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

Third 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.)
The peal of the large bell had already ceased; the noon had passed.
Exactly at half past twelve, as usual, Roubinek’s had finished their dinner. Fritz was out somewhere in the garden. Having put things in order with the help of the servant girl, Lenka seated herself in the front room. She enjoyed her Sunday afternoons. While the uncle, the aunt, and Lotty sat in the rear parlor, she could freely do as she liked in the front room. At such times she drew out of her trunk a book, inherited from her uncle, and seating herself at the window, or in summer time, in the garden, she buried herself in reading, completely and whole-heartedly. Often she fell into meditation, and abandoned herself to revery and pleasant thoughts of the past. Then it was that she felt easiest. In the meanwhile uncle Roubinek, doffing “Aaron”, reposed in the soft armchair at the table. Lotty brought her father his long gypsum pipe already filled, also fire, and the father began to puff contentedly. He never smoked except on Sunday afternoon after dinner and after supper. Then, when the tobacco in the white pipe-head was transformed into bluish-gray smoke, he solemnly cleaned out the ashes. After that he usually wrote a letter. He devoted no other days to this work. While Lotty went to see some friend, and the mother blissfully slumbered at the table, the registrar was composing a letter. He thought everything out carefully before he put it on the paper; on the other hand, he never had occasion to correct anything, and his sentences were so arranged and rounded out that it was a joy to listen to them. Of course it lasted sometimes several weeks before the letter was completed. But there was no hurry, for the correspondence of Mr. Roubinek’s was not very extensive. When he had finished something, he woke his wife and read to her his solemn sentences, which resembled ponderous, mail-clad knights in their array.
Thus it was every Sunday.
A little later the recorder would come, either alone or with his wife, and then the “entertainment” began.
On the wall opposite Roubinek’s armchair hung an old picture in a dark, carved frame. This picture was considered by its owner to be the greatest rarity in the whole town; in fact once, when he became unusually enthusiastic, he exclaimed with animation: “Let somebody find one like it I In the whole kingdom of Bohemia he could not find its like!”
And it was no wonder. In that picture was portrayed the cruel king Herod, who had unmercifully ordered the massacre of the babes of Bethlehem. Only his head was depicted, but so ingeniously was it done that the whole bloody deed could be read therefrom. Of course, the observer had to come close to the picture; then he could see that the whole head was cunningly composed of the bodies of children, so that the white children served for the forehead and the face, and the black children composed his beard and hair. Evidently, there were very many negroes in Bethlehem at that time.
Of this creation the registrar was inordinately proud, and there was no price for which he would sell it.
When he was smoking in the easy chair, his eyes were riveted on the picture, and he continued to lok at it even when he talked with his wife. Moreover, when the recorder, or someone else came, Mr. Roubínek did not look him in the eye, but kept his glance bent on the cruel king Herod.
Mr. Roubinek was, for his office, a very wealthy man. This wealth was not brought him by his wife, whom he married from mere inclination, or more probably, from a sober reasoning concerning her good qualities, especially her economical talent. It would be a mistake to suppose that Mr. Roubínek was ardent or passionate in his youth. He had not changed at all. His contemporaries asserted that he looked exactly the same now as years ago. Be that as it may, it is certain that he inherited his wealth from his old uncle, a colonel, who amassed the riches during the Napoleonic wars.
Thus this afternoon, in which Mrs. Roubínek neglected her quiet nap because of uncertainty and curiosity, her husband wrote quite calmly a letter to his colleague and friend, a registrar in the castle and estate of Richtemberg. It goes without saying that he wrote in German, not because he despised his mother tongue, but because of custom, and because he could express himself more pithily and clearly in German. For the registrar was no enemy of his nationality, although he was no friend of it, either. In a word, he was a true official, devoted entirely to his gracious Lordship; he observed the old, customary ways and order, and hated all innovations heartily. Nevertheless, from some of his sayings it was possible to surmise that he rose to many reformatory historical views, which radically differed from the current, accepted ideas. Thus he did not consider Žižka to have been a robber and a cruel murderer, as man still thought. He used to say: “Žižka and Emperor Joseph were the best Czechs!” And when ​the recorder nodded his head in assent, he would add: “And that church of ours was given us by them for a memorial!” In history he referred to nothing else, so that it appeared as if he knew no other, or did not want to know other historical characters. Žižka and Emperor Joseph, and, above them king Herod, were his favorites, although he never discussed them any more extensively than this.
