# The Czechoslovak Review/Volume 3/A Tale of Young Blood of '48 (5)

Fifth 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.)
Mrs. Roller, widow of the former mayor, stricter and more powerful than the mayor himself ever was, thought herself still in power, and did not therefore relinquish her censorial office. Nothing was hid from her keen eyes, and everything was subject to her sharp and merciless criticism. Having crossed the grove in every direction, she stopped before Mrs. Roubínek, with whom she immediately began a very important conversation.
Lottynka danced almost all the time. Still she was dissatisfied. She was disappointed in her expectations. Vavřena, that handsome, energetic student, awoke in her a feeling of attraction, which she considered to be love. She was partial to him, and it flattered her that he always treated her with special attention. For the young philosopher had the reputation of being usually indifferent, even inattentive, in his dealings with the other sex. It would have been a great triumph for her, if she could boast that the cold young man humbled himself before her and begged for her love. And exactly this she was expecting to-day. At to-day’s celebration her wish was to have been realized; and that was the reason why the “majales” could not come soon enough for her.
And now she was disappointed!
It is true that Vavřena greeted her, but soon afterwards he left and was not returning, as if she were not in the grove at all. And what an unheard-of slight! He did not even come on time for the quadrille, for which he was engaged with her. That was no mere chance slip, that was an intentional slight! She was deeply insulted.
Her inclination for Vavfena was all at once gone, and a wounded pride took its place. Oh, she will entirely ignore that proud philosopher! She will let him feel it!
But secretly she was still expecting that he would beg; he, however, only offered his apology, went away, and did not come back. Perhaps he was sorry, perhaps he did not dare.
She returned to her mother from the hall all flushed with the dances. Just then Mrs. Roller was leaving Mrs. Roubínek.
“Come, Letty, komm, komm, mein liebes Kind! Bedenke nur! Die Leny!” (—“Come, come, my dear child! Just think! That Leny!”)
“What happened?”
She was informed of what the former mayor’s widow had told her mother. Letty grew red with anger, distorted proudly her pretty lips, and laughed disdainfully.
“Oh, here she is,” Mrs. Roubínek cried presently ,catching sight of the approaching Lenka.
“Congratulations, congratulations!” Lotty addressed her relative sarcastically.
“Behold, the quiet innocent!” added the mother, and malicious glance of hers struck Lenka, who was standing calm, without a word, as if she were prepared for this abuse.
She expected jeering, storm, everything spiteful; she already had suffered many things in the house of her uncle, and was not afraid of what was coming. In fact, she exulted inwardly, for she in reality had won; no matter what happens, she no longer is alone, friendless. So much of warm light shines for her now, that she no longer feared the unfeeling, cold ridicule. ***
What a glorious success it was, those “majales”!
The eventide was already falling. The last rays illumined the grove, and were reflected from the grassy carpet up the trees to the shady crowns. Still the gayety was not abating. The band played almost incessantly, laughter and glee did not slacken, and the songs of the students, full of hilarious vivacity, became louder and gayer.
Deep within the grove, a circle of students was gathered. Some were seated on roughly-hewn benches, others on the grass under the trees; every one of them was busily applying the beer-mug to his lips. They sang, laughed, and joked. All were full of vivacity, save Špína. He sat on the edge of a bench, resting his head on his hands. The high hat was pushed far back on his head, and his wing-like coat-tails hung impotently, like broken pinions, down the bench.
“You look desperate, Špína! What is the matter with you?” cried one of the students.
“Leave me alone!” rejoined the lank philosopher gruffly, and grasping his beer-mug, drank with long draughts.
Where is Zelenka? I did not see him here at all!” again inquired the first student. And someone else answered for Špína:
“You may be sure that he is not here; he digs at home—the old woman! He is afraid of consequences; he is too cautious!”
“The hawk! The hawk!” cried suddenly another student, and pointed with his beer-mug toward Mrs. Roller, who, with her handbag on her left wrist, was passing nearby spyingly. All burst out laughing.
“Vivat commissarius!”
“Vivat doctissima!”
​“Vivat Xantippe!”
