Something has happened that I find impossible to comprehend or rather to accept. The moment Mrs Musilová walked in the door I became aware of an odd sense of anticipation that had nothing at all to do with the service or my vocation. I watched her sit down and my agitation grew. I said to myself: a black and white butterfly or moth. A death's head hawk moth. I bought her roses. Out of sympathy or in an effort to attract her attention? Or did I merely want to prove to myself that I could now scatter flowers all around me?
I have never been unfaithful, not in the real physical sense, at least. But unfaithful in spirit? I've tried to avoid that too, although I can't deny there have occasionally been other women I have found attractive. And seductive. There's Mrs Ivana Pokorná who has been attending our church for more than ten years now. I remember when she first entered the church I was bowled over by her appearance: there was something pure, spiritual and open about her, and the first time I spoke with her I was captivated by her voice.
I never touched her, but for several months I had the impression I was writing my sermon especially for her, and while I was preaching, I kept looking at the place where she was sitting. Worst of all, I had the feeling she found me attractive too, that she spoke differently to me than to other people. It's possible that someone else in my position would not have resisted. Was it my faith that prevented me? Or my position? Or quite simply the conviction that it would be unfair and mean to deceive Hana? I didn't try to embrace her, although I did several times in my dreams. I even dreamed of going to bed with her. When I awoke I felt ashamed, as if I had been in control of my own dreams. But then, what do dreams depict, apart from our hidden desires or anxieties?
And then there are day-dreams and the subconscious. A few days ago, when I started to carve the face of a new figure, I was surprised at the form it took. A narrow oblong face with sensuous lips, eyes set far apart, a high, backward-sloping forehead, a nose whose ridge was so straight it reminded me of the Cnidian Aphrodite. (In his Dialogues, Lucian calls this statue, which I only know from reproductions, 'the expression of perfect beauty.) I was amazed to discover that the face did not resemble the faces of my previous figures; the features were those of the woman architect who had come to seek advice about love and when she left had made such an unusual request: Don't forsake me!
Eva is oddly dreamy. During our evening singing, she either remains silent or joins in as if her mind was elsewhere. She says she has to study for the leaving exam and indeed every evening when I enter her room she has a textbook open in front of her. But today I noticed that she was on the same page as yesterday.
She wore the sweater I gave her for several days and then stopped wearing it. It occurred to me to ask why. She blushed and said she'd lost it.
Where?
At school. In the gym.
I felt she was concealing something but then I was ashamed of myself. She wouldn't do anything like that, would she? And since then we've not mentioned it.
Twelve billion light years, Marek said the other day. Does it ever occur to him how unimaginable that expanse of time is compared with the fraction of time we are on this earth? And two thousand years ago, a wonder happened: God sent his only son, part of himself. He delivered himself up to people. So long ago, so recently. A miracle on the scale of the universe or only here on a human scale? But in what proportion to eternity is our dimension? Are we dreaming a dream about God, who is eternal, or are we, on the contrary, his dream and therefore do not exist at all?
Marek wants to get to the bottom of time. Not through meditation or contemplation, but by means of observation. He and Alois have completed their telescope. It looks like a little anti-tank weapon or bazooka, but the boys are thrilled. Alois just loves model-making. He has several model planes on top of his wardrobe already, along with a model of the Apollo spacecraft. He impresses Marek. Both of them are more interested in things that are connected with matter than with the spirit. It is probably something to do with their age, although I recall that when I was fourteen I was buried in books. I even regarded mountain climbing as something that took one's mind off material considerations.
I cannot deny Marek's meditative spirit but at the same time he has a tendency to make snap judgements and he also displays excessive self-confidence. Once when he was barely eight years old I came upon him in
the bathroom with a look of concentration on his face holding a watch in his hand. I asked him what he was doing.
He explained to me that he had filled the hand basin with hot water and submerged a glass of cold water in it. Now he was measuring how long it would take for the water in the glass to warm up.
I praised his inquisitiveness and he informed me that as soon as he had calculated it, he would send his results to the newspaper. Why to the newspaper, I was curious to know.
So that everyone should know about it.
I told him that his experiment was admittedly interesting but that the newspapers only wrote about big and important experiments.
But this is a big experiment, he objected. Not everyone's going to think of it.
More recently he has wavered between astronomy and ecology. He wants to know what I think about nuclear power stations, the hole in the ozone layer and the greenhouse effect. He is of the view that we oughtn't to buy anything in plastic packaging and that there is no need to have lights on in church. He protested when I told him of my intention to buy a new car.
I told him I'd hardly use the car, but that I needed it from time to time, for example, those Sundays when I have two services in close succession.
So don't have them in close succession, was his advice.
But I shouldn't just write about him critically. He goes with Alois to visit Fyodor. I asked him why he does it. He hasn't got anybody else, ' he explained. The operation was successful apparently and Fyodor is happy. He was afraid he would be a cripple.
'Tell me, please, what's the Russian for cripple?' I asked.
'Kripel, of course, ' he said, with his usual assuredness.
I went to check in the big Russian dictionary. The word doesn't exist in that language.
At the theological faculty, most of my fellow students came from families with a Protestant tradition. Often they would be children of clergy.
In our home, Dad put up with Mum's faith because he was tolerant, but he made it plain that God was simply a human invention: man created God and not the other way round.
A lot of what my fellow students took for granted I had to figure out for myself. I would often obstinately silence within me Dad's sceptical voice. Anyway, I was never able to summon up interest in a range of questions that for centuries had agitated the Fathers of the Church and — to my astonishment — a number of my contemporaries. What point was there in arguing over whether fallen angels could atone for their guilt, whether mortality was a consequence of original sin, or whether man was subject to a single or a double judgement: judgement of the body and of the soul?