# The Czechoslovak Review/Volume 3/Tale of Young Blood of '48 (1)

First part of the novella. For all parts see A Tale of Young Blood of '48
Tale of Young Blood of ’48
By Alois Jirásek.
Translated by Mathew Spinka.
PROLOGUE.
Do not expect that I shall lead you either into the shady garden of Academus that you may listen there to the teachings of the divine Plato, or into the dark shade of the richly green laurel, where, by ambrosial night, your mind may be filled with the delights of the music of the heavenly spheres.
We shall not step into that world “where Socrates tells everybody that he knows nothing, where Diogenes, looking out of a barrel, derides all the passersby, where Timon curses everybody, Democritus laughs at it all, while, on the other hand, Heracleitus weeps, Epicurus feasts, and Anaxarchus says that all these things do not count.”
I shall not make you acquainted with philosophers “who know the truth of every thing, without whose knowledge neither heaven shows forth nor chasm hides anything;” but with philosophers in whose young bodies coursed a fiery blood, who sang, aspired, and loved; with whom girls, otherwise disdainful of the bearded, learned philosophers, gladly conversed, and, in fact, whom they even loved.
Besides the venerable, six-grade college in Litomyšl, Francis I. founded in 1802 a three-year philosophical course, which, in 1842, was changed into a two-year course. This faculty, set under the supreme oversight of the bishops of Hradec, was an independent institution, under a special dean, and was a part of the university course.
Anyone who had passed the college studies could become a “philosopher”. First he attended the lectures in “logic”, and if he successfully passed the examinations, was promoted to “physics”.
Everybody who wished to study law, or medicine, or wished to attain any higher office, was required to show a diploma testifying completion of his philosophical studies. Therefore it often happened that even older men who already held some small office, came back to the philosophical studies; thus, beside the youths sat mature men, listening to the lectures of the Piarist fathers.
How lively was it, then, on the Jewish Hill, which formerly, in the Brethren’s time, was called Olivet! In the nearby renaissance castle lived his lordship with a numerous retinue of servants, and in the Piarist college lived many brethern of the order and regular clerics; and when in the morning the student bell pealed forth from the college tower, the hill swarmed all around with students and auditors, of whom there were registered as many as three hundred in logic, and some seventy in physics.
Thus, having finished my prologue, I hasten to raise the curtain.
CHAPTER I.
It was in the year 1847, toward the end of April.
The spring was coming early and pleasantly. The trees of the small park around the Litomyšl castle were already budding, and many a thicket was covered with a gentle dress of green. In the ​clear, pure air the towers of the Piarist church and the many-domed gables of the castle were plainly visible.
The highways were like a threshing floor, and the rough pavement of the long public square was entirely dry. Warm sun-rays shone upon the newer houses, as well as those which dated from the times of the Brethern; the rays entered even into the arch-way constructed along the two sides of the long public square. A busy life reigned under those massive arches that warm afternoon, but is was the busiest among the youngsters, who, similarly to the little bugs, were lured out by the warmth of the new spring.
Laughter and noise made by these young throats did not disturb the town officer Koníček who, basking himself on the stone bench in front of an arch-pillar, fell into a peaceful sleep. He was an old lion and preferred rest to the chasing of game. As witnessed by the drum which hung on his shoulders and drum-sticks stuck in the yellow case on his belt, he was returning from somewhere in the suburbs.
Everybody knew his soft spot; wherever he could, he leaned against the wall or sat on a bench and fell into sweet dozing. It was said of him that he slept walking. His hat was drawn deep over his forehead; his head fell on his breast, and from under his gray, close-clipped mustache came hearty, healthy snoring.
These sounds did not disturb Miss Elis, who was sitting at the open window above Koníček. Miss Elis was, to speak without ceremony, an old maid, whose kind, light-blue eyes had seen the earth in that beautiful spring robe at least some fifty times.
She was knitting a stocking. She paid attention neither to the dark blue sky nor to the sunlight. She did not look out on the square, either, and yet she did not work so carefully and dexterously to-day as at other times. Her hands often lay in her lap, and her eyes turned into the room toward the door of the next room and then again on the clock with alabaster columns. This clock was standing on the dresser, and its brass ringlets, together with the yellow tin decorations, were shining like gold.
Everything in Miss Elis’ room was bright; there was not a particle of dust anywhere. Everything also was properly arranged and there was not a trace of disorder. Chair and sofa, covered with a white cloth, were old-fashioned, recalling the days of the wig and the queue. On the other hand, the round table, covered with a motley-colored table cloth, and the rest of the furniture, were much more modern, after the fashion of the last days of the Republic, and the times of the great Napoleon.
The small hand already had passed four, and was approaching five. Miss Elis laid down the stocking and the skein on the window-siill, went toward the middle of the room, and stopped near the door from whence came loud but incoherent talking. At least, having made up her mind, the small lady approached the door and knocked.