The students drank to the health of “the commissioner, the most learned—,” for Mrs. Roller was in the habit of attending the public philosophical examinations every year, where she sat with the textbook in hand, beside the learned judges and the distinguished guests. It is easily understood why the examined derived very little pleasure from it ,for Mrs. Roller did not follow the old rule that what was cooked in school, should be also eaten there. In a very short time after the examinations even the old women-peddlers under the archway knew who among the philosophers did not pass.
It appeared that the mayor’s widow understood to whom those noisy toasts were drunk. Halting nearby, she measured with her piercing eyes the voluble and hilarious students.
“Vivat Horacius Flaccus!” one of them cried suddenly, and another added in a loud tone:
“But the one upside down!”
Noisy and boisterous laugh was the answer, and the mugs clicked again.
Mrs. Roller started, as if a wasp had stung her. Turning quickly, she hurried away.
The name of that Roman poet forced her hasty retreat. The last time when she was present at the examinations, Pater German gave her the author, as to the other guests. With her, however, he made the exception of turning the book upside down, so that the mayor’s widow held the melodious Horacius during the whole examination the wrong side up.
To the students this afforded a considerable satisfaction. And now the affair had again been a source of mirth to them. Špína, morose and desperate, went on drinking unheedingly. And the more he drank the lower down his neck his high, now bristling hat was slipping; but his moroseness was gradually disappearing from his face, and a deep tragedy was reflected in his eyes. He also turned oftener to his neighbor, fellow-country-man. Then he drank again, and buried his face deeper in his hands.
“Špína, you want to tell me something,” his fellow-country-man accosted him, while the colleagues were singing, laughing, and joking.
“I would like to tell you,” replied Špína in a dubious tone.
“Well, then, trust me.”
“But not here.”
“Then let us go aside.”
Špína got up, and with an unsteady step followed his fellow-country-man, until they halted under an old oak. The other fellows looked after them. Špína’s companion winked at them, and they understood.
“Drank too much.”
“Now tell me what is the matter with you; you seem to be sad.”
“You know—you know—,” Špína spoke incoherently. “But you will laugh at me. Everybody deserted me, I have nobody—alone—,” and here his voice gave out, his throat contracted, and he burst into tears.
“You see—I have nobody—an orphan—you know, I alone and alone, a poor orphan—”
His colleague laughed.
“You are harping all the time on the same string; you are a pretty big orphan! Leave that alone and tell me what is the matter.”
“I know you would laugh at me! Everybody—laughs at me—who is—” and sobbing again interrupted his talk. Dropping on a verdure—covered stump of an old tree, he put his head, shaken with sobs, into his hands.
His fellow-countryman stooped over him and talked to him a while yet, but perceiving that he would not get his confidence, returned to his gay comrades, who flocked about him and pelted him with questions as to what was the matter with Špína.
“I know as much as you. He drank too much from desperation, and when he is a little tipsy, he begins to cry and trusts nobody.”
“Elegy incarnate!”
“But we—gaudeamus!”
“Gaudeamus!” cried all in unison, and the mugs again clanged and tinkled.
The sun was setting behind the grove; the crowd of picnickers was thinning out, and the highways to Litomyšl became lively again. The returning parties consisted mostly of families of citizens who wished to get home before night. The young people, and especially the students, had no desire to leave the shady vaults of the grove so early and thus to forsake their pleasure.
The band was still playing and from different directions came snatches of gladsome student songs.
Miss Elis also would have gone, but Miss Márinka, Frýbort and Vavřena begged her so persistently that she could not refuse to stay. She seated herself aside and abandoning herself to memories waited. She could talk with Lenka no more. After the unpleasant incident of the quadrille, Vavřena returned again to Miss Lottynka and her mother, but his efforts to conciliate them proved ineffectual.
If it had not been for Mrs. Roller’s meddling, the cloud would have passed without any shower; but when Mrs. Roubínek learned how that instructor of theirs, whose sacred duty it was to pay them proper attention and to attend to them, was sitting almost alone with the stubborn Lenka (as she called her), entertaining her and thus honoring her before them, she could not so easily forgive and overlook the gross breach of manners and gallantry (as she termed Vavřena’s conduct). Her Lotty, the prettiest and richest girl, had to take a back seat before such a country jade! Vavřena fell from his pedestal in the eyes of Mrs. Roubínek; she expected better things of him, better taste and choice.
