The Pobratim: A Slav Novel

Mara stretched forth her hand and clasped Milenko.

"You never told me what you had done, my boy," said she, while the tears trickled down her cheeks.

"What I did was little enough; besides, did Uros ever tell you how he saved my life and dragged me out of prison at Ragusa?" and Milenko thereupon proceeded to tell them all how he had been accused of manslaughter, and in what a wonderful way he had been saved by his friend.

"In my grief I have always one consolation," said Mara; "should the worst happen, one son is left me, for they are pobratim," said she, turning to the monk.

"What has become of the murderer? Has he been arrested?" asked Kvekvic of Milenko.

"He took to the rocks and disappeared like a horned adder. At that moment I only thought of Uros, who would have bled to death had he been left alone."

"Oh, those Vranics are a cursed race! The Almighty God has not put a sign on them for nothing. This one has a cast in his eye, so that men should keep aloof from him. They are all a peevish, fretful, malicious race," said Kvekvic.

"Their blood turns to gall," added the monk.

"Oh, but I'll find him out, even if he hide himself in the most secret recess!" quoth Milenko, turning towards Mara. "I'll not rest till my brother's blood is avenged."

"'Tooth for tooth, eye for eye,' say our Holy Scriptures," and Danko Kvekvic crossed himself.

"Amen!" added the monk, following his example.

Just then Uros opened his eyes. He came to his senses for a few seconds, and, seeing his mother, his pupils seemed to dilate with a yearning look of love. She pressed his hand, and he slightly – almost imperceptibly – returned the pressure. His lips quivered; he was about to speak, when he again closed his eyes and his senses began once more to wander. The monk bathed his lips with the cordial he was administering him. The patient, apparently, had again fallen off to sleep.

Just then the sound of the convent bell was heard.

"I am sorry," said the old caloyer, turning towards his guests, "but I have to dismiss you now; the bell you have just heard summons us tovecernjca. When our prayers are over, the doors of our house are closed for the night – no one comes in or goes out after evensong."

"But we two can surely remain with you to-night," said Kvekvic, pointing to Milenko.

"Surely Father Vjekoslav will readily give you permission to be our honoured guests as long as you like, if he has not already granted it; but – " (here the old man hesitated).

"But what?" asked Kvekvic.

"The gospa," said the monk, turning towards Mara, "must return home."

"Yes, I know," added Mara, sighing as she got up.

"Still," quoth the good caloyer, "we shall take great care of him, and to-morrow morning you can come as early as you like."

The poor mother thanked the good old man; she slightly brushed off the curls from her boy's forehead, kissed him with a deep-drawn sigh, and with tearful eyes rose to go.

"Thank you for all the care you have taken of my child; thank you, uncle Danko, for all your kindness," and she kissed the priest's and the monk's hands, according to the custom of the Slavs.

Just then, a young lay-monk came to inform Mara that someone was asking for her. It was Milenko's mother, who had come up to the convent door to ask how Uros was getting on, and to see if she could be of any use, for Milenko, with his usual thoughtfulness, had begged his mother to come in the evening and accompany her friend back home.

"Go, Milos, and join the brethren in their prayers," said Danko Kvekvic. "I shall recite my orisons here, beside my nephew's bed."

The monk and Milenko accompanied the forlorn mother to the convent door, and bade her be of good cheer; then they went to church to take part in the evening service.

When the candles were all put out, and echoes of the evening-song had died away, they all slowly, and with stately steps, wended their way to the refectory, where a simple repast was spread out for them. Being Friday, the frugal supper consisted of vegetarian food; there were tomatoes baked with bread-crumbs, egg-plants stuffed with rice, and other such oriental dishes. The dessert, especially, was a sumptuous one, not only on account of the thickly-curded sour milk, but of the splendid fruit which the convent garden afforded. There were luscious plums as big as eggs; large, juicy and fragrant peaches, the flesh of which clung to the stone; huge water-melons, the inside of which looked like crimson snow, and melted away as such, and sweet-scented musk-melons; above all, big clusters of grapes of all shapes and hues; rosy-tinted, translucent berries, looking like pale rubies; dark purple drupes covered with pearly dust, which seemed like bunches of damsons; big white Smyrna grapes of a waxy hue, the small sultana of Corinth, and the long grapes that look like amber tears.

Milenko, notwithstanding the grief he felt, made a hearty meal, for, except a bit of bread, broken off as he walked along from his father's loaf, and a draught of wine, he had scarcely tasted food the whole of that day; therefore, he was more than hungry. Supper being over, and a short thanksgiving prayer having been offered, Milenko found himself all at once surrounded by the monks, who pressed him with questions, for childish curiosity was their prevailing weakness.

