The Czechoslovak Review/Volume 4/A Tale of Young Blood of '48 (7)

by Alois Jirásek

A Tale of Young Blood of ’48

By ALOIS JIRÁSEK.

Translated by Mathew Špinka.

(Concluded.)

The brightly illuminated hall and the cheerful music were pleasantly inviting. The philosophers took great care to prepare delightful entertainment. When Lenka was ascending the stairs, her heart trembled in fear and expectation, and a slight tremor shook her when the music started. For the first time she was in such a large company.

Conscious of her all-conquering charms, Lotty stepped boldly into the room, graciously receiving the bows of the students. Her sparkling eye quickly looked over the whole room. Only there at the side-door, where a tall, handsome young man stood ,her glance lingered a little longer.

She saw, how coolly and without emotion Vavřena looked at her, how calmly he turned his head away—but now—he stirred, his eye lightened, and his composure was gone. Oh, what blindness! She expected something different from that cold, indifferent glance! And yet he flared up, but for another!

On Lenka the philosopher fixed his gaze, joyfully surprised, happy. He did not expect her, did not know that she was coming. And as soon as the old priest’s ward saw the joy in his face, all fear and depression left her, and in her innermost heart she exulted. Moreover, when he later came and asked her for a dance, when he bore her away in his arms around the brilliantly illumined hall to the sound of the gay music, when she heard his ardent, sincere words which he whispered to her during the dance—her head went dizzy with happiness.

When, during the intermission, a promenade over the hall was going on, Lottynka was hemmed in all sides. Only he whom she expected with certainty acted as if he did mot see her. She waited, but in vain. She saw how he danced with her cousin, how vivaciously and intimately he spoke with her, and the proud Lottynka was again dissatisfied and peevish. Also, of course, her mother’s eyes angrily and coldly followed the happy couple.

But Lenka and Vavřena ignored these glances and the clouded, sneering faces; they enjoyed in full measure the few blissful moments that were permitted them. Frýbort also gave his undivided attention to the radiantly happy Márinka.

“If Miss Elis could see us!” whispered Lenka.

“She would bless us.”

At about eleven o’clock, a mighty flourish sounded from the little gallery, occupied by the band. Count George, with his radiant sister, honored the philosophical ball by his presence. In a little while after this interruption, everything went on as before.

Midnight came, and Vavřena had not come to bow to Lottynka, and most probably would not come. She had not conquered. She returned to her mother, her white forehead shaded with displeasure.

“Bedenke nur, wie er nur ungalant ist!” (Just think how discourteous he is!), she complained. But just then she received full compensation. The count, walking about the hall, stopped before Mrs. Roubínek and her daughter, to whom he addressed a few complimentary words. Mrs. Roubínek was transported into bliss. When he left, and she was hurrying to the next room to inform her husband of the incident, she looked contemptuously on Vavřena and Lenka whom she passed. Who can equal her girl? What is he, that student from the peasantry? No wonder the vulgar seek vulgar! Mrs. Roubínek did not forget to inform her acquaintances what courtesy the count had shown them, and in the twinkling of an eye it spread that he had pronounced Lottynka to be the queen of the ball.

It went worst with the registrar Roubínek. He was not a heavy drinker, could not play cards here, and there was no king Herod on the wall on whom he could fasten his eyes. He was in the habit of going to bed early, and now to stay up here all night! He yawned, and longed for his “oberst”, his night cap, and the soft bed. Only the fact, that his gracious lordship condescended to speak kindly with his wife consoled him.

Day was dawning, when the party broke up. Frýbort was escorting the landlady with Márinka, and Vavřena went with them. Mr. Roubínek’s family also walked now. Snow was falling and settled gently on the shawls and the wraps of the women. Although all were tired, they still spoke much of the honor done them by the count. Only Lenka was silent; in her thoughts, however, she felt as though she were in the flower filled spring time; in her snug room all was peace and happiness.

She thought of Vavřena’s words, of the sacred promise he made her in the ornamental chamber of the hall, where for a while they sat alone.

“Let us wait, dear Lenka! I will not leave you, nor betray you!” he vowed to her, and she believed him as the gospel.

CHAPTER X.

A new spring opened, which brought, besides the blossoms and songs. the brillant gleam of a new era, for which the nations, long opressed by absolutism, had yearned. Metternich fell, censorship was abolished, and an organization of the national defense was permitted. On the fifteenth of April, 1848, the Constitution was proclaimed. The news of this filled Prague and the whole kingdom with rejoicing and exultation.

The National Defense, or Guard, was being established everywhere.

In Vienna, a student legion was formed, and was organized after the manner of the old Roman army; in a short time, this was not the only one in existence.

The tranquillity of quiet Litomyšl flew, God knows where. Everything was upset and changes and subversions occurred unexpectedly, suddenly, almost over night. One message from mother Prague succeeded another, exciting and straining the minds of all. Some welcomed the Constitution with joy, others in hesitation were awaiting further developments, and some, more to one side and under cover, cursed these innovations, and the destruction of the old, established customs.

