# The Czechoslovak Review/Volume 3/A Tale of Young Blood of '48 (6)

Sixth 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.
(Continued.)
In the month of July, the bishop of Hradec himself came to be present at the examinations, especially those in theology.
Zelenka grew so thin from the hard study that he looked like a pole.
The evening before the examinations proper, Špína begged Miss Elis to prepare him some black coffee that he might study all night. At the time of examinations Miss Elis watched along with her students. That night, at about ten o’clock, Frýbort slammed his book. “What I know, I know, I won’t gulp the rest over night.”
He laid down and in a moment was asleep, blissfully and contentedly. After eleven, Vavřena closed his book, and shortly afterward slumber closed his tired lids. Meanwhile, Špína drank his black coffee to chase away all sleepiness. The textbook of theology lay before him; he read and smoked. A thick smoke rolled in great volumes over the low room like mist on the mountains, and through it peered the untiring, pale face of Zelenka, who, cramped over the papers at the other table, was studying—or digging, as Frýbort used to say—by the glimmer of an oil lamp.
Miss Elis sat in her room by the window, gazing into the still, warm night. She felt certain that her students would cause her no shame tomorrow. Of Zelenka and Vavřena she was sure, Frýbort’s head was like a silver bell, and Špína had studied very diligently lately. But the anxious old lady did not know that he was merely sitting before a book, and his thoughts wandered, God knows where. It was toward midnight, when she noiselessly opened the door of the next room. She heard the peaceful snore of the sleeping, she saw Zelenka, vigilant like a night owl, and there in the corner Špína was sitting before a book. The cup was empty, coffee gone—and listen—that is snoringl Horrors! He drinks the coffee—and sleeps!
“Poor fellow, he is tired out!” Miss Elis thought to herself. “He succumbed to the weariness caused by so much studying. Should I wake him? But it is late, and he is sleepy, tired.”
And again she shuffled noiselessly back, and went to bed.
Next morning when the philosophers were leaving for the examinations, she wished them all success, and reminded them to sprinkle themselves with the holy water and to cross themselves with the holy cross. The whole forenoon she was as if on needles, running every little while to the window and peering out. The landlady’s Márinka was in a similar plight, and came to Miss Elis’ kitchen “just for a skip” many times during the forenoon. They spoke of nothing but the students and their examinations.
Through the warmed noon air resounded the peals of a bell, announcing high noon; yet half and hour passed before the steps and voices were heard down the hallway. Miss Elis, throwing down a spoon, quickly went into the corridor.
Márinka’s joyful voice and Frýbort’s laughter were heard from down stairs. Oh, it came out all right! And already Mr. Zelenka was here. The pale, withered face was brightened, the lips were smiling:
“Omnia eminenter, Miss Elis!”
“You certainly deserve them. I greet you!”
And behind him was ascending Vavřena, more composed, but also gay; the last was Frýbort.
“Miss Elis,” Frýbort cried still on the steps, “have you enough oats and feed for the flock of geese that I bring you?”
“Thank you kindly; your father would hardly like to see you with that kind of fowls.”
“He will gladly see me, gladly. They are not all eminences, but it came out all right!”
“The Lord be praised! But where is Mr. Špína?”
Neither Vavřena nor Frýbort answered. In the meantime they stepped into the parlor.
“The poor fellow, he has misfortune in every thing!” Vavřena spoke sadly.
“And he studied so diligently! What will he do now?”
Miss Elis’ joy was spoiled. She expected with certainty that Špína, who applied himself to studies so persistently, would make a good showing.
They waited for him, but he did not come.
“He did not want to spoil our joy,” thought Vavřena; “and truly, I do not enjoy this day so much as if Špína rejoiced with us.”
That still, sultry afternoon, Špína was sitting in the castle park, deep in the thicket under a pine tree. Resting his head in his hands, he looked fixedly on the ground.