They were especially interested in the theatrical performances the young man had witnessed at the Fenice of Venice, for they were amazed to hear that the grand ladies of the town, all glittering with costly gems, sat in boxes, where they exhibited to all eyes their naked arms and breasts, whilst they looked at young girls in transparent skirts hardly reaching their knees, who kept dancing on the tips of their toes, or twirled their legs over their partners' heads. Hearing such lewdness the saintly men were so greatly shocked that they crossed themselves demurely, and the eldest shook their heads, and said, reproachfully, that such dens of infamous resort were not places for modest young men to go to.

After that, Milenko told them of the last great invention, the boats that went without sails, but which had two huge wheels moved by fire; at which the monks again crossed themselves, and said that those were the devil's inventions, and that if things continued at such a rate, God would have to send another flood and destroy the world once more.

Milenko would have willingly escaped from his persecutors, but he still had to answer many questions about his life on board, the hardships he had had to undergo, the storms his ship had met with.

The medical monk had gone to take his place at Uros' bedside, and Danko Kvekvic, after having had some supper, had come out to breathe the fresh air on the convent's terrace, where all the caloyers had assembled before retiring to rest.

The scene was a most lovely one. Behind the terrace the high mountains rose dark against the sky; nearer, the black rocks had furry, velvety, and satin tints, for, under the dark and dusky light of the disappearing twilight, the stones seemed to have grown soft; whilst, on the other side, the broad expanse of the sea looked like a mass of some hard burnished metal.

The utter quietness, the perfect peace and rest which pervaded the whole scene, rendered the sense of life a pleasurable feeling; still, it is doubtful whether most of those holy men – who had never known the real wear and tear of life – felt all the bliss of that beatific rest.

"Now," said Kvekvic to Milenko, "you can come and see your friend, who, I am sorry to say, seems to be sinking; then you must retire to rest; you'll soon have to start with your ship, and you should not unfit yourself for your task."

"No," pleaded Milenko; "it is, perhaps, the last watch we shall keep together; therefore, let me stay by his bedside. But, tell me, is he really getting worse?"

"The fever is increasing fast, notwithstanding the father's medicines."

"Had we not better have a doctor from Budua or Cattaro?"

"I don't think their skill could be of much use, for I really think his hours are numbered here below – although he is young, and might struggle back to life; darkness, albeit, is gathering fast around him."

Milenko, with a heavy heart, went back to the sufferer's cell, where some other monks, also versed in the art of healing, had gathered around him in a grave consultation. They all said to Milenko that there was still hope; but, one by one, they all left the room, making the sign of the Cross, and recommending him to God, as if human aid could do nothing more for him.

Poor Milenko felt as if all the nerves of his chest had contracted painfully; life did not seem possible without the friend, the constant companion of his infancy.

As it was agreed that Danko Kvekvic should stay up with the old monk, all the other caloyers went off to sleep; but presently one of the younger brothers came in, bearing a tray of fragrant coffee, cooked in the Turkish fashion.

"Oh, thank you!" said Kvekvic, rubbing his hands, "I think you must have guessed my wishes, for, to tell you the truth, I was actually pining for a draught of that exhilarating beverage, one of the few good things we owe to the enemies of our creed, for, in fact, I know of few beverages that can be compared to a cup of fragrant coffee."

"As far as luxuries go, the Turks are certainly our masters; not only in confectionery, in sweet-scented sherbet, but even in cooking we are rude barbarians compared to them."

"They certainly are hedonists, who know how to render life pleasurable."

"Aye," said the monk, sternly, "theirs is the broad path leading to perdition." Then, after a slight pause, he added: "What is that book thou hast brought with thee, Blagoslav?"

"I thought," replied the young man, somewhat bashfully, "I might help you to pass your long vigil by reading to you; that is, of course, if it be agreeable to you."

The poor fellow stammered, and stopped, seeing the little success his proposal seemed to elicit.

"Blagoslav," retorted the old man, gravely, "vanity caused the archangel's downfall, and vanity is thy besetting sin. Blagoslav, thou knowest that thou readest well, for thou hast too often been praised for it, and now thou seizest every opportunity to hear the sound of thine own voice, which, I freely grant, is a pleasant one."

"Let us hear it, then," said Danko Kvekvic, kindly; "besides, I firmly believe that brother Blagoslav's intentions were good and – "

"Danko Kvekvic," said the old man, gruffly, "you are not a general favourite and an important man in Budua for nothing; you have the evil knack of flattering people's foibles."

