As the younger ones slipped up to him in his retreat, he kept taking
things out of his pockets; penny dolls, a wooden clown, a balloon pig that
was inflated by a whistle. He beckoned to the little boy they called Jan,
whispered to him, and presented him with a paper snake, gently, so as not
to startle him. Looking over the boy's head he said to me, "This one is
bashful. He gets left."
Cuzak had brought home with him a roll of illustrated Bohemian papers. He
opened them and began to tell his wife the news, much of which seemed to
relate to one person. I heard the name Vasakova, Vasakova, repeated
several times with lively interest, and presently I asked him whether he
were talking about the singer, Maria Vasak.
"You know? You have heard, maybe?" he asked incredulously. When I assured
him that I had heard her, he pointed out her picture and told me that
Vasak had broken her leg, climbing in the Austrian Alps, and would not be
able to fill her engagements. He seemed delighted to find that I had heard
her sing in London and in Vienna; got out his pipe and lit it to enjoy our
talk the better. She came from his part of Prague. His father used to mend
her shoes for her when she was a student. Cuzak questioned me about her
looks, her popularity, her voice; but he particularly wanted to know
whether I had noticed her tiny feet, and whether I thought she had saved
much money.
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