# The Czechoslovak Review/Volume 3/A Tale of Young Blood of '48 (2)

Second part of the novella. For all parts see A Tale of Young Blood of '48
A Tale of Young Blood of ’48
By ALOIS JIRÁSEK.
Translated by Mathew Špinka.
CHAPTER II.
Frýbort was writing, and again striking out, correcting, thinking, and again writing. He was so deeply interested in his task that he heard neither the noise nor the hum which poured into the room through the open window from the archways and the public square. The room was a true student den, small and without ornaments or fine furniture. Four beds and a trunk standing by each bed occupied most of the space. Besides two larger tables, there was a smaller desk, at which Frýbort was sitting. In the background against the wall stood a book case. Two colored copper plates, after a French original, decorated the wall, and between them was hung a guitar.
Frýbort was reading his product over, when Miss Elis’ gentle voice was heard in the front room. A hollow bass was answering.
Frýbort folded the paper, and quickly hid it in his desk. A young man of tall and somewhat stooping figure entered. The posture was not natural but was the result of habit and of slovenly walking.
“Oh, welcome, Špína! Where do you loaf all the time?”
“I was in the park!” He sat on a trunk, and taking a slice of bread out of the drawer of the large table, began to eat it with keen appetite.
Frýbort looked silently on his colleague. He, as soon as he had eaten a little, seized a book and began to read diligently. His face was of a brownish color, his forehead low, and his nose irregular. He was especially disfigured by his large, uneven teeth, the front ones protruding almost out of his mouth.
“Špína!” the Hanák began after a while.
“I am studying.” His mate rebuffed him morosely. It was not five minutes, however, before the book flew into the corner. The student jumped up.
“May the devil take all philosophy!”
“Why so cross?”
“And who would laugh? I work myself to death like a fool, that I may get a prima here and there, and in the end I must still put the monk’s robe on! And I will not be a monk, no indeed!” He paced the small space in the highest agitation.
“What kind of bug got into your head all of a sudden? Come here, lad, come; stand here.”
“Leave me alone!”
“You will not slip out; own up, you are in love!”
The brown countenance of the inexperienced simpleminded philosopher grew red. He hesitated.
“Who told you? What—you—”
But the voice and the expression of his face were not convincing.
“Confide in me, comrade!”
“Leave me alone! To confide in you!”
The good-natured Špína never was so sullen before. Turning away, he again seated himself on the trunk.
Frýbort saw that he was ruffled and therefore kept still. After a while, taking his hat, he asked:
“Do you know if Márinka is in the store? Or is her mother there?”
“I don’t know,” Špína growled in the lowest bass, and the deepest shadow of red again flitted over his face.
Frýbort passed through the room of Miss Elis, who was preparing something in the kitchen, went out, and stopped on the top step of the narrow, winding staircase. The dusk was already settling.
That moment a pleasant, girlish, joyful song was heard from below, and immediately after ward a quick, short step on the stairs. Frýbort, descending a little lower, stopped there and stretched out his arms so that he blocked the way. Just then the girl, hurrying up the stairs, collided with him, and a light exclamation escaped her.
“Márinka, it is I.”
“Oh, let me go, mamma is in the store.”
“And we are here, and she does not see and hear us—.”
“I’ll give you this bunch of violets if you let me go. I intended to put them in a glass, but when you are so cruel I shall ransom myself.”
“Do, please.”
“Then take it. But—,” she was silenced in his arms.
“This is for the bouquet—;” and he kissed her ardently on the temple and on the blossoming soft cheeks. For a moment the girl ceased to struggle, then, tearing herself out of him arms, she leaped to the top steps and stopped. Her eyes and cheeks burned, and her hair above her clear forehead was disordered.
“Márinka, are you going for a walk?” whispered the youth.
“I am angry—.”
“To the earthworks or the park?”
“To the park—,” and she disappeared. She slipped into the living room, which was nest to the room of Miss Elis. Frýbort’s blood warmed: holding the fragrant nosegay in his hand, he went out. On the right hand side from the house door was a flour store, where Márinka busied ​herself in the afternoons. Now her mother, the landlady, descended there, giving her daughter permission to go for a walk with a girl friend. Frýbort, passing by, respectfully doffed his hat to the mother of his Márinka.