The registrar Roubínek was unhappy, beside himself. He had not had a moment of rest, for his ultra-conservative spirit feared all experiments, dreaded weakening of discipline and expected a general collapse.

The recorder used to come oftener, but of a “delightful” conversation no trace was left. True, Mr. Roubínek still gazed at king Herod, but he turned his gaze away oftener, for his friend, the recorder, brought such news!

Storms in Vienna, confusion in Prague, mass meetings of the common people, abolition of censorship and of the forced feudal servitude—oh, God,—what will become of the world, what a monster this Constitution is, turning everything upside down!

All around in the neighboring towns guards were organized; there would be one in Litomyšl in no time, and every citizen would take up arms, be given a helmet, and be trained on the Bleachery, stand guard, and attend military training!

That was enough to make a person sick! The registrar could not even rest properly, when, having the “oberst” on, he sat in his easy chair; he did not enjoy even his pipe, in spite of the fact, that Lotty, with her rosy, little finger would press down the tobacco.

Noise and singing was heard from the street every now and then, and from all sides resounded: “nation, country, liberty, equality, Bohemian language. self-government”—“and, who knows how many more watchwords of frenzied brains,” as Mr. Roubínek remarked to the recorder.

God only knows where all those patriots thus came from all of a sudden! They sprang up over night like mushrooms after a rain. Everything was patriotic! Esteem was nowhere, the former respect gone completely! Everybody proudly carried his head higher, as if he had grown in stature by the virtue of that Constitution. Mrs. Roubínek bore it ill that everywhere Bohemian was beginning to be spoken, and that at several places she, with her mixed language, was laughed at. She had an only friend in Mrs. Roller, as her husband in the recorder.

“Bedenken sie. that Lenka! Heretofore always taciturn, stubborn, but now talkative and cheerful. That is all. . .”

“Diese Konstitution! You will see that man wird noch rauben und morden!” (That they will yet rob and murder.”)

And what, then, when Lotty rushed home and brought the news that the philosophers had held a mass meeting, and that they had organized themselves into a student legion!

“Now we are done!” sighed Mr. Roubínek.—“What is it when a child is given a knife or a razor? Swords instead of pens to the students! Now we are done!”

“Und was die Professoren, und was der Pater Rector?” (And what the professors, and what Pater Rector?)

“They can not hinder them.”

“How could they, when not even state authority, not even the ministerial cabinet has any respect!” and Mr. Roubínek’s glance fastened rigidly on king Herod.

With the exception of Zelenka, Miss Elis had seen but little of her students the whole day.—They were eternally at the college, or in meetings of which there was no end. How could Vavřena or Frýbort stay away? In all schools and institutions student legions were being organized or had been organized, and should the philosophy of Litomyšl be the last one? Nobody could hinder them, nor would they have permitted interference. Thus within a very short time, even before the citizens themselves had formed a company of national defense, a student legion was organized. It was led by a captain and elected officers.

The landlady, conversing with Miss Elis, often expressed her fears over the stormy times, “which surely will bring no good.” But the patriotic old lady comforted her, explaining the Constitution to her as best she understood it herself, or as Vavřena had informed her about it. She was sincerely glad of it all and that the loyal spirit, which up to this time had been in hiding in the city, now held sway.

“What would the late Mrs. Rettig say! Too bad she had not lived to see this day!” and her glance fell on the picture of the unknown, sacrificing patriot, Pater George.

And how her home became famous! She almost blushed for joy when Márinka rushed in to tell her that at the mass meeting of the philosophers Frýbort and Vavřena were elected officers.

“Then they must have officers’ sashes!” observed Miss Elis.

“I’ll make one for Frýbort!”

“And I for Mr. Vavřena. Lenka, poor girl, can’t.”

Next day (it was Sunday) the legion was to march out the first time for training. Early in the afternoon there was a little celebration in the home of Miss Elis. The landlady came with her daughter, who brought something wrapped up in paper. When she took it out, it proved to be a beautiful sash of red and white; Miss Elis took a similiar one out of the cabinet. Both the officer-philosophers stood in the middle of the room, wearing green caps with red and white bands on. They had no uniform, but shining swords were suspended at their sides on neat belts. All beamed with satisfaction and happiness.

Frýbort, smiling, stooped a little, and Márinka, blushing, raised herself on tiptoes, and hung the sash on his shoulders, tying it into a neat knot on the side. The young legionary bowed and saluted in military fashion. Just then a young student stepped into the parlor and reported that Mr. Brož sent a little package to Mr. Vavřena. The philosopher quickly reached for it; when he unwrapped it, he found a beautiful red and white sash, and a card fell from the sash. Vavřena read it hurriedly, and blushed for joy.

“Oh, I know, my gift will be refused!” exclaimed Miss Elis. “But I’ll gladly step aside. Miss Lenka — —”

“Sends me this sash.”

