg to report, sir," announced Schweik, "the revolver isn't loaded."

"Then load it."

"Beg to report, sir, we haven't got any cartridges, and it'd be a hard job to shoot him off the table. I take the liberty of mentioning, sir, that it's Mikulashek, orderly to Major Wenzl. He always gets tongue-tied if he sees any of the officers. He's just too bashful to speak. He's a silly young chump, in fact, he's what you might call a whipper-snapper. It ain't as if there was any need for him to have the wind up, for he ain't done anything."

Schweik spat to show his complete contempt for Major Wenzl's orderly and his unmilitary behaviour.

"Sling him out, Schweik."

Schweik dragged the trembling Mikulashek into the passage, shut the door behind him and said :

"Well, I've saved your life, you young chump. When Major Wenzl comes back, you scrounge a bottle of wine for me and bring it here. And mind you do it, too. I've saved your life, remember. When my lieutenant's tight, he's a tough customer, I tell you. I'm the only one who can manage him when he's like that."

"I'm -"

"You're a little tick," said Schweik contemptuously. "Now sit down on the doorstep till your Major Wenzl comes back."

"You've kept me waiting long enough," said Lieutenant Lu-kash when Schweik had returned to him. "I want to talk to you. There's no need for you to stand at attention in that idiotic manner. Sit down, Schweik, and never mind about the regulations. Hold your tongue and listen to what I've got to say. Do you know where Sopronyi Street is? Now don't start any of your: 'Beg to report, sir, I don't know.' If you don't know, say you don't know and have done with it. Now then, write down on a piece of paper : 16 Sopronyi Street. It's an ironmonger's shop. Do you know what an ironmonger's shop is? For God's sake, don't keep saying: 'Beg to report, sir.' Say: 'Yes' or 'No.' All right, do
you
know what an ironmonger's shop is? You do? Very well, then. Now this shop belongs to a Magyar named Kâkonyi. Do you know what a Magyar is? Holy Moses, do you or don't you? You do. Very well, then. He lives above the shop on the first floor. Do you know that? You don't know, but damn it all, I'm telling you, aren't I? Do you understand now? You do? All right. If you didn't, I'd have you shoved into clink. Have you made a note of this chap's name? Kâkonyi, I said. Very good. Now then, to-morrow morning at about ten o'clock you'll go into town, you'll find this place, you'll go upstairs to the first floor, and you'll hand this note to Mrs. Kâkonyi."

Lieutenant Lukash opened his pocketbook and with a yawn he gave Schweik a white envelope bearing no address.

"This is an extremely important matter, Schweik," he went on. "A man can't be too careful, and that's why I haven't put any address, as you see. I rely on you to hand the note to the proper person. Oh, and just bear in mind that the lady's name is Etelka—write it down; Mrs. Etelka Kâkonyi. And
let
me also

tell you that you're to hand the note over very discreetly, whatever you do, and wait for an answer. Is there anything else you want to know?"

"Supposing they don't give me an answer, sir, what am I to do then?"

"Tell them you've got to
get
an answer, whatever happens," replied the lieutenant, with another wide yawn. "But now I'm going to bed. I'm fagged out. By Jove, we did shift some liquor. I think anybody'd be fagged out after a night like that."

Originally Lieutenant Lukash had not intended to stop anywhere. He had gone into town that evening because he wanted to visit the Magyar theatre in Kiraly-Hida, where a musical comedy was being played, the chief parts in which were taken by plump Jewesses, who distinguished themselves wonderfully by kicking their legs up in the air when they danced and not wearing any tights or drawers.

Lieutenant Lukash, however, was not enthralled by this interesting display, because the opera glasses which he had borrowed were not achromatic, and instead of thighs he could see only some violet surfaces moving to and fro.

In the interval after the first act his attention was attracted by a lady who was accompanied by a middle-aged gentleman. She was pulling him toward the cloak room and saying that they were going home immediately and that she was not going to look at such a disgraceful performance. She was making these remarks very loudly in German, whereupon her companion replied in Magyar :

"Yes, my angel, let us
go.
I quite agree. It's really most disgusting."

"Es ist ekelhaft,"
said the lady angrily, when the gentleman had helped her on with her opera cloak. And as she spoke her eyes flashed with indignation at such scandalous goings-on, large, dark eyes which were quite in keeping with her handsome presence. She also glanced at Lieutenant Lukash, as she insisted with great emphasis:

"Ekelhaft, wirklich ekelhaft."

That proved decisive. The romance had started.

Lieutenant Lukash learned from the person in charge of the

cloak room that this was Mr. and Mrs. Kâkonyi, and that Mr. Kâkonyi kept an ironmonger's shop at 16 Sopronyi Street.

"And he lives with Mrs. Etelka on the first floor," said the person in charge of the cloak room with the precision of an ancient procuress. "She's a German lady from Sópron and he's a Magyar. In this town everything's mixed."

Lieutenant Lukash removed his greatcoat from the cloak room and went into the town, where, in the Archduke Albrecht, a large wineshop and café, he met some officers of the 91st regiment.

He did not talk much, but made up for it by the amount he drank, as he pondered over what he ought to write to this lady who was so severe, so moral and so handsome, and who attracted him far more than did the whole pack of bitches on the stage, as the other officers styled them.

He was in a very good temper when he made his way to the St. Stephen's Cross, a small café, where he entered a private room and after chasing away a Rumanian girl there who offered to take off all her clothes and let him do whatever he liked with her, he ordered ink, pen and writing paper, as well as a bottle of cognac, and after careful reflection, he wrote in his best German the following missive, which struck him as being the finest thing he had ever penned. Dear Madame,

Yesterday evening I was present at the theatre and saw the play which aroused your indignation. Throughout the first act I noticed you and your husband, and I could not help seeing that your husband-

"I may as well lay it on thick," reflected Lieutenant Lukash. "What business has a chap like that to have such a damn fine wife? Why, he looks like a baboon who's had a shave."