Thus to-day he had written the salutation and was finishing the first sentence, when Lotty rushed into the room and stopped by her mother. Not waiting for her request, she began to relate in her own manner and language what she had learned at her friend’s. The city was full of reports, imaginings and various comments. It was no secret that the philosophers had made such a demonstration in the college that morning that the professor had not even begun the exhortation, and was compelled to leave the room.
The married women and girls, and a greater part of the citizens, were on the side of the students; only the official class and the older folk shook their heads gravely. They were of the opinion that it was a rude insult, and that it was impossible to approve of such a conduct.
“Oh, that will result in many an examination and punishment!” gravely judged Mrs. Roubínek.
“Mr. Vavřena, most likely, is in it also,” sighed Lotty.
“But why do they begrudge them such an innocent joy!”
“Oh, it is certain that the “majales” will not be held again. And I loked forward to them with so much expectation!” sighed the young maiden, and her pretty eyes sorrowfully turned and looked at the new spring dress, which, completely finished and intended purposely for the “majales”, was spread out on the bed in the corner.
In the meantime, Lenka in the front room was interrupted in her reading. When the door opened, she shut her book, and as before, was pleasantly surprised.
Vavřena, mutely greeting, stepped to her and said in a low voice:
“Are they in there?” and pointed to the rear parlor. “All?”
Then opening his coat, he quickly drew a small book out of his breast pocket and handed it to Lenka.
“Something serious. On the first of May I shall bring you something more pleasant and entertaining.” With that he smiled at her.
Lenka loked at the title.
“Do you want to be a philosopher?” Vavřena asked in a whisper.
The young woman blushed.
“Only with your help.”
He hastily pressed her hand; then knocking, he entered the second room. Lenka was blissfully excited. It is true she heard the soft, joyous exclamation of Lotty, which at other times would have vexed her, but to-day? She still looked at the title of the book:
A BRIDGE,
or an arrangement of modest thoughts about those matters which ought to be important to everybody.
From youth and for youth
published
M. F. Klácel.
While Lenka slowly turned leaf after leaf and unwittingly became absorbed in deep reverie, Vavřena was under a cross-fire. Mother and daughter, pell-mell, asked the instructor how that fateful affair occurred in the morning.
The philosopher answered as well as he could and dared, and a smile played on his lips when Lotty, sorrowfully bending her head, with coquettish sympathy expressed her fears whether Mr. Vavřena would not also be strictly disciplined.
“Each for all and all for each.”
“One for all and all for one.”
“And ‘majales’—?”
“Will not be—,” rejoined the mother and the instructor was silent. Thereby he confirmed to Lotty the sad truth. Then something unusual occurred.
The registrar, sitting at the other side of the room and deep in thought, was constructing a new sentence. He had paid no attention to what was going on near him. Suddenly he put the quill-pen down and fixing his cold eyes on king Herod, inquired in his dry, monotonous voice:
“Mr. Vavřena, what is this. . What unheard of innovations are being introduced into that Bohemian?”
“How can I serve you, Mr. Roubínek?”
“I went to mass this morning, and met a student; he quite politely and properly, it is true, took off his hat, and saluted me. But how did he salute me?! ‘I wish you a good morning!’—What is that?”
“Quite correct, Mr. Roubínek. “I wuensch’, as is commonly used, is German, and ‘good’orning’ is not grammatical.”
The rigid look slid from the picture to the daring philosopher. Instantly, however, Mr. Roubínek fixed his eyes on king Herod again, as he spoke to Vavřena:
“It was spoken thus from ancient times, and it was well. Old and highly situated men used it, and they understood it somewhat, too. We also know what grammar is; Žižka and Emperor Joseph were the best Czechs—,” and he stopped. That spoke. The instructor did not answer.
Mrs. Roubínek tried to begin a new topic of conversation. Vavřena laughed inwardly and added: “And that church of ours is from them ​for a memorial—.” Then he went out to look for Fritz.
The registrar bent his head to the quill pen, but for a long time could not somehow resume writing.
