# The Czechoslovak Review/Volume 3/A Tale of Young Blood of '48 (4)

Fourth 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.)
Through the corridor of the Piarist College moved a tall, white-haired old man. It was Pater German, professor of history in the philosophical department. The dry, pale professor of theology was coming toward him.
“Did you hear, did you see?” he asked the calm, old man in an agitated tone.
“Yes—it can still be seen; and do you hear?” he rejoined, smiling.
“Vivant professores!” thundered the storm in front of the building.
‘But that is something unheard of! Conjuratio!” (Conspiracy).
“Secessio!” (Rebellion!) smiled the old man. “This is an illustration of what in history we read on every page. Suppressed liberties, privileges.”
“But this must be subdued—I go to the rector—”
“I will go with you”.
The angry priest stepped on first, the calm German followed.
They accosted the rector just as he pushed off some physics apparatus on the table, and stepped to the window, looking out upon the crowd of people and students.
“What is happening?” lamented the professor of theology.
“A rise in temperature of the hot, young blood.”
“Call upon them, please, to disperse!”
“They will not disperse. When they dared so far———.”
“Then it is necessary to disperse them by force.”
“Who will compel them? Kmoniček?” German rejoined in rector’s stead, and on his lips played a gentle smile.
“I shall ask them myself to disperse peacefully”.
“As you please, in my name,” replied the rector.
The catechist left the room.
In the meantime the philosophers, almost in full numbers, fell in line. It was an inspiring sight to see these youths and young men as with their philosophical canes in hand they formed in lines. What a lot of din and noise and shouting arose! What a deal of laugher, jokes, and exultation!
The people pressed around, and on every one’s face joy and agreement was plainly visible. Only a few in the surprised town raised a voice against the students. Just then the catechist descended to the gate, when the music, which had subsided, resumed the full forte. The musicians stepped out and the philosophers followed.
The marching of a few hundred young, nimble feet was sprightly. The students were followed by all who had leisure to go; all over town people ran out of houses to convince themselves as to the truth of what was reported of the philosophers’ daring deed. Many, as soon as they saw the advancing column, hastened back to prepare to join the procession; for formerly almost the whole of Litomyšl was out in the Nedošín grove at the celebration of “majales”.
The columns of students disappeared, and the music grew faint.
At the gate stood the amazed, angry professor of theology. Such a thing had not happened in all the history of the school! The conspiracy succeeded completely. The student body stood all for each and each for all, and on the dangerous spot not a word was betrayed.
The whole town became unusually lively. It was suddenly given an unexpected holiday, which for years past had been erased from the calendar of Litomyšl.
Almost every house contributed someone who hastened toward the Nedošín grove. Here a citizen with his family, there a mother with daughters, here individually, there in a crowd. Everywhere buzzed the talk of the unexpected, and therefore doubly welcome joy.
Miss Elis was quite shocked when at the last minute Frýbort told her of the celebration, and invited her to the grove. She held back, did not want to go; but when Vavřena whispered to her that she would see Lenka there and speak with her, she quickly consented.
The students left and the good old lady began to dress. Everything about her was ancient, of the fashion of the years of her youth. She put on the long gloves which reached high up over the elbow and took the narrow, silk shawl. Just then the landlady stepped in.
“Oh, how glad I am, Miss Elis, that you are going. That girl of mine torments me, it’s a wonder she does not cry! She must be there: she thinks it could not end without her. I cannot, of course, close the store on account of that show, and father is in the market.”
“Then let Márinka go with me. I shall be very glad to have her,” Miss Elis nterrupted.
“Thank God! Well, won’t she be glad to hear that! You won’t need to wait long; when it is to a dance or some hop. then the girls are sprightly!”
“Youth is joy, you know!” ***
​Oh, Nedošín, Nedošín! thy glory hath departed! Thy wods have grown sparse, thy pavillions and retreats are no more, and thy summer hall, wherein by the gay music the young people were wont to abandon themselves to dancing, has disappeared.
But at this time the glory of Nedošín was still undimmed. Both the way which led through the village, and the one in the chestnut alley which led by the shining pond in front of the grove, were beset by the eager crowds. Directly behind the pond appeared thick woods, which had just put on a new, light-green robe. Today everything resounded with merry voices, laughter, music, and singing. The gladsome music, issuing from the depths of the woods, could be heard far and wide. When its tones ceased, a student glee club began to sing. The pure, sweet-scented air, and the shady vaults of the wide spreading trees loudly resounded with the ancient college song:
“In silvis resonant dulcia carmina, in silvis resonat dulce carmen!”
