The Pobratim: A Slav Novel

"Thank you," said Uros. "I'll go and tell Milena what has happened, so that she may be on her guard."

"But Radonic might be here at any moment."

"I'll be back in a twinkling."

"Anyhow, if you hear my whistle sneak off at once, and run for your life."

"All right."

Uros disappeared; Milenko remained leaning against the bole of a tree. He could hardly be seen at the distance of some steps. Snatches of songs were now heard from afar; it was the drinking-song Vuk had been singing. The drunkards were returning home. Soon after this he heard the noise of steps coming on the road. Keeping a sharp look-out, his keen eyes recognised Radonic's stalwart though clumsy frame. He at once whistled to his friend, first in a low tone, then louder and louder, as he came out from his hiding-place and walked on to meet the enraged husband, and stop him on his way. Uros in the meanwhile took to his heels.

"Dobro vetchir, Radonic Marko," said Milenko to him. "How are you?"

"And who are you, so glib with your tongue?" answered Radonic, in a surly tone.

"What, do you not know the children of the place?"

"Children, nowadays, spring up like poisonous mushrooms after a wet night. How is one to know them?"

"Well, I am Milenko Markovic, Janko's son."

"Ah, I thought so," replied Radonic fiercely, clasping the haft of his knife. "Then what business have you to come prowling about my house, making me the laughing-stock of the whole place. But you'll not do so long."

Suiting the action to the words, he lifted up his knife and made a rush at the young man.

Though Milenko was on his guard, and though the hand of the half-drunken man was not quite steady, still it was firm and swift enough in its movements for mischief's sake; and so he not only wounded the young man slightly on his arm, but, the knife being very sharp, it cut through all his clothes and scratched him, enough to make him bleed, somewhere about the left breast. Had the blade but gone an inch or two deeper, death most likely would have been instantaneous.

Milenko, quick as lightning, darted unexpectedly upon Radonic, grasped the knife from his hand, knocked him down, and, after a little scuffle, held him fast. Although Marko was a powerfully-built man, still he was heavy and clumsy, slow and awkward in his movements; and now, half-drunk as he was, it seemed as if his huge body was no match for this lithe and nimble youth.

When at last Radonic was fully overpowered, "Look here," said Milenko, "you fully deserve to have this blade thrust into your heart, for it almost went into mine. Now, tell me, what have I done that you should come against me in this murderous way? You say that I have been prowling about your house; but are you quite sure? And even if I had, is it a reason to take away my life? Are you a beast or a man?"

"Well, when you have done preaching, either let me go or kill me; but stop talking," said Radonic, sullenly.

"I'll leave you as soon as I have done. First you must know that I have hardly ever spoken to your wife. May God strike me blind if I have! As for prowling about your house – well, half-an-hour ago I was at the inn."

"You were at the inn?" asked Radonic, incredulously.

"Yes; you were all singing a zdravica."

"I was singing?"

"No; at least, I think not. You were, if I remember rightly, talking with Livic. I only looked in. Uros Bellacic, another poisonous mushroom, was with me."

Just then it came to Radonic's head that this Uros, the son of Milos, was the young man who had been flirting with his wife.

"So your friend Uros was with you?"

"Of course he was, and from there I accompanied him to his house, where I left him. Now, I was going home, and the nearest way was by your house. Had I, instead, been making love to your wife, I should not have come up to you in a friendly way, as I did. I should have hidden behind some tree, or skulked away out of sight. Anyhow, your wife is young and pretty; it is but right you should be jealous."

Milenko thereupon stretched out his hand to help the prostrate man to rise.

The bully, thoroughly ashamed of himself, got up moodily enough, ruminating over all the young man had said, understanding, however, that he had been too rash, and had thus bungled the whole affair. He made up his mind, however, to keep a sharp look-out.