“I’ll put mine away.”

“But she begs you, Miss Elis, to put it on me.”

“Why, that’s understood, who else could do it.”

The officer-philosophers thanked the ladies, and with a military salute left for the meeting. The mother, the daughter, and Miss Elis stepped to the windov, and looked after the students. They marched manfully away in their decorations, proudly conscious of being soldiers.

Everything was in revolt, even the sentences of Mr. Roubínek!

That Sunday afternoon the registrar sat as usual by a table, and wrote to his colleague of Rychtemburg. At other times everything proceeded as if of itself, sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph, worked out nicely so that it was a joy for Mrs. Roubínek to listen. But to-day her husband could not hammer together a single decent sentence. Where should he begin, when there is so much to write about in these God-forsaken, rebellious times? On other occasions he wrote about the wind, the weather, or here and there about gossip in the office; to-day he would have to write—who would not get angry?—every where, even into his pen, rush the words “liberty, equality, country, abolition of serfdom!”

Hardly had he finished the first line, when he was interrupted. There arose a muffled din and singing outside, and then the heavy step of a multitude was heard. His wife and daughter ran to the window.

“Papa, papa, they are coming!”

The din was heard under the very window. Mr. Roubínek also got up and went to see.

In the street stood a crowd of people, and in the middle, with a measured, ringing step marched the student legion, the captain in front, on the sides the officers. All, even the private legionaries, wore green caps and were armed.

Company after company passed. Now Lotty was startled.

Here was Vavřena, an officer. Presently she heard his resonant voice commanding:

“Eyes right!” and his platoon, saluting, turned eyes right.

“Eyes right!” officer Frýbort commanded immediately after him for his friend’s sake, and his platoon also looked right.

For whom? Oh, well did Lotty note Vavřena’s glance, which was directed to the window in the hall-way, where Lenka stood. The platoons were saluting her!

Lotty bounced off from window; her father, chagrined, likewise returned to his easy chair. After a while he took up his pen again, but had the same trouble as before. Leaning his right elbow on the table, he gazed at king Herod, that is, he meditated.

That legion would not leave him alone. Patriots! Hmm! Why those guns, and those green caps? Green caps!

He leaned over, and began writing. From the black quill pen flowed out on the paper green caps! Who had ever heard the like of it? Žižka and Emperor Joseph were also patriots, and—weapons? Green caps?—Destruction!. . .

The philosophers, after the college lectures, assembled to receive military training.

Their patriotism, moreover, did not stop with songs and manifestos. The college lectures were still all German, and of the Bohemian language and literature they had not heard a single word. All felt the necessity to perfect and establish themselves in their mother tongue. But who should lecture to them in Bohemian, who should teach them?

A student conference was held over the problem, and when a decision was arrived at, Vavřena and Frýbort betook themselves, as student representatives, directly to the dean’s manse to Pater Anton Šanta, of whom it was known that he was a sincere, active patriot, and that he studied the Bohemian language and literature zealously.

The young priest was sitting in the servants hall, reading, when the clanging of swords in the corridor interrupted him; immediately afterwards the delegates of the Student Legion entered the room. He was joyfully surprised with their request, and willingly promised to comply with it, if pater rector would permit. The rector, under such circumstances, could not prevent it, and had to admit the priest to the philosophical faculty as a docent extraordinary.

A short time after that the hall of the philosophical college was entirely filled. The professors, students, guardsmen, and citizens, all came to hear the first lecture; no one had so many auditors but Pater German, sometimes, when he lectured on special periods of history. The philosophers, as though they were not the same men who caused that infernal uproar in the room of the professor of theology last year, stood there like lambs, their eyes fastened on the young priest who mounted the cathedra.

In a sonorous voice he began the introduction. With ardent, eloquent words he reviewed Bohemia’s past, the nation’s glory and its fall; he spoke of the labor of the great leaders, such as Jungmann, and the living patriots, Šafařík and Palacký; he spoke of the present hopeful times and of the prospect for a better future.

Silence pervaded the whole room so that the buzzing of a fly could have been heard; the eyes of the young were fired with enthusiasm. The glance of Pater Anton fell on the white-haired Pater German, who rested his outstretched arms on a cane. On his expressive, noble face was reflected a depth of strong emotion, and from his eyes joyful tears were trickling down his wrinkled face. It was the joy of Simeon, to whom it was given to see the dawn of a new day, which he so long had awaited.

A stormy applause thundered through the hall when Pater Anton ended. From that day on philosophy had a new course, and no course was so well attended.

That day, when philosophy was so inspired and rejoicing, a terrible misfortune befell Mr. Roubínek, who, by the way, was not present at the lecture. Mrs. Roubínek was frightened when her husband returned from the office and entered the parlor. For a long time she pressed him to tell what happened, why he was so disturbed. He, however, sank into his easy chair, and did not even take off his “Abraham,” which, considering his usual carefulness, meant much; he did not put on his “oberst,” but stared with icy face at king Herod. Finally, when Mrs. Roubínek was getting angry, he spoke:

“The guard — —”

“What about the guard? What guard?”