He continued his letter':

—your husband evinced considerable appreciation of the disgusting antics which were being performed on the stage, and which met with your strong disapproval, because, far from being artistic, they pandered only to man's baser instinct.

"She's got a damn fine figure," thought Lieutenant Lukash. "Now I'd better come straight to the point."

I hope you will pardon me, a stranger, for addressing you in this direct manner. In the course of my life I have seen many women, but none of them made such an impression upon me as you did, because your views and your outlook on life are identical with my own. I feel sure that your husband is completely selfish and drags you with him-

"That won't do," said Lieutenant Lukash, and crossing out "drags you with him," he continued as follows :

—in his own interests takes you to theatrical performances which appeal only to his personal tastes. I like to be frank, and while not desiring to intrude upon your private life, I should very much like to speak to you privately on the subject of art in its purer aspects-

"I shan't be able to manage it in the hotels here. I suppose I shall have to trot her along to Vienna," meditated the lieutenant. "I'll wangle special leave."

For this reason I venture to ask you whether you would kindly make an appointment so that we could meet and become better acquainted on honourable terms, and I feel sure you will not withhold this favour from one who before very long will be facing the perils of warfare and who, should you give your consent, will preserve amid the terrors of the battlefield the most wonderful memory of a soul between whom and himself there was complete mutual understanding. Your decision will be my law. Your answer will constitute a decisive factor in my life.

He signed his name, drank what was left of the cognac and ordered another bottle. As he drank glass after glass and reread what he had written, he was moved to tears by almost every sentence.

It was nine o'clock in the morning when Schweik woke Lieutenant Lukash.

"Beg to report, sir, you're on duty and you've overslept your-

self and I've
got to go now to this here Kiraly-Hida. I woke you at seven o'clock and then at half past seven and then at eight, just when they was going past on their way to parade, but you just turned over on to the other side. Beg to report, sir—here, I say, sir -"

For Lieutenant Lukash, mumbling to himself, was about to turn over again on to the other side. But he did not succeed in doing so, because Schweik shook him mercilessly and bawled :

"Beg to report, sir, I'm just going to take that letter to Kiraly-Hida."

The lieutenant yawned.

"That letter? Oh, yes, that letter of mine. Mum's the word about that, you know. It's strictly between ourselves. Dismiss."

The lieutenant again wrapped himself up in the bedclothes, from which Schweik had dragged him, and continued his slumbers, while Schweik proceeded on his way to Kiraly-Hida.

It would not have been difficult for him to find 16 Sopronyi Street, if by chance he had not met Sapper Voditchka. Voditchka had lived years ago in Prague, and so the only thing they could do to celebrate their meeting was to go to The Red Lamb in Bruck, where there was a Czech barmaid.

"Where are you off to?" asked Voditchka.

"That's a secret," replied Schweik, "but as you're an old pal of mine, I'll tell you."

He explained everything to him in great detail, and Voditchka declared that he was an old sapper, that he wouldn't leave Schweik in the lurch, and that they would go and deliver the letter together.

They had a good long talk about old times, and when, shortly after twelve, they set out from The Red Lamb, everything seemed natural and easy to them. Moreover, they had a deep-rooted conviction that they were afraid of nobody. All the way to 16 Sopronyi Street, Voditchka was dwelling upon his vast hatred of the Magyars and kept telling Schweik how he was always coming to blows with them.

At last they found Mr. Kâkonyi's ironmonger's shop at 16 Sopronyi Street.

"You'd better wait here," said Schweik to Voditchka in front

of the doorway. "I'll just pop up to the first floor, leave the letter, and wait for an answer. I'll be back again in a jiffy."

"What, and me leave you in the lurch?" demurred Voditchka. "You don't know the Magyars. You got to keep a sharp eye on them. I'll give him such a biff in the eye."

"Stow it," said Schweik in a serious tone. "Magyar be blowed. It's his wife we're after. Didn't I tell you when we was in that pub where that Czech barmaid is that I'm taking a letter to her from my lieutenant, and that it's a dead secret? My lieutenant made me swear blind I wouldn't tell a living soul, and didn't the barmaid say he was quite right, because it's the sort of thing you got to keep to yourself? Didn't she say that it'd never do if anyone found out that the lieutenant had written to a married lady? And didn't you yourself nod your head and say it was quite right? I've told you all the ins and outs of it and how I'm carrying out my lieutenant's orders to a T, and now you've taken it into your head to come up with me."

"Ah, you don't know me, Schweik," replied Sapper Voditchka very solemnly. "Once I've said I'm coming with you, remember I mean what I say. It's always safer when there's two."

"Not always it isn't," said Schweik. "Don't you run away with that idea. I used to know a locksmith named Vobornik, and one day when he'd been on the spree, he came home, and brought another chap with him who'd been on the spree, too. Well, he stayed in bed for a long time, sleeping it off, and every day when his wife came to bandage the bruises on his head, she said to him, 'If there hadn't been two of you, there'd only have been one rumpus, and I shouldn't have chucked the weighing machine at your head.' And when he was able to talk, he said, 'That's right, old girl, and the next time I go out on the spree, I'll come home by myself.' "

"I don't advise any Magyar to chuck anything at our heads," demurred Voditchka. "I'd take him by the throat and sling him downstairs in double-quick time, too. When you come across these Magyar chaps, you got to treat 'em rough. It's no good shilly-shallying about."