I noticed with amazement that when he spoke about the deficiencies in the running of the country, he — the man who stood at the peak of power — used the plural “we” or “they,” or he talked about something as if it had appeared out of nowhere. Why had they nationalized the newsdealers and pubs and not returned them to those who worked there? Why couldn’t we have private beekeepers or bell manufacturers, he asked, somewhat affronted and taken aback, as if it were “we” and not “he” who decided such matters.
It occurred to me several times that his speech touched upon some of his own personal issues. He found himself in an important position that separated him from others and therefore tried hard to give the impression of a common, ordinary, and, primarily, concerned citizen. He was trying to earn a little appreciation from people whom he perhaps subconsciously respected and at the same time feared because they possessed something he didn’t: an education and the art of public speaking. He was also aware (even though he refused to admit it) that he had been present when many judicial murders had taken place and therefore claimed — perhaps he’d even convinced himself — that genuine criminals had been executed, and deservedly so.
At one point when he was discussing the future he suddenly dropped the “we” (we the party, we its presidium) and switched to the singular: “My politics is one of reason and peace and the gradual path to the prosperity of all.”
I recounted my meeting with Novotný to everyone at the editorial offices and paused over the fact that he had invited writers but hadn’t mentioned a word about literature.
“Be glad!” someone remarked, and everyone broke out laughing.
*
Jean Paul Sartre and his companion Simone de Beauvoir visited Prague. Our meeting with them took place at Dobříš Castle. At the time, Sartre was one of the most famous philosophers in the world (shortly thereafter he was honored with the Nobel Prize, which he refused to accept, claiming he wanted to remain absolutely independent). His notebooks on existentialism (along with Camus’s The Stranger) thrilled me and perhaps, at least a little later, influenced my own perception of the world.
People usually idealize their models, including their appearance. Sartre was anything but imposing: a small, cross-eyed, unattractive little man whose features lit up only when he spoke.
To my embarrassment and shame, and despite the fact that I’d tortured myself with six years of Latin and tried to teach myself a little Spanish and Italian, I didn’t know a word of French. I could communicate to the famous philosopher only through a translator that I admired existentialist philosophy, especially his. Sartre was used to such expressions of admiration and had a prepared response: He’d written all that so long ago that he felt the need to polemicize with himself.
During the meeting with him I wrote down and underlined one of his assertions: The hero who, despite all of his horrific experiences, remains a Socialist seems to me especially human. And he elaborated that he was referring to those who had lived through Stalin’s prisons but had nevertheless remained Communists with their convictions fortified. He added that the West no longer had anything to offer mankind. The only great topic for a novel of the twentieth century was man and socialism.
My colleague Milan Kundera then tactfully asked (or perhaps objected) that perhaps we might consider the entire Socialist attempt a dead end, an aimless turn of history.
Sartre, however, maintained his claim. Socialism, whether or not it had a future, was leaving its mark on an entire era. Perhaps it was a hell, but even hell could serve as a grand literary theme. A disappointed faith, death at the hands of one’s own comrades — wasn’t that the most modern embodiment of tragedy?
Certainly, I didn’t say this aloud, but hell was indeed a wonderful theme, especially if you didn’t have to live in it.
Otherwise the French thinker was thrilled (or at least for decency’s sake he pretended to be thrilled) that the Socialist state had bestowed such a beautiful castle upon its writers. But he could not have perceived that the same prominent writers were living here whom I’d seen a year ago. It was they who applauded Sartre’s contention that socialism offered a grand subject for a magnificent contemporary novel.
It occurred to me that even they, without realizing it, were one of these grand subjects — not for a novel, but for an absurd comedy.
Several days later I started writing a play I called The Castle.
The play was about a group of notable personages residing in a luxurious castle entirely cut off from all hardships and worries. They hold empty conversations about the people they serve and the work they do, although it is clear they do nothing at all. I wanted to write, not about a castle of writers, but instead about an elect class of almighty, yet otherwise feckless, notables, who rule in the name of the people. One of the heroes, Aleš, was a writer, another was a philosopher, a third a biologist, a fourth a commissioner in charge of demolishing the statue of Stalin; the fifth man’s occupation is unknown, but he’s apparently a worthy functionary.
I thought the beginning of the play quite imaginative. Behind the closed curtain the audience hears the horrifying scream of a man being put to death, and when the curtain opens, all the residents of the castle come onstage, and the dead man is lying on a table. It appears to be a murder, and at first each character provides his or her own alibi and at the same time calls into question the alibis of the others. At this moment an unknown young man enters the room and politely introduces himself.
Because I was afraid of being accused of stealing the name of Franz Kafka’s novel, or even of not knowing the novel, I gave the new arrival the name of Josef Kán and went on to note he was a land surveyor.
The castle inhabitants immediately unite against the newcomer, who has been sent, as he tells them, to continue his work in peace and quiet. Now everyone starts talking about the dead man as if he’d been their friend and had been felled by a heart attack.
The writer Aleš explains to him:
We welcome you among us. We are well aware that none of us is here of his own free will. This castle was once a stronghold of the most confirmed enemies and exploiters of the people. Today it has become the sole property of the people. It was their decision to send us here, a decision by the people, for the people, and it is our sacred duty to repay their faith in us a hundredfold. And you are certainly wondering how we will repay it. Josef, this place used to be a place of drunken brawls and unbridled debauchery, such as only the ruling class is capable of. We must convert it into a place of honor, a chapel of truth.
Of course the corpse must be removed, but because the castle is inhabited by respected personages, they induce a doctor they’ve summoned to certify that the cause of death was a heart attack. The doctor is only too glad to comply, but at the same time he tells them that conditions have changed somewhat, and a sort of commission will have to confirm the death certificate.
Never had writing pulled me into its story line so much as when I was working on this clearly metaphorical drama. I couldn’t tear myself away from it, and I carried the manuscript with me to the office, and there, in the middle of visits, meetings with authors, and telephone calls, I composed dialogues, which I believed mirrored the entire absurdity of the reality in which we were all living. The Castle gradually turned into the epitome of that absurdity — a metaphor for the ruling and untouchable party.