Lotty, sadly disappointed, was putting away her blue dress into the broad, ancient cabinet with inlaid sides.
Unexpectedly, the father raised his head, and remarked aloud, without looking at anybody in particular:
“Also such an innovator and a rebel!”
Evidently he had forgotten the sentence under construction, and was still thinking of the family instructor.
CHAPTER IV.
The Sunday occurrence in the philosophical college was something very sensational for the town, something which had not been heard of for a long time. People talked freely about it and discussed what would happen to the rebellious students. They expected that the very next morning there would be a thorough investigation, and some even feared that a few of the philosophers would get their consilium abeundi (advise to leave).
But, contrary to all expectations, the affair seemed to have fallen into oblivion. The professor of theology did not appear in the college the next day; otherwise nothing happened.
“Even though they forgive them everything, the celebration of ‘majales’ will not be permitted”, was the common thought. “It is too bad!”
More than anyone else, Miss Elis was disturbed. She was thoroughly frightened when she heard of the disturbance, and reprovingly and anxiously looked at her students, for whom she cared like a mother. She also feared for the reputation of her establishment. She was quite proud of the fact that already forty-seven auditors of philosophy had lived in her rooms, and they were among the foremost, and enjoyed the best of reputation. Many of them had obtained excellent positions, many were priests, occasionally they would visit her or write to her. And now her students would be punished, and that for an overt act of rebellion?!
Monday morning, when all were gone and only Vavřena remained, she said to him:
“Mr. Vavřena, I did not sleep a wink all night. Is it true what Mr. Řezníček told me?”
“What was it?”
“That you, Mr. Vavřena, and Mr. Frýbort instigated the whole affair.”
“Oh, Miss Elis, do not fear. Mere gossip—.”
“Well. I did think that she said it for envy of my reputation. I said immediately: the others might, but, not Mr. Vavřena! With Mr. Frýbort it is always to hallelujah, but this — —!”
“There is much talk going on, but little truth in it.”
“Forty seven philosophers—,” and she already was starting to expatiate on the virtues of the students, who had boarded with her; but Vavřena, who was in a hurry, took his hat and went out. ***
Miss Elis’ house was quiet, albeit much was secretly taking place there. Zelenka lived as usual; nothing disturbed him. He was in the rear during the storm in the college, made no noise, and his conscience was clear; he was displeased only with the possibility of being questioned together with the rest. He taught as usual, studied at home as usual, and ate his alloted slices of bread and fruit porridge.
Špina’s sky was still dark and about his head circled almost incessantly thick clouds of smoke which he whiffed out of his long pipe. He had a new job. Having taken out from the wardrobe a long black frock coat, an inheritance from his deceased uncle, who used to wear the garment during his student days, Špína examined it thoughtfully. Then he turned it inside out, took it to the corridor, and almost daily beat it with a rod and brushed it. Besides his philosophical studies, he busied himself now with the honest trade of a tailor.
“A bad student who does not use up at least a penny’s worth of thread every Sunday!” his uncle, the priest used to say, when Špína was spending his vacation with him. Now he was assidously fulfilling the injunction of the deceased, trying his hand at sewing and repairing the coat. In spite of all his efforts, however, he could not restore the original lustre. Why did he exert himself, why did this young philosopher now care so much for appearances? Up to this time it seemed that he inclined to the Cynic school! This secret he nursed deeply in his heart, but Miss Elis was guessing.
Several students, among them Vavřena and Frýbort, were called to the rector, where they were questioned in regard to the outbreak. For the rector asserted that the professor of theology would not return, until a proper and complete reparation was made.
But before the affair was finally adjusted and settled, the last of the month came.
Late in the afternoon, Vavřena was leaving the registrar’s. From the door of the second parlor Mrs. Roubínek called after him: “Mr. Vavřena!”
He returned.
“I had almost forgotten. Whenever my husband is present, please, speak preferably German, or at least as usual, not “hochbömisch” (high Bohemian). He does not like to hear those new words. Er kann es nicht ausstehen. (He cannot stand that.) He thinks it is all for spite—those innovations.”
Vavřena turned red from his neck to his forehead, but only smiled, made a deep bow, and ​left without saying a word. He couldn’t; if he had, it would have been something caustic.
All his anger passed away, however, when he met Lenka in the hall way. Her face was flushed, and she brightened up still more when she saw him.
