The Pobratim: A Slav Novel

"You liked this story?" said the old man to Vranic, as soon as he had finished.

"Yes," replied the tailor, thinking of the ghastly, livid corpse, with grinning, gaping mouth, and glassy, goggle eyes, galloping after the priest, and wondering whether she was like the vampire. "Yes, it's an interesting story, but rather gruesome."

"Well, but it's only a story, and, whether ghastly or lively, it's only words, which – as the proverb says – are evanescent as soap-bubbles. Now," continued he, "if you want to go off to sleep, look at this," and he gave him a bit of cardboard, on which were traced several circles; "look at it till you see all these rings wheeling round. When they disappear, you'll be asleep."

The old man put the bit of cardboard before Vranic, who leaned his elbows on the table and his head between the palms of his hands, and stared at the drawing. Five minutes afterwards he was fast asleep.

When he awoke the next morning, his head was not only aching, but his weakness had so much increased that he had hardly strength enough to stand on his feet. He, therefore, made up his mind to go to the parish priest, and lay the whole matter before him.

Priests are everywhere but fetich men; therefore, if they have burnt witches for using charms and philters, it is simply because these women trespassed on their own domains, and were more successful than they themselves. Of what use would a priest be if he could not pray for rain, give little sacré cœur bits of flannel as talismans against pestilence, or brass medals to scare away the devil? A priest who can do nothing for us here below, must and will soon fall into discredit. The hereafter is so vague and indefinite that it cannot inspire us with half the interest the present does.

The priest whom Vranic consulted was of the same opinion as the tailor. He, too, believed that probably his brother had become a vampire, who nightly left the tomb to go and suck his blood. For his own sake, as well as for that of the whole town, it would be well to exorcise the ghost. The matter, however, had to be kept a profound secret, as the Government had put its veto on vampire-killing, and looked upon all such practices as illegal.

It was, therefore, agreed that Vranic, together with his relations and some friends, should go to the curate's about ten o'clock at night; there the curate would be waiting for them with another priest; from there the little party would stealthily proceed to the cemetery where the ceremony was to be held.

The Friday fixed upon arrived. The night was dark, the weather sultry; a storm had been brooding in the heavy clouds overhead and was now ready to burst every moment.

As soon as the muffled people got to the gate of the burying-ground the mortuary chapel was opened to them by the sexton. The priests put on their officiating robes, recited several orisons appropriate to the occasion; then, with the Cross carried before them, bearing a holy-water sprinkler in their hands, followed by Vranic and his friends – all with blessed tapers – they went up to the murdered man's tomb. The priest then bade the sexton dig up the earth and bring out the coffin.

The smell, as the pit was being dug lower down, became always more offensive; but when, at last, the rotting deal coffin was drawn out and opened, it became overpoweringly loathsome. The corpse, however, being found in a good state of preservation, there could be no doubt that the dead man was a vampire. It is true that the tapers which everyone held gave but a dim and flickering light; moreover, that the stench was so sickening that all turned at once their heads away in disgust; still, they had all seen enough of the corpse to declare it to be but seemingly dead. The priest, standing as far from it as he possibly could, began at once to exorcise it in the name of the Trinity, the Virgin and all the saints; to sprinkle it with holy water, commanding it not to move, not to jump out of its box and run away – for these ghouls are cunning devils, and if one is not on the alert they skedaddle the moment the coffin is opened. Our priest, however, was a match even for the dead man, and his holy-water sprinkler was uplifted even before the lid of the loathsome chest was loosened.

The storm which had been threatening the whole of that day broke out at last. No sooner had the sexton begun to dig the grave than the wind, which had been moaning and wailing round the stones and wooden crosses, began to howl with a sinister sound. Then, just as the priest uttered the formula of the exorcism – when the coffin was uncovered and the uncanny corpse was seen – a flash of lurid lightning gleamed over its livid features, and the rumbling thunder ended in a tremendous crash; the earth shook as if with the throes of childbirth; hell seemed to yawn and yield forth its fulsome dead. As the priest sprinkled the corpse with holy water, the rain came down in torrents as if to drown the world.