“But, Mr. Frýbort!”
He stopped.
“What is it? You are all white!” The small, serious-looking lady was pointing to the philosopher’s breast, where his dark coat was whitened.
“Oh, I got that from the wall somehow; thank you!”
“So? Did you press your chest against a wall?”
“The coat must have been hanging in some such way!” And, laughing, he took his leave from the matron, who regarded him somewhat suspiciously.
“I forgot that my Márinka is a rose sprinkled with flour in the store, and that her hair is as if powdered,” thought the philosopher merrily, and directed his steps toward the castle park. ***
In the student room, a lamp was burning on one of the tables; on the smaller one, by which Vavřena was seated, a candle flickered. Špína was lying on his back across a trunk and a bed in his dusky corner, and puffed at a long pipe. His eyes were staring.
Silence reigned in the small room; only at intervals the click of a spoon against a plate in terrupted the stillness. Zelenka was eating his supper, a fruit porridge with a portion of bread. He had a definite portion of bread, which he permitted himself morning, noon and night. He was living almost entirely on it. He had just returned, tired and hungry, from giving lessons, and had a keen appetite. Scarcely had this pale, slender young man finished his meal and cleared the table, when he seized a book and began to study, or, as Frýbort put it,” began to “cram.” It was evident that Lenka’s Almanac interested Vavřena deeply. He sat before the book for a long while, yet did not finish even the first page. He was looking thoughtfully at the inside page of the cover, where on the already yellowish paper was a German inscription, which read:
“Und weh dem Lande, dessen Sdhne frech verachten Heimatstöne und heimatlichen Sagenkreis!” (And woe to the land, whose sons basely despise the language of the homeland, and the native legends!)
And a little lower in Latin script:
“The grief over a perishing native land is the most painful.” Myslimír.
Over these lines one could become thoughtful. They were written by Lenka’s uncle, who signed himself here by his patriotic name.
How fervently had this man, who lived in a secluded, highland hamlet, loved his country! With what fears for her had he tormented himself, with what hopes had he encouraged himself, until perhaps disappointed in his desires and expectations, in an hour of sad depression, he wrote these despondent words! Did they express a passing mood, or did the thought of his nation’s death oppress him to the last moment of his life? Or did these words contain a sad truth?
No, no , that the energetic young man could not believe. Worse times were known, lower skies threatened, and yet the nation did not perish! The dark clouds of the lack of national feeling were being torn asunder; luminous rays were already streaming brightly, yonder they gleamed afar. They day will come, the day will come!
And again he fixed his eyes on the sad writing. He saw before him a serious, white-haired priest, sitting under a wide-spread basswood tree in the parish garden, and beside him a young maiden. She is reading from a book and he is listening attentively. Here and there he makes an explanatory remark, until he drifts into a talk.
And she listens, looking at the old man ,as today at the registrar’s she had listened to him, looking at him with bright, moist eyes.
He turned a page and read:
“Pindar and Corinna.”
Aroused from dreams, Vavřena began to read the story at the beginnnig of the Almanac.
“As the morning star on the East, and the zodiac on the West are shining, so were these two stars, Pindar and Corinna, once brilliantly luminous on the sky of Greece. Corinna was given birth by Tanagra, Pindar by Thebe.”
But already in this foreword of this sadly sweet, love-filled story, he was interrupted by Frýbort, who entered humming a gay tune.
“Have you read it, Vavřena?”
“Yes; I corrected it somewhat, and shortened some of it.”
“Good. And you do not notice? Do you see this beautiful bouquet?”
“Pretty.”
“Oh, a very dear present! Have a smell!”
“I want to read.”
“Zelenka, you look!”
“Beg your pardon, I am studying.”
“Then you, Špína, have a smell, and you will be healed of your moroseness. Look, how beautiful! It is from Márinka.”
Špína had already turned and raised himself, but immediately fell back into the featherbed and, turning his head away, growled something unintelligible.
“Oh, blasts on you, you drudges, you book worms!” and putting his flowers into a small vase and jumping on the trunk, he snatched the guitar from the wall.