He was slowly recovering from the blow. He was considering now what he should do, which course he should choose. Long he sat thus, until finally with slow steps he left the park. He went faster through the town, without turning; he thought that all were looking after him, whispering deridingly. At home he found Miss Elis alone. She brought him the dinner, served him all she had, and sympathetically made no mention whatever of the examinations.
​Špína ate but little. Then turning to Miss Elis, he said:
“So you know already.”
“Yes, I know, and wonder at it. You were so diligent.”
“Well, it is done.”
“You will lose a year.”
“I will not repeat. Everything here is against me.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“I’ll go to the cloister,” he said darkly, but firmly.
“But you have a poor grade in theology.”
“They will take me at the Brethren of Mercy.”
“Heavens, Mr. Špína!”
But he had already made the decision. He explained to her that every slice of bread he ate he had to earn through bitter hardship. “Why should I torment myself?” he asked. “I do not expect or hope for anything, and if I remained here, it would come out the same way again, for I have no peace.”
He stopped. Miss Elis, coming near, said sympathetically: “I know your misfortune, I know — —”
The philosopher raised his head.
“You know? Well, now they will laugh at me the more!”
“But, Mr. Špína, what do you think of me?”
He said no more. Apparently he was calm, but behind his indifference there was suppressed a storm of feeling. He arose after a while and went to his room. Miss Elis, looking after the stooping figure in threadbare clothing, felt deep sympathy.
The unsuccessful philosopher stopped at the window of his room and meditatingly looked out on the public square. There was unusual activity. Students in large companies promenaded on the streets. All were in high spirits, and gesticulated vivaciously. He saw wagons pass, loaded with student trunks, and beside the wagons walked the fathers—citizens and countrymen clad in provincial dress. All these came for their sons, and were made happy by them; they were taking them home, where the young students will enjoy a happy, joyous vacation. But nobody will come for him; he has no home, neither father nor kind, loving mother, no one who will give him friendly and kindly greetings on his vacation.
His glance fell on the opposite side of the square; a country wagon with a strong, brown horse in the shafts stood there in front of a house. A trunk was already loaded on, and on top of it lay a bundle of featherbeds in a motley-colored, striped spread. At the horse’s head stood a young student, a collegian, who probably had not closed an eye all last night out of joy and anticipation. He stroked gently and with pleasure the nose of the beloved horse, which he propably had not seen for a long time, and which would soon take him to mother. The father was still paying the bills at the landlord’s; the son was filled with eager impatience.
This homely scene agitated Špína. Suddenly he saw before him his uncle’s old, white mare, which had taken him, when he was a little student, to his uncle and his parents. He remembered, too, how he greeted the mare and caressed her joyfully, remembered how his mother used to come out to meet him when he was approaching home, how his uncle, the priest, used to reward him for his good school certificate—all these plain, but to to him precious and joyful scenes flitted through his thought like beautiful dreams. Resting his head on the wall, he burst into tears.
There was great joy in Litomyšl that day, but also much sadness. Many philosophers would return again; perhaps many a philosopher, leaving the school, might never come back, or, at the University in noisy Prague might forget.
Lenka’s eyes were also filling with tears, but she bravely endeavored to smile. She was forbidden to speak with Vavřena; they threatened her with severe punishment. But what was a threat to her, what was punishment?
She came secretly at twilight to the forbidden spot in the park. She dared much. Alone, at the late hour—but should Vavřena leave without her speaking with him?
Every word—each trembling leaf—an expression of deep emotion which masters the heart, inspires the soul.
The rosy illumination which shined through the tree tops paled and darkness covered the park. Lenka was about to go. They went a few paces further, stopped again, until unrelenting time compelled them to part. Lenka extended her trembling hand to Vavřena; he pressed her to his heart, kissing her fresh lips. She was quiet in his arms and in the twilight he saw her pale face and closed eyes, fringed with long lashes. Suddenly she tore herself from his embrace and hurried away. Her light dress flitted among the bushes; then the gate leading to the manorial house creaked.