After all, Lotty danced with him yet when he came and asked for the dance, but was taci​turn and repulsed the philosopher curtly when he tried to start a conversation. Then he suddenly ceased talking. That angered her still more. She wanted to punish him, she wished that he would beg and coax her; but the proud philosopher was now silent as if angry and insulted.
At other times Mrs. Roubinek would not go home till evening, with the main procession, but to-day the sun had scarcely touched the horizon of the grove when she was preparing to return. Vavřena, in order to fulfill his duty, offered to accompany them, and especially to take Fritz home. He planned to return to the grove.
“Lenka will take care of Fritz; we do not want to interrupt your pleasure,” Mrs. Roubínek rebuffed him sharply.
He bowed, and his last glance fell on Lenka’s face. She was calm, bright as the spring scene around; from her eyes the light of happiness, trust and determination shone on him.
Dusk settled on the grove of Nedošín. The sharpshooter’s band stepped down from the dance-hall to the restaurant. Singing, cries and laughter had not ceased even now when the philosophers began to form into a column for their return march.
The gay and noisy company was not as numerous as it hed been in the morning, for many a student had left the column in order to render a knightly service, and to lend his manly arm to a beloved maiden on the way back to Litomyšl. Špína, who with an unsteady step was walking in the last row, was under the guidance of his fellow-countryman. The lanky orphan had gotten over his fit of crying, but had not quite gotten rid of his sorrow and—his tipsiness.
Behind the gayly singing student legion followed the crowd of faithful picnickers, among whom was Miss Elis, accompanied by Vavřena, and Miss Márinka who entrusted herself to the care and love of Mr. Frýbort.
The music again resounded through the town now for the last time that day. The main column halted and the picnickers dispersed. It was high time too, for when they were nearing town, the sky grew dark with clouds and it prepared to rain.
When Miss Elis reached home with her philosophers, first of all she reutrned to the landlady her protegee, the happy Márinka. They found Zelenka sitting at a table, studying diligently.
“But, Mr. Zelenka, you should have allowed yourself that enjoyment, and not have acted differently from the others,” Miss Elis interrupted.
“No time, Miss Elis. When I once become somebody then I also shall indulge,” ansvered the lean student.
“You materialist! Then you will throw the books away, and never look at them,” cried Frýbort scornfully, while he was putting his bouquet of violets into a glass of fresh water.
Frýbort and Vavřena sat long in the parlor with Miss Elis, discussing the events of the day. All were satisfied. Only Miss Elis, in her auxiety, cast a shadow upon the talk: what will happen at the college, and what at the registrar’s? But the young men were not afraid.
Špína soon fell into a deep sleep and forgot that he was an orphan and that he saw something terrible in the grove.
A May night came on.
Lenka sat in her room by a small table. A candle threw its light on a small open book. There was a deep silence in the house; everybody else was asleep. The young girl, resting her hands on the table, looked dreamily before her. After a while she again bent over the book and read:
“T’was late evening, first of May, an eve of May, t’was time of love, to which invited the call of dove—”
Something rustled; she was startled. She stepped to the window, looked out, and then extinguishing the light, opened the window. It was a humid, pleasant night; from the dark sky the first May rain dripped gently and rippled pleasantly in the foliage of the blossoming trees.
As the flowers and leaves revived under the quiet shower, her soul likewise was flooded with a sense of freedom. She leaned out and listened to the gentle whispers and murmurs. She forgot her galling circumstances and her dependence, and her soul abandoned itself to the sweet dreams of her first, dear love. She felt happy. She was living over again that beautiful hour which had scarcely passed. She stood in the dusky grove by the old, bent tree. What is that birdie doing now? Will he also think of the bird?
At that time, Márinka already slept sweetly. She did not hear the rain which pattered on her bedroom window. She was in the grove again, where she was paying Frýbort her lost bet.
CHAPTER VII.
A new day awoke, and with it the routine of ordinary life. The bell in the college tower pealed, and the students flocked out in full numbers as usual. Euthusiasm cooled, joyous intoxication sobered, and grave deliberation established itself.
