The Pobratim: A Slav Novel

On the day after the one on which Milenko was set free, thepobratim set sail with the little caique, and they, as well as the captain, were thoroughly glad to shake the dust off their shoes on leaving Gravosa; Milenko especially hoped never to set his foot in Ragusa again.

The fresh breeze swelled out the broad white sails of the graceful little ship, which flew as fleetly as a halcyon, steered, as it was, with utmost care, in and out the narrow channels and through that archipelago of volcanic rocks which surround the Elaphite Islands, so dangerous to seamen. It soon left far behind the graceful mimosas, the dark cypress-trees and the feathery palms of the Ragusean coast.

After all the anxiety of the last days it was pleasant to be again on those blue waters, so limpid that the red fretted weeds could be seen growing on the grey rocks several fathoms below. It was a delight to breathe the balmy air, wafted across that little scented garden of La Croma. The world looked once more so beautiful, and life was again a pleasure. The sufferings the pobratim had undergone only served to render them fonder of each other, so that if they had been twins – not only brothers – they could not have loved each other more than they did.

The sun went down, and soon afterwards the golden bow of the new moon was seen floating in the hyacinthine sky. At the sight of that slender aureate crescent – which always awakens in the mind of man a vision of a chaste and graceful maiden – all the crew crossed themselves and were happy to think that the past was dead and gone, for the new moon brings new fortune to mortals.

A frugal supper of salted cheese, fruit and olives gathered all the men together, and then those who were not keeping watch were about to retire, when a small fishing-boat with a lighted torch at its prow was seen not very far off. As it came nearer to them the light went out, and the dark boat, with two gaunt figures at the oars, was seen for an instant wrapped in a funereal darkness, and then all vanished. The pobratim crossed themselves, shuddering, and Milenko whispered something to Uros in Slav, who nodded without speaking.

"What is it?" asked the captain, astonished.

"It is the phantom fishing-boat," replied Uros, almost below his breath, apparently unwilling to utter these words, and Milenko added:

"It is seen on the first days of the new moon, as soon as darkness comes over the waters."

For a few moments everybody was silent. All looked towards the spot where the boat had disappeared, and then the captain asked Milenko who those two men were, and why they were condemned to ply their oars, and thereupon Milenko began to relate the story of

MARGARET OF LOPUD

Some centuries ago, during the great days of the Republic, there lived a young patrician whose name was Theodor. He belonged to one of the wealthiest and oldest families of Ragusa, his father having been rector of the Commonwealth. Theodor was of a most serious disposition, possessing uncommon talents, and, therefore, taking no delight in the frivolities of his age. His learning was such that he was expected to become one of the glories of his native town.

Theodor, to flee from the bustle and mirth of the capital and to give himself entirely up to his studies, had taken up his abode in the Benedictine convent on the little island of St. Andrea.

Once he went to visit the island of Lopud – the middle one of the Elaphite group – and there passed the day; but in the evening, wishing to return to the brotherhood, he could not find his boat on the shore. Wandering on the beach, he happened to meet a young girl carrying home some baskets of fish. Theodor, stopping her, asked her, shyly, if she knew of anyone who would take him in his boat across to the island of St. Andrea. No, the young girl knew nobody, for the fishermen who had come back home were all very tired with their hard day's work; they were now smoking their pipes. Seeing Theodor's disappointed look, the young girl proffered her services, which the bashful patrician reluctantly accepted.

The sail was unfurled and managed with a strong and skilful hand; the boat went scudding over the waves like an albatross; the breeze was steady, and the sea quiet. The girl steered through the reefs like a pilot.

Those two human beings in the fishing-smack formed a strong contrast to one another. He, the aristocratic scion of a highly cultured race, pale with long study and nightly vigils, looked like a tenderly reared hot-house plant. She, belonging to a sturdy race of fishermen, tanned by the rays of the scorching sun and the exhilarating surf, was the very picture of a wild flower in full bloom.