Lenka was gone. Vavřena still heard her gentle ardent “Do not forget!”, and still felt her burning kiss on his lips. He stood motionless on the spot, and looked in the direction in which she had disappeared. It grew dark. ***
The lights in Prence’s Inn were burning brightly and the pendant lamp illumined a very gay company. The philosophers who did not expect to leave until the next day, met here in a fraternal, friendly circle. There was no lack of fun among them of course; how could a student at the beginning of his vacation be sad? At times a merry song went round; then it was interrupted by laughing, noise, and jokes. But outbursts of laughter had no end when Frýbort in his witty way began to relate the incident which befell Mrs. Roller. It was a part of general knowledge ​to-day, but when Frýbort narrated it, they laughed again.
At to-day’s solemn mass, Mrs. Roller wedged her way up to the choir-loft, and there seated herself at the very railing, holding her knitting bag before her. As she was spying around keenly someone near her noticed that the bag was open and that in it a very strange object lay. At the same moment Mrs. Roller almost cried aloud in horror. She sprang up and tried to catch the bag, which had slipped over the railing; but she missed it. Leaning over, she saw how the people were looking up at her, and, here astounded, there laughing, were catching the playing cards, which fluttered from her bag like large snow-flakes upon the congregation below.
There was laughter and fun all through Litomyšl over this incident, but the philosophers, assembled at Prence’s Inn, were especially pleased. It was late already, but the gayety, noise, and singing did not abate.
The whole town was slumbering in the embrace of a tepid, July night. The few people who had lingered on the benches in front of the houses, disappeared toward midnight; even the sounds of a guitar which were issuing from an open windov late in the night, ceased. Silence reigned everywhere.
In the baywindow of her parent’s old fashioned house, Márinka sat at the open window. She could not sleep. She gazed into the public square; she saw on the opposite side the city hall tower, behind which was the dark blue, star-studded vault of the sky. Miss Elis told her that he went out in the evening. Would he return?—And how would the vacation pass? Sad, long, long time!
Presently a chorus of pleasant men’s voices resounded without. Márinka sprang up, then bounced aside, attentively listening. She recognized one—Frýbort’s resonant voice! A serenade! and to her! What beautiful singing, how pleasant it sounded in the stillness of the night! She caught a glimpse of the singers, the colleagues of Frýbort, whom she recognized even in the darkness. She heard windows in the neighborhood being opened, and saw people peering out into the darkness; she stepped aside again. In her honor!
The singing ceased, the steps of the dispersing singers resounded on the pavement, died away, then a key creaked in the house door. She heard steps on the hall way; now they stopped at the door of her room. She trembled, hesitated, then stepped nearer.
“Márinka, good night! Good night!” a sincere voice spoke outside.
Oh, how gladly would she have thanked him, and told him what joy he had caused her! But she dared not. She merely whispered:
“Good night!” ***
The exodus of students was general. On all highways leading from Litomyšl, numerous wagons, freighted with various articles of furniture, were seen, headed toward different parts of Bohemia and Moravia. Zelenka left in the forenoon; Vavřena followed soon afterward and in the afternoon Frýbort was taking his leave. His father, an honest, worthy Hanák, thanked Miss Elis sincerely that she watched over his son so carefully, and delivered the regards of the mother who sent many a token of her esteem to the kitchen. The gay philosopher was taking his leave from everybody jocosely, but when he pressed the hand of Márinka, now sad and of few words, all his gayety departed.
“But a little while and we shall see each other again! Good bye!” he said heartily.
All gradually left, and Litomyšl became quiet. She became for a lime poorer by some few hundred young, fiery people. Even in the house it was quiet, sad.
“It is just as though w» had had a funeral,” Miss Elis complained to the landlady.
“True, it is sad here without them, isn’t it Márinka?”
The daughter blushed.