The professor of theology did not appear in the college. The philosophers remembered the words of the strict rector, that the professor would not come until an apology should be offered him. They discussed what to do. Before they came to any conclusion, however, some of them, among whom were both Frýbort and Vavřena, were called to the rector.
That which everybody expected and which Miss Elis feared, a strict trial for the storm and the “majales”, ensued. Such things could not remain secret in a small town like Litomyšl, and ​knowledge of them soon became general. All Litomyšl was on the side of the philosophers, and many a young girl became anxious, fearing that some might be punished, even expelled.
Frýbort was getting out of patience with all these investigations; not that he was afraid, but because he had to listen at home to the incessant lamentations of Miss Elis, and because Márinka’s bright face was also saddened.
Vavřena was calm as usual, and endeavored to comfort the anxious boarding-lady; when, however, he could not accomplish anything, he kept still. Zelenka taught on, studied, and ate his bread and fruit porridge. On his untimely withered face, a secret satisfaction was mirrored.
Špína acted as if he had no concern with the trial. He would sit before an open book, smoke, and with a clouded expression meditatingly gaze before him. Miss Elis, suposing that he was worried because of the examinations and the approaching punishment, came to him, and laying her hand gently on his shoulder, tried to comfort him. But she had not quite finished when Špína turned and in a deep bass growled:
“If they only would do it soon! I would be glad if they expelled me!”
Miss Elis was dazed. Impossible, that anyone from her house could be punished by expulsion! Forty-seven philosophers had lived in her home, all were always among the first, at present they all occupied high positions—and now! — — The honor of her rooms would be gone!
She was more fearful than the students. It did not comfort her that the whole of Litomyšl was on their side, for it was not quite true. If all others were, surely Mrs. Roller and the registrar’s family were not.
Early the next morning Mrs. Roubínek began to relate to her husband, who was still enjoying the comforts of his “oberst”, what a failure this year’s “majales” was; and she began very extensively, although not quite justly, to narrate how their instructor insulted them and behaved improperly, and how Lottynka especially had a reason to feel hurt.
She touched the registrar’s most sensitive spot. Intensifying her report, she reached the place in her narrative where Lenka was strolling alone through the park and how she was courted by their instructor.
The registrar removed his gaze from king Herod several times and would have begun the official investigation immediately, had not the hour arrived for him to depart for the office.
When he came home at noon and finished his dinner, Mrs. Roubínek began again, and fortified herself with the testimony of Mrs. Roller. Lenka was in the kitchen. Well did she surmise, however, that she was being discussed in the parlor, for during the dinner her uncle had turned on her his cold, icy glance several times, and she understood that sign. She was not afraid, and was prepared for anything; yet she shuddered when she thought of Vavřena.
Vavřena came in the afternoon at the usual time to teach Fritz. Mrs. Roubínek greeted him coldly; Lotty acted as if she did not see him. He looked in vain for Lenka. No doubt her aunt had given her some work which did not permit her to come to the parlor. As he was leaving, he met Mrs. Roller in the hall-way.
Joyfully and sweetly Mrs. Roubínek greeted this welcome visitor and detained her long, until the registrar came home from the office.
Everything had gone wrong that day. What he had heard from his wife, was confirmed and magnified by the former mayor’s widow, who beside other things, added that Lenka had made friends “with that Miss Elis, who is such a patriot, and who would like to turn everything up side down.” As proof of this she alleged that Miss Elis was a bosom friend of the late Mrs. Rettig, who wanted to make all Litomyšl patriotic.
When Mrs. Roller departed, the registrar did not even remove his official coat, but went straight to Lenka’s room. There he found his niece sitting near the window sewing, as her aunt had ordered her.
The young girl was greatly surprised, for her uncle never before entered her room. He stopped in the middle and looked intently at her. Solemnly, strictly, as in the office, the registrar began. He asked about yesterday, about Vavřena and about Miss Elis.
Lenka answered firmly and truthfully, acknowledging that she spoke with Vavřena and Miss Elis. The uncle ceased speaking and it appeared that the trial was over. Then his glance fell on the table.
“What have you under the sewing?”
Lenka did not answer.
“Hand it over to me!”
There was nothing else to be done.