"And now," continued Milenko, chuckling inwardly over his long-winded speeches, made only to give his friend full time to be off, "as your wife is perhaps in bed, let me come in and bandage up my arm, which is bleeding; it is useless for me to go home and waken up my father and mother, or frighten them for such a trifle. I might, it is true, go to Uros, but it is not worth while making an ado for a scratch like this, and have the whole town gossiping about your wife, for who will believe that the whole affair is as absurd as it really is?"

Radonic now felt sure that he had made a mistake, for, if this youth had been trying to make love to Milena, he would not have asked to be brought unexpectedly before the woman whose house he had just left.

"Very well," replied he, gruffly, "come along."

Having reached the cottage, he opened the door noiselessly, stepped in as lightly as he could, and beckoned to Milenko to follow him.

Utter darkness reigned within the house. Radonic took out his flint and struck a light. He was glad to see that his wife was not only in bed, but fast asleep.

He helped the young man to take off his clothes, all stained with blood; then he carefully washed his wounds, dressed them with some aromatic plants whose healing virtues were well known. After this he poured out a bumper of wine and pledged Milenko's health, as a sign of perfect reconciliation, saying:

"I have shed your innocent blood; mine henceforth is at your disposal."

With these words he took leave of him.

Though it was late, Milenko, far from returning home, hastened to his friend to tell him what had happened, and put him on his guard from attempting to see Milena again.

His advice, though good, was, however, superfluous, for Milena, far from being asleep, had heard all that had taken place, and, as her husband kept a strict watch over her, she remained indoors for several days.

When the incident came to the ears of either parent – though they never knew exactly the rights of the whole affair, and they only thought that it was one of Radonic's mad freaks of jealousy – both Bellacic and Markovic thought it better to send their sons to sea as soon as possible.

"Having sown their wild oats," said Milos, "they can come back home and settle into the humdrum ways of married life."

"Besides," quoth Janko, "in big waters are big fish caught. The shipping trade is very prosperous just now; freights are high; so after some years of a seafaring life they may put aside a good round sum."

"Well," replied Milos, "the best thing would be to set them up in life; let us buy for them a share of some brig, and they, with their earnings, may in a few years buy up the whole ship and trade for themselves."

The vintage – very plentiful that year – was now over; the olive-trees, which had been well whipped on St. Paul's Day, had yielded an unexpected crop, so that the land, to use the Biblical pithy expression, was overflowing, if not with milk and honey, at least with wine and oil. The earth, having given forth its last fruits, was now resting from its labours, but the young men, though they had nothing more to do on shore, still lingered at Budua, no share of any decent vessel having been found for them.

At last the captain of a brigantine, a certain Giuliani, wishing to retire from business in some years, agreed to take them on a trial trip with him, and then, if he liked them and saw that they could manage the vessel by themselves, to sell them half of his ship afterwards.

All the terms of the contract having been settled, it was agreed that the two young men should sail in about a fortnight's time, when the cargo had all been taken on board.

Before starting, however, these youths, who loved each other tenderly, made up their minds to become kith-and-kin to each other – that is to say, brothers by adoption, or pobratim.

As St. Nicholas – the patron saint of the opposite town of Bari, on the Italian shores of the Adriatic – is one of the most revered saints of the Slavs and the protector of sailors, his feast, which was celebrated just a week before their departure, was chosen for the day of this august ceremony.

On the morning of that memorable day, the two young men, dressed, not in their simple sailor-like attire, but in the gorgeous and picturesque Buduan costume – one of the most manly and elegant dresses as yet devised by human fancy – with damaskened silver-gilt pistols and daggers to match, the hafts of which were all studded with round bits of coral, dark chalcedonies and blood-red carnelians. These had been the weapons of their great-grandfathers, and they showed by their costliness that they were no mean upstarts, dating only from yesterday, but of a good old stock of warriors.

Thus decked out, and not in borrowed plumes, they wended their way to the cathedral, where a special Mass was to be said for them. Each of them was accompanied by a kind of sponsor or best man, and followed by all their relations, as well as by a number of friends.