Although the noise was deafening, still some of the men affirm that they heard the corpse lament and entreat not to be killed; but the priest, a tall, stalwart man of great strength and courage, went on perfectly undaunted, paying no heed to the vampire, mumbling his prayers as if the man prostrate before him was some ordinary corpse and this was a commonplace, every-day funeral.

The priest, having reached in his orisons the moment when he uttered the name of Isukrst, or God the Son, Josko Vranic, who stood by, shivering from head to foot, and looking like a cat extracted from a tub of soap-suds, drew out a dagger from under his coat, where it had been carefully concealed from the ghost's sight, and stabbed the corpse. It was, of course, a black steel stiletto, for only such a weapon can kill a vampire. He should have stabbed the dead man in his neck and through the throat, but he was so sick that he could hardly stand; besides, his candle that instant went out, and, moreover, he was terribly frightened, for although he was stabbing but a corpse, still that corpse was his own brother.

A flash of lightning which followed that instant of perfect darkness showed him that the dagger, instead of being stuck in the dead man's neck, was thrust in the right cheek.

The ceremony being now over, the priests and their attendants hastened back to the chapel to take shelter from the rage of the storm, as well as to escape from the pestilential stench.

The sexton alone remained outside to heap up the earth again on the uncanny corpse, and shut up the grave.

"Are you sure you stabbed the corpse in the neck, severing the throat, and thus preventing it from ever sucking blood again?" asked the priest.

"Yes, I believe I have," answered Vranic, with a whining voice.

"I don't ask you what you believe; have you done it – yes, or no?" said the ecclesiastic, sternly.

"Well, just as I lifted my knife to stab, the candle went out. I couldn't see at all; the night was so dark; you all were far from me. Besides, as I bent down, the smell made me so sick that – "

"You don't know where you stabbed?" added the priest, angrily.

"He stabbed him in the cheek!" said the sexton, coming in.

"Fool!" burst out the priest, in a stentorian voice.

"I was sure this would be the case," cried out one of the party.

"Vranic has always been a bungler of a tailor."

"You have done a fine piece of work, you have, indeed, you wretch!" hissed the priest, looking at Vranic scornfully.

"You have endowed that cursed brother of yours with everlasting life," said the other priest, "and now the whole town will be infested with another vampire for ever!"

"Do you really think so?" asked Vranic, ready to burst out crying.

"Think so!" said all the other men, scornfully. "To bring us here in the middle of the night with this storm, to stifle us with this poisonous stench, and this is the result!"

"But really – " stammered Vranic.

"Anyhow, he'll not leave you till he has sucked the last drop of blood from your body."

The storm having somewhat abated, all the company wended their way homewards, taking no notice of the tailor, who followed them like a mangy cur which everyone avoids.

That night, Vranic had not a wink of sleep. No one would have him in his house; nobody would sleep with him, for fear of falling afterwards a prey to the vampire. As soon as he lay down and tried to shut his eyes, the terrifying sight appeared before him. The festering ghost with the horrible gash in the cheek, just over the jaw-bone, was ever present to his eyes; nor could he get rid of the loathsome, sickening stench with which his clothes, nay, his very body, seemed saturated. If a mouse stirred he fancied he could see the ghost standing by him. He hid his head under the bed-cover not to see, not to hear, until he was almost smothered, and every now and then he felt a human hand laid on his head, on his shoulder, on his legs, and his teeth chattered with fear.

The storm ceased; still, the sky remained overcast, and a thin, drizzling rain had succeeded the interrupted showers. The dreadful night came to an end; he was happy to see the grey light of dawn succeed the appalling darkness. Daylight brought with it happier thoughts.

"Perhaps," said he to himself, "my brother was no vampire, after all! Perhaps the blade of the dagger, driven in the cheek, had penetrated slantingly into the neck, severed the throat, and thus killed the vampire; for something must have happened to keep the ghost away."

On the next day Vranic remained shut up at home. He felt sure that his own relations would henceforth hate him, and his acquaintances would stone him if they possibly could. Nothing makes a man not only unjust, but even cruel, like fear, and no fear is greater than the vague dread of the unknown. That whole day he tried to work, but his thoughts were always fixed either on the festering corpse he had stabbed or on the coming night.