“Castle guard — —.”

“Oh, so — — I do not understand!”

“There will be a castle guard — —.”

“Aber, Roubínek, rede doch vernuenftig,—(But Roubínek, speak sensibly,) there is a guard in the city — —.”

“Count George wants—also — — a guard—.”

Now Mrs. Roubínek was surprised.

“Du must auch—you must also?”

Roubínek merely nodded his head.

“And the recorder also?”

“Also—everybody.”

The world was turning the wrong side up. When even his gracious lordship joined thoy innovators and rebels, who could abide? But the lord commands, and Roubínek must obey. He must go to the castle arsenal, there they will give him some old cutlass, put on his shoulder an old blunderbuss, stand him in line, and then he must jump all over the castle yard “one, two, one, two,” and “left, right,”—good Lord, like those idiotic students—he, the registrar! And they will come and look at him, the children, the grown-ups, and everybody, and if he makes mistake they will mock him “hay, straw,” and he, with a green cap on his head, will dance around like a fool! Where then will esteem go, what will become of respect, authority?

CHAPTER XI.

The patriotic movement made rapid progress and spread far and wide. Even the maidens and married women, who were formerly to a great degree indifferent in such matters, were carried away by the torrent. The good seed, sown by Dobromila Rettig, bore now an abundant fruit. The spirit of those times was like a rain which revived and refreshed the plant of patriotism. Mis Elis and Lenka especially were rejoicing. While the guardsmen and the students were in training, stood guard, kept night watches, the women were collecting money among themselves for a flag, which was to wave over the heads of the courageous student legionaries.

The solicitors did not meet with much success at Roubínek’s. Mrs. Roubínek, who would have liked best to show them the door, did not go very deep into her pocket. But in those constitutional times it would not do to slight the matter altogether. When the workers were leaving, they met the ward of Roubínek’s on the stairs, who evidently was waiting there for them. Blushing she took out of her apron pocket something wrapped in paper, and gave it to the workers.

“Please, accept this little mite!”

Had Vavřena seen Lenka, blushing, humble, bashful he would have fervently kissed the little hand which sacrificed for a patriotic cause all her savings, all her possessions.

May came again, but without the “majales.” There was no time for a celebration, for the minds of all were occupied with more serious affairs. Messages from Prague continued to pour into the city in a steady stream, sometimes filling the people with fear, but mostly comforting and carrying the expectation of better times.

The efforts of the women of Litomyšl were successful. The money was collected, and the flag made. Lenka rejoiced like a little child when Brož delivered her a printed handbill, on which she read:

“Invitation to the consecration of the flag of the Student Legion of Litomyšl, which will be held on May 21st, 1848, in the followin order:”

And when she read the program, her glance fell on the last lines.

“The celebration will be enhanced by the co-operation of the Sharpshooter’s Company, and the officers of the National Defense. The Committee of the Student Legion of LitomyšI.”

She rejoiced, and was proud of Vavřena, the officer and the member of the Committee.

In the meantime, Mr. Roubínek committed an act which nobody who knew that cold and icy official, would have expected of him. Tired, he returned from training, and found that invitation on the table. Hardly had he read a few lines when he crushed the paper into a ball, and threw it into a corner. But what availed all this anger? It was impossible to swim against the current. Mr. Roubínek could not stop the celebration by his bad temper.

The twenty-first of May was a cool day, but in spite of that a great crowd congregated at the college, where in the main hall the dignitaries, the sponsor of the flag, young count Kinský, students, and other guests were assembled. Then the festively attired maid of the flag, the niece of Pater German, mounted the platform, and in the name of the women of Litomyšl handed the emblem to the Student Legion.

This speech was answered by captain Jehlička, who thanked the women in the name of the Legion. The immense crowd then moved over to the public square, where the Sharpshooters, the City Guard, and the students were lined up in their respective positions.

Through the bright air sounded a loud, long shout, when the newly consecrated flag, on which the words “Concord” and “Equality” were printed in gold, flew over the heads of the student legionaries, and its beautiful ribbons fluttered briskly in the wind.

Miss Elis and Lenka stood at an open window. Both looked with joyful eyes on this celebration; the deep, solemn stillness, in which only the Priest’s voice resounded, and then the shouts of exultation, moved them deeply.

The band started playing, and all organizations and all the people marched back to the Piarists’ church, where the celebration was to be closed with a mass and with the chanting of the “Te Deum.”

