CHAPTER I
ST. JOHN'S EVE
There was quite a bustle at Budua, because Janko Markovic and Milos Bellacic had just come back from Cattaro that very morning, and – what was really surprising – they were both getting shaved.
Now, it has always been a most uncommon occurrence amongst us for a man to get shaved on a Friday.
Mind, I do not mean to say that I consider this operation as being in any way unlucky if performed on that day. We, of course, cut our hair during the new moon; but there is no special time for shaving. Cutting one's nails on a Saturday brings on illnesses, as we all know; and I, without being superstitious, can name you lots of people who fell ill simply out of disregard to the wisdom of their elders. Nay, I myself once suffered a dreadful toothache for having thoughtlessly pared my nails on the last Saturday of the year.
Shaving on Saturday, however, cannot be considered as harmful either to the body or to the soul. Still, as we all go to the barber's once a week, on Sunday morning, it has hitherto been regarded as part of our dominical duties.
There was, therefore, some particular reason that made these prominent citizens shave on a Friday; could the reason be another change in the Government?
Quite a little crowd had gathered, by ones and by twos, round the hairdresser's shop; some were standing, others sitting, some smoking, others eating dried melon seeds – all were gravely looking at the barber, who was holding Bellacic by the tip of his nose and was scraping his cheek with a razor which kept making a sharp, stridulous noise as it cut down the crisp, wiry stubble hair of almost a week's growth. Then the shaver left the nose, for, as a tuft of hair in a hollow spot under the cheek-bone was renitent to the steel blade, he poked his thumb in his customer's mouth, swelled out the sunken spot and cleaned it beautifully. He was a real artist, who took a pride in doing his work neatly. He then wiped the ends on his finger, cast the soap to the ground with a jerk and a snap, then he rubbed his hand on the head of an urchin standing by.
The barber, who was as inquisitive and as loquacious as all the Figaros of larger towns, had tried craftily and with many an ambage to get at the information we were all so anxious to know; but nothing seemed to induce our clients to speak.
"I suppose," said he, with a pleasant smile, "I'll soon have new customers to shave?"
"Yes? Who?" quoth Markovic.
"Why, your sons, Uros and Milenko."
"No, not yet; they'll not be back before some months."
All conjectures and guesses, all suppositions and surmises were at last at an end. The barber, although he had been a long time about it, had finished shaving Bellacic; Markovic was now sitting down with the towel tied round his neck.
"This afternoon we start for Cettinje," said Bellacic, wiping himself.
An "Ah!" of satisfaction and expectation was followed by a moment of breathless silence. The barber stopped soaping his client's face and turned to look at Bellacic.
"On a diplomatic mission, of course?" he asked, in a hollow whisper.
"On a diplomatic mission."
"To the Vladika, eh?"
Everyone looked significantly at his neighbor, some twisted their long moustaches, others instinctively lifted their hands to the hafts of their knives. They all seemed to say: "It is what we have been suspecting from the very beginning. Montenegro will take back Cattaro and Budua." Thereupon every face brightened.
It was natural to surmise such a thing in those times, inasmuch as in the course of a few years we had been shifting from hand to hand. The French had taken us from the Venetians; then we became Russians; the English drove the Cossacks away, and gave us over to the Austrians, our present masters.
"Of course, nobody goes to Cettinje without doing homage to the Vladika. Still, our mission is not to the Prince."
We all looked at Bellacic and at Markovic in blank astonishment.
"You might as well tell them," said one of the friends to the other.
"Besides, it is a thing that all the town will know in a few days."
"Well," quoth Markovic, "our mission is not a political one. We are deputed by Radonic – "
"By Radonic?" interrupted the shaver. "But he is not in Budua."
"No, he is at Perasto with his ship. We saw him at Cattaro."
"Well?"
"And he is going to get married."
"Married?"
"But he is too old," said a youth, without thinking.
"We have only the age we look," retorted an elderly man, snappishly.
"Well, but Radonic looks old," answered the young man.
"But to whom is he going to be married?"
"To Milena."
"What! Milena Zwillievic?"
"Exactly; to the prettiest girl of Montenegro!"
Many a young face fell, more than one brow grew cloudy, and a bright eye got dim.
"It is an impossible marriage," said someone.
"A rich husband, a horned bull," quoth another.
"But he is much older than she is."
"We marry our sons when we like, and our daughters when we can," added Figaro, sententiously.
"Still, how could Zwillievic consent to take for his son-in-law a man as old as himself?"
"A hero of the Kolo."
"And yet Zwillievic is a man with a gold head, a wise man."
"Yes, but he has also gold hands," replied Markovic.
"He did not follow the proverb – " added Bellacic, "'Consult your purse, then buy.' His passion for arms ruined him; debts must be paid."
