FROM the day the shop on Revoluční třída opened I kept a business record of our customers. The first booklet was a small, black-covered affair which seemed adequate for the purpose. Within a few weeks it was replaced by another of more generous size, and then they grew into a file of notebooks, filled with names and addresses and marginal notes on each order. I still have those records. They are filled with long lists of familiar names, famous names, names of men who are dead, and names that evoke some of the richest memories of my life. A few of our customers were rogues and some were parvenus, and some, even without their titles, were noblemen. A great many of those names are still to be seen on the front pages of the daily press.

It takes only a little while, in dealing with men and women upon whom the world has put the finger of fame, to cease thinking of them as personages. They are simply human beings, good and bad, kind or cruel, warped and free. And yet among the thousands whom I met and served in the course of the next six or seven years, I found singularly few who were devoid of some virtue. Perhaps it was the medium over which we met that brought out the best in us all. Crowding my memory as they do today, I could wish to speak of them all one by one, in a vain attempt to bring back the sense of those years. But it would do no one any good. I can choose only a few to reproduce here, as one would choose old friends to talk to in a crowded room when only a small portion of those present can possibly meet and converse in the allotted time of one party.

One day a remarkably old but still vital man came into the shop, followed by a rather shy young woman. He wore a leather jacket and rough trousers, and he carried a knobby stick. He might well have been a farmer, in town for the day. As he accustomed his eyes to the change of light from the street he looked around at the tables, and then he walked straight to the case where the finest hand-engraved pieces were kept together. He picked up one after another, saying nothing as he inspected them carefully, turning each one in the light. There was an incongruity between this burly man with no finesse of manner and the delicate pieces of crystal in his heavy hands. Yet he caressed each one as though he loved it and understood the workmanship that had gone into its completion, and once he called to the young woman with him to point out to her something he particularly admired.

I was tremendously interested in the old man. In a way, he made me think of my grandfather. I knew better than to interrupt his pleasure by any comments of my own. He knew as much about fine crystal as I did. After awhile I asked if he would care to see my own collection, and showed them the way to my office, where I kept a small case of rarely lovely pieces. For two hours more we talked about glass, and then he rose to leave. At the door he turned, as though he had nearly forgotten his original errand, and gave me a very large order for one of our finest sets. When I took his name I discovered that he was Antonín Švehla, the Prime Minister of Czechoslovakia and leader of the Agrarian party. The woman with him was his daughter, Madame Černá, wife of the Minister of the Interior.

The following day Madame Černá came again to bring me a small parcel from her father. When I opened it I found a priceless tumbler of Milton glass. He begged me to add it to my collection.

As a result of those two hours of conversation with a man I greatly admired, a new idea grew in my mind. After I had worked it out I wrote to the Ceramic Works, suggesting the innovation of a line of small porcelain figures representative of Slovak and Czech peasants, similar to Copenhagen figurines. Over a period of several months I studied a collection of photographs and paintings, gradually developing the designs I wanted. The factory was willing to try the new venture and eventually we brought out a series of these small porcelain peasants. The first group I sent as a gift to Prime Minister Švehla. In a short time they became collectors’ items.

It was during this first year that I received a call one day asking me to leave for Carlsbad without delay. The King and Queen of Siam desired to be shown through the crystal factories. When I reached their hotel to escort them on the tour, I met Jan Masaryk for the first time. As we followed the royal party to the waiting cars he explained in an aside that he knew me better than I thought. Wherever he went over the world, he said, the subject of glass, the pride of Czechoslovakia’s industry, arose. And lately whenever Czechoslovak glass was mentioned, my name was coupled with it.

Jan Masaryk was our minister to the Court of St. James’s in those days. The son of the founder of our state, he has never made the slightest attempt to trade on his great name. By his own abilities he has made a career for himself, and the stamp of his personality remains in his wake. I have found in him the charm of a man who could meet any stranger, anywhere, by dissolving all stiffness in a situation through a handshake or a joke. He is also a man who has never forgotten his friends.

