The Pobratim: A Slav Novel

"Trust a woman!" thought Radonic; "they are as skittish as cats, slippery as eels, as false as sleeping waters. Why, my own mother cheated me of many a penny, only for the pleasure of hoarding them, and then leaving them to me after her death. Trust a woman as far as you can see her, but no farther," and then he added: "Yes, and trust thy friend, which is like going to pat a rabid dog. – What o'clock is it?" he asked himself.

He was always accustomed to tell the time of the day to a minute, without needing a watch, but now he had lost his reckoning.

It was about six o'clock when he came back home; was it nine or ten now?

He durst not strike a light, for fear of being seen from without and spoiling his little game. He waited a little more.

The threatening shadows of the past gathered once more around him.

All at once he heard some words whispered audibly. It was the curse of the boy he had crippled for life. He shuddered with fear. In his auto-suggestion he, for a moment, actually fancied he had heard those words. Then he shrugged his shoulders, and tried to think of pleasanter subjects.

A curse is but a few idle words; still, since that time, not a decent seaman had ever sailed with him.

He could not bear the oppressive darkness any longer; peopled as it was with shadows, it weighed upon him. He went into the inner room, lit a match, looked at his watch.

It was not yet nine o'clock. Time that evening was creeping on at a sluggish pace.

"Surely," he soliloquised, "if Vranic is coming he cannot delay much longer." After a few seconds he put out the light and returned to the front room.

Soon afterwards, he heard a bell strike slowly nine o'clock in the distance; then all was silence. The house was perfectly still and quiet, and yet, every now and then, in the room in which he was sitting, he could hear slight, unexplainable noises, like the soft trailing of garments, or the shuffling of naked feet upon the stone floor; stools sometimes would creak, just as if someone had sat upon them; then small objects seemed stealthily handled by invisible fingers.

He tried to think of his business, always an engrossing subject, not to be overcome by his superstitious fears. He had been a shrewd man, he had mortgaged his house for its full value to Vranic himself to buy the mythical cargo. Now that all his wealth was in bank-notes, or in bright and big Maria Theresa dollars, he was free to go whithersoever he chose.

Still, it was vexing to think that if he killed that viper of a Vranic, as he was in duty bound to do, he would have to flee from his native town, and escape to the mountains, at least till affairs were settled. It was a pity, for now the insurance society would make a rich man of him, so he might have remained comfortably smoking his pipe at home, and enjoying the fruits of many years' hard labour.

A quarter-past nine!

He began to wonder whether Milena – not seeing him come to fetch her – would return home. Surely more than one young man would offer to see her to her house. This thought made him gnash his teeth with rage.

When once the venom of jealousy has found its way within the heart of man, it rankles there, and, little by little, poisons his whole blood.

And again he thought: "That affair of Uros and Milenko has never been quite clear; Vranic was false, there was no doubt about it; still, it was not he who had invented the whole story. Had he not been the laughing-stock of all his friends?"

Half-past nine!

How very slowly the hours passed! If he could only do something to while away the time – pace up and down the room, as he used to do on board, and smoke a cigarette; but that was out of the question.

Hush! was there not a noise somewhere? It must have been outside; and still it seemed to him as if it were in the house itself. Was it a mouse, or some stray cat that had come in unperceived? No; it was a continuous noise, like the trailing of some huge snake on the dry grass.

A quarter to ten!

Silence once more. Now, almost all the town is fast asleep. He would wait a little longer, and then? Well, if Vranic did not come soon, he would not come at all, so it would be useless waiting. He wrapped himself up in his great-coat, for the night was chilly, and had it not been for the thought that Milena had fled with Vranic, sleepiness would have overcome him.

He thoughtlessly began making a cigarette, out of mere habit, just to do something. It was provoking not to smoke just when a few puffs would be such a comfort.

Now he again hears the chimes at a distance; the deep-toned bell rings the four quarters slowly; the vibrations of one stroke have hardly passed away when the quiet air is startled by another stroke. How much louder and graver those musical notes sound in the hushed stillness of the night!

Ten o'clock!