"We were once on board the same ship with Radonic," said one of the friends; "so he asked me to be the Stari-Svat."
"And I," added the other, "as Zwillievic is a kinsman of mine, I must be voivoda."
"Ah, poor Milena! the year will be a black one to her."
"After all, she'll henceforth be able to sit in flour."
"And we all have our Black Fridays."
By this time Markovic had been shaved, the two friends wended their way homewards, and the crowd dispersed.
"And now," you evidently ask, "who is this Milos Bellacic and his friend, Janko Markovic?"
Two well-to-do citizens of Budua, the last of all Austrian towns, twogospodje, but, unlike most of the Buduans and the other Dalmatians, they were real Iugo-Slavs, Illyrians of the great Serbian stock.
As children they had clung to one another on account of the friendship that existed between their fathers; as they grew older this feeling, of almost kinship, was strengthened by the many trials they had to undergo in common, for Fate seemed to have spun their lives out of the selfsame yarn. At fourteen they had left home, on a schooner bound for distant coasts; later, they got shipwrecked, and swam – or rather they were washed – ashore, clinging to the same plank. Thus they suffered cold, hunger, "the whips and scorns of time" together.
From America, where they had been cast by the waves, they worked their way to Trieste, hoping from thence to return to their native place, ever dear to their hearts. This ill wind, so fatal, not only to the ship, but to the remainder of the crew, proved to be the young men's fortune. Trieste was, at the time, in the very beginning of its mushroom growth, before that host of adventurers had flocked thither from every part of the world with the hopes of making money.
It is not to be wondered that, after the hard life these young men had undergone, they understood the full strength of the Italian proverb – "Praise the sea, but keep to the shore." Sober and hard-working as they were, they made up their minds to try and acquire by trade what they could hardly get by a rough seafaring life – their daily bread and a little money for their old age.
Strongly built, they started life as porters. Like beasts of burden, they were harnessed to a cart the whole of the long summer days, or else they helped to unload the ships that came in port.
Having managed to scrape a little money together, they began to trade on their own account. They imported from Dalmatia, wine, sardines, carobs, and castradina, or smoked mutton; they exported cotton goods. They got to be shareholders, and then owners, of a bark, atrabacolo. The times were good; there was, as yet, little or no competition; therefore money begot money, and, though they could neither read nor write, still they soon found themselves the owners of a sum of money which – to them – was unlimited wealth. Had they remained in Trieste, they might have got to be millionaires, but they loved their birthplace even more than they did riches.
Once again in Budua, they added a good many acres of vineyards and of olive-trees to their paternal farms, and, from that time, they lived there in all the contentment this world can afford. They married, but, strange to say, they were not blessed with many children; each of them had only one son. Janko's son was, after his friend, named Milenko; the other infant was christened Uros.
These two children are the pobratim of our story.
"But what is the meaning of this strange word?" you ask.
Have but a little patience, and it will be explained to you in due time.
Uros and Milenko had inherited with their blood that friendship which had bound their fathers and forefathers before them. As children, they belonged to either mother, and they often slept together in the same trough-like cradle scooped out of the trunk of a tree; they ate out of the same zdila– the huge wooden porringer which served the family as table dish and plates; they drank out of the same bukara, or wooden bottle, for, being rich and having vineyards of their own, wine was never wanting at their meals.
At fourteen they, like their fathers, went off to sea, for lads must know something of the world. Happily, however, they both came back to Budua after a cruise of some months. Though they met with many squalls, still they never came to any grief.
As a rule they staid away cruising about the Adriatic and the Levant from November to the month of August; but when the harvest-time drew nigh, they returned home, where hands were wanted to reap and garner such fruits as the rich soil had yielded. After the vintage was over and the olives gathered, the earth was left bare; then they set off with the swallows, though not always for warmer climes. It was the time when sudden gales blow fiercely, when the crested waves begin to roll and the sea is most stormy.
A few months after that memorable Friday upon which Bellacic and Markovic had got shaved, exciting thereby everybody's astonishment, they themselves were surprised to see their sons return unexpectedly. The fact was that, upon reaching Cattaro, the ship on which they had embarked was sold and all the crew were paid off. As they did not think it worth their while to look for another ship, they seized this opportunity to go and spend the 24th of May at home, for St. John's is "the maddest, merriest day of all the glad New Year." Moreover, they were lucky, for the year before had been a plentiful one, whilst the new crops promised, even now, to make the pojata groan under their weight; for whilst an empty and a scanty larder can afford but a sorry welcome, a hospitable man becomes even lavish when his casks are full of wine, his bins are heaped with corn, his jars overflow with oil; when, added to this, there is a prospect of more.
