(My translation of Karel Poláček’s short story Radovánky lidu venkovského, which was published in České slovo on 30 April 1931 and, in book form, in Soudničky [Little Stories from the Courts] in 1999)
Prague Regional Court
Yay! What fun there was that day in Lochov, a charming little village not far from Prague. On the fifteenth of September 1930, six of the residents had met up in the pub. Three of them were bricklayers, and the others were the miller, the barber and the blacksmith. Once they’d settled down to their drinks, it occurred to them they might have a bit of fun, liven things up, so to speak.
On the other side of the pub, there was a hurdy-gurdy man who was – forgive the expression – so pissed that he didn’t know what year it was, let alone what day of the week. He was lying flat-out on the floor by the wall and wouldn’t have stirred a muscle even if a cannon had gone off right over his head. Alcohol had got the better of him, the beer had won out, drink held him firmly in its grip.
What occurred to the six drinking companions was that a funeral for the hurdy-gurdy man would be just the thing. And the landlady was all for it too; she lent them a table and a tablecloth, the blacksmith putting the latter round his shoulders to look like the priest. They placed the hurdy-gurdy man on the table, the three bricklayers lifted it on to their shoulders, and they shuffled out of the pub.
The blacksmith walked behind the deceased, holding some scraps of paper and mumbling Latin words as if he were reciting the funeral rites. The miller was playing a funeral march on his accordion. And off they went over the village green.
People – boggle-eyed – came spilling out of their cottages, and in no time there was a crowd of youngsters and children accompanying the dear deceased and making a merry din. The older villagers, too, said they couldn’t remember such fun. Some of them were doubled-up with laughter.
But, as they say, you can’t please all of the people all of the time. Some of them were scandalised at the sight of such depravity and dissipation. It wasn’t right. It was the road to ruin. A fine example for the youngsters. And one of them went straight off to the authorities.
The six drinking companions and the landlady were charged with sacrilege on account of publicly making fun of the teachings, customs and decrees of the Roman Catholic Church or, at least, of disrespecting the same. At the end of the hearing, His Honour Dr Masák sentenced all seven of them to fourteen days in jail. The prosecutor was Dr Stibral.