Would the ghoul, reeking of hell, come and suck up his blood?

As the light waned his very strength began to flow away, his legs grew weak, his flesh shivered, the beating of his heart grew ever more irregular.

He lighted his little oil-lamp before it was quite dark, looked about stealthily, trembling lest he should see the dreaded apparition before its time, started and shuddered at the slightest noise.

He was weary and worn out by the emotions of the former sleepless night; still, he could not make up his mind to go to bed. He placed his elbows on the board, buried his head within his hands, and remained there brooding over his woes. Without daring to lift up his eyes or look around, he at times stretched out his hand, clutched a gourd full of spirits and took a sip. Time passed, the twilight had faded away into soft, mellow darkness without; but in the tailor's room the little flickering light only rendered the shadows grim and gruesome.

Drink and lassitude at last overpowered the poor man; his head began to get drowsy, his ideas more confused; the heaviness of sleep weighed him down.

All at once he was roused from his lethargy by a sound of rushing winds. He hardly noticed it when it blew from afar, like the slight breeze that ruffles the surface of the sea; but, now that it came nearer, he remembered having heard it some evenings before. He grew pale, panted, and then his breath stopped, convulsed as he was by fear.

As upon the previous night, the wind was lost in the distance, and then in the stillness of the night he heard the low, hushed sound of footsteps coming from afar; but they drew nearer and ever nearer, with a heavy, slow, metrical step. The night-walker was near his house, at his door, on his threshold. The loathsome, sickening smell of corruption grew stronger and stronger. Now it was as overpoweringly nauseous as when he had bent down to stab his dead brother. The sound of footsteps was now within his room; the spectre must surely be by his side. He kept his eyes tightly shut and his head bent down. A cold perspiration was trickling from his forehead and through his fingers on to the table.

All at once, something heavy and metallic was thrown in front of him. Although his eyes were tightly shut, he knew that it was the black dagger that his brother had come to bring him back, and he was not mistaken.

Was there a chuckle just then?

Almost against his will he opened his eyes, lifted his head, and looked at his guest. The vampire was standing by his side grinning at him hideously, notwithstanding the gash in his right cheek.

"Thank you, brother," said he, in a hollow, mocking voice, "for what you did yesterday; you have, in fact, given me everlasting life; and, as one good turn deserves another, you soon will be a vampire along with me. Come, don't look so scared, man; it's a pleasant life, after all. We sleep soundly during the day, and, believe me, no bed is so comfortable as the coffin, no house so quiet as the grave; but at night, when all the world sleeps and only witches are awake, then we not only live, but we enjoy life. No cankering care, no worry about the morrow. We have only fun and frolic, for we suck, we suck, we suck."

Vranic heard the sound of smacking lips just by his neck, the vampire had already laid his hands upon him.

He tried to rise, to struggle, but his strength and his senses forsook him; he uttered a choked, raucous sound, then his breath again stopped spasmodically, his face grew livid, he gasped for breath, his face and lips got to be of a violet hue, his eyes shut themselves, as he dropped fainting in his chair.

CHAPTER XVII

THE FACE IN THE MIRROR

A few days after Radonic had been brought back dying, Uros was walking down the mountain path leading from the heights of Montenegro to the Dalmatian coast. He was even in higher spirits than he was usually wont to be.

His father had accompanied him to the frontier, and on the way he had opened his heart to him, and told him of his love for Milena, and even obtained his consent for his marriage, which might take place as soon as her widowhood was over. Bellacic, moreover, had promised to write to his friend, Giulianic, to release him from his pledge.

The day, as it dawned now, was a glorious one, bright, clear and fresh. After the storm and rain of the day before, the dark crags of the Cernagora seemed but newly created, or only just arisen out of the glittering waters that stretched down below in a translucent, misty mass of sluggish streams flowing through a cloudy ocean.

The breeze that blew from the mountain-tops seemed to him like some exhilarating, life-giving fluid. Exercise – not prolonged as yet – rendered his senses of enjoyment keener; he felt happy with himself and with the world at large. He was in one of those rare moods in which a man would like the earth to be a human being, so as to clasp it fondly to his breast, as he does a child, or the woman he loves.