Uros and Milenko had but just arrived home when a little boy – the youngest son of a wealthy neighbour, whose name's day was on the morrow – appeared on the threshold of their door, and, taking off his little cap demurely, said, in a solemn voice:
"Yours is the house of God. My father greets you, and asks you to come and drink a glass of wine with him. We'll chat to while away the evening hours, and we'll not withhold from you the good things St. John, our patron saint, has sent us."
Having recited his invitation, the little herald bowed and went off to bear his message elsewhere.
The family, who knew that this invitation was forthcoming, set off at once for their friend's house. Upon reaching the gate of their host's garden, all the men fired off their pistols as a sign of joy, amongst the shouts of "Zivio"; then, upon entering, they went up to theStarescina, the master of the house, and wished him, in God's name, many happy returns of the day.
A goodly crowd of people had now gathered together, all bent upon merry-making, and a fine evening they had of it; though, according to the old men, this was but moping compared to the festivities they had been used to in their youth. Then, hosts and guests being jolly together, they quite forgot that time had wings, and eight days would sometimes pass before anybody thought of leave-taking.
On that mystic evening almost all the amusements had an allegorical or weird character. In every game there was an attempt at divination. Thus the first one that was played consisted in throwing a garland amidst the branches of a tree. If it remained caught at the first throw, the owner was to get married during the year; if not, the number of times the wreath was tossed upwards corresponded with as many years of patient waiting. It was considered a bad omen if the garland came to pieces.
When Uros threw his chaplet of flowers up it came at once down again, bringing an old wreath that the wind and the winter storms had respected.
"Why," said the Starescina, turning to Milena, who had come to witness the game, "surely it is your husband's wreath!"
"Yes, I remember," added Markovic; "last year Radonic was with us, and his garland remained in the tree the first time he flung it up."
"Oh, Uros, fie! you'll bring Radonic ill-luck yet."
Uros turned round, and his eyes met those of Milena for the first time. Both blushed. There were a few moments of awkward silence, and then the young man, touching his cap, said:
"I am sorry, gospa, but, of course, I did not do it on purpose."
"No, surely not, and, besides, it had to come down sooner or later."
He tossed his wreath up again, but whether he felt nervous because he had been laughed at, or because the beautiful eyes of the young Montenegrine woman paralysed his arm, he felt himself so clumsy and awkward that he tossed up his garland several times, but he only succeeded to batter it as it came down again.
"Just let me try once," said Milenko to his friend, as he cast his wreath up in the branches of the tree, where it nestled.
Uros made another attempt; down came his garland, bringing his friend's together with it, amid the general laughter.
"Uros is like the dog in the manger," said one of the bystanders; "he will not marry, nor does he wish other people to do so."
"Bad luck and a bad omen!" whispered an old crony to Milenko. "Beware of your friend; nor, if I were Radonic, should I trust my pretty wife with him. Bad luck and a bad omen!"
After garland throwing, huge bonfires were kindled, and the surrounding mountains gleamed with many lights. It was, indeed, a fine sight to see the high, heaven-kissing flames reflected by the dark waters of the blue Adriatic.
But of all the bonfires in the neighbourhood, the Starescina's was the biggest, for he was one of the richest men of the town. It was thus no easy matter to jump scathless over it. Still, young and old did manage to do so, either when the flames – chasing one another – leapt up to the sky, or else when the fire began to burn low. The stillness of the night was interrupted by prolonged shouts of "Zivio!" repeated again and again by the echoes of the neighbouring mountains; but amidst the shouting of "Long life!" you could hear the hooting of some owl scared by this unusual glimmering light, and every now and then the shrill cry of some witch or some other ghostly wanderer of the night, and the suppressed groaning and gnashing of teeth of evil spirits, disappointed to think that so many sturdy lads and winsome lassies should escape their clutches for a whole year; for they have no power against all those who jump over these hallowed bonfires on the eve of the mystic saint's day.
"There, did you hear?" said one of the young girls, shuddering.
Thereupon we all crossed ourselves devoutly.
"It is better not to think of them, they cannot come near us," said the Starescina.
"It is not long ago that we saw three witches burnt at Zavojane. When was it, Bellacic?"
"It was in 1823, in the month of August, on the 3rd, if I remember rightly."
"Oh! then they were real witches?"
"Of course."
"Were they very ugly? Had they beards?"
"Oh, no! they were very much like all the other elderly women of the place."
"And what had they done?"
"No end of mischief. One of them had eaten a child alive. Another had taken a young man's heart out of his body whilst he was asleep. He, on awaking – not knowing what had happened to him – felt a great void in his chest."
"Poor fellow!" said Milena, compassionately, whilst her glances fell on Uros, and he actually felt like the young man who had lost his heart.
"But what was she going to do with it?"
"Why, roast and eat it."
"A friar who had witnessed the whole thing, but who had been deprived of all power of rendering assistance, accused her of witchcraft, and she was made to give back the heart before she had had time to devour it."
