Ivan Klíma - Judge On Trial

For the rest of the meeting, I could think of nothing but how I was to gain her company. I was already getting on for seventeen but I was backward as regards women. To my mind they were different creatures: unattainable, noble, refined and unapproachable. Their proximity or admiration could only be earned by some outstanding feat.

I had the right to shake her hand again as she was leaving (my palms became embarrassingly moist) and I asked her whether she had enjoyed her evening with us. She told me it had been fine and she would be happy to come again the following Thursday. She left, lasciviously wobbling her breasts.

I realised that I had to do something astounding. On the way home I was already dreaming of a series of lectures on the great world of figures of the Reformation and the next day rushed to tell the minister of my plan. He seemed taken by the idea; his only fear was that it would be hard to find so many lecturers. I assured him that I would prepare the lectures myself.

A girl who had just arrived in Prague from a little village near Jihlava would hardly have any interest in Chelčický and Hus, let alone Luther, Calvin and Melanchthon, but I determined to win her through my intellect, my oratory and my admirable breadth of knowledge. With the help of the minister I got hold of at least ten books (the number seemed to me so considerable at the time that I felt I had been exalted to the status of scholar). My knowledge of history was so meagre I could barely understand a fraction of what the books contained. But my age and ignorance emboldened me. Besides, I could hear in the books the familiar voices of staunch battlers for truth and justice. I was astonished to find that life had not really changed since those days. Immorality, lies, violence and hypocrisy remained. People continued to be divided into rich and poor, powerful and powerless, sinful and saintly. I realised that the founders of Protestantism were calling to me. Only now did I understand the clown’s warning long ago that the struggle for truth is the only meaning of life. Therefore, faithful Christian, seek the truth, hear the truth, love the truth, speak the truth, defend the truth unto death, for the truth shall set you free.

I had scarcely come home and had my meal before I was rushing to my desk and starting to write. I would compose long sentences with many dependent clauses whose complexity delighted me. I drew simplified sketches of my subjects, dressed them up in period costume and gave them real names.

Not for an instant in the course of my writing did I forget about her. I was writing for her, recounting to her the story of the just man’s desperate struggle against the sleek and powerful. I guided her steps to Constance to peer with me into the dank martyr’s cell. (I know what it means to be thrown into prison and await a merciless judgement. Don’t cry!) And at the last I squeezed her hand among the mute witnesses to the fiery execution. I could feel her hand tremble, feel her shoulder touch mine imperceptibly and her magnificent breast come slightly nearer. I trembled with longing. I had to see her, to be close by her if nothing else.

The Augustas lived across the river, on the first floor of a villa looking out on Petřín Park. I used to steal over beneath their windows and I can still picture the place I was making for: several thick honeysuckle bushes and the smooth trunk of a mighty plane tree that concealed me from the possible gaze of passers-by.

My hopes of catching sight of my heart-throb were very slim. One of the windows that I could see into opened on a passageway (in which she appeared briefly from time to time as she moved between rooms), the other seemed to belong to Brother Filip’s bedroom. But I went on waiting and had to endure watching Brother Filip mooch around the room, bite into an apple, scratch his head, read something, gawp at the canary cage and even — the hypocrite — light a cigarette (obviously he was home on his own) and after every puff go over to the window to blow out the smoke.

Once in the course of my secret, faithful vigil, my patience was rewarded. She came and played a game of billiards with him. The window was open, so from time to time I could hear tantalising snatches of her voice, and of laughter that filled me with a desire to see her better as she frisked around the table; as, in her effort to reach the ball, she sensually edged up against her cousin (who, to my consternation, did not budge but stood there stupidly pressed against her until she dashed away again); as her breast pressed against the green baize of the table; and at that moment I realised there was no greater delight than to be near her. I would hesitate no longer, I would ask her for a date immediately after my talk on John Hus. My lecture suddenly appeared to me as a love poem that was bound to enthral her, a grand exploit that could not leave her unmoved.

The night before the meeting I was to deliver my lecture at, my thoughts revolved around a single moment. The lecture would end, my audience would get to their feet; she would too. She would make for the clothes hooks. What if someone were to speak to me at that moment, or ask me something? They would delay me and in the meantime, she would leave! No, I’d tear myself away. I would have to catch up with her — the staircase would be the last chance. But what then — how would I address her? Sister Augustová? Sister Anna? Should I suggest a visit to the cinema (or was that too bold for the first date), a walk in the park, or just ask if I could walk her home?

And what if she refused? I would no longer have any hope of being near her. The most I could hope for then would be to wait trembling in the bushes for the chance of catching sight of her now unattainable face, and choking with desire and despair. Everything depended on how I framed my proposal, how I managed to eliminate in advance any possibility of refusal. Sister Augustová, I noticed your interest in the fate of John Hus. If you like I could tell you more about him. This ploy had the advantage that it was cloaked in authority. It would be hard for her to say she did not want to learn more about the Master. Victory was mine and there she was already walking by my side while I described to her the conditions in Gottlieben Castle and above all the final atrocious scene. Each of us had to be prepared for something similar in the fight for truth. Even I? she would ask. Yes, I would reply. I was amazed at my own determination, the dauntless way I offered my body to the flames. I assumed that she too would be astounded and realised that I would have to do something straight away that would bridge the difficult gap between my readiness to die for the truth and my love. I would tell her that my death would be even crueller and harder to bear, since I would be deprived for ever of the sight of her.

I rehearsed that brilliant transition again and again. She would ask why the sight of her was so important, and I would reply: Because from the moment I set eyes on you, I have never stopped thinking of you, because I love you. I love you as the butterfly loves the flower. No. As the bird loves the heights. No — more: as John Hus loved the truth! I was convinced that my words could not but germinate within her like sprouting seeds. That very night they would put forth roots and she would realise that she loved me too.

I rose next morning captivated by my own plans as by a night of passion, unable to think of anything else.

Many guests assembled that evening, even some adults, as the minister had announced my lecture from the pulpit the previous Sunday. But the only thing that mattered was that she had come, that she had sat down in her flaming red sweater not far from me. My love. My great love was watching me.

I have no idea how the usual programme of prayer and bible study went off. Then I took out my text and started to read: but I was totally estranged from the words I was speaking. The sentences I had written were too long and complicated, apart from which my mouth had separated from the rest of my body and went prattling on by itself while my brain tried desperately to perfect a different sentence: Sister Augustová, no, without the title; excuse me, but I couldn’t help noticing… no: it struck me… no: I had the feeling you might be interested…