The following day I received an order from the King of Siam for a complete set of china and glass for their manor in England, the designs to be of my choice. In a little while the incident was forgotten in the press of new customers and a rapid expansion of orders from all over the world. I lived completely in and for the shop. After closing hours I worked on until Milada came to remind me that it was time to eat. Since the death of her mother—a kindly, self-effacing woman who had come to the shop one day to meet me and then had gone straight into a hospital for a last operation—Milada and I had drawn even closer in understanding.

So the days and weeks and months and years ticked away. During this time I can truly say that I was never bored and that I never felt I had lost a day. In retrospect it is difficult to sort out dates and years and remember which event came before another. From this distance I doubt that it matters. The list of famous names in the record books grew longer. Almost daily the Foreign Office called to say that we could expect a visit from this or that diplomatic personality who had expressed a desire to see our place. I could quote lists from the books, but the very act of putting them down would imply an importance in my mind which, as personages, they never occupied.

All around me now was the turmoil of compliments and expressions of admiration, punctuated by invitations to dinner and cocktails and tea, and still fancier parties. Sometimes I accepted the invitations, but more often I did not. Milada’s company was all I wanted as soon as the shop closed. She knew I was only a normal human being who happened to be in love with the color and rhythm of the materials I handled, as well as very much in love with her.

It was as though I were in a canoe which I had pushed away from shore. The act of pushing had been mine, but once the small craft entered the current, it was no longer my own force which took me on. I could make a mistake and upset the balance of the boat and fall into the water. Or I could learn to steer and let the water carry me forward. Bohemian glass was the clear, rushing stream. After awhile the shores spread farther apart, and the horizon grew wider and wider. But I had no intention of making the mistake of thinking it was my own power which propelled me. My job was to keep my balance, and let the current have its way.

More and more often now I was being asked to suggest individual patterns to suit the taste of a surprising variety of people. The Egyptian government forwarded a large order for a complete set of china and glass for their Foreign Office. They asked me to design the set. After some study of the lore of the country I decided to emphasize the color sacred to Mohammed. The china was green, banded along its fluted edges with gold, and the purple crown of the King of Egypt decorated the center. When the crystal was designed to match, it made a fairly impressive display.

And then there was the lotus pattern. (In point of time, it was somewhat later.) The Nizam of Hyderabad, through his Minister Ali Yavan Jung, asked me to suggest a design for a set of tableware for his palace in India. The Minister had with him two ornamental flower paintings from the Mogul period, intended as gifts for King George VI and Queen Elizabeth at their coronation. From a study of these intricate designs I derived a sense of the importance of the lotus flower in Indian lore. After a series of sketches, I finally made one that I liked, sent it to the factory and told them what I wanted. The china was to be ivory, clear and pale. The effect was to be of a flower resting in moonshine on a still lake. I asked Gründlich to turn my orders over to the designer, and the artist understood what I wanted. I was delighted with the result.

Another pattern which remains in my memory as one of the most successful of all my projected ideas was one that involved Russia in 1934, when she was still considered something of a barbaric state in the rest of Europe. Shortly after Czechoslovakia signed her first trade agreement with the U.S.S.R., the Soviet representative in Prague, M. Alexandrovski, became their Minister Plenipotentiary. Almost as soon as the announcement appeared in the press I decided to reach out for a Russian order. Until that time we had never received any of the Soviet diplomatic corps in our show room.

The problem, it seemed to me, was to create models in glass and china which could be presented to the new Minister as suitable pieces for his official table. Somehow I must combine sentiment and politics in one design. But how? The possibility of getting such an order was slight, yet it pleased me to stretch for such an ambitious goal.

The military helmet worn by the Soviet armies, Asiatic in curve and reminiscent of the Tartars, intrigued my imagination. Turned upside down, it could easily become the shape of a drinking glass . . . plain, simple, unadorned. So the glass was made, with only a small hammer, sickle and star engraved on one of its facets. Then I planned a china plate. It would be ivory glaze, also unadorned except for the finest hairline of platinum around the inside ring of the plate. A delicate hammer, sickle and star would be painted in platinum on the flange, to match the design on the glass. The effect was deliberately cold and puritanical, but sharply beautiful.