Although he did not rejoice at Radonic's death, still, as he loved Milena, it was natural that he was glad the obstacle to his happiness had been removed, and a wave of joy seemed to rise from his heart upwards as his nerves tingled with excitement at the thought that in a few months she might be his wife.

Therefore, with his blithe and merry character, ever prone to look on the bright side of life, it is easy to imagine his buoyancy of spirits as he walked down to Budua. Every step was bringing him nearer her; before the sun had reached its zenith he would be at home, clasping her in his arms; she – Milena – would be his for ever, and he crossed his arms and hugged himself in his excited state of mind.

Then he began to imagine Milenko's delight when he would hear that he, too, could marry the girl he loved.

It is not to be wondered at that he thought the earth a good dwelling-place, and that life – taking it on the whole – was not only worth living, but very pleasant besides. It is true, he said to himself, that man sometimes mars the work of God with his passions; still, karvarinas were the clouds of life, enhancing the beauty of the bright days which followed sudden showers. Sullen and malicious men like Vranic and his brood were buzzing insects, more tedious than harmful to their fellow-creatures.

Such were the thoughts that flitted through his mind as he walked briskly along, singing as blithely as a lark. As he had, the day before, sent word to Milenko that he would be back on the morrow, he stopped at every turn of the road, and, shading his eyes with his hand, he looked down the road, hoping to see his friend's graceful figure coming to meet him, as was sure to be the case.

He had never been separated from Milenko for so many days, and now that he was about to see him, his longing seemed to increase at every step.

As for Milenko, being of a more sensitive character, and having remained on board, he had missed his friend even more keenly than Uros had done. He would have started to meet him at early dawn, but he had been obliged to remain behind and look after the ship's cargo, that had been delayed the evening before on account of some trifling incident – for, sometimes, things of no importance in themselves lead to the most dreadful calamities. Likewise, the string of one of Milenko's shoes broke, so he stopped to tie it; after some steps it broke again. He stopped once more, pulled off his shoe, unlaced it, tied the string as well as he could. After a quarter of an hour the string of the other shoe broke too; he had again to stop and mend it. More than five minutes was thus lost; besides, the loose strings not only made him linger, but even slacken his pace.

Uros went down singing snatches of some merry song, little thinking that the delay in meeting his friend would almost cost him his life.

The news of Radonic's death had soon been spread about Budua, and he, who had never been a favourite during his lifetime, became a hero after death. The Samson-like way in which he had fought was extolled, the number of wounds he had received, the hundreds of Turks he had killed went on daily increasing. His dauntless courage, his bold feats, his cunningness in council were becoming legendary; in fact, he was for some time a second Marko Kraglievic. The Vranite party – especially after the night of the burying-ground affair – had dwindled into nothing. The Radonites ruled the day.

Earless Vranic, as he was called everywhere, was galled by his defeat; his envious, jealous disposition could find no rest. Being, moreover, doomed to a certain death, he found himself like a stag at bay, and he almost felt at times the courage of despair.

The radiant day which followed the dreadful night when the vampire appeared to him brought no change to Vranic's gloom. He was too much like a night-bird now to feel any pleasure at the sight of the sunlit sky. Like an owl he shunned the light, and only prowled about when every man had shut himself up in his house. He dreaded the sight of a human face on account of the scowl of hatred he was sure to see there, for he knew that everyone looked upon him not as a man, but as the bloodsucker he would soon become.

Having recovered from his fainting-fit after the visit of thevoukoudlak, he almost lost his senses again, seeing the black dagger on the table in front of him. With a fluttering heart, and aching head and tottering limbs, he walked about his room, asking himself what he should do and how he could escape the wretchedness of his present life. Suicide never came into his head, for, in spite of all his misery, life still was dear to him. The best thing would, perhaps, be to leave Budua for a short time, and thus frustrate the vampire.

As he had to go and pay the priest for the ceremony of the exorcism, he decided to ask, and perhaps take, his advice upon what he was to do and where he should go. He went grudgingly, indeed, to pay a large sum of money for a ceremony which had been of no avail, and although it had not been the priest's fault if the ghost had not been killed, still the money was being thrown away, for all that.

