Читать книгу The Pobratim - Jones P. - Страница 10

The fierce equinoctial blasts which that year had lasted for more than a month, were followed by a fortnight of fitful, heavy rain, intermitted by sudden gales and stormy showers. Then after a period of dull, drizzling, foggy weather, ending in a thick squall, the clouds cleared up beautifully, the sun showed itself again, and Spring apparently succeeded to Autumn.

The wind fell entirely. Not the slightest breeze was blowing to bring down the dry leaves, or to bicker the smooth surface of the waters. For days and days the sea remained as even as a mass of shining melted lead, with the only difference that it was as fathomably liquid and as diaphanously pure as the air itself, of which it even had the vaporous cerulean clearness. Far away on the offing, the waters blended with the watchet airiness of the surrounding atmosphere, so that the line of the horizon could nowhere be seen, the blueish-grey ocean melting into the greyish-blue of the sky. Nearer the shore, the smooth translucent sheet was streaked and spotted with those sheeny stripes and silvery patches, which Shelley terms a "coil of crystalline streams."

The earth itself had a fleecy look. The shadowy opal greys of the headlands, the liquid amethystine tints of the hills, the light irradiated coasts, all rising out of the luminous waves, looked lovelier even than they had done in summer, at noontide, when swathed by a splendent haziness, for now the cold opaque clay tints themselves looked transparent, wrapped up as they were in that vaporous pellucid veil of mists.

Nature was wearing now her garishly gorgeous autumnal garment, and the foliage of the trees had acquired the richest prismatic dyes, for the reddish russets and the glowing orange yellows predominated over the whitish blues and the faint greens. The vegetation, but for the funereal cypresses, had the sere hectic hue of dying life.

The seafaring people of Budua had anything but an admiration for that calm, soft, misty weather, or for that placid, unruffled sea; not that they lacked the sense of beauty, but they chafed at being kept at home, when they ought already to have been in distant parts of the Mediterranean, or even returning from the farthermost corners of the Adriatic.

Thus the departure of the pobratim had already been postponed for about a fortnight, as every day they waited patiently for a favourable wind to swell their flagging sails; but the wind never came. The friends, however, did not fret at this delay, and now, having stayed so long, they hoped that the calm weather would continue a little longer, so that they might spend Christmas at home with their families.

Radonic had sailed off some time since. Milena, after that, had gone to spend some weeks with her parents in Montenegro. On her return, she kept a good deal at home, for after the fright she had had on that eventful night when she had seen Milenko all covered with blood, she had made up her mind to give up flirting, either with Uros or with any other young man, and, for a short time, she kept her resolution. Moreover, she felt that she cared for the young man far more than she liked to confess to herself, and that she thought oftener of him than she ought to have done, and much more than was good for the peace of her mind. Another reason now prompted her to be seen abroad as little as possible.

The man who, after the quarrel at the inn, had followed Radonic to his house, and told him of his wife's levity in her conduct towards Uros, was a certain Vranic, one of Milena's rejected suitors. He was more than a plain-looking man; he was mean and puny. Besides this, he had a cast in his eye, which rendered him hateful to all people, and justly so, for does not the wisdom of our ancients say: "Beware of a man branded by the hand of God?" Still, as if this was not enough, Vranic possessed the gift of second sight, if it can be called a gift. He was, therefore, a most unlucky fellow. The priest had, it appears, made some mistake in christening him, so that nothing ever had gone on well with him.

Vranic had, therefore, always been not only shunned by all the girls as an uncanny kind of man who always saw ghosts, but even all the men avoided him. He ought to have left Budua and gone to live abroad in a place where he was not known, but it is a hard thing for a man to leave his own country for ever.

Amongst many defects, Vranic had one quality, if really it can be called a quality. This was the stern tenacity of purpose, the stolid opiniativeness of the peasant, the stubborn firmness of the mule, the ant and the worm, that nothing baffles, nothing turns aside. Once bent upon doing something, it would have been as easy to keep water from running down a hill as make him desist from his obstinacy. He had, in fact, the inert, unreasoning will of the Slovene.

The day after Radonic's departure, Vranic had come again to make love to Milena. Of course, she would not listen to him, but spurned him from her like a cur. He simply smiled, in the half-shrewd, half-apish way in which peasants grin, and threatened to report everything she did to her husband on his return. He told her he would poison Radonic's ear in such a way that her life would henceforth be anything but a pleasure. Milena answered that, as her conscience was quite clear, she allowed him to act as he pleased.