"Come, come!" said the priest, good-humouredly, "should we pat a cat on the right side or on the wrong side?" Then, turning to Blagoslav, he added: "I, for myself, shall be thankful to you for beguiling away the long hours by reading something to us."

The young man, who had stood with his eyes cast down, and as still as a statue, sat down on a stool by the table and opened his book.

"What volume of ancient lore have you there?" asked the priest, pleasantly.

"'The Lives of the Saints,' written by a holy monk of our order." Then, looking up at the old monk, "Which Life shall I read?" he asked.

"Begin with that of our patron saint, Prince George of Cappadocia. It is a holy legend, which we, of course, all know, for the peasant often sings it at his plough, the shepherds say it to one another whilst tending their sheep, and" – turning to Milenko – "I suppose you, too, have often recited it at the helm when keeping your watch on the stormy sea."

"Yes, and invoked his holy name in the hour of danger." Thereupon Milenko crossed himself, and the others followed suit.

"It is one of our oldest legends; still, always a very pleasant one to hear, especially if it is well read. But, before you begin, Blagoslav, let me first set the sufferer's pillow straight and administer to his wants; then we shall listen to your reading without disturbing you."

The old man suited his actions to his words – felt Uros' pulse, gave him with a spoon some drops of cordial, and afterwards sat down.

"Now we are ready," said he to the young monk.

