Page:The Czechoslovak Review, vol3, 1919.djvu/255

 laugh brought a smile even to the lips of Miss Elis.

“I would like to see him bending over his darling, and kissing her!”

“You delight in teasing!”

“Oh no, by no means; Špína is a good fellow, a worthy fellow. But if I knew something positive, I would laugh to his face.”

“Heavens, do not tell him anything!”

“Where did he go?”

“He took a book and said that he was going to study. He complained of having too much of it”

“Of course, if he is in love.”

“And you never complain!”

“Why should I complain? Love is a sweet burden, and a man would ask for still more of it; and study—there are a few months yet to the end of the year. But, Miss Elis—”, and here Frýbort ceased to speak in his light, jolly tone, and gazed toward the dresser, where a round oil painting of small dimensions was hung on the wall.

On the faded, dark background, the likeness of a young priest was seen, It was not the picture, seen by Frýbort every day, which attracted his attention, but a narrow half-circle of moss and artificial flowers, which was wreathed on the gilded frame.

“That wreath has not been hanging there long.” He turned inquiringly to Miss Elis. She dropped her hands into her lap, and sat silent.

When Frýbort suddenly and wonderingly looked at the picture, her withered cheeks flushed slightly with a crimson shadow, and she cast her eyes down for a moment.

“To-day is St. George’s holiday, and his name was George.”

The teasing smile disappeared from the lips of the jolly philosopher.

A pale, tall young man entered, and greeting, hurried into the next room, where, with Vavřena, Frýbort, and Špína, he lived.

“Why are you in such a hurry, Zelenka?” inquired Frýbort.

“I forgot a book, and it will be five o’clock in a moment. I must go to give a lesson.”

“You poor instructor!” sighed Frýbort; and, as if he were spurred by Zelenka, said to Miss Elis:

“I also have work.” He went after Zelenka who, having found the desired book, again was hurrying out of the house in order to inject the school lesson into the head of his young charge.

Frýbort, having seated himself at the table on which books and notebooks lay in disorder, dipped his quill pen in ink and proceeded to write on the blank paper.

“Fellow-students!” appeared in large letters on the paper.

The rooms grew quiet.

Miss Elis raised her head and began to knit again, but the pensive shadow did not leave her forehead and face.

At that time some mischievous youngster rapped the drum of old Koníček who, being awakened from his slumbers, arose, and with an unsteady step, his sleepy head bent forward, went on toward the town-hall.

In the meantime, Vavřena was on his way to the registrar’s. He passed the archways and the Jewish Hill, passed the castle, the college and the Piarist college, and then stepped into a dark house built in rococo style. Above the gate of this stately mansion were hung antlers, under which “God’s eye,” with long yellow rays, was painted. He ascended to the second floor by dark stairs; stopping at one of the doors, he knocked.

There was no stir inside; nobody answered.

He entered.

His entrance greatly surprised a young maiden, who, as soon as she heard the door open, rose from the chair and hid something under the dress cloth lying on the table. She evidently did something else than sewing. Her fresh face flushed with vivid scarlet, and turning her downcast eyes toward the door upon hearing Vavřena’s voice, she said in soft, pleasant tone:

“Oh, is it you, Mr. Vavřena? I was so scared!”

“Fritz is not at home, Miss Lenka?”

“Oh yes, in my surprise I forgot. He went out with auntie and Lotty. Auntie wishes you to wait a little while, for they will return soon.”

“Gladly;” and it was evident from his tone and expression that he really would wait gladly.

“Would I be in the way here?”

The girl again blushed and smiling, pointed to a chair, Vavřena seated himself.

Lenka was confused. She seized her work hurriedly, as if she wanted to make up for lost time. Then, who knows how it happened, whether she was looking for a needle or for scissors, she moved the dress cloth in such a way that a part of it slid down from the table. At the same time a thump was heard, as if something heavier had fallen.

Lenka immediately stooped down; but before she had reached for the object, Vavřena was there to do this service for her. Their hands met, and Vavřena felt the touch of a warm, velvety-smooth face on his temple. And again the girl was like a poppy blossom.

The book fell open.

“May I look at the title?”

Lenka, turning her pretty, bright eyes toward the philosopher, was silent. He, holding a little book of small octavo in his hands, read the title aloud:

Then, involuntarily releasing the leaves held by his thumb, he gazed at the flying pages, at the lines written in prose and verse, until his eyes rested again on the young maiden’s face.