In the meanwhile Uros' love was getting the mastery over him. Milena's presence haunted him day and night; it overflowed his heart in a way that made him feel as if he were suffering from some slow, languishing fever. Looking upon Milena's face was like gazing at the full moon on a calm summer night; only that this planet's amber light shed a sense of peace on the surface of the rippleless waters, whilst this woman's beauty made his heart beat faster and his nerves tingle with excitement. Listening to her voice reminded him of the love-songs he had heard the guzlari chant on winter evenings —amatory poems which heated the blood like long draughts of strong wine. His love for her had changed his very nature; instead of caring only for fishing and shooting, unfurling the broad sails and seeing the breeze swell the white canvas, a yearning hitherto unknown now filled his breast. At times he even avoided his friend, and went wandering alone, his steps—almost unwillingly—leading him to choose places where he had met Milena, and which were still haunted by her presence. Many a night he would roam or linger near her house, hoping to catch a glimpse of her; but, alas! she seldom came out, and she was never seen either at her window or her door. Her lonely cottage looked deserted, desolate.

On the night when the brig was expected to weigh anchor, Uros slunk away stealthily, when the crew were fast asleep, and went on shore. The inns were already shut, and not a light was to be seen in any window. He, therefore, plucked up all his courage, hastened to reach Milena's lonely house, and there, under her casement, he sang to her the following rastanak, or farewell song:

Though cold and deaf, farewell, love;

We two must part.

But can you live alone, love,

If I depart?

From o'er the boundless sea, love,

And mountains high,

From o'er the dark, deep wood, love,

You'll hear me sigh.

If you are deaf to me, love,

Still on the plain

You'll see the flowers fade, love,

Seared by my pain.

Still you are deaf to me, love,

Without a tear;

I go without a word, love,

My soul to cheer.

I send you back those blooms, love,

Which once you gave;

For they are now to me, love,

Rank as the grave.

Amongst those cold, grey buds, love,

A snake doth lie,

As you have not for me, love,

A single sigh.

He finished and listened, then he heard a slight noise overhead; the window was quietly opened, and Milena's face was seen peeping between the cranny as she held the shutters ajar, for her beautiful, lustrous eyes sparkled in the darkness.

"Uros!" she whispered, "how can you be so very foolish as to come and sing under my windows! What will the people say, if they should happen to see you?"

"Who can hear me in this lonely spot? Everybody is asleep, not a mouse is stirring abroad."

"Someone or other seems always to hang about, spying all I do. For your sake, and for mine, go away, I beg you. After the fright I had upon that dreadful night, I have got to be such a coward."

"No; the truth is, after that night, you never cared for me any more."

"I must not care for you;" then, with a sigh, and faintly: "nor must you for me."

"Would it make you very happy if I forgot you—if I loved someone else?"

She did not give him any reply.

"You don't answer," he said.

"You'll forget me soon enough, Uros—far from the eyes, far from the heart."

"And if I come back loving you more than ever?"

"You'll be away for a long time; when you come back——"

"Well?"

"Perhaps I'll be dead."

"Don't say such things, Milena, or you'll drive me mad."

Then, with cat-like agility, he climbed the low wall, and, with hands clutching at the window-sill, and the tips of his opanke, or sandal-like shoes, resting on some stones jutting out, he stood at the height of her head. His other arm soon found itself resting round her unresisting neck. He lifted up his mouth towards hers, and their pouting lips met in a long, lingering kiss.

But all at once she shivered from head to foot, and, drawing herself away, she begged Uros to have pity on her and to go away.

"Milena, it is perhaps the last time we meet; more than one ship never came back to the port from which it sailed; more than one sailor never saw his birth-place again."

"But, only think, if some one passing by should see us here."

"Well, then, let me come in, so nobody'll see me."

"Uros, are you mad? Allow you to come in at this hour of the night!"

"What greater harm would there be than in the broad daylight?"

"No; if you really love me, don't ask me such a thing."

Uros obeyed, and, after a few minutes, with the tears gushing to his eyes, he bade her good-bye. As he was sliding down, he thought he heard a noise of footsteps on the shingle of the pathway near the house. Uros shuddered and listened. Was it some man lurking there, he asked himself. If so, who could it be? Radonic had, perhaps, come back to Budua to keep watch over his wife—catch her on the hop, and then revenge himself upon her. The sudden fright now curdled his blood. Still, he was not afraid for himself; he was young and strong, and he was on his guard. Even if it was the incensed husband, the night was too dark for anyone to take a good aim and fire from a distance. If he was afraid, it was for Milena's sake. Radonic had, perhaps, returned; he had seen him climb down from his own house at that late hour. Rash as he was, he would surely go and kill his wife, who, even if she was a flirt, was by no means as bad as what he or the world would think her to be.