Miss Elis looked with joy on the long columns of philosophers, who proudly marched behind the new flag, and Lenka’s face blushed when a tall officer looked up to her and greeted her with a smile. How soldierly he carried himself and how becoming his uniform was. ***

The stir of public life did not abate but rather increased each day. From Prague, the heart of Bohemia, activity radiated to all parts of the kingdom. Sudden, unexpected changes took place almost overnight, events continually new, domestic and foreign, kept all classes of people in tension and excitement. Elections to the Bohemian Diet and to the Frankfurt Parliament were called, and were quickly followed by the famous manifesto of Palacký. The Czechs and the Germans, in accord up to this time, now separated, and then many an uproar and tumult occurred in Prague. The authorities lost control over affairs, and unscrupulous men abused the short period of golden liberty.

The stormy waves shook even so remote and placid a place as Litomyšl. Roubínek was in despair. He complained no longer; he attended the training exercises, went to his office, sat at home, looking at his favorite picture, and only when the recorder came, did he feel easier, for then he could frankly unburden his soul. Mrs. Roubínek, with her friend, Mrs. Roller, was compelled to keep still; they did not agree with anything, and were in revolt against the whole world; but it was dangerous to express such sentiments in revolutionary times. Mrs. Roller secretly rebelled; she felt like a queen deprived of her throne.

Lottynka hesitated. Because of her opposition to Vavřena and Lenka she was against everything; but when nearly all the girls went over to the other side she became uneasy in her isolation.

To Lenka these stirring times were kind. She could see Vavřena much oftener than formerly, and her aunt could not successfully prevent these meetings.

Miss Elis’ students brought home some startling news every now and then. But Frýbort had completely frightened his boarding lady with the information that the philosophic course would end that year at the end of May. Márinka was still more alarmed by this news, but the jolly Hanák knew how to cheer her up; he promised to stay in town. He was doing this partly for her sake, and partly because of the times. But, contrary to expectation, he, together with Vavřena, who also did not plan to leave Litomyšl till the regular vacation time, was to take his leave much sooner.

A number of the Iegionaries left after the eighth of June, on which day captain Jehlička delivered a public speech of farewell to the professors, citizens, and the patriotic women of Litomyšl.

“To you, ye illustrious fathers of ours, whom the murderous hand of the foreigners, the enemies of our land, brought down to your graves, I vow in the name of my comrades, that we are your loyal sons; that the newly won rights of the Bohemian nation we will stoutly defend, and prove by our deeds that we honor our language and customs, and if necessary, even by the force of arms defend our nationality.”

Many a maiden wept when the stalwart philosophers dispersed. Lenka and Márinka were satisfied. There were almost two full months before they need say good bye!

But then came the second Sunday after Pentecost, the fatal, unfortunate twelfth of June!

On the thirteenth of June, terrible news reached Litomyšl.

“A revolution has broken out in Prague; the ancient city is at stake. In the terrible disorder the lawless rabble plunder and destroy, all is a hub-bub of confusion, and there is lack of means and force to restore order and discipline.”

Similar news, full of frightful details, spread over the town. On the Bleachery a large crowd of citizens came together, especially the guardsmen and the sharpshooters. It was rumored that help from the country had been sent to succor threatened Prague, and after a prolonged debate they also decided to relieve the capital. Before this was to be done, however, a few of the more prominent citizens were sent to the nearest railroad station to find out how matters stood, and to learn if from other cities relief was also sent to Prague. They left in the evening and were to come back by morning.

Before the crowd dispersed from Bleachery, however, two philosophers, after hearing the most important deliberations, quietly left the place. They walked, engaged in a serious conversation. In front of Miss Elis’ home they shook hands; Vavřena then turned his steps toward the castle, and Frýbort went home. He found Miss Elis frightened and anxious, and Márinka with her. Both now pelted the philosopher with their questions. Fear seized them when they saw Frýbort, although not dejected, was unusually serious. When he finished his story, Miss Elis grew pale, and Márinka burst out crying. She wept long and spoke convulsively:

“You do not love me—you can not leave me so lightly. . .”

But Frýbort drew her toward him, comforted her as well as he could, showing her that it was his sacred duty, and that he had promised Vavřena to do so.

Even Miss Elis attempted to restrain him; but her arguments as to what he alone could do there, what his father would say, together with Márinka’s expostulations, availed nothing.

In the castle park, Lenka stood with Vavřena. He was telling her something softly and in a low voice. The poor girl grew pale as he spoke, and when her lover finished, she was silent, gazing on the ground. She was calm as a statue, but it was a statue of grief.

Her handsome face showed signs of painful, inward struggle. Then looking up to him with her large, tearful eyes, she extended her hand.

“You can not act otherwise; it is your duty—go — —.”

Her voice shook, and instantly she ceased, laid her head on his shoulder, and wept.

It was a sad evening, a sad night! For hours a light was seen in Miss Elis’ rooms. After midnight the house door creaked, and two men came out. Up stairs in their respective rooms, Márinka wept and Miss Elis prayed. Lenka also kept vigil; before her lay a book, in which a prayer for the country was inscribed in her uncle’s handwriting.