Theodor, having got over the diffidence with which women usually inspired him, began to talk to the young girl; he questioned her about her house, her family, her way of living. She told him simply, artlessly, that she was an orphan; the hungry waves – that yearly devour so many fishermen's lives – had swallowed up her father; not long after this misfortune her mother died. Since that time she had lived with her three brothers, who, she said, took great care of her. She kept house for them, she cooked, she baked bread, she also helped them to repair their nets, which were always tearing. Sometimes she cleaned the boat, and she always carried the fish to market. Besides, she tilled the little field, and in the evening she spun the thread to make her brothers' shirts. But they were very kind to her, no brothers could be more so.

He could not help comparing this poor girl – the drudge of the family – with the grand ladies of his own caste, whose task in life was to dress up, to be rapidly witty in a saloon, to slander all their acquaintances, simply to kill the time, for whom life had no other aim than pleasure, and against whose love for sumptuary display the Republic had to devise laws and enforce old edicts.

For the young philosopher this unsophisticated girl soon became an object, first, of speculative, then of tender interest; whilst Margaret – this was the fishermaiden's name – felt for Theodor, so delicate and lovable, that motherly sympathy which a real womanly nature feels for every human being sickly and suffering.

They met again – haunted as he was by the flashing eyes of the young girl, it was impossible for him not to try and see her a second time, and from her own fair lips he heard that the passion which had been kindled in his heart had also roused her love. Then, instead of endeavouring to suppress their feelings, they yielded to the charms of this saintly affection, to the rapture of loving and being loved. In a few days his feelings had made so much progress that he promised to marry her, forgetting, however, that the strict laws of the aristocratic Republic forbade all marriages between patricians and plebeians. His noble character and his bold spirit prompted him to brave that proud society in which he lived, for those refined ladies and gentlemen, who would have shrugged their shoulders had he seduced the young girl and made her his mistress, would have been terribly scandalised had he taken her for his lawful wife.

His studies went on in a desultory way, his books were almost forsaken; love engrossed all his mind.

In the midst of his thoughtless happiness, the young lover was suddenly summoned back home, for whilst Theodor was supposed to be poring over his old volumes, the father, without consulting him, not anticipating any opposition, promised his son in marriage to the daughter of one of his friends, a young lady of great wealth and beauty. This union had, it is true, been concerted when the children were mere babes, and it had from that time been a bond between the two families. The whole town, nay, the Commonwealth itself, rejoiced at this auspicious event. The young lady, being now of a marriageable age, and having duly concentrated all her affections upon the man she had always been taught to regard as her future husband, looked forward with joy to the day that would remove her from the thraldom in which young girls were kept. Henceforth she would take her due share in all festivities, and not only be cooped up in a balcony or a gallery to witness those enjoyments of which she could not take part.

Theodor was, therefore, summoned back home to assist at a great festivity given in honour of his betrothal. This order came upon him as a thunderbolt; still, as soon as he recovered from the shock, he hastened back to break off the engagement contracted for him. He tried to remonstrate, first with his father, and then with his mother; but his eloquence was put to scorn. He pleaded in vain that he had no inclination for matrimony, that, moreover, he only felt for this young lady a mere brotherly affection, that could never ripen into love; still, both his parents were deaf to all his arguments. Now that the wedding day was settled, that the father had pledged his word to his friend, it was too late to retreat. A refusal would be insulting; it would provoke a rupture between the two families – a feud in the town. No option was left but to obey.

Theodor thereupon retired to his own room, where he remained in strict confinement, refusing to see anyone. The evening of that eventful day the guests were assembled, the bride and her family had arrived; the bridegroom, nevertheless, was missing. This was, indeed, a strange breach of good manners, and numerous comments were whispered from ear to ear. The father sent, at last, a peremptory order to his undutiful son to come down at once.

The young man at last made his appearance dressed in a suit of deep mourning, whilst his hair – which a little while before had fallen in long ringlets over his shoulders – was clipped short. In this strange dress he came to inform his father – before the whole assembly – that he had decided to forego the pleasures, the pomp and vanity of this world, and to take up his abode in a convent, where he intended to pass his days in study and meditation.