"Anyhow," said Uros to himself, "if it is Radonic, he will either rush at me, or fire at me from where he is hiding; or else he will go towards his own house." His suspense would only last a few seconds.

It lasted much longer. Many minutes passed, if he could reckon time by the beating of his heart. In the meanwhile he tried to fathom the darkness from whence the slight sound had come. Not being able to see or hear anything, he went off, walking on tip-toe; but he listened intently as he went. All at once there was again a slight rustling sound. Uros walked on for a while, then, stepping on the grass and crouching between the bushes, slowly and stealthily he came back near the house and waited. Not many minutes had elapsed when he heard the noise of footsteps once more, but he saw nobody.

Oh! how his heart did beat just then! The sound of steps was distinctly heard upon the shingle, and yet no human being, no living creature, was to be seen. What could this be?

"Bogme ovari!—God protect me"—he said to himself, "it is, perhaps, a ghost, a vampire!"

Darkness in itself is repellent to our nature; therefore, to be assaulted at night, by any unseen foe, must daunt the bravest amongst the brave.

It is, then, not to be wondered that Uros was appalled at the idea of having to become the prey of an invisible, intangible ghost, against which it was impossible to struggle. He waited for a while, motionless, breathless. There was not the slightest noise, nothing was stirring any more; but in the dusky twilight everything seemed to assume strange and weird shapes—the gnarled branches of the olive trees looked like stunted and distorted limbs, whilst the bushes seemed to stretch forth long waving tentacles, with which to grasp the passer-by. As he looked about, he saw a light appear at a distance, flit about for a while, extinguish itself, reappear again after some time, then go out as before. Then he heard the barking of a dog; the sound came nearer, then it lost itself in the stillness of the night.

Uros, horror-stricken, was about to take to his heels, when again he heard the footsteps on the shingle. He, therefore, stood stock-still and waited, with a heart ready to burst. He could not leave Milena to the danger that threatened her, so he chose to remain and fall into the clutches of a vampire. He listened; the steps, though muffled, were those of a rather heavy man. The sound continued, slowly, stealthily, distinctly. Uros looked towards the place from whence the noise came, and thereupon he saw a man creep out from within the darkness of the bushes and go up towards Radonic's house.

Uros, seeing a human figure, felt all his superstitious fears vanish; he looked well at it to convince himself that it was not some deceptive vision, some skin all bloated with blood, as vampires are. No, it was a man. Still, who could it be, he was too short and puny to be Radonic?

Who could this man be, going to Milena's in the middle of the night?

A bitter feeling of jealousy came over him, a steel hand seemed to grasp his heart. Milena had just been flirting with him, could she not do the same with another man. She had listened to his vows of love, he had been a fool to go off when she begged him to remember that she was another man's wife. At that moment he hated her, and he was vexed with himself.

There are moments in life when we repent having been too good, for goodness sometimes is but a sign of weakness and inexperience; it only shows our unfitness for the great struggle of life, where the weak go to the wall.

During the time that Radonic had been at home he had never felt the bitter pangs of jealousy as much as he did now. It humbled him to think that he had left his place to another more fortunate rival, apparently an older man.

Then he asked himself how he could have been so foolish as to love a married woman.

"After all," said he to himself, "it is but right that I should suffer, why have I lifted up my eyes upon a woman who has sworn to love another man?"

He had sinned, and he was now punished for his crime.

When flushed with success the voice of conscience had ever been mute, but now, when disappointment was sinking his heart, that voice cried out loudly to him. Conscience is but a coward at best, a sneak in prosperity, a bully in our misfortune.

There in the darkness of the night, lifting his eyes up towards heaven, he called upon the blessed Virgin to come to his help.

"Oh! immaculate mother of Christ our Saviour, grant me the favour of seeing that this man is no fortunate rival, that he is not Milena's lover, and henceforth I shall never lift up my eyes towards her, even if I should have to crush my heart, I shall never harbour in it any other feeling for her except that of a brother or a friend."

