Chapter 17

Chapter 172,686 wordsCompleted

The chapter begins with Liudas inviting the novice Vasaris to join him and their friend Kasaitis on a two‑week holiday that will take them by train to Vilnius, with a stop in Kaunas, and then onward to Trakai. Vasaris, who has never ridden a train, feels both excitement and anxiety, recalling the rector’s warning about “dangerous” contacts and promising himself to avoid any entanglement with the Kleviškio klebon’s family.

The three board a crowded train to Kaunas. During the ride Vasaris watches the countryside from the window, letting memories of his childhood hill Aušrakalnis mingle with imagined visions of city monuments. The train reaches Kaunas, where they stretch their legs briefly before continuing toward Vilnius.

In the evening they arrive in Vilnius, lug their small suitcases through the bustling station and head for Aušros Vartai. They describe the gate as a crimson‑lit arch crowned by an oil lamp that exudes a “mystical respect and fear.” A diverse crowd—Jews, Russians, Lithuanians—passes beneath it. The trio kneel before a painted image of the Virgin Mary, and an elderly priest tells a local legend that anyone who insults the Mother of God suffers sudden injury or blindness. The atmosphere is solemn, heavy with incense, and the three feel a collective reverence.

They find a modest hotel near the gates, unpack and discuss how to record the trip. Jonelaitis suggests that, if questioned, they will say they visited “the miraculous Mother of God of Aušros Vartai,” a half‑truth that will protect them from suspicion. Vasaris hears an inner voice pleading, “Do not forget me, Spring, I miss you,” echoing his earlier longing for Liucė. After a quiet dinner Vasaris reads the latest issue of the newspaper Viltis, noting an article about scandals in the church and deciding to write about his impressions of Vilnius later.

The next day they tour the city. Their first stop is Gediminas Hill, where they look over the red roofs of the Old Town, the Vilnia River and distant factory smokestacks. They discuss the hill’s historic importance, recalling Maironis’s verses about ancient Lithuanian capital. Vasaris notes the mixture of Lithuanian folk houses and foreign‑style buildings, interpreting it as a symbol of cultural erosion. Jonelaitis points out the cathedral’s bell tower and laments that bishops have long used decrees to suppress “pagan” Lithuanian language, while the seminary uses similar tools to enforce obedience. Kasaitis, ever cynical, asks for a concrete conclusion; Jonelaitis replies that the facts speak for themselves.

They continue to the Cathedral, enter the crypt where the body of Vytautas the Great lies, and observe Latin inscriptions that dominate the walls while Lithuanian is absent. A folk story about a German priest who tried to replace Lithuanian liturgy with Latin is recounted, reinforcing the theme of linguistic oppression. The group debates the Catholic Church’s role in the Lithuanian language struggle, with Jonelaitis accusing the hierarchy of “killing the Lithuanian tongue and freedom.” The conversation turns to recent riots in seminaries, where students were beaten for insisting on Lithuanian prayers.

After an afternoon of walking through the Old Town, they return to their hotel, review notes for a possible article, and Vasaris decides to write about the city’s “living history” and the tension between its glorious past and current foreign influences.

The following morning they travel to Trakai. They board a small boat on the blue lake, feeling the wind stir the reeds around the island. The ruined Trakai Castle rises from the mist; its stone walls echo Maironis’s verses about a “gilded palace” now turned to ruin. They walk among collapsed towers, overgrown gardens, and imagine medieval grandeur. Jonelaitis remarks that the castle now serves as a “nest for foreign culture,” noting Germanic architectural elements. Kasaitis again presses for a moral or political “takeaway”; Jonelaitis answers that the fact remains: this was once a Lithuanian stronghold now overtaken by others.

They sit on a low stone bench, reflecting on how the ruins feel like a home for their own spirits—pilgrims returning to the roots of their nation. Vasaris feels a renewed resolve to write about what he has seen, to preserve the memory of these historic sites, and to channel his longing for Liucė into poetry rather than forbidden romance.

The chapter ends with the three men boarding the train back to Kaunas, the landscape receding behind them, each carrying a different mixture of awe, patriotism, and the lingering burden of seminary discipline.