In the early 1830s he finally found her. Eleonora “Lori” Schom was a succulent German-speaking girl who seemed to be as obsessed with life’s fleshly delights as Mácha himself was. Although hot-tempered and extremely jealous (to prevent Lori from even seeing other men, he strictly prohibited her to leave her house), Mácha undoubtedly got the inspiration to write Czech literature’s ultimate masterpiece from his fiancée.
In complete accordance with his romantic poetry, Mácha never lived to experience
Measured in tragedy, the poet’s real life almost outdid that of his poetry. This fact, in addition to
Mácha became a national symbol only days after he was buried in Litoměřice, and a requiem mass was held in the St. Ignatius Church at Prague’s Charles Square. More or less the entire cultural elite attended the mass, which consequently turned into a grand manifestation of Czech patriotism. During the following century
Among the entries were laconic pearls such as “Today, only masturbation, damn and blast it!”
Mácha’s role as a national symbol was clearly demonstrated after the tragic Munich Agreement in September 1938, when Czechoslovakia was pressed to cede Litoměřice and the rest of the Sudeten areas to Nazi Germany. Only days before German tanks rolled in, the poet’s remains were hastily exhumed from the graveyard and then transported to Prague. The great poet’s second burial in “Czech soil”, at Prague’s Slavín cemetery (see: Horáková, Milada), turned out to be an even bigger manifestation of Czech patriotism than the requiem mass that had taken place more than a century earlier. Since then, Mácha’s remains have rested in peace, but three decades later, after the Russian invasion in 1968, the Bolsheviks were scared to death that another tragic hero — Jan Palach — would cause a similar cult.
The romantic part of Mácha’s legacy, however, is both more pleasant and relevant.
Every spring, in the evening of the first day in May, hordes of amorous couples march in the falling dusk up the steep path leading to Mácha’s statue on the blossoming Petřín Hill in Prague’s Malá Strana. There, they leave some flowers to commemorate the greatest poet in Czech history. And, indirectly, also to demonstrate that Mácha’s real message was not that of nationalism, but of love.
Masaryk, Tomáš Carrigue
Any foreigner who spends more than 15 minutes in the company of Czechs will discover that they are capable of making jokes about practically anything. The more morbid, cynical and taboo-breaking the jokes are, the louder the bursts of laughter.
There is, however, one inviolable exception: Tomáš G. Masaryk — Czechoslovakia’s first president. Only communists could have been suspected of ridiculing “TGM” or “President Liberator”, which are the canonized versions of his name, but as everybody knows, the Bolsheviks don’t have enough of a sense of humour even to make bad jokes.