“I feel as if my sons had left. Believe me, forty seven philosophers have lived in my rooms, but these I like the best;” and she thought mostly of Vavřena and Frýbort.
“And what of Mr. Špína?” asked the landlady.
“He will go to-morrow, the poor fellow,—to a cloister!”
Špína was wandering about all afternoon. Late in the day he was seen in the castle park, sitting under the trees, lost in meditation. From thence he went home, and asked Miss Elis not to let him oversleep, that he might leave early in the morning.
“And won’t you say ‘good bye” to anybody?”
“To whom—?”
“To the landlady?”
“I can find her in the store. I’ll not go to the home.”
Miss Elis understood.
“Then you will not see Márinka?” she added gently.
“No—I do not wish to—,” the philosopher stammered. “But tell her—please”—and Špína’s voice choked and his face grew dark red—“tell her that I wish her all happiness—that she may always be happy—.” He became silent, and spoke of her no more.
That night he slept but little. The last moments of a sorrowful, hard, but still a free life! What awaited him? Joy and happiness nowhere, of that, in the bitterness of his mind, he was convinced.
In the morning, Miss Elis packed into his scanty bag a supply of food.
He did not think it would be so hard for him to leave. In that moment he realized how solicitous, kind and good that boarding lady of his ​was that he would never find such a soul again. His voice shook as he thanked her for all she had done.
Miss Elis shed not a few tears, and requested him to remember her sometime with a letter. When he stepped out of the room, he stopped as if thunderstruck. It was early in the morning, yet Márinka already dressed, fresh as a rose, stood in the hallway near the stairs, as if she were waiting for him. He stepped to her, but could not speak. His throat contracted, but his eyes spoke. Then he heard her pleasant voice, which so often had sent a tremor through his heart
“You would not even give me ‘good bye’, Mr. Špína. Live in happiness, and remember us!”
He felt as if the dark hall way brightened. On his lips there appeared a smile. He said something confused, from which only ‘Be happy! Good bye!’ was intelligible.
This surprising meeting, the last joy and the last sorrow, was arranged by Miss Elis. He did not recover from the surprise until he was out of the city. His bag in his left hand, a stick in his right, he walked the highway toward Vysoké Mýto. There, where the ridge rose to the highest point, he stopped by an old poplar tree beside the highway. Te philosopher gazed for the last time on the country and city, where he had spent his youth. It was a bright, August morning. Oh, how beautiful and pleasant it was here! The dale of Nedošín, the meadows, the grove—everyhing so vigorous and fresh! From the green foliage, the city houses stood out as if in a garden. There the beautiful castle in the park, nearby that unfortunate college, down there the city hall tower, and facing it the old fashioned house with a bay window, and there. . .
He gazed at all this for the last time, and was taking his leave from these loved spots for ever; at the same time he was bidding good bye to his youth, and his liberty.
Oh, ye student years! Times of joy and cares, times of intense study, of fear and dread of examinations, times of earning one’s livelihood by giving tiresome lessons and by incessant teaching, of fresh mind, strong powers; times of privation, even hunger, and still rich in rosy dreams full of hopes and plans; days of liberty, friendship, first verses, and the first love! Oh, who would gladly part with you, who would not remember you fondly in the oppression and coldness of the serious battle of life, full of adversity and disappointment!
CHAPTER IX.
Miss Elis, the benefactress of the young lovers, had her rooms converted into a branch of the post office.
The letter carrier almost always brought her at least one letter when the post chaise arrived; but she hardly ever opened the envelope. She examined it carefully, and seeing this or that sign, hid it in her prayer-book in the dresser. Usually, as soon as the letter carrier left, Márinka immediately rushed into the room, and eagerly inquired:
“Something for me?”
How her face brightened when Miss Elis smilingly replied:
“This one is from Moravia.”
Sometimes, by chance, two letters came, and then Miss Elis decided:
“This one is yours; that one belongs to the castle chapel.”