“Miss Lenka, I must tell you something,” he said. Then looking around carefully, he bent over the girl and whispered something in her ear. When she raised her head, he was gone, and only the echo of his hasty, retreating steps on the stairs and on the hall way was heard.
She stood still for a moment, looking after him as if she expected an explanation; the sound of steps, however, ceased. Awakening, she stepped quickly into the parlor as when a sprightly roe springs joyfully and disappears in the deep foliage.
And indeed she felt like skipping and shouting. ***
As long as Špína’s uncle lived, it was well with the student. But his benefactor died, and the student, who had neither parents, nor friends, nor wealth, was compelled to gain his livelihood by giving lessons. He had just returned from one of these lessons, and immediately reached for his pipe, that he might have a little smoke along with his work. Just then he stopped suddently at the partly open door, as if glued to the spot. He felt that for a moment he could not breathe, and his knees shook. He could not, even for a ducat, say a single word that moment, His eyes were intently looking through the opening into Miss Elis’ room, from whence the clear, ringing voice, which so greatly frightened the philosopher, had come.
He saw Miss Márinka there, the daughter of the landlady, a girl of well-rounded, smiling countenance, and as fresh as a dewy blossom. She was dressed “just plain”, for at home: white apron, short skirt and low slippers were charmingly becoming her.
“I came just for a word. The philosophers are not at home—.”
“They’re giving lessons,” rejoined Miss Elis, not knowing that Špína had returned.
“I could not stand it any longer; I thought that you, Miss Elis, probably know the best—.”
“What is it, Miss Márinka?”
“It is rumored that we shall have ‘majales’—oh, would not that be a joy!”
The watching philosopher saw how the young girl clapped her hands like a pleased child and how her eyes sparkled. How pretty she was, how charming!
All he had to do now was to step out, and the chance for which he longed, offered itself to him. He could answer her question, and thus ingratiate himself; but, as usual, he could not overcome his timidity. He longed, from the bottom of his heart he longed to speak to her, but how should he begin? She was gay and roguish, and he was afraid that somehow she might playfully taunt him. How many times already had he stopped, and even opened his mouth to begin a conversation with her, but always checked himself. Now he could begin splendidly. She asked a question; he would step out and answer.—His heart beat furiously. God! Could he speak to her face to face? Could he look into those shining, roguish eyes?—But it must be done sometime—only a little while longer—until Miss Elis replies.
“Oh, my dear Miss Márinka, those philosophers have perpetrated such rebellion that nothing will come of it probably.”
Špína breathed heavily, and was about to seize the door-knob in order to step out, when suddenly the door of the other parlor flew open, and in rushed Frýbort, that bold, insolent Frýbort.—It was all over! Špína’s hand fell. He could not take his stand beside that wag! He had no courage for that; he know he would get the worst of it. Bitterness and jealousy infected his heart. He was still watching, and had no witness how startled Miss Márinka was, and how she blushed with surprise.
“It is lucky that you came, Mr. Frýbort,” Miss Elis greeted him, and repeated Miss Márinka’s question.
“The glorious ‘majales’ are not permitted, but since you wish them, I will make them for you, and they shall be just as noisy and jolly as in the former years.”
“We shall see how almighty you are!”
“Let us bet. What will you bet?”
“If you lose, I shall give you a bouquet of nettles.”
“And if I win, a bouquet of violets like those — —,” and he stopped with a meaning look.
“Very well, a bouquet,” Márinka quickly interrupted, and looked shyly at Miss Elis. The remembrance of that kiss which Frybort had stolen from her on the stairs awoke a crimson shadow of that blush which then flushed her smooth face.
Špína felt as if he were in a bush of briars. That Hanák could turn everything to his advantage—what will he not think of! The jealous philosopher was now pleased that Márinka presently took her leave and slipped out of the room; her mother was calling her home.
When, soon afterward, Frýbort entered his room, he ran into Špína, who was rushing out somewhere.
“Where in such a hurry?”