Blagoslav thereupon began as follows: —

PISMA SVETOGA JURJETHE SONG OF ST. GEORGEAll hail, O Bosnia! fairest of all lands,  Renowned throughout the world since many an age;  The springtide of the year renews thy bloom,  And with the spring St. George's Day is nigh.  He was the greatest glory of the Cross,  Who taught our fathers Christ's most holy creed.  Now God again has granted us His gifts —  The life-awakening dews, the greenwood shade,  The sun's bright rays which warm the fruitful meads,  And melt the snow that lingers still a while  Upon the high and hoary mountain-tops;  The flowers fair that grow amongst the grass,  The blood-red rose that sheds its fragrance far,  The tawny swallows, from the sunny South,  That twitter sweetly 'neath the thatchèd eaves,  Are all the gifts that God sends every year  To Bosnia. Still He grants a greater boon;  This is the gladsome day of great St. George.  For though our land can boast of valiant knights,  Of warlike princes, eke of holy men,  Still greater far than all was voyvod George  Who whilom was of Cappadocia Duke.  He killed the grisly dragon that of yore  Laid waste the land around Syrene's white walls,  And freed the country from a fearful scourge.  Far down a lake full many fathoms deep,  There dwelt this dragon dreadful to behold;  For from his round red eyes he shot forth flames,  And spouted from his snout a sooty smoke  That burnt and blasted all around the mere.  This dragon daily slew those daring knights,  Who, mounted all on prancing, warlike steeds  Had gone to try their strength against the beast;  For on his ghastly green and scaly skin  They bent and broke, or blunted, their best blades,  As striking on the dragon's horrid hide  Was worse than hitting at a coat of mail,  Or cleaving some hard, flinty rock in twain;  So, therefore, like an Eastern potentate,  He reigned and ruled the region round Syrene.  It was a terror-striking sight to see  The horrid beast rise out in snaky coils,  And rear his head with widely-gaping mouth,  As towards the town he hissed with such a din  That shook the strong and battlemented walls;  Thereon to satisfy his hungry maw.  The craven townsfolk, all appalled with fear,  Would – as a dainty morsel – send the beast  Some lovely maiden in the prime of youth.  If naught was offered to the famished beast,  He lifted up his huge and bat-like wings,  And flapping, leapt upon the town's white walls;  There, gripping 'twixt his sharp and cruel claws,  Whoever stood thereby within his reach,  He mauled and maimed, and gulped down men by scores,  Until the ground seemed all around to be  A marsh of mangled flesh and muddy gore,  With skulls half split and jagged, splintered bones.  When each and every man within the town  Had offered up his child unto the fiend,  And every mother wept from early morn,  And saw at night her child in dreadful dreams,  They told the King his turn had come at last  To offer up his daughter to the beast —  His cherished child, the apple of his eye,  The only heir of all his wide domains.  Oh! brother mine, hadst thou but seen just then  The hot and blinding tears rush from his eyes,  Whilst cruel grief convulsed his manly frame;  At such a woful sight you would have thought  It was some abject woman, not a King,  Who, crouching low, was sobbing on the ground.  He kissed his child and said: "My daughter dear,  Woe worth the day that thou art reft from me!  For now, alas! who is to wear my crown,  Who is to grace my throne when thou art gone?"  When last he ceased to weep, he bade the maids  To deck his daughter out in richest dress,  With costly Orient pearls and priceless gems,  E'en as she were to wed the mighty Czar;  And then he said: "My daughter, as thy suite,  Take thou with thee my dukes, my noblest peers,  And likewise all the ladies of the land,  In sable garments clad to grace thy steps.  Still, let us hope some help may come at last,  And, meanwhile, pray the great god Alkoron.  In dire distress all earthly help is vain;  Alone, thy god may come to thy behest  And free thee from the dreadful dragon's claws."  The mother hugged her daughter to her heart,  The forlorn father blessed his weeping child,  Who then departed to her dismal doom;  And as she crossed the squares, the crowded streets,  The flutes and timbrels played a wailing dirge,  That might have melted e'en a heart of stone.  Behind her walked the lords of high degree,  Then all the noble ladies of the land,  All clad in widow's weeds and trailing veils.  It was, indeed, a grand and glorious sight  To witness all this pageantry of woe,  The stately show of grief, the pomp of tears.  The sun that shone upon the Princess's robes,  Now glittered brightly on the gold brocade;  Her eight rings sparkled all with costly gems,  For each alone was worth at least eight towns;  Her shining girdle, wrought of purest gold,  Was studded o'er with coral and turquoise;  Around her throat she wore a row of pearls,  Iridescent, all brought from far-off seas.  Upon her brow she bore the regal gem,  Which glittered in the sun with such a sheen  That every eye was dazzled by its light.  The maid, moreover, was of beauty rare,  Of tall and slender form, yet stately mien,  And graceful as the topmost bough that bends,  Or branchlet bowing 'neath the summer breeze;  Within her hand she held some lilies white,  The symbols of a young and modest maid.  She crossed with tearful eyes the crowded streets;  With grace she greeted every child she met,  And all – whose hearts were not as cold as clay —  Shed bitter tears at such a sight of woe,  And sighing, said: "Alas, her mother dear!"  At last when she had almost reached the lake,  The mighty dukes, her father's noble peers,  As well as every lady of her suite,  Appalled with fear, now bade her all farewell,  And hastened back to town before the beast  Arose from out the mere to seize his prey.  Now, God Almighty chose to show His love  Not only to the crowd that stood aghast,  But unto all the region round Syrene.  He, therefore, sent His servant, saintly George,  To turn them from their evil ways to Christ.  The Knight came to the mere just when the maid  Remained alone to weep upon her fate,  Forsaken as she seemed by God and man.  The Knight, who saw her from afar, sped on  With all due haste; then leaping from his steed,  He strode up by her side and asked her why  She stood there by the lake appalled, aghast.  For all reply the Princess only sobbed,  And with her hand she bade him quickly go.  "Can I afford no help?" then asked the Knight.  "Flee fast away, spur on your sprightly steed;  With all due haste, take shelter in the town;  Uprising from the waters of the lake,  The hungry dragon now doth take his meal;  So hie thee hence. Just see, the waters move;  Thou hast no time to tarry here to speak."  