Márinka delivered it to Lenka whom she met there every Sunday.
“Well, what does he write?” Miss Elis would ask when the young maiden had glanced over the letter.
“Many regards and thanks to you, and that he consoles himself with the hopes of an early return.”
“I believe it, I believe it; and you also, Miss Márinka, isn’t it so?”
Frýbort wrote only twice, directly to Miss Elis. Vavřena a few times more. But Zelenka did not write at all, and Špína also did not send a single word.
“What could the poor fellow write about, but of misfortune,” said Miss Elis, when Márinka once mentioned him.
Thus day after day the vacation was passing; for the students at home quickly, by leaps; for the girls at Litomyšl it dragged slowly.
Since the celebration of the “majales”, Lenka’s position became still more galling. Lottynka acted as if she were not her relative, her aunt became still more severe, and her uncle, who in household matters was ruled by his wife, gave the orphan no protection. Lenka worked, cared for the whole household, and yet she could not satisfy them. Even the neighbors noticed it at last, and rumors went around how ill the registrar’s family was treating the industrious young girl. They blamed Mrs. Roubínek severely that she kept her niece always at home like a Cinderella, did not take her out anywhere, and begrudged her all amusement.
But in that respect they were mistaken. Lenka felt freer when she was alone. Then she could read her Bohemian books and Vavřena’s letters, then she could freely indulge her dreams and hopes.
Since the vacation began, her lot was improved in that she was permitted to go out oftener. Sunday mornings she was in the habit of attending the castle chapel; sometimes in the afternoons she went to the park and at other times to the cemetery, to visit the graves of her parents. Her only and best companion was Márinka, who, besides letters, sometimes brought her an invitation to visit Miss Elis. The third Sunday of vacation she met her elderly friend at the cemetery, from whence she accompanied ​her to her home which she had long wished to visit.
It was a most pleasant afternoon in the light parlor, where everything was daintily arranged and shining so brightly.
The maiden stood in the middle of the room, looking at the picture of the young priest—her uncle. Both Lenka and Miss Elis gazed with emotion on that old portraiture of a face so loved and dear. Then Miss Elis led her guest to the student room and showed her where Vavřena lived, where he had his table, and where he had studied. Now it was empty and quiet.
One week succeeded another, letters came and went; Lenka visited Miss Elis and Márinka a few times more. When Mrs. Roubínek finally learned of it, and scolding forbade these visits, it was too late; for the autumn had come.
As the fruit ripened, the grass paled, the flowers withered, and the birds were preparing for their long journey, the long desired guests flocked in. From all parts of Bohemia and Moravia the wagons again arrived, piled high with student trunks and many colored featherbeds, and a new, busy life again arose in the town. The students and philosophers were back.
Everything went as formerly. Miss Elis and Márinka had no little joy, when Frýbort, and soon after him Vavřena, came. Zelenka also took his quarters with Miss Elis again, and immediately resumed his diligent studies. He gave lessons as before, lived frugally, and often ate for supper a small slice of dry bread and fruit porridge. Of Špína even the birds did not chirp.
Brož again taught the registrar’s Fritz and anew took upon himself the office of a postilion d’amour, for, since the philosophers had arrived, Mrs. Roubínek guarded Lenka with greater vigilance. There was no other means left to the lovers, than to tell each other in writing what they were denied to express orally.
Frýbort was happy. He was near his Márinka, saw her and spoke with her daily, and above that, not even the landlady made any remonstrances against his suit.
The fall passed, the ground hardened, and from the clouded, gray sky the first snow fell. Frýbort had now almost as many cares as in spring, before the celebration of the “majales”.
Already before Christmas people were talking and looking with joyful expectation forward to the philosophical ball, which was considered the most famous in town. Thus even this year there was much impatient expectation and the members of the committees, among whom Frýbort was the first and the cleverest, endeavored to make the event excel all others in pomp and splendor, as if they had a presentiment that this would be the last affair of the ancient philosophy.
