On Friday I looked for you in the Dunaj, only to be told by Truksa that they had been closed before 7, and by 9, when I returned, you were already gone. I apologise profusely and am also writing to you about the manuscript being prepared for Duch a tvar (Spirit and Shape). I have spoken to Janský, who told me that you would like to talk to the censor in advance. This is out of the question, because it is not known in advance who will receive the manuscript to read, and so even in the unlikely event of you’re trying it on with someone, it will only amount, as we know from bitter experience, to nonsense and will not be remotely binding. There remains the possibility of speaking in advance with Kostka or Šve…, (these are the highest ranked secretaries), though I would deem this to be even less useful. In my experience, what can be done is this. Ne… the manuscript and persuade someone who is relatively well disposed to you to take it to work with them. Only then might a conversation be initiated that could be of practical assistance. Otherwise, you can count on me not to overlook anything that would help bring the manuscript into the light of day. I wonder, therefore, it you would be so kind as to get the manuscript to me by some means.
I’m afraid I won’t have many opportunities to pop into the Dunaj. I’m struggling to complete a translation of Leopardi on time, and it’s proving really difficult to plough through this tiring work. However, looking back over this letter, I see that it says more about me than any redundant words. I’m waiting for a substantial sum of money, and so I will send you the balance due for the misappropriated fee for the Camões. I may be taciturn, though recently I’ve held many conversations with you in my head. I was recalling our conversation about Kopecký in summer. I am worried you may have taken to your bosom merely a hollow emptiness and a single hope. Forgive me, I will be glad to be proved wrong.
Yours, Kamil Bednář.