“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-