Roubínek took the small book and looked at it hastily. Finding that it was in Bohemian, he asked where she got it.
“It is mine,” Lenka involuntarily uttered a lie, seeking thereby to spare Vavřena.
“Oh, then you receive presents?” and the uncle pointed to the inner cover page, where the name of his son’s instructor was signed. The girl blushed and did not answer.
It was too late to correct the error. Without saying another word, the registrar stalked away, taking the book with him.
In the evening, contrary to his habit, Roubínek had a candle lighted, and seated himself at the table in his flowery “oberst”, opened the corpus delicti, and began reading.
Poor Mácha! Foolish criticism had already condemned his “May”, and now the registrar Roubínek was judging it anew.
Had Vavřena or Frýbort seen that cold, unsympathetic face bent over the ardent verses, he would have burst out laughing.
​Roubínek’s wife and daughter had already retired, and the house became perfectly still. Holding the little book in his bony right hand, the registrar read and read, evidently with much difficulty. He was not familiar with Bohemian books, and more than that this one was in “rhymes”, as the registrar used to say.
The fascinating verses of Mácha affected him very little. His official face did not relax, and after a while the reading tired him. He stopped and then, desiring to fulfill his duty and to examine the book thoroughly, resumed reading, now half audibly. Nevertheless, in a short time his lips ceased moving, though his eyes still scanned the verses. Then he turned a leaf, again whispered, and finally stopped. He looked fixedly at one spot, his eyes blinked, then closed; the tassel of his night-cap shook, and finally his weary head dropped to his breast and he fell asleep.
He had read two full parts, and from the remaining third he omitted only the last verses:
“T’was late evening, the first of May, an eve of May, t’was time of Love, to which invited the call of dove ...”
Roubínek! Roubínek!
The registrar evidently had gotten out of bed with the wrong foot first. He was morose. The reason probably was that he had had such ugly dreams. Jail, fetters, policemen, much bigger and more imposing than Kmoníček, gallows, skeletons—all these mingled in his nightmare, it was a wonder he did not melt in his perspiration through terror and fright.
And all this on account of that book, those “rhymes”!
Such infidel books his ward read, and such things his son’s instructor gave her! Sullenly he left for the office.
That very forenoon Mrs. Roubínek again met Mrs. Roller, who related that she had visited the rector, and that she had found out everything.
Before noon passed, there was a persistent rumor everywhere that the philosophers from Miss Elis’ rooms were to receive the worst punishment, and that at least two of them were to be expelled.
Mrs. Roubínek told this news to her husband after dinner, when he found some relief from his bad humor in his pipe.
Miss Lotty, sitting in the easy chair by the window, looked maliciously at Lenka, who was folding the tablecloth. She saw how her rival was startled and grew white, and how she looked up at her aunt frightened.
“He will come to some queer end! Still so young, and already full of innovations and revolts against his superiors! He deserves a summary punishment,” Roubínek spoke unfeelingly, and calmly whiffed a ring of smoke.
Lenka, who was as if lifeless before this, now raised her head and left the room. She was deeply wounded by this harshness and narrowness.
“Won’t she be frantic now!” remarked Lotty, when her cousin left.
“She will be still more stubborn!—Na, es wird sich zeigen!” (Well, it will show itself!)
The landlady, Márinka’s mother, had left Miss Elis, not knowing what worry she had caused her. She told Miss Elis what she had heard about the students, especially about Vavřena and Frýbort.
Miss Elis was sitting in deep gloom, awaiting the arrival of one of the philosophers. At last there was a sound of steps outside, and the fun-loving Frýbort quickly entered.
“Oh, Mr. Frýbort ,at last you have come! My heart is melting for fear. Tell me what is going on. Where are you coming from?”
“From the trial.”
“And is it true that—you—that must leave?”
The philosopher laughed. “Then the whole philosophical department would leave. All for each!”
“And what if that happens?”
Frýbort laughed again.
“And you still laugh? Think of the shame!”
“I committed no crime. We were defending an old custom.
“But your studies will be over.”
“What I need to know in order to become a good citizen, I know already, and a bookworm I’ll never be anyway!”
“And Márinka?”
“Márinka? Why, she loves me, and will marry me whether I am a Hanák farmer or a lawyer.”