During this time the man had gone up to the cottage door. Almost unthinkingly and with the words of the prayer upon his lips, Uros stood up, went a step onwards, and then he stopped. The man now tapped at the door. A pause followed. The man knocked again a little louder. Thereupon Milena's voice was heard from within. Though Uros was much too far to hear what she had said, he evidently understood that she was asking who was outside; the young man, treading on the grass as much as he could, stole on tip-toe a little nearer the house.

He could not catch the answer the man had given, for it was in a low muffled undertone.

"Who are you?" repeated Milena from inside, "and what do you want?"

"It is I, Uros," said the man in a muffled tone; "open your door, my love."

"Liar," shouted Uros from behind, and with a bound he had jumped upon the man and, gripping him by the nape of the neck and by the collar of his jacerma, he tugged at him and dragged him away from the door.

As the man struggled to free himself, Uros recognised him to be

Vranic—Vranic the ghost-seer, Vranic the spy.

"How dare you come here in my name, you scoundrel," said the young man, and giving him a mighty shake, that tore the strong cloth of the jacket, he cast him away.

"And pray what are you doing here at this time of the night?" asked

Vranic, his hand on the haft of his knife.

"And what is that to you—are you her husband or her kinsman? But as you wish to know, I'll tell you; I came to protect her from a dastardly coward like yourself."

"I doubt whether Radonic will be glad to hear that you go sneaking into his house at the dead of night, just to keep his wife from any harm; that is really good of you." And Vranic, standing aloof, burst out laughing. Then he added, "Anyhow, he'll be most grateful to you when he knows it."

"And who'll tell him?"

"I shall."

"If I let you, you spy."

Thereupon Uros rushed upon Vranic so unexpectedly, that the latter lost his balance, slipped and fell. The younger man held him down with one hand, and with the other he lifted up his dagger. Seeing himself thus overpowered:

"What, are you going to murder me like that?" he gasped out, "do you not see that I was joking? If you'll but let me go I'll swear not to say a word about the matter to anyone."

"On what will you swear?"

"On anything you like, on the holy medals round my neck."

With a jerk that almost choked the man, Uros broke the string and snatched the amulets from Vranic's neck, and presented them to him, saying:

"Now, man, swear."

Vranic took his oath.

"Now," said Uros, "swear not to harm Milena while I am away, swear not to worry her by your threats, or in any other way soever."

Vranic having sworn again, was left free to get up and go off.

When he was at a few paces from Uros he stopped, and with a scowl upon his face he muttered:

"Those medals were not blessed, so you can use your dagger now, if you like, and I shall use my tongue, we shall see which of us two will suffer most; anyhow, remember the proverb, 'Where the goat breathes, even the vine withers.'"

Then, stooping down, he gathered a handful of stones and flung them with all his might at Uros, after which he took to his heels and ran off with all his might.

The stones went hissing by Uros, but one of them caught him on his brow, grazing off the skin and covering his eyes with blood. Uros, blinded by the stone, remained standing for a while, and then, seeing that Vranic had run off, he went up to Milena's door and tapped lightly.

"Milena," said he, "have you heard the quarrel I have had with

Vranic?"

"Yes, did he hurt you?"

"Only a mere scratch."

"Nothing more?"

"No."

"Surely?"

"No, indeed!"

Milena would willingly have opened the door to see if Uros was only scratched, but she was in too great a trepidation to do so.

"Well," added she, "if you are not hurt, please go away."

"But are you not afraid Vranic might come back?"

"Well, and if he does? He'll find the door shut as before. Moreover, I'm by no means afraid of him, he is the greatest coward, or at least the only coward, of the town; therefore do not stay here on my account, you can do me no good."

"Then you do not want me?" said Uros, in a lingering way, and with a sigh.

"No; go," quoth she. "If you love me, go."

Uros turned his back on the cottage and wended his steps homewards. The moon was now rising above the hills in the distance. Milena went to the window and looked at the young man going off. Her heart yearned after him as he went, and she fain would have called him back.

Poor fellow, he had fought for her, he was wounded, and now she let him go off like that. It was not right. Was his wound but a scratch? She ought to have seen after it. It was very ungrateful of her not to have looked after it.

All at once Uros stopped. Her heart began to beat. He turned round and came back on his steps. At first she was delighted, then she was disappointed. She wished he had not turned back.

He walked back slowly and stealthily, trying to muffle his steps.

What was he going to do?

Milena ran to the door and put her ear close to the key-hole.

She heard Uros come up to the very sill and then it seemed to her that he had sat or crouched upon the step.