But an unintelligible growl was the only answer. ***
The evening before the holiday of Saints Philip and James came. It was a very pleasant evening, although without the light of the heavenly luminaries. In place of those, however, innumerable bon-fires flared up on the heights of Polička by the woods of Strakov. The whole country, which was wrapping itself in its dusky, my​sterious apparel, was illuminated. Young people and old came out of the city to enjoy the night and to witness the “burning of the witches”. The largest crowd was assembled on the ridge by the statue of St. Prokop, over which the young leaves of the old, wide-spread basswood tree were gently murmuring.
A large bon-fire was burning nearby, and around it some high-spirited young fellows were prancing, shouting, and throwing into the air the burning brooms. Every now and then a roar burst out, accompanying the highest thrown and the most luminous of these homely torches.
Vavřena stood aside, with his face turned from the fire. He did not join his friends, of whom there was a whole crowd here. He sought solitude. He gazed toward the woods of Nedošín which, wide-spread and mysterious, were rising out of the evening dusk. A white manor house on the hill stood out from the background of the black woods like a silent, abandoned castle. Whenever the long shadow of the sable woods permitted a glimpse into the vale below, one could see the broad bright surface of the Košíř River glimmering there. Behind the woods and all around, the bon-fires and lights were blazing.
The evening, the lights, the fires, the cries—everything recalled home to Vavřena. Unwittingly he wandered in revery into his boyhood years, when he also was preparing wooden sheds on the hills and then set fire to them, jumped over the fire, and shouted in high glee. A motley crowd of memories swept through his mind like a cluster of flying sparks.
“I don’t know what they see in it!” a voice nearby exclaimed.
“Ach, das gemeine Volk!” (Oh, these common people!)
He recognized the voice of Mrs. Roubínek, and the rejoinder as Miss Lottynka’s. He did not turn in order to avoid recognition, and started to go away; without any definite choice, he took the path between the fields. The ladies passed, the noise and shouting diminished to faint and occasional sounds.
Vavřena gave himself to revery. A cool, pleasant breeze was moving the young wheat. The dewy grass was like velvet. But now, under this quiet, evening sky he no longer thought of home. It occurred to him what a joy it would be if Lenka had come to the fires.
He felt a poetic impulse. He imagined that gentle maiden beside him; he spoke to her, communicated to her his innermost thoughts. She was answering him—yes, surely thus would she speak.
Suddenly he ran into somebody who approched him also with a bent head.
“Oh, Špína!—Is it you? What are you—”
His friend caught him impulsively by the hand, and for a while looked into Vavřena’s face. He seemed strangely moved, agitated.
“Comrade!” he ejaculated. “Comrade, I must tell you—! But no—no!”
And before Vavřena realized what happened, Špína was gone.
Turning around, he saw him taking big strides toward the town.
CHAPTER V.
The crowd dispersed, the noise subsided, and the fires died out. Darkness again spread over all. Here and there a few fires shone like bloody stars. But as the still, warm night covered all with its dark, ethereal mantle, glow after glow went out, until not a single spark remained on the whole wide plain. Cries, singing, and shouting ceased and the mysterious silence of the first May night reigned.
A charming, awe-inspiring moment. You can not penetrate it, you can not search it out, but you feel it; and when everything revives, awakes, buds out and fertilizes, your heart softens, and dreams unfold like blossoms in your mind. Then you understand the pure life of the shooting plant, you understand the flattering murmur of the bubbling creek in the shadows of the revivified alders; then you know why the youthful beech forest on the slope is trembling and why the blackthorn is wrapped in its white blossoms.
Sweet dreams are going through the grove: in the dark heavens above the bright constellations shine. The dreams pass on to the trees in the gardens and into still rooms and chambers. As the dew silently falls on all things growing, new life and flowers awake.
Thus the night is passing, till beyond the dusky woods a light band appears, the messenger of a young May day. Companies of enchanting fairies anl wild spirits disappear from the lowlands and the soft meadows and fly deep into the frowning depths of the forest.
On the clear sky a radiant, trembling band of golden light appeared ; dreams sped away and the day and life awoke.
Dreams also departed on their rosy wings from the chamber of Lenka.
The young girl awoke and gazed before her, still under the spell of enchanting memories. But in an instant her eyes rested in the trees in front of the window, and immediately she jumped up, as when a quail flies out of her nest in the early morning. Every top, every branch was one mass of white blossoms! She opened the window hastily, and gazed enraptured on the miracle. The sun had not yet risen, but it already was bright day. A fresh stream of air fanned the young maiden in the white robe, until her cheeks flowered out in crimson blossoms.