“Well, it may be all-right with you, but how about Mr. Vavřena? What would he do?”
“Oh, they will think it over twice before they expel and spoil the future of such an excellent student! Besides, Pater German will drop a good word for him, and in the end: ex moribus primam, cetera eminenter!”
The old lady, having had philosophers for so many years, had learned those Latin grades on the certificates, and understood well what Frýbort had said.
“May the good Lord grant it! And is the trial over?”
“Yes, the sentence probably will be announced tomorrow.
“Where is Mr. Vavřena?”
“He went to give the lesson.” *** Vavřena, going up the steps toward the registrar’s room, looked around eagerly, hoping to see Lenka. But the hall-way was empty, and the door of Lenka’s room was shut. He had not seen her for two days! And how he longed for her! He knew that it was not by chance, but that her aunt was keeping her away. It was the same to day as yesterday: neither mother nor daughter paid any attention to the instructor, as they had done at other times.
Only it was unusual that the registrar was already at home. Vavřena gave the lesson. At ​other times Miss Lotty would come to the room every now and then; to-day she did not even stir from the front parlor. When the lesson was over, the registrar, sitting in his easy chair and looking at king Herod, stopped Vavřena and spoke to him. He told him in his cold, unfeeling way that he, being an official, must observe order and must require that others also be orderly. The instructor, however,—the registrar furthermore observed—was dissipating his energies too much with things which did not concern him, and that some day this would hurt him more than now; that he should apply himself to studies and should not participate in rebellions and superfluous patriotism, thus corrupting others.
“Žižka and Emperor Joseph were the best Czechs”, but this time he did not add, “and that church was given us by them for a memorial”,—but—” and did not read such foolish, infidel boks with which you corrupt the minds of young girls. Why a book to a girl? A ladle, and not a book! And then I want Fritz to—”
“Mr. Roubínek, kindly tell me briefly what you wish.”
The registrar’s glance left king Herod and fell on that impudent young man, which meant that Mr. Roubínek was greatly astounded and surprised.
“I mean that I shall engage another—instructor—and here is your monthly—,” and he motioned toward the table, where Vavřena’s pay for the month of May was ready.
Vavřena remarked that he had not earned that pay yet, thanked him, and left without the money.
Mrs. Roubínek and her daughter were astonished. They thought that Vavřena would be dumbfounded, that he would apologize. But, to the contrary, bowing, and proudly holding up his head, he had left.
“Oh, that insolent beggar! How mistaken we were in him!” cried Mrs. Roubínek.
Vavřena did not go directly home from the registrar’s, but with a slow step walked out of town, till he found himself in the grove of Nedošín.
Lost in meditation, almost before he was aware of it, he stood near the old, bent tree in the depths of the wood. He again stealthily approached it, and looked intently toward the mighty limb, against which the nest was built.
It was all there, and well preserved.
Then he walked on farther, until he seated himself on the bench under the old beech; his thoughts, however, were still at the old tree, where he had stood with Lenka and pressed her hand.
How could he send her the message he had promised? What would happen? — —
Miss Elis and her students had finished their supper long before Vavřena came. He remained in the front parlor.
“Miss Elis, your prediction came true.”
“Did they discharge you?” she asked in a frightened tone, and loked up at the young man.
“Yes—it will hurt me, but not kill me. But—”
“I understand, Mr. Vavřena. Who knows what good it will do, and faithfulness wins!” she added significantly.
“Yes—I trust, I believe, but you must be with me.”
Miss Elis gave him her small, withered hand, and the young philosopher gratefully pressed it.
CHAPTER VIII.
There was a great deal of examining and questioning at the college. Many had forebodings of a bad end, and the worst was rumored in the town. The professor of theology, the rector, and the bishop’s emissary found the students guilty of a gross offense, which required severe punishment.
The professor of theology stubbornly demanded an apology for the insult done him. Fortunately for the students, the rector was not on the best of terms with the professor and thus was leaning toward the philosophers. Besides, they testified that they did not mean to demonstrate against the professor, but that the prohibition excited them to such a pitch that they lost self-control; and furthermore, that when they arranged the celebration of “majales”, they did not mean anything against the faculty, as was made plain before they left for the grove by crying “vivat” to the school and to the professors.