But George, undaunted by her words, replied:  "Fair maiden, dry your eyes and trust in me.  Or rather trust in God, who sent me here."  "What shall I do, fair Knight?" the maid replied.  "Forswear," he answered, "all thy gods of clay,  And bow with meekness to the name of Christ,  Whose Cross we bear to reach a better life;  For, with His mighty help, I hope to slay  The hellish beast that haunts this lonely land;  So, therefore, stand aside and let me fight."  Now, when the girl had heard these words of hope,  She hastened to reply unto the saint,  "If God doth grant thee superhuman might,  That wonders as the like thou canst achieve;  If thou hast strength enough to slay the fiend  And free me from this awful fate of mine,  I shall forsake my god, false Alkoron,  And bow with thee unto thine own true God,  Extolling Him as mightier of the two.  If thou wilt also show me how the sign  Of that most mystic Cross is made, Sir Knight,  I shall then cross myself both morn and eve.  Moreover, thou shalt have most costly gifts,  As well as all the gems I bear on me."  She had but hardly uttered these few words  When, lo! the waters blue began to heave,  And bubble up with foam, and then the beast  Upreared on high his dark and scaly head,  That looked just like some sharp and jagged cliff,  'Gainst which small shipwrecked smacks are dashed at night.  Then, rising from the lake, the horrid beast  Began to spout the water like a whale,  And bellow with a loud, appalling noise,  Just like the crocodiles that lurk unseen  Amongst the sedges growing by the Nile;  The roaring ended in a hollow moan,  As when the hot simoon begins to blow  In fitful blasts across the Libyan plain.  The Princess stood thereby and shook with fear;  She almost fainted at that dreadful sight.  St. George's warlike steed began to rear,  And prance and tremble; then it tried to flee;  But curbing it with might, and wheeling round,  The Knight with clashing strokes attacked the beast.  His sabre, striking on that scaly skin,  Struck forth a shower of sparks that glittered bright  Like ocean spray tossed by the wind at night,  Or glowing iron 'neath the smithy's sledge,  Or when the kindling steel is struck 'gainst flint.  The monster lifted then its leathern wings  And, bat-like, tried to fly. It only looked  Like some old hen alighting from its perch;  With flutt'ring wings outspread it floundered down,  And was about to fall upon the Knight  And crush him 'neath its huge and massy weight;  Or grasp him with its sharp and cruel claws,  Just as an eagle pounces on a lamb.  But George, invoking Mary to his help,  Bent down and wheeled aside; then with one stroke  He plunged his sword within the dragon's side,  Just near the heart, beneath the massy wings.  A flood of dark red blood at once gushed out,  Which forthwith tinged the water with this gore.  The monster yelled aloud with such a din  That shook the white and battlemented walls  Then, writhing like a trodden newt or worm  It wallowed in the dust and seemed to die.  But still, before the dragon passed away,  The Knight undid his long and silken scarf,  And bound it round the monster's scaly neck;  He handed then the scarf unto the maid,  Who now drove on the dragon like a lamb.  They both went through the gate within the town,  Between the gaping crowd that stood aside  To let them pass, amazed at such a sight;  And thus they crossed the streets and crowded squares,  Until they reached the lofty palace gate.  There 'neath the pillared portal stood the King,  Who stared astounded at the sight he saw.  The saintly Knight alighted from his steed,  And bowing low, he said in accents clear:  "Believe in God the Father, mighty King,  Believe in God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost;  Forsake for aye thy lying gods of clay,  And Sire, let all Syrene with bended knee,  Confess the Lord and make the mystic sign  Of Jesus Christ, who died upon the Cross.  If thou provoke the anger of the Lord,  Far greater scourges might then hap to thee."  The King, who saw his own dear child alive,  Shed tears of joy and clasped her to his heart,  And gladly then – and without more ado —  There in the midst of all the gathered crowd,  With all his Court, he made the mystic sign  That scares the foe of man in darkest hell;  Then bowing down confessed the name of Christ.  Thereon the saint unsheathed the mighty sword,  And with a blow struck off the scaly head.  The dragon, that till then had scourged the town,  Lay wriggling low amidst the throes of death,  And wallowed in a pool of dark red blood,  Emitting a most foul and loathsome smell.  Still, at the ghastly sight all stared well pleased,  Nay, some threw stones and hit the dying beast,  For 'gainst a fallen foe; the vile are brave.  And during all this time the kind old King  Had tried to show the gratitude he felt;  He led the saint within his palace halls,  For there he hoped to grant him many a boon.  "Thou art, indeed," said he, "most brave and true,  Endowed by God with superhuman might,  And as a token of my heartfelt thanks  Accept this chain of gold, for 'tis the meed  Of daring deeds, the like of which thou didst.  This diamond ring till now adorned my hand;  I give it thee. Besides, my gallant Knight,  One half of all my land will now be thine;  Nor even then can I requite thy worth,  Except by granting thee my only child,  My darling daughter, as thy loving bride."  The saint, however, thanked for all these gifts,  And bowing low, he said unto the King:  "Thy gratitude to God alone is due,  For I am but a tool within His hand;  'Tis He who sent me here to kill the beast,  That hell had sent to waste and scourge your land.  Without His help, a man is but a reed,  A blade of grass that bends beneath the breeze,  A midge that ne'er outlives a single night;  To thy distress He lent a listening ear,  And freed thee from that foul and fiendish beast.  Then dash thy foolish gods of stone and brass,  Build shrines and temples, praise His holy name.  Still, for thy gifts accept my heartfelt thanks;  My task, howe'er, is that to go and preach  The name of Jesus Christ from town to town.  To Persia straightway I must wend my way  And there declare the love of God to man."  Thereon he took his leave and went away  To preach in distant lands a better life;  Converting men of high and low degree.  To Alexandra, who then reigned in Rome,  He bore the tidings of Christ's holy name;  And God e'er granted to this voyvod saint  The might of working strange and wond'rous deeds.  At last he met a saintly martyr's death,  And shed his precious blood for Jesus Christ.  To Thee, St. George, we now devoutly pray,  To be our intercessor with the Lord,  That He vouchsafe His mercy to us all.