But hearken! Stray notes of music were wafted on the breeze from the public square; it was the customary celebration of the brilliant, first day of the beautiful month of the “budding thorn”. Rosy, fragrant May.
​A slight tremor of happiness ran through Lenka as she heard the muffled notes of music. She remembered that it was not a dream, but a truth, a reality, and that Vavřena had actually whispered something to her in the hall way yesterday.
The music grew in volume, came nearer, until it thundered by the castle. In the meantime the sun rose and its golden light spread through the room.
At that time the registrar Roubínek, still in his night cap, was putting on the “oberst”, a many-colored, flower-patterned morning gown, inherited from his military uncle. He had just stepped to the window when the band, dressed in the uniform of the city sharpshooters, stopped before the manorial house to serenade. Behind him appeared Miss Lotty in snow-white negligee, while Lenka, completely dressed, lively and gay as a swallow, was hustling about the house.
Not many overslept that beautiful, May morning. Whoever did not get up and go out to enjoy it, stepped at least to the window to look at the luminous sky, or to listen to the sharpshooters’ band, as it marched through the town. The music now increased and thundered, then grew fainter ,until it again resounded in full strength from some other quarter.
Only Špína slept as if he were dead. Miss Elis was not a little amazed at his late homecoming.
Vavřena left the house early in the morning; soon after him Zelenka followed, carrying a book under his arm. When the time for breakfast came, Miss Elis noiselessly opened the door of the student’s room to see whether Mr. Frýbort was sleeping yet. But he was up and fully dressed, pacing the room. In his hand he held a little book, from which he was diligently studying. Miracle of miracles! What made him get up so early and study?
When all had left, Miss Elis, according to her custom, stepped into the student’s room to put things in order. On the very edge of one of them lay a small book, which she recognized instantly. It was the same one from which Frýbort was studying that morning. What a magical book was it that it enticed for so long a philosopher who ordinarily was not too fond of study? Miss Elis opened the book where the book-mark was placed and read:
“Tony,—quit your testy nagging, stop that noise and angry bragging!” cried the miller in a fit; “as if the mill went to thunder, and I wasn’t of you fonder, when I hug my mug a bit!”
Oh, this is the philosophy! A humorous poem! Of course, what else would that jester care for but frizzles and fun? What book is it? Miss Elis turned to the title. It was the one which Vavřena had read aloud at Roubínek’s. When she was about to lay the book aside, her eyes caught the written lines on the inner side of the cover. She was startled. She read them once, twice, then she steped to the window, bent over the handwriting and examined it minutely. Emotion was visible on her wilted face. For a while she stood meditating over the script, and then went quickly to her own room, where she took her prayer book out of the cabinet.
From the prayer book she drew an already yellow album sheet with a gilded edge. On this sheet, a white-trunked birch tree was painted in watercolor; its long, soft branches were touching a tombstone, finished in Roman style. Both the tree and the monument, profusely covered with ivy, stood on a grassy bank of a lake, the outer horizon of which was bounded by a dark grove. The sun was just setting behind this grove.
On the other side of the sheet this was written in Latin script:
“Behold the low grave, covered with the fresh grass; Oh, that low grave contains much, even every thing! Give me, dear maiden, thy hand!— A great tear moistens thy cheek!”
Miss Elis did not read any further. The handwriting on the sheet and in the Almanac was the same. The sheet fell from her hand; she gazed again on the inscription in the book, signed by “Myslimír”. But her eyes filled with tears and she turned and looked on the picture of the young priest, above whose head she had arranged a crescent of artificial flowers. Her small, withered hands involuntarily were clasped in prayer. ***
After eleven, Frýbort rushed in, and immediately hurried into his room. Miss Elis accosted him, however, and inquired from whom had he procured that small book, the Almanac. He told her it belonged to Vavřena.
When Vavřena soon afterwards returned home, he was considerably surprised with the question of Miss Elis. “Tell me, please, it means much to me.” Her voice, and those kind, light blue eyes implored him. He told her that Lenka lent it to him.
“Oh, I have heard of that young girl, and have seen her a few times. She seldom goes out, however, and I, an old person, hardly ever.”