The scene of confusion which followed this unexpected declaration can easily be imagined. The guests thought it advisable to retire; still, the first person to leave the house was Theodor himself, bearing with him his father's curse. The discarded bride was borne away by her parents, and her delicate health never recovered from that unexpected disappointment.

That very night the young man went back to the Benedictine convent, and, although the prior received him kindly, he still advised him to yield to his father's wishes; but Theodor was firm in his resolution of passing his life in holy seclusion.

After a few days, the fire which love had kindled within his veins was so strong that he could not resist the temptation of going to see Margaret to inform her of all that had happened. Driven as he was from house and home, unable to go against the unjust laws of his country, he had made up his mind to spend his life in holy celibacy, in the convent where he had taken shelter. The sight of the young girl, however, made him forget all his wise resolutions; he only swore to her that he would brave the laws of his country, the wrath of his parents, and that he would marry her in spite of his family and of the whole world.

He thus continued to see the young girl, stealthily at first, then oftener and without so many precautions, till at last Margaret's brothers were informed of his visits. They – jealous of the honour of their family, as all Slavs are – threatened their sister to kill her lover if ever they found him with her. Then – almost at the same time – the prior of the Benedictines, happening to hear of Theodor's love for the fair fisher-girl of Lopud, expressed his intention of expelling him, should he not discontinue his visits to the neighbouring island.

Every new difficulty only seemed to give greater courage to the lovers. They would have fled from their native country had it not been for the fear of being soon overtaken, brought back and punished; they, therefore, decided to wait for some time, until the wrath of their persecutors had abated, and the storm that always threatened them had blown over.

As Theodor could not go to see the young girl, Margaret now came to visit her lover. Not to excite any suspicion, they only met in the middle of the night; and, as they always changed their trysting-place, a lighted torch was the signal where the young girl was to steer her boat. Sometimes – as not a skiff was to be got – the young girl swam across the channel, for nothing could daunt her heroic heart.

These ill-fated lovers were happy in spite of their adverse fortune; the love they bore one another made amends for all their woes. They only lived in expectation of that hour they were to pass together every night. Then, clasped in each other's arms, the world and its inhabitants did not exist for them. Those were moments of such ineffable rapture, that it seemed impossible for them ever to drain the whole chalice of happiness. In those moments Time and Eternity were confounded, and nothing was worth living for except the bliss of loving and being loved. The dangers which surrounded them, their loneliness upon those rocky shores, the stillness of the night, and the swiftness of time, only rendered the pleasure they felt more intense, for joy dearly bought is always more deeply felt.

Their happiness, however, was not to last long. Margaret's brothers, having watched her, soon found out that when the young nobleman had ceased coming to Lopud, it was she who visited her lover by night, and, like honourable men, they resolved to be avenged upon her. They bided their time, and upon a dark and stormy night the fishermen, knowing that their sister would not be intimidated by the heavy sea, went off with the boat and left her to the mercy of the waves. Theodor, not to entice her to expose herself rashly to the fury of the sea, had not lighted his torch; still, unable to remain shut up within his cell, he roamed about the desolate shore, listening to the roaring billows. All at once he saw a light – not far from the rocks. No fisherman could be out in the storm at that hour. His heart sank within him for fear Margaret should see the light and take it for his signal. In a fever of anxiety he walked about the shore and watched the fluttering light – now almost extinguished, and then burning brightly.

The young girl seeing the light, and unable to resist the promptings of her heart, made the sign of the Cross, recommended herself to the mercy of the Almighty, and bravely plunged into the waters. She struggled against the fury of the wind, and buffeted against the waves, swimming towards that beacon-light of love. That night, however, all her efforts seemed useless; she never could reach the shore; that ignis-fatuus light always receded from her. Still, she took courage, hoping soon to reach that blessed goal; in fact, she was now getting quite near it.

