The good soldier Švejk

Jaroslav HaSek

'And so they've killed our Ferdinand,' said the charwoman to Mr Švejk, 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 - mongrel monstrosities for 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 Švejk. '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 Muller, 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.'

(Translated from Czech byCecil Parrott)