In this defense, effective aid was rendered them by the old and influential Pater German, who at the faculty meeting most powerfully pleaded in their behalf.
Many would thus have received mild correction, though the ring-leaders would probably have been punished severely. But luckily for all, the affair amused a very influential man, to whom it afforded genuine fun, and he was greatly pleased with the courage of the philosophers. This man was a neighbor of the rector. When such a fine gentleman from a beautiful castle, rich and powerful, drops a little word for some body, it does not fall on stony ground.
Count George was that “deus ex machina”, who mollified and pacified everything, and brought things to a good issue.
A deputation to the professor of theology, some “primae e moribus”, and a few hours in the philosophical career, these were the punishments which many of the philosophers suffered for the storm in the college and the celebration of the “majales”.
Miss Elis almost became angry with Frýbort when on Sunday morning he took a sorrowful and tragical farewell from her and all in the house, in order that he might go to the college to serve his hours of imprisonment. The rascal! He would make fun even of his punishment!
​Vavřena also left gayly, but Špína, who followed him, growled like a bear.
Miss Elis did not leave the house all day. Forty seven philosophers had lived with her, and not a single one was thus punished! All were in influential positions already—and now three at once in the carcer!
This fact alone comforted her, that she was not the only one thus visited, and that her philosophers were after all among the foremost and knew something. She was pained at their punishment, but she did not have a word of praise for Mr. Zelenka, and did not even speak to him all day.
Everybody in town rejoiced that worse and stricter punishments were not meted out to the philosophers. Only Mrs. Roller thought that she would act quite differently with such rebellious young men. At first Mrs. Roubínek was disappointed, but then became satisfied with even this punishment.
Before a week had passed, another instructor was obtained for Fritz, a quiet, industrious philosopher, of whom the rector gave Mr. Roubínek assurance that he studied diligently, even beyond what was required in the college. Lottynka and her mother at first greeted him very kindly, and were extremely affable to him, but after a week Miss Lotty’s interest subsided.
What did it all avail—it was not Vavřena! This student equalled him in learning, but that had but little weight with the young lady. He was not so handsome, and above that it seemed that he was shy and bashful. When he came, he bowed, and when he went, he bowed again. They rarely heard a word from him.
“He is good, aber unbeholfen,” (but awkward) that was the sum of all the observation and opinion of Miss Lotty, and the mother concurred.
Lenka, however, would have protested against the accusation, and would have testified that the new instructor was very dangerous. Hardly a week had he taught at the house, when he delivered to her, very cleverly and carefully, a little book, in which she found a letter.
She read therein:
“Brož is a good patriot. Trust him. I often visit the grove. On the old tree everything is well. Only I have looked in vain for someone there, whom I hope and believe to find there soon. I long to speak with you. I hope that you will answer me at least with a line. Then I shall write more. Farewell! Yours,V.”
She read it over not once or twice, but times without number; every evening in her room, and any other time when she was alone.
In a short time, Brož delivered the answer. Vavřena hurried to the castle park, and there in the shadow of the old fir-tree he read eagerly the longed for answer:
“Your letter gave me a great joy. I believe and hope. Remember me to the old tree and the grove.”
“I believe and hope!” repeated the young philosopher, and fell into blissful reverie.
The spring was ncaring its end and summer was approaching.
Frýbort was gay and happy and was beginning to study for the final yearly examinations. He saw Márinka often, spoke and joked with her, and not seldom brought home a bunch of fresh, fragrant flowers. The good natured Hanák was always jolly and in a state of bliss, whenever he brought the flowers, but he never told from whom he got them; Miss Elis did not betray him, and the landlady never again caught him with his coat covered with flour on the breast.
Only Špína could testify, but he never breathed a word. He was now more than ever taciturn and morose, smoked much, and applied himself to study till Miss Elis was amazed at his industry. Vavřena often spoke to her alone, and always about Lenka whom Miss Elis would have liked to see again. She became greatly attached to the young girl who was her George’s niece and she would have Hked to help her to leave the home of the registrar.
She knew Vavřena and trusted his character. Those two young people would be happy with each other all their life. In fact, she already calculated how much longer Vavřena must study, before he could gain a secure position which woud permit him to marry. She saw him at the altar with none other but Lenka.