And hardly had this group of singers stopped when another circle from a different shady spot answered the refrain:
“Dulcia carmina in silvis resonant in silvis resonat dulce carmen!”
When Miss Elis with Marin ka reached Nedošín, the grove was already jammed full. In front of the restaurant, a small, tidy building with a covered colonnade, some guests seated themselves on the plain wooden benches, while others spread themselves on the soft grass under the bushy trees. Everywhere was life, bustle and laughter. The main current surged over the path leading from the restaurant past the little chapel of St. Anton and up the slope to the dance hall. There the principal joys centered.
Golden light flooded the vaults of the revivified trees; against the fresh, May green back ground flitted a motley array of light colored dresses.
Márinka burned with impatience. Her keen eyes searched the crowds of students, here promenading, there drinking. Miss Elis also looked around eagerly. Suddenly she stopped. Mrs. Roubínek with Lotty at her side was coming from the direction of the restaurant.
“Their ward is not with them—,” remarked Márinka.
“Oh, most probably she is not. They do not take her anywhere.”
Scarcely had they gone a few steps, when Márinka turned deeper into the grove.
“Somebody is declaiming over there—oh, it is Mr. Frýbort. Let us go to hear him!”
“Of course, we must!”
They reached a knot of students and others, in the midst of which Frýbort, standing on a stump of an old, fallen tree, was declaiming. Miss Elis immediately recognized the piece about the miller’s beer mug, which Frýbort had been so diligently memorizing that morning. All listened attentively; at times they burst into loud laughter.
Márinka did not take her eyes off the beloved philosopher. When he finished, a volley of loud clapping rewarded him. He jumped down, and went directly to the maiden he loved.
He greeted and welcomed her, and immediately escorted her where she longed to be. They came out of the shadows of the grove on the path, passed the little chapel built in the manner of a cave, under which a sparkling spring was trickling, and presently stood before the dance hall. On four crownless tree trunks rested a light roof; under that a flat floor. This was the unpretentious hall, where in full circle couples of young people merrily danced. A band, seated at one side, was playing gayly.
Before Miss Elis had time to look around, she found herself deserted. She saw how Frýbort took the happy Márinka to the dance; and then she caught sight of them several times as they flitted among the dancers.
The crowd of spectators was pressing hard around.
She sought Vavřena, and expected to find him here; but there was not a trace of him anywhere. She had asked Frýbort about him a while ago, and he told her that he saw Vavřena with Mrs. Roubínek and her daughter. Nevertheless, Lotty was dancing with somebody else now.
After a while Miss Elis wedged her way through the crowd, seeking for a still, lonely spot, where only a murmur of the din and music was audible.
She stopped to take a breath. She felt freer, and vet some unnamed fear heavily oppressed her mind.
Dim tones of the merry polka floated to her; in them she heard an echo of the long past years of her happy youth. She fell into reverie. Everything remained here as formerly: a beautiful, spring day, the same old, shady grove, the bustle and joy of “majales” as formerly only the faces were different. Now she forgot them for the times that were gone.
She remembered her youthful years. The days of long ago came back, from dimness of the grove stepped out the familiar, beloved figures and here is that tall, young man who led her away from the dance. She goes leaning on his arm, forgets the dance and the music, and listens only to his words. In a moment one happy hour after another returns, until she stands at the last and the saddest. It was also in this grove, in this place, where she stood with him for the last time, where he parted from her forever. He sac​rificed himself for the sake of his parents, sacrificed himself and her.
That old, bent tree in the depth of the grove did not expect that it could lure anybody to itself to-day.
Nevertheless, it did. *** Lenka, having left the noisy company, was looking for Miss Elis, of whom Vavřena had told her immediately after greeting Mrs. Roubínek. Thus by chance she penetrated far into the shady solitude and halted; the spot charmed her fancy.