Some towns – Venice, for instance – were all life and bustle at that hour of the night; the streets and squares all thronged with masks and merry revellers; the theatres, coffee-houses, dancing-rooms, were blazing with light, teeming with life, echoing with music and merriment. Budua is, instead, as dark, as lonesome, and as silent as a city of the dead. The whole town is now fast asleep.

"It is useless to wait any longer," mutters Radonic to himself; "nobody is coming."

The thought that his wife had fled with Vranic has almost become a certainty. Jealousy is torturing him. He feels like gripping his throat and choking himself, or dashing his head to pieces against the stone wall. If his house had been in town, near the others, Vranic might have waited till after ten o'clock; but, situated where it was, no prying neighbours were to be feared. Something had, perhaps, detained him. Still, what can detain a man when he has such an object in view?

Muttering an oath between his teeth, Radonic stood up.

"Hush! What was that?" He listened.

Nothing, or only one of the many unexplainable noises heard in the stillness of the night.

Perhaps, after all, Vranic had been on the watch the whole day, and then he had seen him return. Perhaps – though he had never believed in his friend's gift of second sight – Vranic was indeed a seer, and could read within the minds of men. Perhaps, having still some doubts, he would only come on the morrow. Anyhow, he would go to bed and abide his time. He stretched his anchylosed limbs and yawned.

Now he was certain he heard a noise outside.

He stood still. It was like the sound of steps at a distance. He listened again. This time he was not mistaken, though, indeed, it was a very low sound. Stealthy steps on the shingle. He went on tiptoe to the door. The sound of the steps was more distinct at every pace. Moreover, every now and then, a stone would turn, or creak, or strike against another, and thus betray the muffled sound of the person who walked.

Radonic listened breathlessly.

Perhaps, after all, it was only Milena coming back home. He peeped out, but he could not see anything. Was his hearing quicker than his sight?

He strained his eyes and then he saw a dark shadow moving among the bushes, but even then he could only distinguish it because his eyes were rendered keener by following the direction pointed out by his ears.

Was it Vranic, he asked himself.

Aye, surely; who else could it be but Vranic?

Still, what was he afraid of? No human eye could see him, no ear detect his steps.

Are we not all afraid of the crime we are about to commit? There is in felony a ghastly shadow that either precedes or follows us. It frightens even the most fearless man.

Slowly the shadow emerged from within the darkness of the bushes and came up towards the house. It was Vranic's figure, his shuffling gait.

Radonic's breast was like unto a glowing furnace, the blood within his heart was bubbling like molten metal within a crucible.

In a moment, that man – who was coming to seduce his wife and dishonour him – would be within his clutches.

Then he would break every bone within his body. He seemed to hear the shivering they made as he shattered them into splinters, and he shuddered.

For a moment, the atrocity of the crime he was about to commit, daunted him.

Still, almost at the same time, he asked himself whether he were going to turn coward at the last moment.

Was he not doing an act of equity? How heinously had not this fiend dealt by him! He had put him up against his wife, until, baited, she was almost driven to adultery. No, the justice of God and man would absolve him; if not – well, he had rather be hanged, and put his soul in jeopardy, than forego his vengeance. He was a Slav.

All these thoughts flitted through his brain in an instant, like flashes of lightning following one another on a stormy night.

Radonic watched the approaching shadow, from the cranny of the door ajar, with a beating heart.

Before Vranic came to the doorstep, he stopped. He looked round on one side, then on the other; after that he cast a glance all around. He bent his head forward to try and pierce the darkness that surrounded him. Was he seeing ghosts? Then he seemed to be listening. At last, convinced that he was alone, he again walked on. Now he was by the door, almost on the sill, within reach of Radonic's grasp. He stopped again.

Radonic clasped his knife; he might have flung the door open, and despatched him with a single blow. No, that would have been stupid. It was better by far to let him come in, like a mouse into a trap, and there be caught with his own bait. Yes, he would make the most of his revenge, spit upon him, torture him.

Slowly and noiselessly he glided back into a corner behind the door. Some everlasting seconds passed. He waited breathlessly, for his heart was beating so loud that he could only gasp.

