arms on his breast, and hung there motionless, with his head a little on one side, and said, “Welcome, brothers. Don’t be afraid because I’m flying. It is only a sign. Will you take the cup with the flowers on, young lady.”
The stoker passed the cups and tins round. No one dared to speak. Those who had never been there before gazed in wonder on the levitation of Kuzenda. The guests of longer standing sipped their coffee slowly, and seemed, between the sips, to be praying.
“Have you finished?” asked Kuzenda after a while, opening wide his colourless, rapt eyes. “Then I’ll begin.” So saying, he cleared his throat, meditated for a while, and began: “In the name of the Father! Brethren and sisters, on this dredge, where signs of grace are shown to us, we are gathered together for worship. We need not send away the unbelievers and mockers as the spiritualists do. Mr. Hudec came as an unbeliever, and the gamekeeper has been looking forward to a little bit of fun. You are both welcome; but listen so that you may see that it is by grace I know you. You, gamekeeper, drink far too much; you drive the poor from the forest, and curse and swear even when there is no need. Do it no more. And you, Mr. Hudec, are a better-class thief. You know very well what I mean. And you’re shockingly bad-tempered. Faith will reform and redeem you.”
Utter stillness reigned on the deck. Mr. Hudec gazed steadfastly at the floor. The gamekeeper sobbed and sniffed, and fumbled with trembling hands for his pocket.
“I know what it is, gamekeeper,” said Kuzenda gently from above. “You’d like to smoke. Don’t be afraid to light up. Make yourself quite at home.”
“Look at the little fish,” whispered the young girl, pointing down to the smooth surface of the Vltava. “Look, Joe, the carp have come to listen, too.”
“They’re not carp,” came from the exalted Kuzenda. “They’re perch or dace. And, Mr. Hudec, you mustn’t worry about your sins. Look at me: I once cared for nothing but politics. And I tell you, that, too, is a sin. There’s no need to weep, gamekeeper; I didn’t mean to be hard on you. He who once experiences grace can see right into men’s hearts. You can see into people’s souls too, can’t you, Brych?”
“I can,” said Mr. Brych. “The postman here is thinking this minute how fine it would be if you could help his little daughter. She’s got scrofula, hasn’t she, postman? Mr. Kuzenda will help her right enough if you bring her here.”
“It’s easy to mock and talk about superstition,” said Kuzenda. “Brothers, if anyone had told me about miracles and God before this, I should have laughed at him. That’s the kind of man I was. When we got this new machine that runs without fuel for the dredge, all our dirty heavy work ceased. Yes, Mr. Hudec, that was the first miracle that happened here—this Karburator, that does everything by itself, as though it had a mind. Even the dredge floats by itself wherever it ought to go. And look how steady it is. Do you notice, Mr. Hudec, that the anchors aren’t down? It stands still without being anchored, and floats off again when it’s needed to clear the river-bed; it starts itself and stops itself. We, that’s Brych and me, don’t have to touch a single thing. Will anyone dare tell me that isn’t a miracle? And when we saw all this, we began to think it over, didn’t we, Brych, until it all became clear to us. This is a sacred dredge, it is an iron church, and we are only here as its priests. If in old times God could appear in a well or in an oak-tree, and sometimes even like a woman, as with the ancient Greeks, why should He not appear on a dredge? Why should He shun machinery? A machine is often cleaner than a nun, and Brych keeps everything here as bright and shining as if it was on a sideboard. However, that’s by the way. And let me tell you, God is not so infinite as the Catholics assert. He is about six hundred metres in diameter, and even then is weak towards the edges. He is at His strongest on the dredge. Here He performs miracles, but on the bank He only does inspirations and conversions, and in Stechovice, with a favourable wind, you only notice a kind of holy fragrance. Not long ago some oarsmen from the Czech Rowing Club were paddling by in the Lightning, close to us, and grace descended on all of them. Such is His power. And what this God wishes us to do, one can only feel here within,” Kuzenda declared, with an emphatic gesture towards his heart. “I know that He cannot bear politics and money, intellect, pride, and self-conceit. I know He dearly loves both men and beasts, that He is very glad when you come here, and that good deeds are pleasing to Him. He is a thorough democrat, brethren. We, Brych and me, that is, feel that every penny burns us until we’ve bought coffee for everybody. One Sunday recently, there were several hundred people here, even sitting on both banks of the river, and behold, our coffee multiplied itself so that there was enough for everybody . . . and what splendid coffee it was! But such things, brethren, are only outward appearances. The greatest miracle is the influence He has on our feelings. It is so intensely beautiful that it fairly makes one shiver. Sometimes you feel as if you could die of love and happiness, as if you were one with the water below, with all the animals, with the very earth and stones, or as if gigantic arms were holding you embraced; oh, words cannot utter what you feel. Everything around you is sounding and singing, you understand the speech of voiceless things, the water and the wind, you see deep into everything, how one thing is linked with another and with you; at one stroke you grasp everything better than if you had read it in print. Sometimes it comes upon one like a fit, so that one foams at the mouth; but often it acts quite slowly and penetrates to one’s tiniest little vein. And now, brothers and sisters, do not be afraid; two police officers are just coming across in a boat to ‘disperse’ us because we are holding an unauthorized assembly. Just keep calm and have faith in the God of the dredge.”
It was already dark; but the entire deck of the dredge and the faces of those present were glowing with a tender light. The splash of oars was heard below the dredge, then the boat stopped alongside. “Hi, there!” cried a man’s voice. “Is Mr. Kuzenda there?”
“Yes, he is here,” answered Kuzenda in the voice of an angel. “Come right up, brethren of the police. I know that the innkeeper of Stechovice has laid information against me.”
Two policemen mounted to the deck. “Which of you is Kuzenda?” asked the sergeant.
“I am, sir,” said Kuzenda, rising higher in the air. “Kindly come up here to me, sergeant.” And forthwith both police officers rose into the air and floated upwards towards Kuzenda. Their feet groped desperately for some support, their hands clutched wildly at the yielding air, and one could hear their quick and frightened breathing.
“Don’t be afraid, officers,” said Kuzenda beatifically, “and say after me this prayer: O God, our Father, who art incarnate in this vessel . . .”
“O God, our Father, who art incarnate in this vessel,” repeated the sergeant in a choking voice.
“O God, our Father, who art incarnate in this vessel,” Mr. Hudec began in a loud voice, and he fell on his knees, and on the deck a chorus of voices mingled with his own.
IX
THE CEREMONY
Cyril Keval, district reporter on the staff of the Prague People’s Journal, hurried into evening-dress for the occasion and dashed off to Stvanice just after six o’clock in the evening, to write up the ceremonial opening of the new Central Karburator Electric Power Station for Greater Prague. He shouldered his way through the curious crowds that overflowed the whole Petrov quarter, penetrated the three ranks of police, and reached a small concrete structure decorated with flags. From inside the little building could be heard the objurgations of the workmen, who were, of course, behind time with the erecting of the machine, and were now trying to catch up. The whole Central Power Station was an insignificant affair, no bigger than a public convenience. Old Cvancara of the Venkov was walking pensively up and down in front of it, looking somewhat like a meditative heron.
“Well,