Zelenka stopped his ears with both hands, and bent lower over his book. Full chords sounded, followed immediately by the strong, ​resonant baritone of Frýbort. He was sitting on the bed and singing:
“When I was taking home my Márinka — —”
Zelenka looked despairingly and imploringly at his singing comrade, and began to say his lesson half aloud.
But Frýbort paid no attention and, the guitar hung on his shoulder by the green ribbon, he kept on harping and singing of how he took his Márinka home.
CHAPTER III.
Early Sunday morning, while Špína still lay sleeping, and Zelenka diligently studied in bed, Vavřena and Frýbort were already seated at the little table. They were re-reading and again dis cussing the paper which the Hanák had com posed a little time ago, and which Vavřena had corrected. They were whispering softly, so that nothing of what they said could be understood. Besides, Zelenka was so fully occupied with his studies, that he did not pay the slightest atten tion to his colleagues and their mysterious dis cussion.
“It must be; they would laugh at us!” insisted Frýbort. “The physics are unanimously with us.”
A stream of golden light was pouring into the room, heralding a beautiful Sunday. The bells from the church began to peal as if in celebration of the day, and their serious, pleasing sound vibrated far through the clear, bright air. Shortly afteward the more piercing sound of the college bell resounded. Scarcely had it begun to ring, when Vavřena, completely dressed, took his hat and cane, to carry which was the privilege of all philosophers, and hurried away.
“What is the matter. .” inquired Miss Elis, when the remaining students came into her room for breakfast. “Mr. Vavřena went away so hurriedly that he did not even wait for breakfast.”
“Perhaps he went for a walk, to enjoy such a beautiful morning,” replied Frýbort.
After a little while they too departed.
It was about nine o’clock. In the large hall of the college, philosophers of both classes were assembled for the “exhortation.” There were more than three hundred of them. Hum and buzz of the many voices resounded through the spacious meeting place, here softer, there louder. They spoke both German and Bohemian. There was an unusual stir to-day, and almost every body discussed the same topic. Nobody knew who began it, who threw the spark among them, but the fire spread. After all, it was quite natural. April was nearing its end, and first day of May was coming. Formerly this day was celebrated in a most gay and hilarious manner.
The philosophers had from time immemorial celebrated that day according to certain customs and as somewhat of a privilege. It was called “majales”, the May festival, and was fervently awaited the whole year round not only by themselves, but also by the girls, and, in fact, by the whole town. But two years ago the bishop’s commissary in the name of the bishop of Hradec for bade this festival. This was the third year in which May first was to be spent without noise, music, and general gayety. It was this the sons of the Muses were now discussing.
Around Frýbort, who stood near the window opposite the door, assembled the largest crowd, and the debating was the warmest. The door opened, and Vavřena entered. Catching sight of Frýbort, he went directly toward him. In order to avoid pushing through the crowd, Vavřena ascended the platform, and went past the professorial cathedra. There he suddenly stopped; stooping, he picked, as if surprised, a paper which lay there, and began to read it silently.
“Look, Vavřena found something there!”
“What have you?” called out many voices.
“It is adressed to you.”
Many flocked around the cathedra.
“Let’s see! Let’s see!” they cried loudly.
“Read it!” demanded others.
“Silence!” commanded Frýbort. “Vavřena will read it.”
The philosophers became silent and Vavřena, standing behind the cathedra, began to read in a clear, resonant voice a proclamation to all the auditors of the philosophical school. An unidentified writer was reminding them of the ancient custom and privilege of the May festival. He painted it again in live colors, in order to bring its beauty to the memory of all; he called upon the honor and reputation of the student body, and at last challenged them, that they unanimously, unitedly, fearlessly, and solemnly celebrate the “majales” as formerly, renew the ancient privilege, and thus preserve the honor of the an cicnt “philosophy.”
Loud cries of approbation and agreement a rose. Scarcely had Vavřena descended from the cathedra, when the professor of theology, a tall, lank Piarist, entered the room. His countenance was serious and stern; his small, penetrating eyes immediately noted the unusual buzz and commotion.
Having seated himself, he took out of his notes a paper. Opening it, he anounced in his monotonous, shrill voice, that before he began the services, he would read to the gentlemen a communication from the bishop’s office.
A low murmur arose in the rear like the sound of an approaching storm. The professor began to read the paper, the gist of which was that the bishop again forbade any noisy celebration on the first of May.