It was a long time since she had been in the woods and she loved woods passionately. She had spent her youth in a county rich in forests; as a child, she had roamed about the nearby groves in unrestricted freedom, or had taken walks there with her uncle. And now she again breathed the gentle, pleasant aroma of the grove. She did not hurry away. More than that, her quick eye detected something which was a still greater inducement for her to stay. A little above the ground, a mighty branch was growing out of the old, mossy trunk, and in the nook which it made with the trunk, a bird’s nest was snugly built.
At this moment the philosopher Vavřena had also found solitude, or rather that which he sought in solitude. Stepping out of a thicket, he beheld Lenka in a light blue dress, looking intently up into the old tree. She raised herself on tiptoes and looked and looked.
How slender and fresh she was, how charmingly that vivid blush became her! She stole noiselessly toward the tree, and then suddenly stopped and turned around. The blush on her cheek grew darker, but with her small finger she commanded Vavřena to be silent. He approached and halted beside her, and both gazed at the bird’s nest.
“Do you see?” whispered Lenka.
“I do not.”
“Look there, do you see that bill, the small head, and those little black eyes?”
“Yes, yes, I see now,” and he peered intently at the bird whose head protruded over the edge of the nest. For a while they stood close to each other. Vavřena felt the blood throbbing in his veins and rushing to his face. In the stillness it was a wonder that the rapturous voice of their throbbing hearts did not become audible.
The philosopher turned his head away from the nest. His gaze met Lenka’s, and as he looked, emotion surged through his heart. Her bright, moist eyes, her face, her fresh lips, all smiled at him, beaming with a quiet, ardent happiness.
“Let us go that we might not disturb the bird!” she whispered. He obeyed and they started away hand in hand like children. They went silently along the grassy, narrow path among the bushes and trees. Sunshine and pleasant shadows played hide and seek there; from the direction of the slope sounds of music floated toward them on the breeze.
Presently Lenka drew her hand from the philosopher’s, and looked straight ahead, where a lady in an old-fashioned, large hat, shawl, and long gloves stood before them.
“Oh, Miss Elis!” Vavřena exclaimed.
Soon all were good friends. Not far from the place where they stood, under and old beech tree, was a plain bench, on which they seated themselves.
Miss Elis and Lenka soon became acquainted. The good old lady told the young girl how long she had wished to speak with her, that she did not go anywhere, but that she came purposely to the grove today to meet her. She explained that it was mainly on account of the Almanac which she found at Vavřena!
“Those verses were written by your uncle?” she asked, and cast her eyes down.
“Yes, my uncle wrote them.”
All were silent and that moment the band began to play. Vavřena gave a start, then listened attentively. His fase saddened.
“Oh, the quadrille! And I was engaged to dance it with Miss Lotty.”
“You must go immediately, but hurry!” admonished Miss Elis.
“Oh, how I hate to! Will you stay here, so that I can find you again?”
“If Miss Lenka wishes to.”
“With pleasure,” and she smiled at the young philosopher, who, bowing, disappeared behind the shrubbery.
“I knew you also,” Lenka began in a few moments somewhat hesitatingly.
“Before this time? When you were with your uncle?” asked Miss Elis.
“Yes, he had an embroidered picture from you—was it not so?”
“Faith, Hope, and Love, yes,” replied Miss Elis, and sighed.
“Yes, and he held it in very great honor; I found your name and date in the corner or the picture—and I presumed that it must be some very dear keepsake; and then—then I found a letter from you in a Bohemian book, “The Daughter of Slavia”.
At that moment, for the woman and the girl, there was no present. Miss Elis and Lenka turned to the past. Lenka had to talk about the good uncle. Miss Elis’ hands were clasped in her lap, she sighed often, and peered into the fresh face of her girl companion.
Then her heart opened and released the sweet and painful secret which for so many years she had guarded from all. As she began to confide in the young girl, her unburdened soul poured out trustfully and sincerely; she spoke to somebody who also loved above everything else the one who was to her the dearest on earth.
​Lenka’s uncle, priest George, was born in Litomyšl, and was a distant relative of Miss Elis, to whom he was devoted from the time he was a student at the philosophical school. The young girl was sincerely attached to him. Thus for a time they were happy in their true but secret love.
“But his mother, your grandmother, was very pious, and had pledged her son, while he yet was a child, to the priestly office,” continued Miss Elis, when all the antecedents had been explained.