Early in the morning, when it was still gray, the citizen’s deputation returned in haste to tell what it saw.and heard at the rairoad station. It did not notice the two young men who quickly walked in the direction from which it had come. As the committee neared the town, it met squads of guardsmen and sharpshooters, who, without waiting for information, decided to leave at once for Prague. At Babka’s Inn stood wagons, full of food supplies and of all other necessities of this small, citizen army. The information which the committee brought did not turn them back, but confirmed the rumors that the National Defense Guards of the Bohemian cities were marching to relieve Prague. So they, too, set out. ***

At that time Mr. Roubínek also was arming himself with his ancient cutlass to go to the rescue of mother Prague. Žižka and Emperor Joseph, according to him, were patriots, but they surely did not put on their swords in this manner. Mr. Roubínek was pale and frightened, and it took him a long time to buckle the belt. His dejection was increased by the grief of his wife and daughter.

Oh, Count George had no heart! Having heard that Prague was in a state of anarchy, that the goods and lives of her citizens were in jeopardy, and that the guard of Litomyšl as well as of other towns was marching to relieve the capital, he commanded his castle defenders to arm themselves quickly, and get ready for the march to the capital.

“Oh, thou king Herod! Thou wert no more cruel than this, when thou didst command that the babes of Bethlehem, both black and white, be utterly destroyed!”

The registrar, a virtuous citizen, an official, to whom all unrest and disorder was horrifying, that he should seize arms against some rabble, that he should fire into them. . .! And if those rebels catch him, how will they treat him? They will hang him to a lamp-post, they will rip him to pieces! What crime had he committed that he, the quietest, most orderly citizen, should spill human blood? Oh, thou quiet parlor, thou comfortable easy chair, and thou, O king Herod, good bye! Perhaps he will see thee no more, never again rest himself on thy soft seat, thou easy chair, never take his comfort in thee!

He embraced his wife and daughter, pale and with eyes full of tears, and stumbled down the stairs, his cutlass rattling on the steps.

In the yard, the castle guard of Count George stood at attention. All officials were armed ani ready to march. Their wives, children, and acquaintances stood around.

Then the count came, perhaps to give the command. But he stopped with the chief officer and talked with him, and both of them looked toward the turnpike. A terrible moment! The count had sent out a special courier that he might properly ascertain the state of affairs. The courier had not retuned, and perhaps the count would grow impatient and would give the command to march.

Oh, that God would grant that the courier bring a favorable message! Mr. Roubínek sighed and turned his eyes toward his family. Then, sweating and breathless, the courier rushed in—reported something to the count, who questioned him further. All eyes were concentrated on the group—Mr. Roubínek hardly breathed. Then, the count turned to the guard and announced that he had received definite, trustworthy information: a revolution had broken out in Prague, and a terrible upheaval had followed. (Mr. Roubínek lost all hope. They would go! They would!)—But the people had seized weapons and were fighting against the Imperial troops, and against those troops he would lend no aid; therefore, the guardsmen should resume their work and calling.

This was so unexpected that Mr. Roubínek could hardly comprehend it all. So many sudden upheavals and changes, that he could not give a proper outlet to his joy. He was the first to leave the line, and forgetting his dignified step, he hastened to his wife and daughter. On the steps he snatched off his cap and tore off his sword.

Then, tired and exhausted, he dropped into his easy chair, and spoke but little.

 

XII.

The night of the fourteenth of June, the soldiers secretly left Prague and ocupied Hradčany. The next day prince Windischgraetz proclaimed martial law in Prague. The people undertook the unequal struggle. The Small Quarter was fired upon from the Old Town, and the soledirs answered with bomb-shells.

In the struggling mass both Vavřena and Frýbort fought, although separated from each other; Vavřena stood among a crowd of students and fired.

“Here, friends, here!” a mighty voice shouted behind him. When Vavřena turned, he saw a tall monk, with pale homely face but whose eyes burned with enthusiasm. In his left hand he grasped a still smoking gun, and with his right hand pointed to the threatened position.

“Špínal” cried Vavřena, running toward his former colleague.

“Vojta! Welcome! But here, here, follow me, here!”

All crowded where they were led by the fighting monk, who was loading his gun again. Vavřena took his stand beside him. The shots again began to whistle, the bombs whizzed and crashed, the din of battle boomed all around; from here and there came sounds of groaning and the moans of dying men. There was no time for long conversation or questions. Vavřena only heard Špína asking:

“Is Frýbort here also?”

“He is.”

Just then a bomb exploded near by, and the pieces flew all around; when the fire and smoke cleared away, a few of the young warriors lay on the pavement.

Vavřena, escaping all danger, looked around for Špína. He was lying near by. Vavřena immediately kneeled beside him, and lifted him up. He was deadly pale, and his robe was reddened on the breast by the warm blood. With the help of another student, Vavřena bore the mortally wounded comrade to a place sheltered from the enemy fire.