Had Vranic repented at the last instant? Had he gone back? Was he still standing on the doorstep, waiting and watching? At last he moved – he came up to the door – he slowly pushed it open; then again he stopped. The darkness within was blacker than the darkness without.

"Sst, pst!" he hissed, like a snake. Then he waited.

He came a step onward; then, in an undertone: "Milena, Milena, where are you?"

Again he waited.

"Milena," he whispered; and again, louder: "Milena, are you here?"

He stretched forth his hands, and groped his way in. Radonic could just distinguish him.

"Milena, my love, it is I, Vranic."

Those few words were like a sharp stab to Radonic. He made a superhuman effort not to move; for he wanted to see what the rascal would do next.

"Perhaps she has fallen asleep, or else has gone to bed," he muttered to himself.

He again advanced a few steps, always feeling his way. Evidently, he was going towards the next room; for he knew the house well. All at once, he stumbled against a stool. He was frightened; he thought someone had clutched him by the legs. He recovered, and shut the door behind him. It was a fatal step; for otherwise he might, perhaps, have managed to escape.

How easy it would now have been for Radonic to pounce upon him and dash his brains out; but he wanted to follow the drama out to its end, and now the last scene was at hand.

Vranic, having shut the door, remained quiet for some time. He fumbled in his pockets, took out his steel and flint, then struck a light. At the first spark he might have seen Radonic crouching a few steps from him, but he was too busy lighting the bit of candle he had brought with him. When his taper shed its faint glimmer, then he looked round, and, to his horror, he saw the figure of a man, with glistening eyes, and a dagger in his hand, standing not far from him. At first he did not recognise his friend, with shaven beard and in his new attire; still, he did not require more than a second glance to know who it was.

Terror at once overpowered him; he uttered a low, stifled cry. Retreat was now out of the question; he therefore tried to master his emotion.

"Oh! Radonic, is it you? How you frightened me! I did not recognise you. But how is it that you have come back? and this change in – "

"How is it that you are in my house at this hour of the night?" said he, laying his hands on him.

"I – I," quoth Vranic, gasping, "I came to see if everything was quiet, as I promised, and seeing your door open – "

"That is why you call Milena your love."

"Did I? You are mistaken, Radonic – though perhaps I did; but then it was only to see if she were expecting someone; you know women are light – "

"You liar, you villain, you devil!" And Radonic, clutching him by his shoulders, shook him.

"Believe me! I swear by my soul! I swear by the holy Virgin, whose medals – blessed by the Church – I wear round my neck. May I be struck down dead if what I say is not true!"

"Liar, forswearer, wretch!" hissed out Radonic, as he spat in Vranic's face.

"I never meant to wrong you," replied Vranic, blubbering. "I came here as a friend – I told you I would; may all the saints together blind me if what I say be not true."

But the husband, ever more exasperated, clutched his false friend by the throat, and as he spouted out all his wrath, he kept gripping him tighter and ever tighter. In his passion his convulsively clenched fingers were like the claws of a bird of prey.

Vranic now struggled in vain; the candle, which had been blown out, had fallen from his fingers; he tried to speak, he gasped for breath, he was choking.

Radonic's grasp now was as that of an iron vice, and the more the false friend struggled to get free, the stronger he squeezed.

Vranic at last emitted a stifled, raucous, gurgling sound; then his arms lost their strength, and when, a moment afterwards, the furious husband relinquished his hold, his antagonist fell on the floor with a mighty thud.

The bells of the church were chiming in the distance.

Radonic, shivering, shuddering, stood stock-still in the darkness that surrounded him; he only heaved a noiseless sigh – the deep breath of a man who has accomplished an arduous task.

Vranic did not get up; he did not move. Was he dead?

"Dead!" whispered Radonic to himself.

Just then the body, prostrate at his feet, uttered a low, hoarse, hollow sound. Was it the soul escaping from the body?

He looked down, he looked round; black clouds seemed to be whirling all around him like wreaths of smoke. He durst not move from where he stood for fear of stumbling against the corpse.

