Behind the Lines
I
The Good Soldier Svejk Intervenes in the Great War
'And so they've killed our Ferdinand,' said the charwoman to Mr Svejk, who had left military service years before, after having been finally certified by an army medical board as an imbecile, and now lived by selling dogs-ugly, mongrel monstrosities whose pedigrees he forged.
Apart from this occupation he suffered from rheumatism and was at this very moment rubbing his knees with Elliman's embrocation.
'Which ferdinand, Mrs Muller?' he asked, going on with the massaging.
'I know two Ferdinands.
One is a messenger at Prusa's, the chemist's, and once by mistake he drank a bottle of hair oil there. And the other is Ferdinand Kokoska who collects dog manure.
Neither of them is any loss.'
'Oh no, sir, it's His Imperial Highness, the Archduke Ferdinand, from Konopiste, the fat churchy one.'
'Jesus Maria!' exclaimed Svejk.
'What a grand job!
And where did it happen to His Imperial Highness?'
'They bumped him off at Sarajevo, sir, with a revolver, you know.
He drove there in a car with his Archduchess.'
'Well, there you have it, Mrs Mi.iller, in a car.
Yes, of course, a gentleman like him can afford it, but he never imagines that a drive like that might finish up badly.
And at Sarajevo into the bargain!
That's in Bosnia, Mrs Muller.
I expect the Turks did it.
You know, we never ought to have taken Bosnia and Herzegovina from them.1 And so you see, Mrs Mi.iller.
His Imperial Highness now rests with the angels.
Did he suffer long?'
'His Imperial Highness was done for at once, sir.
You know, a revolver isn't just a toy.
Not long ago there was a gentleman in Nusle, where I come from, who fooled about with a revolver too. And what happened? He shot his whole family and the porter too who came up to see who was doing the shooting there on the third floor.'
'There are some revolvers, Mrs Muller, that won't go off even if you bust yourself.
There are lots of that type.
But for His Imperial Highness I'm sure they must have bought something better.
And I wouldn't mind betting, Mrs Mi.iller, that the chap who did it put on smart togs for the occasion.
Potting at an Imperial Highness is no easy job, you know.
It's not like a poacher potting at a gamekeeper.
The question is how you get at him.
You can't come near a fine gentleman like that if you're dressed in rags.
You've got to wear a topper, so the cops don't nab you beforehand.'
'They say there were a lot of them, sir.'
'Well, of course, Mrs Mi.iller,' said Svejk, finishing massaging his knees.
'If you wanted to kill His Imperial Highness or for that matter even His Imperial Majesty the Emperor, you'd certainly need advice.
Several heads are wiser than one.
One chap advises you this, another that, and then "the deed is crowned with success", as our national anthem says.
The main thing is to watch out for the moment when a gentleman like that rides past.
Just like old Luccheni, if you remember, who stabbed our late lamented Elizabeth with a file.
He just went for a stroll with her.
Who's going to trust anybody now?
After that there'll be no more strolls for empresses!
And a lot of other persons'll have it coming to them too, you know.
You mark my words, Mrs Miiller, it'll be the turn of the Tsar and the Tsarina next and maybe, though God forbid, even of His Imperial Majesty the Emperor, now they've started with his uncle.
He's got a lot of enemies, the old gentleman has. Even more than Ferdinand.
Not long ago a gentleman was telling us in the pub that a time would come when all these emperors would get done in one after the other, and all the king's horses and all the king's men wouldn't save them.
After that he hadn't any money to pay his bill and the landlord had to have him arrested. And he hit the landlord across the jaw once and the policeman twice.