When the young monk received medical attention and regained consciousness, he spoke with difficulty to Vavřena:

“Go back to the fight, go! If you return to Litomyšl, give my regards to—you know—.” Then he ceased talking. Vavřena did not obey to the letter, but remained a while longer. And he did well.

Thus, at least in his last moments, there stood by the dying “deserted orphan” a friend, who sincerely mourned over the unfortunate monk.

This was on the fifteenth of June. The day after an honorable capitulation was arranged for; but then a shot from the mills was fired on the soldiers and Windischgraetz renewed the bombardment. During this engagement the Old Town mills and the waterworks were burned down.

On the seventeenth of June, Prague capitulated. The army entered the town, and wholesale persecution began. * Before Prague capitulated and matters came to these sad ends, the Litomyšl contingent returned home.

Miss Elis circumspectly inquired about her students, if perhaps someone had not seen them in Prague; but nobody could give her any information. The philosophers were not with them; undoubtedly they were on the barricades, and there either fell or were arrested and arraigned before the court martial.

Lenka seemed not to have a drop of blood in her face; she was sad and always lost in thought. She had no one to whom she could complain or unburden herself. She was not permitted to visit Miss Elis, for since her uncle fell sick, she could hardly leave the house. She had to do the most of the waiting upon Mr. Roubínek and her household duties were not lightened. Neither the aunt nor Lotty could say that she complained by a single word, or that she even as much as sighed before them.

Of course, her dark room did not reveal the tears which she shed, and did not tell how in the long night hours it heard the silent, painful cries of a lonely heart, which feared that it had lost its all, its everything.

The registrar really became dangerously ill.

The Constitution was the cause of all this, as his wife told Mrs. Roller. The mayor’s widow returned from a prolonged visit to her relatives, and her first call was to the registrar’s. She also brought the news that “Prague was shot to pieces, and that they were catching those rebels like mice.”

When they told this to Mr. Roubínek, his face brightened and he said: “Well, order will come again—.”

There was much talk in the town about Frýbort and Vavřena. But Miss Elis, and by her advice her good friends also, insisted that her philosophers had left for their vacations. Still here and there it was rumored that they had gone to Prague, and had remained there. But Mrs. Roubínek would always add:

“Well did Roubínek say that with that Vavřena it ein schlechtes Ende nehmen wird— .” (“it would take a bad end”)

A few more days passed, but no news came.

The sixth night after the return of the Litomyšl contingent, Miss Elis was suddenly roused from sleep.

She heard a knocking at the door similar to that of Frýbort’s, when he sometimes would come late from Prence’s. She thought that it was merely a realistic dream, but the knocking was repeated, quickly, hurriedly. She trembled and got out of bed with difficulty, then dressed a little, and hastened down stairs.

“Who is it?” she asked in a wavering voice.

“I, Miss Elis, Frýbort—.”

“Holy Virgin!” She opened the door. He grasped her hand and closed the door himself. “Let us go up stairs, but let us hurry—.”

When she made a light, she almost cried out with alarm. The handsome young man, how changed he was! He had grown thin and his clothes were torn and dirty.

“Do not fear, I am all right, only terribly hungry. I have been fleeing from Prague for four days now; I had to hide—only something to eat quickly.—What is Márinka doing?”

When Miss Elis brought him something to eat, he begged her to wake Márinka, if possible, because he must go on the same night.

Miss Elis acted as though in a trance. She rejoiced, yet feared but did as Frýbort requested.

“And what of Mr. Vavřena?”

“He is alive and well; he escaped home to the mountains. We were fleeing together for a time. This slip of paper here is for Lenka—But Špína, the poor fellow, fell on the barricades.”

Miss Elis was dazed and could not even believe it. She would have endlessly pitied him and kept on questioning, if Frýbort had given her time. Márinka and her mother were called and Miss Elis told them the news. Both hastily dressed, and hurried up stairs. Frýbort, seeing his Márinka, did not mind at all the presence of her mother, but jumping up, caught the beloved girl into his arms. The landlady would have lectured him on his folly in joining the rebellion, lamenting that he possibly had spoiled his student career thereby, but the philosopher knew how to comfort her. He would have almost forgotten what he expected to accomplish that night yet, had not the peal of the bell from the tower announced the second hour past midnight, and thus reminded him of his intentions. Explaining everything as far as time permitted, and taking a short but sincere farewell, he left and turned toward the near Moravian border. He promised that as soon as he reached home, he would let them know by a card. Quietly, unnoticed, he came, and in the same manner departed.

And next evening Lenka’s rom heard her painful cry no more. A candle flickered on her table and by its light the girl bent over a slip of paper, which announced to her that Vavřena was alive, that he had successfully accomplished his flight, and shortly by letter would tell her more. * The Prague storm was suppressed, but persecution and punishment ensued.

Špína now was beyond all these things. He had not tormented himself long in the monk’s robe, which he despised, but even so, he was compelled to wear it on his journey to eternity.