“When he was in physics, he expressed himself as unwilling to become a priest. But there upon his mother begged him and wept, and when he remained firm, she grieved so deeply that she fell into a serious illness. She sorrowed because she could not keep her vow. Even the old father entreated him, begged him, prayed him, even fell on his knees before his son—so then—. After the vacation he was to go to the seminary. Before he went, he asked for permission to speak to me. We met in the grove, not far from here—and here we bid each other good bye forever.”
Miss Elis stopped; kind, blue eyes grew dim.
“And you never met him again?” Lenka asked gently.
“Oh yes. Your grandmother regained her health. On the day of St. John of Nepomuk she went to Prague with the grandfather to visit George. They invited me also. I wished to avoid this meeting, and again I longed for it, but I could not refuse; our folks urged me. When we arrived at Prague, there were so many people that in the crowd and the noise I was separated from your grandfather. I wandered aimlessly through the noisy streets. Then I met an old gentleman in high boots who looked just like our dean. He also was a priest. I went to him, kissed his hand, and begged him to tell me where the seminary was. I thought that there I should find them all. He smiled at me kindly: “Do you have a brother there?” he asked, and I—God knows how I felt. He took me to a large, dark building. “Go through that gate, then across the yard to the left, and beyond the second yard is the seminary. Ask the gate keeper there.” I thanked him and went. It was late in the afternoon. Among those dismal buildings it was already dusky, and not a living soul there. I came to the last yard, and there a little distance before me a young priest of George’s appearance was coming. When I saw that black cassock of his, I felt a sharp pain in my heart. “He also wears such a one as this!” I thought to myself, and tears filled my eyes. My God, my God! I shall never forget—he came nearer—my knees failed me—it was he—George! But so changed, pale, and thin! When I saw him I cried for pity, and forgot vbere I was. I grasped his hand as if he wanted to flee from me. He stooped over me, comforted me—the poor man—and his voice shook. Then his parents came. It was well that darkness spread over all already; and then, with the joy over their son, the future priest, they did not notice, how tear-stained I was. We stayed in Prague two days, and he took us everywhere. But I saw nothing; I could tell the folks at home nothing.”
And here Miss Elis stopped again.
A pleasant breeze, sweeping through the shrubbery and the trees, carried to them snatches of music from the pavilion. “He came home for vacation,” Miss Elis continued after a while, “but then I hardly ever spoke with him. I avoided him for his own sake, although it was extremely hard. And nobody knew a thing, nobody suspected anything. Before he was ordained, he wrote me a letter, and sent me a leaf for the album. In fact, that writing helped me the most to recognize his handwriting, that writing in the Almanac. Then he had a magnificent ordination in the dean’s church. I also attended that people should not wonder why I did not go, but when he stepped to the altar in the chasuble, a fainting spell came over me and I had to leave. Then I became sick. Oh, how gladly I would have died then!”
Both were silent. The old lady felt relieved and still it was painful; yet she eased her heart by confiding in a good and sensitive soul.
“It is past, I have lived through it,” she resumed after a pause, and on her lips appeared a melancholy smile. “And to you, dear Lenka, it will never happen!” she added. The girl looked at her inquiringly, but cast her eyes down when she saw Vavřena quickly approaching.
“He will never be a priest!” whispered Miss Elis.
“Why, is the quadrille over? What is it, Mr. Vavřena? They are still playing?”
“Oh, a misfortune, Miss Elis! I hastened from here like a deer that I might come in time. And I would have been on time, if the unfortunate Mrs. Roller had not come in my way. You know her manner; she stopped me and began a conversation. I tore myself away from her with an apology, and ran to the hall. When I came there, it was already too late. Dancing was on, and Miss Lotty was sitting aside with her mother.
“Good heavens, Mr. Vavřena!” cried Miss Elis.
“What a storm that will cause!” sighed Lenka.
“It has caused already. I went to them and apologized. Lottynka sat still and looked angry, did not even look at me, and Mrs. Roubínek sharply rebuffed me.”
“I should imagine! Try to make it right again, it might hurt you!” warned Miss Elis.
“I delayed you!” and Lenka looked anxiously at the philosopher, who, however, made a determined motion with his hand and smilingly replied:
“It is done! fear nothing. With your kind per​mission I shall stay here with you; it is so pleasant here—!”
“I am concerned about Fritz, Mr. Vavřena.”
