Špína ate but little. Then turning to Miss Elis, he said:
“So you know already.”
“Yes, I know, and wonder at it. You were so diligent.”
“Well, it is done.”
“You will lose a year.”
“I will not repeat. Everything here is against me.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“I’ll go to the cloister,” he said darkly, but firmly.
“But you have a poor grade in theology.”
“They will take me at the Brethren of Mercy.”
“Heavens, Mr. Špína!”
But he had already made the decision. He explained to her that every slice of bread he ate he had to earn through bitter hardship. “Why should I torment myself?” he asked. “I do not expect or hope for anything, and if I remained here, it would come out the same way again, for I have no peace.”
He stopped. Miss Elis, coming near, said sympathetically: “I know your misfortune, I know — —”
The philosopher raised his head.
“You know? Well, now they will laugh at me the more!”
“But, Mr. Špína, what do you think of me?”
He said no more. Apparently he was calm, but behind his indifference there was suppressed a storm of feeling. He arose after a while and went to his room. Miss Elis, looking after the stooping figure in threadbare clothing, felt deep sympathy.
The unsuccessful philosopher stopped at the window of his room and meditatingly looked out on the public square. There was unusual activity. Students in large companies promenaded on the streets. All were in high spirits, and gesticulated vivaciously. He saw wagons pass, loaded with student trunks, and beside the wagons walked the fathers—citizens and countrymen clad in provincial dress. All these came for their sons, and were made happy by them; they were taking them home, where the young students will enjoy a happy, joyous vacation. But nobody will come for him; he has no home, neither father nor kind, loving mother, no one who will give him friendly and kindly greetings on his vacation.
His glance fell on the opposite side of the square; a country wagon with a strong, brown horse in the shafts stood there in front of a house. A trunk was already loaded on, and on top of it lay a bundle of featherbeds in a motley-colored, striped spread. At the horse’s head stood a young student, a collegian, who probably had not closed an eye all last night out of joy and anticipation. He stroked gently and with pleasure the nose of the beloved horse, which he propably had not seen for a long time, and which would soon take him to mother. The father was still paying the bills at the landlord’s; the son was filled with eager impatience.
This homely scene agitated Špína. Suddenly he saw before him his uncle’s old, white mare, which had taken him, when he was a little student, to his uncle and his parents. He remembered, too, how he greeted the mare and caressed her joyfully, remembered how his mother used to come out to meet him when he was approaching home, how his uncle, the priest, used to reward him for his good school certificate—all these plain, but to to him precious and joyful scenes flitted through his thought like beautiful dreams. Resting his head on the wall, he burst into tears.
There was great joy in Litomyšl that day, but also much sadness. Many philosophers would return again; perhaps many a philosopher, leaving the school, might never come back, or, at the University in noisy Prague might forget.
Lenka’s eyes were also filling with tears, but she bravely endeavored to smile. She was forbidden to speak with Vavřena; they threatened her with severe punishment. But what was a threat to her, what was punishment?
She came secretly at twilight to the forbidden spot in the park. She dared much. Alone, at the late hour—but should Vavřena leave without her speaking with him?
Every word—each trembling leaf—an expression of deep emotion which masters the heart, inspires the soul.
The rosy illumination which shined through the tree tops paled and darkness covered the park. Lenka was about to go. They went a few paces further, stopped again, until unrelenting time compelled them to part. Lenka extended her trembling hand to Vavřena; he pressed her to his heart, kissing her fresh lips. She was quiet in his arms and in the twilight he saw her pale face and closed eyes, fringed with long lashes. Suddenly she tore herself from his embrace and hurried away. Her light dress flitted among the bushes; then the gate leading to the manorial house creaked.
Lenka was gone. Vavřena still heard her gentle ardent “Do not forget!”, and still felt her burning kiss on his lips. He stood motionless on the spot, and looked in the direction in which she had disappeared. It grew dark. ***
The lights in Prence’s Inn were burning brightly and the pendant lamp illumined a very gay company. The philosophers who did not expect to leave until the next day, met here in a fraternal, friendly circle. There was no lack of fun among them of course; how could a student at the beginning of his vacation be sad? At times a merry song went round; then it was interrupted by laughing, noise, and jokes. But outbursts of laughter had no end when Frýbort in his witty way began to relate the incident which befell Mrs. Roller. It was a part of general knowledge