Lottynka Roubínek was getting ready, preparing early and carefully. “You must be the queen, keine andere!” “Nobody else.” Mrs. Roubínek would say when they worked on the dress. Lenka, of course, had to do the greater part.
She had to work on the dress diligently, without being able to console herself with the thought that she also would see the ball, for which Lottynka was so impatient. She did not have the slightest hope of being permitted to attend. She did not care to go, she told herself, but how could she remain calm? To be near Vavřena for a few hours, to speak with him! Then a miracle happened! A week before the ball, her aunt informed her that if she wished to go, she should make ready. Mrs. Roubínek did not do this on the word of her husband, but rather because she heard from many quarters that the rumor of her being severe, even cruel, was being circulated through the town.
Of course, Lenka did not have a dress of such an expensive material as Lotty, but her skillful hand could make much out of little, and what she lacked in jewelry was supplied by her young, expressive face, lustrous eye, rich hair, and good figure.
The evening of the long expected day came. It was freezing cold outside, the stars sparkled. The registrar Roubínek, scrupulously clean, correctly dressed, paced the parlor, waiting for the women who were still dressing.
He wore the coat “Klapálek” this evening, a black frock which fitted him the best; it bore the name of its maker. A clear sound of bells jingled outside, and a sleigh stopped in front of the house. The registrar stepped to the door of the ladies’ room and knocked.
“Make haste, the sleigh is here already!”
“Aber, Roubínek, they did not shoot yet.”
Just then the mighty boom of a mortar gun was heard, immediately followed by another shot. The ball was formally opened. Lotty who had just completed her toilet stood before the mirror and viewed herself from all angles. The mother looked with delight and admiration on the handsome girl in the rich, stylish dress.
“Nein, you must be the queen, Lotty! Wenn eine Dame schoen sein soll, muss sie schoen gewachsen sein, (In order that a lady be beautiful, she must be well grown), and you are, Lotty!” Again she looked, again inspected.—“Wenn eine Dame schoen sein soll, muss sie dunkle Augen haben (In order that a lady be beatiful, she must have dark eyes), and you have them! That ribbon yet, Lotty, so—Wenn eine Dame schoen sein soll—muss sie dunkles Haar haben, (In order that a lady be beautiful, she must have dark hair), and you have it. Aber, Roubínek!” she cried peevishly, when the impatient husband again knocked on the door.—“Wie ich sage, you must be the queen.”
Through the clear, winter evening the mortar shots boomed in honor of the philosophical ball.
​“So be careful that you don’t muss your dress. Are you ready Leny?” she suddenly asked her niece.
“Yes, I am ready.”
Beside the mirror stood Lenka, neither humiliated nor covetous, but calm, although, when she looked on the gorgeous toilet of her cousin, an oppressive fear awoke in her the question, whether in her plainer dress she could please Vavřena. She judged herself too severely, not knowing how well everything fitted her, how beautiful she was, like a blooming lily of the valley.
At last the door of the dressing room was opened, and the cold eyes of Mr. Roubínek blinked with surprise when he saw Lotty in all her splendor. When the people of the house had feasted their eyes sufficiently on the splendor, the family settled itself in the sleigh and sped away toward the elevation to the nearby Karlov which was illuminated by innumerable lights. On the bridge, leading to the hall, the city chimney sweeps in full parade uniform were lined up, with lighted torches in their hands; further on Kmoníček, also dressed for the occasion, stood guard. Before the bridge crowded a host of spectators who came for the sights and who judged the passersby. Of the incoming crowds there was no end. Young girls in light ball dresses streamed by incessantly. The torch lights flared in the cold wind, the shots boomed, and the dancers, with their fathers and mothers, were increasing by streams; all were headed toward the entrance of the hall, wherein a band had just started to play.
(To be continued).
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