Before leaving the house, he took the black dagger, washed and scrubbed it with fine sand to cleanse it from the offensive smell it had, then he put it in his breast pocket, where he had had it some nights before. With heavy steps he trudged towards the priest's house at dawn, before the people of the town were up and about the streets. The priest, who was an early riser, had just got up. Vranic, with unwilling hands, undid the strings of his purse, and counted out, with many a sigh, the sum agreed upon, for the priest would not bate a single cent. Then Vranic, with his eyes gloating on the silver dollars, told the clergyman how the vampire had appeared to him and overcome him.

"Aye," said the priest, "I was afraid that would be the case."

"And now I'd like to leave the town, for I might thus avoid the vampire."

"The best thing you could do."

"Yes, but where am I to go in order to escape the ghost?"

"I think the best place for you is the Convent of St. George. Surely the spectre 'll not follow you there in those hallowed walls, amongst all those saintly men."

"Yes, but will the brotherhood receive me?"

"Tell them that I sent you. Moreover, I'll call myself during the day and speak to them. May I add that, perhaps, you'll be induced to turn caloyer yourself some day or other. Meanwhile, a little charity to the convent would render your stay more agreeable. You know the brotherhood is poor."

Vranic thanked the priest, and promised to be guided by his advice; still, he could not help thinking of all the money this new scheme might cost him. It is true, if he turned friar, he might get rid of the vampire, but would he not also lose all his money into the bargain?

Which was the greater evil of the two – to be sucked of all his blood, or drained of all his money?

Out of the town gate, far from the haunts and scowling faces of men, he breathed a little more at ease. Were they not all a set of grasping, covetous ghouls, whose only aim was to wrench all he had from him? The dazzling sunshine and the dancing waves, far from soothing him, only irritated him, for he fancied that all the world was blithe, merry and happy, and he alone was miserable. He thought how happy he, too, might have been had that cursed karvarina not taken place. He had never felt any deep hatred against Radonic, nor had he any real reason for disliking him; for, to be true to himself, his brother's murder had been an incident, not an accident, in his life. It was not Radonic's fault if the ghost-seer had become a vampire after his death. All his grudge was rather against Bellacic, who had helped to frustrate him of a good round sum of money, owed to him for his brother's blood. He hated him especially for having inflicted a bodily and moral wound by cutting off his ear, rendering him thus an object of everlasting scorn in the whole town.

Radonic was dead, but Bellacic lived to triumph over him. If he could only wreak his vengeance upon him he might pacify the vampire's rage; if not, he could always make his escape into the convent. With these thoughts in his head, he clutched the handle of the dagger and, as he did so, he shivered from head to foot with a kind of hellish delight.

Just then he fancied he heard a distant chuckle and looked round. He could see nobody. It was only his imagination. Almost at the same time he heard a voice whisper softly in his ear:

"Use this dagger against my enemies better than you did against me, and then, perhaps, you might be free."

Was it his brother ordering him what he was to do? Instead of stopping at the convent, should he go on to Montenegro, waylay Bellacic and murder him?

He had been walking, or rather, crawling quietly on, for about two hours; the sun was high up in the sky, the day was hot, the road dusty, and, worn out by sleeplessness, by worry and, above all, by the great loss of blood, he was now overcome by weariness and weakness. The monastery was at last in sight; still, he felt as if he could hardly crawl any further on; so, undecided as he was, he sat down at the side of some laurel-bushes to rest and make up his mind as to what he was to do.

He had not been sitting there a quarter of an hour, blinking at the sun, like an owl, when he heard snatches of an unknown song, wafted from afar. It was not one of the plaintive lays of his own country, but a lively, blithe Italian canzonet, with trills that sounded like the merry warbling of a lark. The singing stopped – it began again, then stopped once more; after that he heard a light, brisk step coming towards him. A man who could sing and walk in such a way must surely be happy, he thought. Then, without knowing who the man was, he hated him for being happy. Why should some people have all the sweetness, and others all the gall of life? he asked himself. Is not this world a fool's paradise for him and a dungeon for me? In my wretchedness he seems to taunt me with his mirth. Well, if ever I become a vampire, the first blood I'll suck is that man's; and I'll drain the very last drop, for it must be warm and sweet.