A flash of lightning, which illumined the dark expanse of the waters, showed her that the torch, towards which she had been swimming, was tied to the prow of her brothers' boat. She also perceived that the Island of St. Andrea, towards which she thought she had been swimming, was far behind her. A moment afterwards the torch was thrown into the sea, and the boat rowed off. She at once turned towards the island, and there, in the midst of the darkness, she struggled with the huge breakers that dashed themselves in foam against the reefs; but soon, overpowered with weariness, she gave up every hope of rejoining her lover, and sank down in the briny deep.

The sea that separated the lovers was, however, less cruel than man, for upon the morrow the waves themselves laid the lifeless body of the young girl upon the soft sand of the beach.

The young patrician, who had passed a night of most terrible anxiety, wandering on the strand, found the corpse of the girl he so dearly loved. He caused it to be committed to the earth, after which he re-entered the walls of the convent, took the Benedictine dress, and spent the rest of his life praying for her soul and pining in grief.

Milenko did not exactly relate this story in these words, for to be intelligible he had to make use of a mixture of Italian, Slav and even Greek, and even then Captain Panajotti was often puzzled to understand what he meant; therefore, he had to express himself in a kind of dumb show, or in those onomatopoetic sounds rather difficult to be transcribed.

As soon as he had finished, the captain said:

"We, too, have a story like that, and, on the whole, ours is a much prettier one; for it was the man who swam across the Straits of the Dardanelles to meet the girl he loved, and, on a stormy night, he was drowned."

"Only ours is a true story; you yourself have seen, just now, the hard-hearted brothers rowing in the dark."

"Ours is also true."

"And when did it happen?"

"More than a thousand years ago, when we Greeks were the masters of all the world."

The Spera in Dio, having met with contrary winds and a storm in the rough sea of the Quarnero, had been obliged to cruise about and shift her sails every now and then, thus losing a great deal of time, and she only reached Trieste after a week's delay. The caique instead had a steady, strong wind, and less than twenty-four hours after they left Ragusa they cast their anchor in front of the white walls of Zara.

To the pobratim's regret the boat was only to remain there two or three days at most, just time enough to take some bales of hides, and then set sail for Trieste; so, although they were so near Nona, it was impossible for them to go and pay a visit to Ivanka. The two young sailors had, however, no need of going to Nona to see their friends, for no sooner had the ship dropped her anchor than Giulianic himself came on board, for he was the Sciot merchant about whom Captain Panajotti had often spoken to them, and who was to give them the extra cargo.

"What! you here?" said Giulianic, opening his eyes with astonishment. "Well, this is an unexpected pleasure; but I thought you were in Trieste." Then, turning to Milenko, he added: "I had a letter from your father only a few days ago informing me that your ship would be there now. You have not been shipwrecked, I hope?"

"No, no," replied Uros, at once; "we were detained at Ragusa; but we are on our way to Trieste, aren't we, captain?"

"If God grants us a fair wind, we are."

Milenko thereupon opened his mouth to speak, but his friend forestalled him.

"So you had a letter from his father? Well, what news from home? Are they all in good health? And how are the crops getting on?" Thereupon he stepped on his friend's foot to make him keep quiet.

"Yes, all are well. Amongst other things, he says that your father has gone to Montenegro."

"My father?" asked Uros, with a sly wink at Milenko.

"Yes; on account of a murder that had been committed at Budua." Then, turning to the captain: "By-the-bye, you knew Radonic, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did."

"Well, it appears he's gone and murdered the only friend he had."

"That's not astonishing. The only thing that surprises me is that he ever had a friend to murder. He was one of the most unsociable men I ever met."

Afterwards they spoke of the accident that had kept the two young men at Ragusa, at which Giulianic seemed greatly concerned.

"Anyhow," said he, "it's lucky that my wife and Ivanka have come with me from Nona. They'll be so glad to see you again; for you must know, Captain Panajotti, that my bones, and those of my wife and daughter, would now be lying at the bottom of the sea, had it not been for the courage of these two young men."

"Oh! you must thank him," said Uros, pointing to Milenko. "I only helped so as not to leave him to risk his life alone."

