Behind the fence mothers and aunts, without quite grasping what was going on, were also highly excited. Yet the majority of students were undecided, and, stuffing themselves with bread and butter, simply reiterated:
"Is the presumptuous Kneadus perchance a ribald? Is Syphonus an idealistus? Noses to our books, let's cram, cram, cram or we'll flunk!"
Others, preferring not to be mixed up in all this, led tactful conversations about sports and pretended to be greatly interested in a football match. But now and then one or another, evidently unable to resist the scorching and burning issues of the dispute, would listen, ponder awhile, and, cheeks flushed, join either Syphon's or Kneadus' camp. The teacher dozed off on a bench in the sun and, from afar, smacked his lips at the youthful naivete. "Hey, the pupa, the pupa," he purred. Only one student had not been swept away by the general ideological excitement. He stood to one side, dressed in a knit shirt, soft flannel pants, a delicate gold chain round his left wrist, calmly warming himself in the sun. "Hey, Kopyrda!" each side called to him, "Kopyrda, join us!" He seemed to be the subject of general envy, both hostile camps wanted to win him over, but he did not heed either side. He moved one foot forward and wiggled it to and fro.
"We don't give a hoot for the opinions of janitors' sons, apprentices, and all the street riffraff!" exclaimed Pyzo, a friend of Syphon's, "they're all dumb."
"And what about schoolgirls?" Mizdral anxiously asked, "don't you care about the opinions of schoolgirls? Just imagine, what will schoolgirls think?"
Shouts came from all around:
"Schoolgirls love those who are pure!"
"No, no, they prefer the filthy ones!"
"Schoolgirls?!" Syphon mouthed disdainfully, "we care only about the opinions of noble-minded lasses, and they are on our side!"
Kneadus walked up to him and said, his voice breaking:
"Syphon! You wouldn't do this to us, would you?! Take back what you've just said, and I will too! Let's both drop it, shall we? I'm ready to... to apologize to you, I'm ready to do anything... as long as you retract your words about those lads' and ... let yourself be initiated. Retract 'lads.' And I'll retract 'guys.' This isn't just your own personal matter, you know."
But before answering, Syphon Pylaszczkiewicz gave him a bright and gentle look, yet a look that was full of inner strength. With such a look must come a strong reply. Taking a step back, he therefore said:
"I'm ready to give my life for my ideals!"
But Kneadus had already moved in on him, his fists clenched.
"Onward! Charge! Get him, guys! Beat the lad! Kill him, kill him, beat him up, kill the lad!"
"Here, lads, here!" exclaimed Syphon Pylaszczkiewicz, "stick up for me, I haven't lost my innocence yet, I'm your lad, stick up for me!" he went on with a piercing voice. And hearing his call many of them were moved within by the "lad" against the "guy." They formed a tight circle around Syphon, and they stood their ground against the followers of Kneadus. Blows fell, Syphon jumped up on a rock, rousing his own to resist, but now Kneadus' followers had the upper hand and Syphon's retinue was retreating and breaking up. Suddenly, in the face of defeat, and with what remained of his strength, Syphon intoned the Falcons' March: {4}
Hey, lads and Falcons, give him vigor and brawn, Wake him up from the dead, make him rise and live on!
The song, which they took up instantly, grew and swelled, crested and rolled like a wave. They stood motionless, singing, and, with Syphon's lead, fixed their gaze on a distant star and also at the very noses of their assailants. Whereupon the assailants' clenched fists dropped helplessly to their sides. They no longer had any idea how to get at their opponents, how to provoke or taunt them—while the others sang with ever greater power, ardor, and fervor, aiming their star-inspired song straight at the noses of their assailants. One after another of
"Is the presumptuous Kneadus perchance a ribald? Is Syphonus an idealistus? Noses to our books, let's cram, cram, cram or we'll flunk!"
Others, preferring not to be mixed up in all this, led tactful conversations about sports and pretended to be greatly interested in a football match. But now and then one or another, evidently unable to resist the scorching and burning issues of the dispute, would listen, ponder awhile, and, cheeks flushed, join either Syphon's or Kneadus' camp. The teacher dozed off on a bench in the sun and, from afar, smacked his lips at the youthful naivete. "Hey, the pupa, the pupa," he purred. Only one student had not been swept away by the general ideological excitement. He stood to one side, dressed in a knit shirt, soft flannel pants, a delicate gold chain round his left wrist, calmly warming himself in the sun. "Hey, Kopyrda!" each side called to him, "Kopyrda, join us!" He seemed to be the subject of general envy, both hostile camps wanted to win him over, but he did not heed either side. He moved one foot forward and wiggled it to and fro.
"We don't give a hoot for the opinions of janitors' sons, apprentices, and all the street riffraff!" exclaimed Pyzo, a friend of Syphon's, "they're all dumb."
"And what about schoolgirls?" Mizdral anxiously asked, "don't you care about the opinions of schoolgirls? Just imagine, what will schoolgirls think?"
Shouts came from all around:
"Schoolgirls love those who are pure!"
"No, no, they prefer the filthy ones!"
"Schoolgirls?!" Syphon mouthed disdainfully, "we care only about the opinions of noble-minded lasses, and they are on our side!"
Kneadus walked up to him and said, his voice breaking:
"Syphon! You wouldn't do this to us, would you?! Take back what you've just said, and I will too! Let's both drop it, shall we? I'm ready to... to apologize to you, I'm ready to do anything... as long as you retract your words about those lads' and ... let yourself be initiated. Retract 'lads.' And I'll retract 'guys.' This isn't just your own personal matter, you know."
But before answering, Syphon Pylaszczkiewicz gave him a bright and gentle look, yet a look that was full of inner strength. With such a look must come a strong reply. Taking a step back, he therefore said:
"I'm ready to give my life for my ideals!"
But Kneadus had already moved in on him, his fists clenched.
"Onward! Charge! Get him, guys! Beat the lad! Kill him, kill him, beat him up, kill the lad!"
"Here, lads, here!" exclaimed Syphon Pylaszczkiewicz, "stick up for me, I haven't lost my innocence yet, I'm your lad, stick up for me!" he went on with a piercing voice. And hearing his call many of them were moved within by the "lad" against the "guy." They formed a tight circle around Syphon, and they stood their ground against the followers of Kneadus. Blows fell, Syphon jumped up on a rock, rousing his own to resist, but now Kneadus' followers had the upper hand and Syphon's retinue was retreating and breaking up. Suddenly, in the face of defeat, and with what remained of his strength, Syphon intoned the Falcons' March: {4}
Hey, lads and Falcons, give him vigor and brawn, Wake him up from the dead, make him rise and live on!
The song, which they took up instantly, grew and swelled, crested and rolled like a wave. They stood motionless, singing, and, with Syphon's lead, fixed their gaze on a distant star and also at the very noses of their assailants. Whereupon the assailants' clenched fists dropped helplessly to their sides. They no longer had any idea how to get at their opponents, how to provoke or taunt them—while the others sang with ever greater power, ardor, and fervor, aiming their star-inspired song straight at the noses of their assailants. One after another of
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