When the samples came from the factory I set about composing a thirty-page brochure in which I described the quality of the articles, the technical details of the workmanship that had gone into them, the deliberate intentions of the designer. I remarked on their literary qualities, pointing out how their plainness, their lack of ostentatious decoration, their hard brilliance, their emphasis on unspoiled material seemed to me to be representative of the country which M. Alexandrovski represented. I even added that I had deliberately avoided the obvious and ordinary use of gold for the coat-of-arms because of the symbolic idea of gold which clung to the mind of the rest of the world.

When the treatise was finished I had it bound handsomely. I ordered the construction of a case lined with red velvet which would contain one plate and one goblet. Then I showed the presentation to Hardt. He laughed in my face. He kept asking how I expected to persuade the Bolsheviks to stop using tin plates and cups in favor of glass and china. Perhaps it was a lot to ask of a bank director, but in the end he made no move to stop me.

So I made an appointment with Alexandrovski and presented the velvet-lined box and the booklet. He was undeniably excited. He kept repeating that he was going to Moscow the next day; I had come at an opportune moment; he would take the samples to the Kremlin as evidences of Czech culture and good will. Then he quieted down and discussed the enlarged opportunities for trade between our two countries.

Within the next two weeks we entertained a succession of Russian visitors in the showroom. We also received letters from diplomats of the U.S.S.R. posted in distant countries. Before many months we had furnished sets of china and crystal for Soviet embassies and legations in Budapest, Athens, Tokyo, Rome, Brussels, London, Oslo, Bucharest, Sofia, Prague, Ankara and Warsaw. However, only the last three chose the pattern I had thought most fitting for the martial mood and frugal manner of entertainment which I presumed prevailed in all Russian embassies and legations. Obviously I was wrong. The others ordered glass and china patterns that were heavy with gold and Byzantine designs, certainly neither puritanical nor plain.

In all these years I received only one order for a design which I was unable to fulfill. Prince Mohammed Ali sent word from Cairo that he would like me to suggest a pattern in glass for a tombstone which would completely cover his grave. I replied with regret that I had no suggestions to offer. Perhaps as a sop to us both he ordered a series of crystal lamps for his private mosque, which were made in due course and sent to Egypt.

The economic section of our Ministry of Foreign Affairs requested an outline of my wishes for the glass and china industry in a new trade agreement which was being drawn up with Switzerland and Austria. I knew what my wishes were and I gave them in detail.

It was later in the same year that I was granted permission by the bank and the two factories to make a trip into the Balkans and the Middle East to introduce the glass and china of Czechoslovakia to new markets. The names of the two firms which I represented would not be stressed; I made it clear that I wanted to speak for these products as representatives of Czechoslovak industry in a way that had never before been done.

First I went to Sofia by way of the Orient Express. Our legation there had been informed of my intentions well in advance of my arrival. The city surprised me because it was so definitely of the East. Before I got through the customs shed and into a cab I had been forced to grease the palms of everyone from the customs inspector to a soldier guarding the exit. At the large exhibition which was opened in the Hotel Grande Bulgarie, officers swept through the rooms in capes that touched their heels. Queen Giovanna of Bulgaria pleased everyone concerned when she placed a sizable order for the palace. The rest of the government followed suit.

For two weeks our products were exhibited at the Grande Bretagne in Athens. Madame Veniselos gave us her patronage and Samuel Insull, who was also in the hotel at that time, did not. I remember those two weeks best for the hours I spent on the Acropolis and all the evenings I wandered through Piraeus after my official duties were over. I ate in sailors’ canteens, watched fishing boats prepare to leave at dawn, and wandered around the docks, trying to drink in the salty, tough flavor of the port. To one who had grown up in the center of a continent, nothing on earth is so strange.

Then I went to Cairo and once again the exhibition had to be set up in the largest hotel, this time the Continental. It was hot and late in the season and I was tired. And yet I would allow no one else to unpack the cases, wash each piece, arrange the tables with proper linen and flowers, and see to every last detail. It would have been far wiser of me to have hired help, but I never believed that anyone but Milada was as capable as I in these matters. Someone might drop a cigarette ash on one of the fine pieces of linen, or break a goblet from the souvenir collection. So I did all the work myself, laboring through whole nights before the exhibitions were scheduled to open. I was driven from within and I could do nothing else.