“I put him in charge of a dependable student.”
“But what if aunt should really be angry with you?”
“If she discharged you,” sighed Miss Elis.
At these words Lenka and the young man loked at each other; the same thought flashed through their minds and frightened them both: then they would not see each other daily.
But Vavřena regained his composure and shook his head. “That will not happen.”
In that moment the shrubbery nearby rustled.
“Again! The hawk is circling near us!” he remarked, and all looked in that direction. Close by, a short, elderly woman appeared. She was neither thin nor fat, her withered face was remarkable mostly for the keen, piercing eyes, with which she quickly penetrated and inspected the situation. On her left hand was hung her in dispensable bag for skein, knitting needles, and stocking.
She looked a moment on the group under the tree, and smiled peculiarly.
“Oh, oh, my dear sir, is the quadrille over?” she began in German. “That is why we were in such a hurry? Oh—Miss Elis—good day!”
Measuring them all with her penetrating glance, she greeted them ironically, and strutted on without waiting for an answer.
Vavřena rose in anger, but Miss Elis caught him by the hand, and Lenka, who had cast down her eye before looked at the indignant youth.
“She deserves a sharp cut from me, that old gossip! She thinks she is still the mayor’s wife, and that she can boss and order people about as she did in her husband’s time!”
“But you know her, Mr. Vavřena; she will revenge herself on you,” Miss Elis spoke soothingly.
“Of course, I know her! She goes all around and picks up gossip. And you know her also, that Czecho-German. You told me how much evil she did against the late Mrs. Rettig.”
“But Miss Lenka here.” interrupted Miss Elis.
“Oh, yes, she also visits Mrs. Roubínek,” added the student more gently. It occurred to him the good girl would suffer again.
“She does come and I know her by sight. But let her come and tell. I can bear it,” Lenka smiled. “But I don’t know how about you!” The glance which she turned on Vavřena told the rest. “But now I must go.”
“We shall accompany you.” Miss Elis arose.
Vavřena, turning by chance, looked toward the old tree. Presently he exclaimed:
“I thought a while ago that if a strong wind or a storm came, it could very easily knock the nest down.”
“Look, Miss Lenka, the bird is out!”
“We shall wait and I will tell you after a few days whatever occurs on this beautiful spot.”
“Oh, then you will have such a lot of trouble with me! That “Bridge” which you loaned me. I can not cross very well alone. I do not under stand many things in it. It is hard to be philosopher.”
“I shall gladly help you with it. But to-day I brought you—.”
Vavřena took out of his breast pocket a small, thin book.
“Look it through, I shall bring Fritz in the meantime”.
The girl glanced curiously at the first page:
“T’was late evening—first of May— an eve of May—t’was time of love—”
read the first lines.
CHAPTER VI.
Nedošin grove resounded with music, singing. Most of the people thronged round the dance-hall and then in the lower part around the restaurant. But all paths, even the most distant ones, were crowded, mostly by young people. In a quiet nook deep in the grove Špína walked slowly, as is meet for a philosopher, completely lost in thought. He wore a black frock, the one inherited from his deceased uncle, which he had cleaned so diligently and prepared for today’s celebration; a quite respectable high hat rested on his philosophical head. The young man fought with his indecision and bashfulness. A while ago he saw Márinka, beautiful and radiant in the dance, and the fires of his love flared up.
He desired the joy of dancing with her, but because he was so uncertain in dancing he hesitated until suddenly she disappeared from the hall and he sought her in vain. Now, looking for her, he was resolved to dance with her no matter what happened! He was imagining how he would approach her, how he would ask her for a little dance; he went himself, tried himself in a bow—then suddenly he straightened up, as if an electric spark ran through his body.
Whispers were heard behind the thicket. He listened.
“I won the bouquet, like the one on the stairs, did I not?”
“Here is your bouquet—.”
“And here—”
He heard no more; but he saw, himself unseen, how Frýbort bent over Márinka and kissed her. And she did not resist, she did not cry for help!
The happy couple with whispers and kissing passed on. Špína stood there thunderstruck, and intently looked on the spot where that flatterer so daringly had kissed the girl. Recovering from his shock, he slowly retreated his steps, his head bent lower, looking gloomier than otherwise would be proper for a philosopher.
(To be continued.)
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