Before the professor ended, the storm broke out. Growling, hissing, scraping the floor with the feet, discourteous and insurgent voices, blows of the philosophical canes upon the desks—all this filled the hall with an infernal din. The professor’s voice was lost in the clamor like a captain’s call to his rebel sailors during the tumult of a storm.
​He ceased talking. As soon as the uproar subsided, he resumed reading. Scarcely had be begun, when a new disturbance arose. Pale with anger he arose and, looking with fiery eyes at the rows of his discontended auditors, he attempted to speak. But when even now he could not obtain a hearing, he picked up his papers and, furious with humiliation, quickly left the room.
The hall, however, still shook wtih the roar of rebellious voices, and above the clamor resounded the angry shouts of “Majales! Majales!”
The philosophical mass, which was held at nine o’clock, was attended by many people. To-day, on this beautiful Sunday morning, an especially large congregation was gathered long before the services began. It was a pretty sight, this profusion of color in the benches of the women and girls, who most zealously attended the nine o’clock, the “philosophical” mass. The established hour was long past and the students had not come. The sexton stepped out from the sacristy several times and looked toward the main entrance, but “the philosophy” was not seen. He had lighted the candles on the main altar; they had burned for some time, when a low din was heard, and presently streams of students were pouring into the church both through the main entrance and the side doors.
Many a young woman raised her head, perhaps to see them all, perhaps to see a particular one. At other times she quickly and piously bent her head to the book again; but to-day all looked wonderingly at the streaming crowd.
Where was the usual order of procession? What had happened? They rushed in as a herd,—mixed, without formation; and in the disorder in which they came, they took their places or seats. And look! here and there they put their heads together and whispered, and significantly looked at each other! The customary peace was gone, and the unusual commotion could not quiet itself even in church.
The surprise, however increased when the professor of theology did not appear at the altar, as usual, but another priest from the brethren of the order took his place.
And after the mass, the philosophers did not disperse, but collected before the college, or went away in companies unusually large, vehemently debating something. The largest number was collected about Frýbort and Vavřena.
Mrs. Roubinek and her daughter talked excitedly about all this when they returned home. The registrar was just completing his toilet—he was preparing for the great mass, which he attended regularly—and listened with no sign of surprise or lively interest. He generally kept his pale, inexpressive face perfectly calm, as is proper for an official who woud inspire respect. No one ever saw that indifferent, almost waxen face moved.
While the wife and daughter confusedly related the incident, he stood before the mirror feeling his white, starched tie which was wound tighly around his neck, done up in an artistic knot; then he smoothed his hair, and combed it over the temples.
When Lotty portrayed how those philosophers streamed into the church, he turned calmly and dryly commanded:
“Lenka, Aaron!”
Lenka, who was diligently listening for both herself and her uncle, stepped to the cabinet, and brought out a dark-blue coat. He slowly and ceremoniously, as if he were signing some important document, put it on.
Mr. Roubinek was an extremely economical and orderly man. As his grace, the count, was accustomed to give names to his horses, so did the registrar deal with his coats and frocks, which he wore, not haphazard or in an arbitrary order, but according to a definite plan and according to the season.
To-day “Aaron” was in order. This coat derived its name from the fact that Mr. Roubinek bought the goods for it from the Jew, Aaron. Besides “Aaron”, Mr. Roubinek possessed also “Abraham,” a coal of ginger color, which he bought ready made and but slightly worn from the Jew, Abraham. Not only Israelitish, but also Christian names were represented in his wardrobe. When some holiday of the Virgin Mary arrived, he always put on neutral blue trousers, which in the family, and even outside the home, were known under the name of “Marian”. Everything had its time, everything Went like clockwork according to its definite and unchangeable order.
When he had “Aaron” on, he grasped his high shining hat, and went his way. Before he stepped out of the door, he kissed his wife coldly and solemnly. Then the serious official whose small, dry figure looked as if it were petrified with calmness, disappeared.
And now the tongues of the women were loosened.
“Just think, mamma, Mr. Vavřena did not even turn to us, did not even look at us!”
“He was like the rest of them. But may be he will come this afternoon, and then he must tell us everything! Aber alles.”
(To be continued.)
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.