The conversation suddenly ceased and the door opened. “Why, Mr. Vavřena, what are you doing? It’s past four o’clock long ago. What will they say at the registrar’s?”
“You are right, Miss Elis,” replied a young man, his full, fresh face smiling pleasantly. “What a trouble I have with him! He became infatuated with his idea, and can’t stop talking.”
“What idea?”
“Why, all kinds of secret plots and revolutions; it is a wonder that he does not blow up Litomyšl.”
“But, Mr. Frýbort, such talking!”
“I’m coming, Miss Elis!” and behind Frýbort appeared his chum philosopher, Mr. Vavřena, a young man of tall, slender bearing and expressive countenance. He held his hat in hand.
“I wonder what bewitched you that you forgot your lesson. At other times you are so punctual.”
Vavřena smiled.
“Oh, I shall make it up again.”
“Hurry, quick!” called Frýbort. “Mis Lotty is so lovely to-day. I saw her at the window. That light dress and those pink ribbons were becoming her splendidly!”
“Frýbort, I don’t know what Márinka would say to you about your watching light dresses and pink ribbons.”
“Oh, Miss Elis won’t tell on me, will you?” and Frýbort, speaking in Hanák dialect, smiled pleasantly at Miss Elis.
Vavřena left the room.
Miss Elis, in whose home both Vavřena and Frýbort were boarding, sat down again on the chair at the window, and resumed her knitting. Frýbor still stood at the door of his room.
“Wasn’t Zelenka home in the afternoon?” he asked.
“No, he was not,” rejoined Miss Elis. “He is always at those lessons, the poor fellow! How much more must he suffer, before he finishes his studies! He begged me to cook some fruit porridge for him. He also has a plate of dried apples and dried pears in the kitchen. Where does that man get strength, anyway!”
“And then he works more than is necessary.”
“Studies seem to agree better with you than with him; but, Mr. Frýbort, I wanted to ask you for some time: have you noticed Mr. Špína?”
“No, I did not notice anything.”
“That’s peculiar; only notice him. Since some time ago he seems lost in thought and is so taciturn.”
“That is probably because the time is approaching when he must go to cloister.”
“Oh no, it is not that. He does not want to go there, I know, but it is something deeper. Believe me, that . . . that he has fallen in love.”
“Špína — ha! ha! — Špína fallen in love!” Frýbort could not stop laughing ,and that hearty ​laugh brought a smile even to the lips of Miss Elis.
“I would like to see him bending over his darling, and kissing her!”
“You delight in teasing!”
“Oh no, by no means; Špína is a good fellow, a worthy fellow. But if I knew something positive, I would laugh to his face.”
“Heavens, do not tell him anything!”
“Where did he go?”
“He took a book and said that he was going to study. He complained of having too much of it”
“Of course, if he is in love.”
“And you never complain!”
“Why should I complain? Love is a sweet burden, and a man would ask for still more of it; and study—there are a few months yet to the end of the year. But, Miss Elis—”, and here Frýbort ceased to speak in his light, jolly tone, and gazed toward the dresser, where a round oil painting of small dimensions was hung on the wall.
On the faded, dark background, the likeness of a young priest was seen, It was not the picture, seen by Frýbort every day, which attracted his attention, but a narrow half-circle of moss and artificial flowers, which was wreathed on the gilded frame.
“That wreath has not been hanging there long.” He turned inquiringly to Miss Elis. She dropped her hands into her lap, and sat silent.
When Frýbort suddenly and wonderingly looked at the picture, her withered cheeks flushed slightly with a crimson shadow, and she cast her eyes down for a moment.
“To-day is St. George’s holiday, and his name was George.”
The teasing smile disappeared from the lips of the jolly philosopher.
A pale, tall young man entered, and greeting, hurried into the next room, where, with Vavřena, Frýbort, and Špína, he lived.
“Why are you in such a hurry, Zelenka?” inquired Frýbort.
“I forgot a book, and it will be five o’clock in a moment. I must go to give a lesson.”
“You poor instructor!” sighed Frýbort; and, as if he were spurred by Zelenka, said to Miss Elis:
“I also have work.” He went after Zelenka who, having found the desired book, again was hurrying out of the house in order to inject the school lesson into the head of his young charge.
Frýbort, having seated himself at the table on which books and notebooks lay in disorder, dipped his quill pen in ink and proceeded to write on the blank paper.
“Fellow-students!” appeared in large letters on the paper.
The rooms grew quiet.
Miss Elis raised her head and began to knit again, but the pensive shadow did not leave her forehead and face.