Before the vacation was over, Mrs. Roubínek and her daughter met with a great sorrow. The registrar went to his eternal rest. He died, having left, as is proper and right, a correctly drawn up last will. He designated therein minutely what he bequeathed to his wife, what to his daughter; where the ‘oberst’ was to go, where “Abraham”, “Klapálek”, and all the other parts of his wardrobe. He devoted a special paragraph to the “priceless” picture of king Herod, upon which even from his bed of sickness he often and long had gazed. He left it to the recorder, his beloved friend, with whom he had so many “delightful” conversations. He did no entire forget Lenka, but appointed her a modest sum of money for her careful and faithful attendance on him during the fatal illness.

Mr. Roubínek had a splendid funeral. The Heavenly Father did not grant the registrar the joy of witnessing the “good order” of the times of Bach, of blessed memory. Instead, he called him where he could enjoy himself with the company of Žižka and Emperor Joseph, “who left us that church for a memorial.”

After the vacation, there was less noise in the rooms of Miss Elis than formerly. She had no philosophers; instead, three young college students lived with her. She did not feel lonesome for she was more satisfied. Her wish of long age was realized.

She asked Lenka to move and live with her. Mrs. Roubínek, having lost her husband, at first opposed this proposition, more in appearance than in reality, but finally she consented; for Lenka was somewhat of a relative of Miss Elis’, anyway. So Lenka began a new life, the kind, old lady became a mother to her.

After vacation Frýbort came with his father and asked for Márinka’s hand. The landlady had dreamed of a doctor, it is true, but Frýbort chose rather a large, fine farm in golden Haná, and Márinka also did not object to marrying an educated farmer.

“You loved a philosopher and an officer, will you also love a farmer?”

For reply she embraced him. * Now the letters from Moravia came directly to Márinka’s address; Miss Elis got letters only from Prague and these in reality belonged to Lenka. They were sent by Vojtěch Vavřena, medicinae studiosus. He had escaped all trials and so could pursue his studies.

Zelenka did not write.

“I knew that as soon as he left, he would forget us” said Miss Elis.

Next year, before Lent, Frýbort, with a numerous Hanák suite came for Márinka, to carry her away as his beloved wife. Vavřena also came from Prague to be the best man, while Lenka was the bride’s maid. And when the wedding feast was at the gayest, the bridegroom being the jolliest of all, Vavřena stood up and raised his glass to the honored memory of the former friend and colleague, who died in the fateful struggle on the barricades. The bride cast her eyes down and Miss Elis’ were filled with tears.

 

CHAPTER XIII.

The year 1849 passed. The philosophical school of Litomyšl was abolished, the legion dispersed and its flag was destroyed. The pater rector himself tore it off its staff, which he then stuck in the Piarist’s garden by a gooseberry bush.

Mrs. Roller moved out of town to her relatives.

After five years, the ancient house in which Mis Elis lived was again the scene of gayety. Her dream was realized! Lenka’s longing was fulfilled. Doctor Vavřena was married, leading to the altar the priest’s niece. Their love was as fresh and true then, as when they met of a Sunday afternoon in the castle park. They had guests from as far as Moravia. Frýbort, happy and contended, came with Márinka, and smilingly said: “You were my best man, my friend, but I can not repay you that service, for that lttle cherub will not let me.” And he pointed to his three year old son.

Mrs. Roubínek, although invited, did not attend the wedding. Her handsome, rich daughter was still waiting for a very distinguished suitor, at least a doctor. But he had not yet come.

Miss Elis went to live with “her children,” and never regretted it. She related now oftener than ever how she had had fifty one philosophers in her rooms; fifty had attained positions of independence, the fifty-first had fallen on the barricades.

When she lived at Vavřena’s, she received a letter, for which she had to pay a whole twenty heller piece. What is that, who writes? It was Zelenka, who informed her that he was in the cloister of Medlice, where he had attained a very good living. “I need eat bread and fruit porridge no longer,” he wrote, among other things.

“I believe,” remarked Vavřena, “that he has fat, ruddy cheeks now, and is of respectable dimensions, and does not touch a book except the breviary.”

“And hoards crowns; he did not even prepay the letter.”

On Christmas, the first which the young doctor spent together with his little wife, he received a hearty letter from Frýbort, enclosed in which he found a large sheet. It was headed:

“Colleagues!”

“It is the first draft of the proclamation which we composed together before the celebration of the majales. I found it in the bottom of my student trunk. You will, no doubt, be glad to remember those times,” wrote Frýbort.

“I surely remember them gladly,” said Vavřena.” It was then that we found each other under the old tree; do you remember, Lenka? We also have a nest now, and it is pleasant and warm in it.” ***

The philosophical history is ended. It was written for the pleasant remembrance of the old, and for the enjoyment of the young; the author of this chronicle sincerely wishes and hopes that the pleasure will be plentiful.

 

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