Having entered the crowded church – for such a ceremony is not often seen – Uros and Milenko went straight to the High Altar, and, bending down on one knee, they crossed themselves with much devotion. Then, taking off all their weapons, they laid them down on their right-hand side, and lighted their huge tapers. The best men, who stood immediately behind, and the relations, lit their wax candles, just as if it had been the ritualistic pomp of marriage; thereupon they all knelt down till the priest had finished chanting the liturgy, and, after offering up the Holy Sacrament, Mass came to an end. This part of the service being over, the priest came up to them, saying:

"Why and wherefore come ye here?"

"We wish to become brothers."

"And why do you wish to become brothers?"

"Out of love," quoth Uros, who was the elder of the two by a few months.

"But do you know, my children, what you really ask; have you considered that this bond is a life-long one, and that, formed here within the House of God, it can never be broken. Are you prepared to swear that, in whatever circumstance of life you may be placed, the friendship that binds you to-day will never be rent asunder?"

"We are."

"Can you take your oath to love and help each other as brothers should, the whole of your lifetime?"

"We can."

"Well, then, swear before God and man to love each other with real brotherly affection; swear never to be at variance, never to forsake each other."

The oath was solemnly taken. After this the priest administered them the Communion – though no more mixed up with a drop of their own blood; he gave them the pax to kiss, whilst the thurible-bearers were swinging their huge silver censers, which sent forth a cloudlet of fragrant smoke. The two friends were almost hid from the view of the gazing crowd, for, the pobratim being rich, neither frankincense nor myrrh had been spared. Then the priest, in his richest stole, placed both his hands above their heads, and uttered a lengthy prayer to God to bless them.

The ceremony having come to an end, the pobratim rose and kissed each other repeatedly. They were then embraced by their sponsors and relations, and congratulated by their friends. As they reached the church door, they were greeted by the shouts of "Zivio!" from all their friends, who, in sign of joy, fired off their pistols. They replied to their courtesy in the same fashion, and so the din that ensued was deafening.

Holding hands, they crossed the crowd, that parted to let them pass. Thus they both bent their steps towards Markovic's house, for, as he lived nearer the church than Bellacic did, he was the giver of the first feast in honour of the pobratim.

Upon entering the house, the young men kissed each other again; then forthwith Uros kissed Janko Markovic, calling him father, whilst Milenko greeted Uros' parents in the same way.

Afterwards presents were exchanged by the pobratim, then each member of either family had some gift in store for their newly-acquired kinsman, so that before the day was over they had quite a little store of pipes and gold-embroidered tobacco pouches.

Dinner being now ready, they all sat down to a copious, if not a very dainty meal; and the priest, who just before had asked a blessing upon the friends, was the most honoured of all the guests.

They ate heartily, and many toasts were drunk in honour of the two young men, and those that could made speeches in rhyme to them.

The feast was interrupted by the Kolo– a young man performing sundry evolutions with a decanter of wine upon his head, looking all the while as clumsy as Heine's famous bear, Atta Troll.

Then they began again to eat and drink, and filled themselves up in such a way that they could hardly move from the table any more, so that by the time St. Nicholas' Day came to an end, the hosts and almost all the guests were snoring in happy oblivion.

CHAPTER III

CHRISTMAS EVE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though cold and deaf, farewell, love;    We two must part.  But can you live alone, love,    If I depart?From o'er the boundless sea, love,    And mountains high,  From o'er the dark, deep wood, love,    You'll hear me sigh.If you are deaf to me, love,    Still on the plain  You'll see the flowers fade, love,    Seared by my pain.Still you are deaf to me, love,    Without a tear;  I go without a word, love,    My soul to cheer.I send you back those blooms, love,    Which once you gave;  For they are now to me, love,    Rank as the grave.Amongst those cold, grey buds, love,    A snake doth lie,  As you have not for me, love,    A single sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She did not give him any reply.

"You don't answer," he said.

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

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

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

"Well?"

"Perhaps I'll be dead."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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