At that time some mischievous youngster rapped the drum of old Koníček who, being awakened from his slumbers, arose, and with an unsteady step, his sleepy head bent forward, went on toward the town-hall. ***
In the meantime, Vavřena was on his way to the registrar’s. He passed the archways and the Jewish Hill, passed the castle, the college and the Piarist college, and then stepped into a dark house built in rococo style. Above the gate of this stately mansion were hung antlers, under which “God’s eye,” with long yellow rays, was painted. He ascended to the second floor by dark stairs; stopping at one of the doors, he knocked.
There was no stir inside; nobody answered.
He entered.
His entrance greatly surprised a young maiden, who, as soon as she heard the door open, rose from the chair and hid something under the dress cloth lying on the table. She evidently did something else than sewing. Her fresh face flushed with vivid scarlet, and turning her downcast eyes toward the door upon hearing Vavřena’s voice, she said in soft, pleasant tone:
“Oh, is it you, Mr. Vavřena? I was so scared!”
“Fritz is not at home, Miss Lenka?”
“Oh yes, in my surprise I forgot. He went out with auntie and Lotty. Auntie wishes you to wait a little while, for they will return soon.”
“Gladly;” and it was evident from his tone and expression that he really would wait gladly.
“Would I be in the way here?”
The girl again blushed and smiling, pointed to a chair, Vavřena seated himself.
Lenka was confused. She seized her work hurriedly, as if she wanted to make up for lost time. Then, who knows how it happened, whether she was looking for a needle or for scissors, she moved the dress cloth in such a way that a part of it slid down from the table. At the same time a thump was heard, as if something heavier had fallen.
Lenka immediately stooped down; but before she had reached for the object, Vavřena was there to do this service for her. Their hands met, and Vavřena felt the touch of a warm, velvety-smooth face on his temple. And again the girl was like a poppy blossom.
The book fell open.
“May I look at the title?”
Lenka, turning her pretty, bright eyes toward the philosopher, was silent. He, holding a little book of small octavo in his hands, read the title aloud:
ALMANAC or New Year’s Book, 1823.
Then, involuntarily releasing the leaves held by his thumb, he gazed at the flying pages, at the lines written in prose and verse, until his eyes rested again on the young maiden’s face.
​“Pardon me, please, for a while ago I wronged you in my thoughts. I saw you were hiding something, and it occurred to me, to tell the truth, that it was a letter — —”.
“From whom?” and Lenka smiled until all her fine white teeth appeared.
“It would be no wonder!” he added pleasantly. “But I did not expect a Bohemian book. That surprises me. I think if I went from one maiden to another, that nowhere would I find a Bohemian book. I did not know that you were a patriot. Are you not?” He extended his right hand to her.
“I am!”, she said firmly. Vavřena pressed her warm little hand, which trembled slightly.
“May I know who lent you this Almanac?”
“I have more of them. Have you read this one?”
“You shame me. I have not.”
“Then take it, if you wish. I have read it for the third time. In my trunk I have others, and, if you wish, I shall lend you all of them. But you must lend me others in return.” She sat down.
“What I have, I shall gladly bring; there is not much of it, though.”
“But, please, let neither aunt nor Lotty see it. Now you will understand why I was hiding this book so quickly when I heard the door open. Aunt does not like to see me reading, and she laughs especially at the Bohemian books. I am not ashamed of my convictions, but because I can not defend myself as I would like to against my aunt, I prefer to be silent, and to avoid all conflict.”
“Bear it, Lenka, it is for a good cause! Oh, how glad I am that I learned to know you to-day! Believe me that I can hardly bear it, and that I even grow angry when I see how our young women care for nothing but their ribbons and their laces, when I hear how they speak of these trinkets in a foreign tongue, and pronounce jealous, trivial criticism of each other, and parade empty phrases learned from foreign books. Love for the native land, reading of Bohemian books, and the Bohemian language are not in style, are not fashionable, and for that reason they neglect them, and even laugh at them! They have, they say, a gentle, tender, womanly heart, but for the deep, mortal wounds, for the misery of long centuries, and tragedy of their nation their heart is insensible and hard!”
Lenka sat perfectly still, hardly breathing. Her shining eyes were upon the philosopher’s face and lips, and every word of his, so ardently uttered, sank into her burning, stirred heart. She sighed deeply, her blushing face smiled happily, and in her eyes there appeared tears.
“Thank you,” she said after a pause in a moved, low voice. “It was refreshing and cheering to me. Oh, it is a long time since I have heard such words! My deceased uncle used to speak thus.”
“Was he your teacher?”
“Those books are my inheritance from him.”
“Would you tell me of this worthy man?”
“I will, but—.”
Voices were heard in the corridor. Lenka gave a start, and running her hand over her blushing face, she immediately grasped her work.
“The aunt . . .”
The door opened and Mrs. Roubinek, Miss Lotty, and little Fritz entered.