"They never told me anything about it; but, of course, they did not know that I was acquainted with you." Then, laughing, the captain added: "Fancy, I have been warning them not to lose their hearts on seeing your beautiful daughter."

"And didn't I tell you that my friend had already left his heart at Nona?"

Saying this, Uros pinched his friend's arm. Milenko blushed, and was about to say something, but Giulianic began to speak about business; then added:

"And now I must leave you; but suppose you all three come and meet us at the Cappello in about an hour's time, and have some dinner with us? I'll not say a word either to my wife or Ivanka, and you may fancy how surprised they'll be to see you."

Captain Panajotti seemed undecided.

"No, I'll not have any excuse; you captains are little tyrants the moment the anchor is weighed, but the moment it's dropped you are all smiles and affability. Come, I'll have a dish of scordalia to whet your appetite; now, you can't resist that; so ta-ta for the present."

The moment Giulianic disappeared Milenko looked at his friend, whose eyes were twinkling with merriment.

"It's done," said Uros, smiling.

"But what made you take the poor fellow in as you did?"

"I take him in? Well, I like that."

"Well, but – "

"If he deceived himself, am I to be held responsible for his mistakes?"

"Still – "

"Besides, if there was any deception, I must say you did your best to let it go on."

"Of course, I did; but who made me do it?"

"I did."

"And now is it to continue?"

"Of course."

"But why?"

"Milenko, you're a good fellow, but in some things you are a great ninny. You ask me why? Well, because, for two days, you can make love to the daughter under the father's very nose; in the meantime I'll devote myself to the father and mother, and make myself pleasant to them."

"Yes, but what'll be the upshot of all this?"

"'Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof,' the proverb says; why will you make yourself wretched, thinking of the future, when you can be so happy? If I only had the opportunity of spending two long days with – "

Uros did not finish his phrase; his merry face grew dark, and he sighed deeply; then he added: "There is usually some way out of all difficulties; see how you got out of prison."

"Still, look in what a predicament you've placed me."

"Well, if you feel qualmish, we can tell the old man that he's a goose, for he really doesn't know who his son-in-law is; then I'll make love to fair Ivanka, and you'll look on. Now are you satisfied?"

"What are you wrangling about?" said Captain Panajotti, appearing out of the hatchway in his best clothes, his baggy trowsers more voluminous than those that Mrs. Bloomer tried to set in fashion a few years afterwards.

"Oh! nothing," said Uros, laughing; "only you must know that every first quarter of the moon I suffer from lunacy. I'm not at all dangerous, quite the contrary; especially if I'm not contradicted. So you might try and bear with me for a day or two; by the time we sail again I'll be all right; it's only a flow of exuberant animal spirits, that must vent themselves. But, how fine you are, captain; I'm afraid you are trying to out-do my friend, and if it wasn't that you are married, I'd have thought that all your warnings for us not to fall in love with the Sciot's daughter – "

"I see that the lunacy is beginning, so I'll not contradict; but hadn't you better go and dress?"

"All right," quoth Uros, and in a twinkling the two young men disappeared down the hatchway.

Half-an-hour afterwards they were at the Albergo Cappello, the only inn of the town, where they found Giulianic awaiting them. The two women were very much astonished to see them. Ivanitza's eyes flashed with unrestrained delight on perceiving her lover, but then she looked down demurely – as every well-bred damsel should – and blushed like a pomegranate flower. Only, when she heard her father address him by his friend's name, she looked up astonished; but seeing Uros slily wink at her, she again cast down her eyes, wondering what it all meant.

After a while the mother whispered to her husband that she had always mistaken one of the young men for the other.

"Did you?" said he, laughing. "Well, I am astonished, for you women are so much keener in knowing people than we men are; for, to tell you the truth, I've often been puzzled myself; they are both the same age, they are like brothers, they are dressed alike, so it's easy to mistake them."

"Anyhow," added she, "I'm glad to have been mistaken, because, although I like both of them, still I prefer our future son-in-law to young Bellacic; he's more earnest and sedate than his friend."