At last he took out his steel and began to strike a light, but in his trepidation, he struck his fingers far oftener than his flint. At last he managed to light a lantern on the table close by, and then came to look at the man stretched on the floor.

Oh, what a terrible sight he saw! He had till now seen murdered men and drowned men, but never had he witnessed such a terrifying sight before; it was so horrible that, like Gorgon's hideous head, it fascinated him.

After a few minutes' dumb contemplation, Radonic heaved again a deep sigh, and whispered to himself: "It is a pity I did not leave him time to utter a prayer, to confess his sins, to kiss the holy Cross or the image of the saints. After all, I did not mean to kill the soul and body together." Then, prompted by religious superstitions, or by a Christian feeling – for he was of the Orthodox faith – he went to a fount of holy water, dipped in it a withered olive twig, and came to sprinkle the corpse, and made several signs of the holy Cross; then he knelt down and muttered devoutly several prayers for the rest of the soul of the man whom he had just murdered; then he sprinkled and crossed him again.

Had he opened the gates of paradise to the soul that had taken its flight? Evidently he felt much comforted after having performed his religious duties; so, rolling a cigarette, and lighting it at the lantern, he went to sit on the doorstep outside and smoke. That cigarette finished, he made another, and then another. At last, after having puffed and mused for about an hour, he again went into the house and made a bundle of all the things he wanted to take away with him. Everything being ready, and feeling hungry, he went to the cupboard, cut himself a huge slice of bread and a piece of cheese, which he ate as slowly as if he were keeping watch on board; then he took a long draught of wine, and, as midnight was striking, he left the house.

"I wonder," he thought, "where Milena is; anyhow, it is much better she is away, for, had she been in the house, she might have given me no end of useless trouble. Women are so fussy, so unpractical at times."

Thereupon he lighted his pipe.

"Still," he soliloquised, "I should have liked to see her before starting, to bid her good-bye. Who knows when I'll see her again, if I ever do see her? And how I hope this affair will be settled soon, and satisfactorily, too; he has no very near relations, and those he has will be, in their hearts, most grateful to me."

He trudged on wearily. When he passed Mara's house, he stopped, sighed, and muttered to himself:

"Good-bye! Milena. I loved you in my own churlish way; I loved you, and if I've been unkind to you, it was all Vranic's fault, for he drove me on to madness. Anyhow, he has paid for it, and dearly, too; so may his soul rest in peace!"

"And now," thought he, "it is useless fooling about; it is better to be off and free in Montenegro before the murder is discovered and the Austrian police are after me, for there is no trifling with this new-fangled government that will not allow people to arrange their little private affairs – it even belies our own proverb: 'Every one is free in his own house.'"

As he left the town, he bethought himself of what he was to do. First he would see his father-in-law, and ask him to go down to town and fetch his daughter, for it was useless to leave Milena alone in Budua; life would not be pleasant there till the business of thekarvarina was settled. Then, as Montenegro was always at war with Turkey, he supposed that he would, as almost all hayduk, have to take to fighting as an occupation, though, thank God, he said to himself, not as a means of subsistence.

It was, however, only at dawn that he managed to get out of the town gate, together with some peasants going to their early work, and so he crossed the frontier long before Vranic's murder was known in town.

On the morrow, when Milena fainted on the murdered man's corpse, she was taken up and placed on her bed; she was sprinkled with water and vinegar; she was chafed and fanned; a burning quill was placed under her nose, but, as none of these little remedies could recall her to life, medical help had to be sent for. Even when she came back to her senses, another fainting-fit soon followed, so that she was almost the whole day in a comatose state.

Meanwhile (Tripko having summoned help), the house was filled with people, who all bustled about, talked very loud, asked and answered their own questions. Those gifted with more imagination explained to the others all the incidents of the murder. Last of all came the guards. Then they, with much ado and self-importance, managed to clear the house.

Though Mara would have liked to take Milena back home with her, still the doctors declared that it was impossible to remove her from her bed, where for many weeks she lay unconscious and between life and death, for a strong brain-fever followed the fainting-fits. Her father and mother (who had come to take her away) tended her, and love and care succeeded where medical science had failed.