Brož diligently taught Fritz, so that he gained high praise from the registrar, who remarked even to the recorder one Sunday afternoon during their “delightful” conversation that he liked this new instructor best because he was so humble and unsophisticated, and that he evidently did not pay any attention to those innovations and nonsense which do not belong to the sphere of youth. Lenka was also greatly obliged to Brož, who brought her not only books, but also letters from Vavřena.
Although the young philosopher often passed the old mansion in which Mr. Roubínek lived, he saw Lenka but seldom; for her aunt did not take her eyes from the young girl. Vavřena was satisfied and happy when he succeeded in catching a mere glimpse of the loved maiden; but gradually, this was not enough for him. To speak with her became a necessity. To this Miss Elis, after long conferences, helped him.
Lenka could not attend the philosophical mass, she had to attend at the castle. There she met Miss Elis, who was always glad to be able to exchange with her even but a few words, when they met on the gallery in front of the chapel. The third time, she brought with her Miss Márinka, and the young girls, who knew each other slightly before, now became friends. Márinka, of course, attended the philosophical mass, but after she had been initiated into Vavřena’s secret, she gladly made the little sacrifice of attending the castle chapel for the sake of the ​good Miss Elis and for the sake of Frýbort’s friend.
Márinka asked Lenka to come to the castle park in her spare time Sunday afternoon, that they might thus get an opportunity to talk with each other a little longer.
So it was done. While the registrar, gazing at king Herod, was having a “delightful” conversation with the recorder, and his wife was sitting nearby, and Miss Lottynka was visiting some friend of hers, Lenka ran to the neighboring park, where Márinka was already awaiting her. At that time only a few people visited the park, for everybody went either to Nedošín or to some other out-of-town place. But by a remarkable coincidence the castle garden at that time looked unusually attractive to two young philosophers, who, as if by chance, appeared among the trees, and soon boldly joined the maidens.
These blissful moments in the park were short, but sufficient for Vavřena to find how sincerely Lenka loved him and what an ardent spirit and a noble mind she had. On the other hand, they contained enough for Lenka to recall them for whole days and weeks together and to gain consolation from them.
While these two conversed gravely with each other, Frýbort was entertaining his Márinka with jokes and witticisms. Vavřena and Lenka regretted only that they could not meet every day or even every week. Sometimes several weeks elapsed before Lenka again informed Márinka that it would be possible for her to come.
Thus nothing remained but letters, which the serious postilion d’amour conscientiously and dexterously delivered.
On the Sunday after the holiday of St. Anton, there was a procession to the little chapel in the Nedošín grove, and as customary on that day, almost the whole town turned out. Even Mrs. Roubínek and Lottynka were there, and enjoyed themselves very much among the cream of society.
Mrs. Roller came a little later and brought Mrs. Roubínek news—but what news! The mayor’s widow knew or found out everything, even the meetings of Lenka with Vavřena.
Mrs. Roubínek was astounded and horrified at the way that ward of hers forgot herself and violated the good manners and customs of her position. She was getting ready for her and even threatened her. Lottynka was entirely disappointed.
Toward evening, Lenka was sitting in her room, looking into the garden through the open window. In her thoughts she still lingered under the grape-cherry with Vavřena. Presently she was disturbed by the rustling of a dress at the door, and was surprrised to see her aunt, still clad as she was at the outing, enter the room. A strict examination ensued. The niece did not deny or lie; she could not. She confessed that she was in the park, and on further interrogation she calmly admitted that she had spoken with Vavřena.
That angered Mrs. Roubínek beyond measure. She expected that Lenka would deny the charges, would beg or cry, but that stiff little neck did not bend as the aunt expected.
The registrar was summoned to help. A storm broke in the house. The upshot of it all was that the aunt forbade Lenka to go to the park or to speak to Vavřena under any circumstances, and this prohibition was confirmed by her husband. Finally, Mrs. Roubinek added a threat that if Lenka should transgress the prohibition, she would forfeit thereby all the motherly care „of her aunt, and could go wherever she pleased after her hunger-bitten, proud-for-nothing philosopher.(To be continued.)
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