Was he hurt? Was he going to stay there and watch over the house like a faithful dog?

She waited a while; not the slightest sound was heard; she could hardly keep still. At last, unable to bear it any longer:

"Uros," said she, "is that you?"

"Yes."

"And what are you doing there?"

"I was going to watch over you."

Overcome by this proof of the young man's love, Milena slowly opened the door, and taking Uros by both his hands she made him come in.

The wind did not rise and the brigantine rode still at anchor in the bay. The days passed, and at last merry Christmas was drawing near. The pobratim—though anxious to be off—hoped that the calm weather would last for a week longer, that they might pass the badnji-vecer—or the evening of the log—and Christmas Day with their parents.

Their wishes were granted; one day passed after the other and the weather was always most beautiful. Not the slightest cloud came either to dim or enhance the limpid blue sky, and though the mornings were now rather fresh, the days were, as yet, delightfully warm and radiant with sunshine. In the gardens the oleanders were all in full bloom, so were also the roses, the geraniums and the China asters; whilst in the field many a daisy was seen glinting at the modest speedwell, and the Dalmatian convolvulus entwined itself lovingly around the haughty acanthus, which spread out their fretted leaves to the sun, taking up as much space as well they could, while in damp places the tall, feathery grasses grew amidst the sedges, the reeds, and the rushes and all kinds of rank weeds of glowing hues. Not a breath of wind came to ripple the surface of the shining blue waters.

On the 24th a little cloud was seen far off, the colour of the waters grew by degrees of a dull leaden tint, and the wind began to moan. In the meanwhile the cloudlet that had been the size of a weasel grew to be as big as a camel, then it swelled out into the likeness of some huge megatherium, it rolled out its massy coils and overspread the whole space of the sky. Then the clouds began to lower, and seemed to cover the earth with a ponderous lid. The wind and the cold having increased, the summer all at once passed away into dreary and bleak winter.

Christmas was to be kept at Milos Bellacic's house, for though the two families had always been on the most friendly terms, they, since the day upon which the two young men had become pobratim, got to be almost one family. Some other friends had been asked to come and make merry with them on that evening. Amongst other guests Zwillievic, Milena's father, who was a cousin of Bellacic's, having come with his wife to spend the Christmas holidays at Budua, had accepted his kinsman's hospitality. Milena had also been asked to come and pass those days merrily with her parents.

At nightfall, all the guests being already assembled, the yule-log, the huge bole of an olive tree, was, with great ado, brought to the house. Bellacic, standing on the threshold with his cap in his hand, said to it:

"Welcome log, and may God watch over you."

Then, taking the bucara or wooden bottle, he began to sprinkle it with wine, forming a cross as he did so, then he threw some wheat upon it, calling a blessing upon his house, and upon all his guests, who stood grouped behind him, after which all the guests answered in chorus, "And so be it." Thereupon all the men standing outside the house fired off their guns and pistols to show their joy, shouting: "May Christmas be welcome to you."

After this Uros brought in his own log and the same ceremony had once more to be gone through.

The logs were then festively placed upon the hearth, where they had to burn the whole night, and even till the next morning.

In the meantime a copious supper was prepared and set upon the table. In the very midst, taking the place of an epergne, there was a large loaf, all trimmed up with ivy and evergreens, and in the centre of this loaf there were thrust three wax candles carefully twisted into one, so as to form a taper, which was lit in honour of the Holy Trinity. Christmas Eve being a fast day, the meal consisted of fish cooked in different ways.

First, there was a pillau with scallops, then cod—which is always looked upon as the staple fare of evening—after which followed pickled tunny, eels, and so forth. The starescina, taking a mouthful of every dish that was brought upon the table, went to throw it upon the burning log, so that it might bring him a prosperous year; his son then followed his example.

After all had eaten and were filled, they gathered around the hearth and squatted down upon the straw with which the floor was strewn —for, in honour of Christ, the room had been made to look as much as possible like a manger, or a stable. They again greeted each other with the usual compliments, "for many years," and so forth, and black coffee was served in Turkish fashion, that is, in tiny cups, held by a kind of silver, or silvered metal, egg-cup instead of a saucer. Most everyone loosened his girdle, some took off their shoes, and all made themselves comfortable for the night. Thereupon Milenko, who was somewhat of a bard and who had studied an epic song for the occasion, one of those heroic and wild junaske, took his guzla, and gave the company the story of "Marko Kraglievic and the Moor of Primoryé," as follows:—