CHAPTER X

PRINCE MATHIAS

Sailing from Trieste to Ragusa, the Spera in Dio was becalmed just in front of Lissa; for days and days she lay there on that rippleless sea, looking like "a painted ship upon a painted ocean."

It was towards the middle of spring, in that season of the year called by the Dalmatians the venturini, or fortunate months, on account of the shoals of sardines, anchovies, and mackerel, which swim up the Adriatic, and towards that eastern part of its shores, affording the people – whose barren land affords them but scanty food – the main source of their sustenance.

At last a faint breeze began to blow; it brought with it the sweet scent of thyme and sage from the rocky coast only a few miles off, and made the flabby sails flap gently against the masts, still, without swelling them at all. Everyone on board the Spera in Diowas in hopes that the wind would increase when the moon rose, but the sun went down far away in the offing, all shorn of its rays, and like a huge ball of fire; then a slight haze arose, dimming the brightness of the stars, casting over nature a faint, phosphorescent glimmer; then they knew that the wind would not rise, for "the mist leaves the weather as it finds it;" at least, the proverb says so.

Already that afternoon the crew of the Spera in Dio had seen the waters of the sea – as far as eye could reach – bickering and simmering; still, they knew that the slight shivering of the waters was not produced by any ruffling wind, but by the glittering silver scales of myriads of fish swimming on the surface of the smooth waters. In fact, a flock of gulls was soon hovering and wheeling over the main, uttering shrill cries of delight every time they dipped within the brine and snatched an easy prey; then a number of dolphins appeared from underneath, and began to plunge and gambol amidst the shoal, feasting upon the fry. The fish, in a body, made for the shore, hoping to find protection in shallower waters. Alas! a far more powerful enemy was waiting for them there.

Night came on; the fishermen lighted their resinous torches on the prows of the boats, and the fish, attracted by the sheen, which reflected itself down in the deep, dark water, were lured within the double net spread out to catch them.

When the shoal began to follow the deceptive light, the quiet waters were struck with mighty, resounding thuds, and the terror-stricken sardines swam hither and thither, helter-skelter, entangling themselves within the meshes of that wall of netting spread out to capture them.

Thus the whole of that balmy summer night was passed in decoying and frightening the shoal, in gathering it together, then in driving it into the inlet where the nets were spread.

At last, at early dawn, the long-awaited moment came. Every fisherman, dumb with expectation, grasped the ropes of the net and tugged with lusty sinews and a rare good-will. For the father, the sustenance of his children at home lay in those nets; for the lover, the produce of that first night's fishery would enable him to say whether he could wed the girl he loves that year, or if the marriage would have to be postponed till more propitious times.

The strong men groaned under the weight they were heaving, but not a word was spoken. Finally, the dripping nets were uplifted out of the water. It was a rare sight to see the fish glistening like a mass of molten silver within the brown meshes, just when the first hyacinthine beams of the dawning sun fell upon their glossy, nacreous scales.

The captain and his two mates, the pobratim, rowed on shore and took part in the general rejoicings, for nothing gladdens the heart of man as abundance; moreover, they made a very good stroke of business, for, having ready-money, they bought up, and thus secured, part of their cargo for their return voyage.

On the morrow, a fresh and steady breeze having begun to blow, the lazy sails swelled out, the ship flew on the rippling waters, like a white swan, and that very evening they dropped the anchor at Gravosa, the port of Ragusa.

How often the letter we have been so anxiously expecting only comes to disappoint us, making us feel our sorrow more deeply.

As soon as the post-office was opened, the pobratim hurried there to ask for letters. They both received several from their parents. Uros read, with a sinking heart, what we already know, that Radonic had killed Vranic, and that Milena was dangerously ill. Milenko received a letter in a handwriting new to him. With a trembling hand he tore open the envelope, unfolded the sheet of pale blue Bath paper, containing an ounce of gold dust in it, and read the following lines: —

"Honoured Sir, – I take up my pen to keep the promise I so imprudently made of writing to you, but this, which is the first, must also be the last letter I ever pen.