Vavřena’s amazement grew.
“She is good, isn’t she, Mr. Vavřena?—But the poor girl surely does not sleep on roses there!”
“Would you want to speak with her, Miss Elis?”
“Oh, would that be possible?” Her eyes sparkled.
“If you want, even to-day.”
​“Surely, Mr. Vavřena?”
“Miss Elis, dinner, please!” Frýbort called from the next room. “We are in a hurry!”
The bright May day warmed toward noon. The bishopric bell pealed; then the sound of the noon bell ceased. Registrar Roubínek was in the act of eating his dinner. It was most properly to his liking. Miss Lotty was somewhat silent. Mother led the conversation almost alone to-day, for Lenka never spoke much; besides, she had to get up from the table often and go to the kitchen to superintend the serving. The joy of the morning had not left her face yet. Whenever she passed the window, she could not forbear to look down to the Piarist College. At other times she looked serious, to-day a smile frequently appeared on her lips, especially when her aunt related how agitated this first of May was, that she noticed a great commotion down town, and that especially students swarmed in front of the college and in the city like bees.
“That is because of the prohibition. Who would not be sorry ,too?” exclaimed Lotty, and her smooth face darkened.
The registrar paid no attention to the conversation. Just then, however, he stopped as if petrified. His hand, carrying a dumpling on the fork, did not reach his mouth, and his eyes, leaving king Herod, wonderingly turned to his wife and daughter, who in the first moment also bent their surprise-filled eyes at him. Lotty bounced to the window and looked out.
“Music, really music!” cried Lenka; but she regained her composure at once.
“What’s that? Music at noon? That never happened before!” wondered Mr. Roubínek.
“Oh yes, it did when ‘majales’—,” quickly rejoined the daughter.
“May be, they, after all—,” and Mrs. Roubínek stepped to the window, while Fritz, throwing the fork down, jumped up and without his cap flew down the street like an arrow.
The reproving voice of his father did not overtake him.
The music, which sounded faintly from afar, was growing more distinct until it thundered near the college. There the band stopped. In the mean time an unusual commotion arose in the streets.
People were running out of the houses, hastening to the windows, and down town everybody was bent in the direction of the college; there were young people, citizens, and most of all philosophers there, with whom the whole eminence between the castle, philosophical college, and the college proper in a short time swarmed.
While everybody at Roubínek’s was thus amazed, except Lenka, to whom Vavřena had whispered the secret yesterday, the home instructor unexpectedly entered. He bowed and announced that the philosophical celebration of the “majales” was to be held to-day, to which celebration he respectfully extended his invitation. In a while, he continued, the whole student procession, together with the band, would leave and go, as formerly, to the Nedošín grove.
Before the amazed Mrs. Roubínek could ask for an explanation, Vavřena was gone.
Lotty, overjoyed, hastened to the cabinet and took out the new spring dress.
“Hurry, mother, hurry, we must not miss it!”
“Hold on, Lotty, hold on! Who knows how things stand!” solemnly remonstrated the registrar.
“Oh, something wrong again! Surely in the last moment they were granted permission!” asserted mother, who, in such matters, had the deciding voice.
On the street the crowd grew, and with it also the noise and the din. The music ceased, and a cry like the simultaneous discharge of many guns rose into the bright air:
“Vivat Academia!”
And the whole band fell in with a mighty flourish.
“Vivant professores!” cried a few hundred young voices; and a festive flourish resounded again.
“Vivant professores!” repeated Roubínek, somewhat satisfied as he nodded his head.
What bustle, confusion and haste ensued! A strange thing! Lenka brought everything, helped her aunt and Lotty to dress, and still herself was ready, as if she had prepared before-hand for the event. She never went anywhere with her aunt, even when the latter invited her, but that day “that headstrong girl,” as Mrs. Roubínek called her, came to ask for permission to go to the grove.
The aunt looked inquiringly at her husband.
“Let her go, she can take Fritz along! They never saw the show anyway!”
So it was decided. For the first time Mrs. Roubínek saw the face of that otherwise serious-looking girl brighten and her eyes sparkle. After that the registrar dismissed the affair from his mind. Sitting in his easy chair, he smoked his pipe and looked at king Herod; when he finished, he would go to the office.
(To be continued.)
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