“Ach, schau Lotty, Mr. Vavřena is still waiting. I fear we troubled you too much, aber es ist so schön draussen—.” (but it is so pleasant outside). She spoke quickly and with animation, so that the philosopher, who was bowing respectfully, had no time to answer.
The ladies remained in the parlor, while he went with the boy into the next room, where books and papers were in readiness on the table.
Mrs. Roubinek was a robust woman, tall of stature and ruddy of face. Black, carefully combed hair was shining as that of Lottynka. who was the perfect image of her mother. The registrar’s daughter was accounted the prettiest girl in town, and justly so. With slender figure, beautiful face, and black eyes, she surpassed others, and even the girls themselves could no! deny that she had excellent taste and dressed well. Her mother did not spare expense that her daughter might lead others with the newest style.
Mr. Roubinek, willy-milly, assented to everything, although otherwise he turned every penny twice before spending it.
While mother and daughter were taking oft their hats and wraps, Lenka regained her poise and all trace of agitation and emotion disappeared from her face. She sewed diligently and answered her aunt’s questions in the usual manner. Within her mind, however, all was not peaceful and quiet. Her young heart for a long time had inclined toward this young man who shone among the philosophers. She liked to see him when he came to teach Fritz; she was glad when now and then he spoke a few words with her. She was attracted by his pure, pithy Bohemian, the like of which she had heard from none but her dead uncle. She heard only praises of him from the aunt and Lotty, and she heard them gladly; she did not dare, however, to make a remark herself concerning him.
Now she was surprised, indeed. She never expected him to be of such convictions. She did not think he would understand her, and rejoice with her. Hitherto, she was compelled to hide her most ardent thoughts; they laughed at her for them. But he had pressed her hand and said: “Oh, how glad I am that I learned to know you to-day!”
At other times she looked with pleasure on this handsome student, whom even Lotty and others liked; and to-day that young man, who generally was indifferent to young women, had stood before her inspired, ardent, and his expressive face seemed to be illumined. If Lotty, ​or some other maiden, had seen him, and had heard his passionate speech, even though she had not felt so patriotic as Lenka, she could scarcely keep her heart calm, and leave it closed before him. How then Lenka, that Cinderella in the registrar’s home, to whom but few paid notice, and whom no one appreciated!
Her parents died early, and the orphan was taken into the care of her uncle, a priest in mountain village. He was an older brother of Lenka’s mother, and one of those patriots who, in the sad times of almost total want of national consciousness, quietly but beneficiently worked for the good of their people.
Lenka was a ward of such a patriotic priest. When her foster-father and benefactor died, he left her his library, and a modest fortune besides. She was then taken into the home of the registrar Roubinek, who was a younger brother of the deceased priest and Lenka’s mother. She had lived in the house of her second uncle now for a year, being a companion and helper of Miss Lotty, who was the darling of Mrs. Roubinek.
An hour passed, and Vavřena, having finished the teaching, returned to the parlor, ready to depart. But. Mrs. Roubinek did not let him go so easily. She liked to converse with him, and as usual she began to speak in her mixed manner. Now she said something in Bohemian, and again embellished her remark with German.
She asked the instructor if he enjoyed the unusually beautiful day, and related to him where she and Lottynka had been, and how delightful it was in the park. She did not forget to mention how the daughter was enraptured with all that beauty: “Sie war hin von Bewunderung!” (She was lost in admiration) she added.
“And it is only April! What then will May be!” remarked Lotty.
Vavřena stirred a little.
“I do not know what entered the minds of those officials! The first of May! What a joy it used to be. Diese Majales!”
“And will they be forbidden this year again, Mr. Vavřena?” asked Lotty.
“How could they be held! When last year they were not permitted, this year they surely will not be,” answered her mother.
“But perhaps they still will be held!” answered the philosopher.
“Oh!” Lotty sighed blissfully, looking inquiringly at the young man.
“That’s how it should be, too! Ever since the philosophical school has been here, they were held regularly. Es ist ihr Vorrecht!” (It is their privilege).
“Oh, if they only were!” repeated the daughter. Her wide opened eyes dreamingly gazed into space, as if she saw there all the delights of that student celebration.
“Exert yourself, Mr. Vavřena, that ‘majales’ be permitted to the philosophers.”
“I also am thinking of it, madam—,” and he smiled.
When he was taking his leave, his last glance fell on the busy Lenka. She perceived it well, and her heart leaped joyously.
“Oh, now I remember what Mina told me this morning about Mr. Vavřena,” exclaimed Lotty vivaciously.
“Well—.”
“That Mr. Vavřena would be handsome and all that, if he weren’t so stolz, so könnte man ihn ausstehen.” (so proud, so that one could endure him).
“Oh, that is only envy and Eifersucht.” (Jeallousy).
(To be continued.)
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.