"How wonderful!"
"The third had rendered all the balls of the guns aimless, and all weapons blunt and useless. But these are only some of the many evils they had done."
"And you saw them burnt?"
"Yes, in the presence of the Catholic parish priest, two friars and all the local authorities."
The bonfires were now over, and nothing but the glowing embers remained. All then went in the house to partake of the many good things that St. John, or his namesake, had prepared for them.
There was for supper: first, whole lambs, roasted on the spit, then fish, castradina, and many other dishes, all more or less stuffed with garlic – a condiment which never fails anywhere. It is said that the gods, having been asked if this bulb was to rank amongst eatables, decreed that no dish should ever remain without it; and the Slavs have faithfully followed out their decree.
When all had eaten till they were crop full, and had drunk their fill, they all raught after their meat as seemly as Madame Eglentine; then, loosening their belts, they remained seated on their stools, or squatted on the ground, chatting, punning, telling anecdotes, or listening to the grave discourses of the old men about St. John.
"Fancy," said a deacon of a neighbouring church, "when we have fasted for a day or two, we think we have done much. St. John, instead, fasted for forty days and forty nights, without even taking a sip of water."
"But why did he fast so long?"
"Because he had committed a great sin; and on account of this sin he always walked with his head bent down. When the people said to him, 'John, why do you not lift up your head?' he always replied demurely, 'Because I am not worthy to lift up my eyes heavenwards; and I shall only do so when an infant, that cannot yet speak, will bid me do it.' Now, it happened that one day John met a young woman carrying a little child, and when the infant saw John, he said: 'John, lift up thine eyes heavenward; my Father has forgiven thee.' The saint, in great joy, knowing that the babe was Jesus Christ, went at once home; and with a red-hot iron he burnt the initials of the Saviour on his side, so that he might never forget his name."
"And now let's have a story," said the host.
As Milos Bellacic was noted for his skill in relating a good story, he was asked by everybody to tell them one of his very best tales.
Being a man who had travelled, he knew how to treat women with more deference than the remainder of the Buduans. So turning towards his host's wife:
"Which will you have?" said he.
"Any one you like."
"'Hussein and Ayesha'?"
"No," said some. "Yes," added the others, without waiting for the lady of the house to have her choice.
"Then 'The Death of Fair Jurecevic's Lovers'?"
"No, that was an old story."
"Perhaps, 'The Loves of Adelin the Turk and Mary the Christian'?"
"They all knew it."
"Or, 'Marko Kraglievic and the Vila'?"
"No, leave Marko to the guzlari."
"Well, then, it must be 'The Story of Jella and the Macic.'"
"Oh!" said the gospodina, "I once heard it in my childhood, and now I only remember its name. Still, I have always had a longing to hear it again; therefore, do tell it."
Milos Bellacic swallowed another glass of slivovitz, leaving, however, a few drops at the bottom of his glass, which he spilt on the floor as a compliment to the Starescina, showing thereby that in his house there was not only enough and to spare, but even to be wasted. He then took a long pull at the amber mouthpiece of his long Marasca cherry pipe, let the smoke rise quietly and curl about his nose, and, after clearing his throat, began as follows:
THE STORY OF JELLA AND THE MACIC
Once upon a time there lived in a village of Crivoscie an old man and his wife; they had one fair daughter and no more. This girl was beyond all doubt the prettiest maiden of the place. She was as beautiful as the rising sun, or the new moon, or as a Vila; so nothing more need be said about her good looks. All the young men of the village and of the neighbouring country were madly in love with her, though she never gave them the slightest encouragement.
Being now of a marriageable age, she was, of course, asked to every festivity. Still, being very demure, she would not go anywhere, as neither her father nor her mother, who were a sullen couple of stingy, covetous old fogeys, would accompany her.
At last her parents, fearing lest she might remain an old maid, and be a thorn rather than a comfort to them, insisted upon her being a little more sociable, and go out of an evening like the other girls. "Moreover, if some rich young man comes courting you, be civil to him," said the mother. "For there are still fools who will marry a girl for her pretty face," quoth the father. It was, therefore, decided that the very next time some neighbours gathered together to make merry, Jella should take part in the festivity. "For how was she ever to find the husband of her choice if she always remained shut up at home?" said the mother.
Soon afterwards, a feast in honour of some saint or other happened to be given at the house of one of their wealthy neighbours, so Jella decked herself out in her finest dress and went. She was really beautiful that evening, for she wore a gown of white wool, all embroidered in front with a wreath of gay flowers, then an over-dress of the same material, the sleeves of which were likewise richly stitched in silks of many colours. Her belt was of some costly Byzantine stuff, all purfled with gold threads. On her head she wore a red cap, the headgear of the young Crivosciane.
As she entered the room, all the young men flocked around her to invite her to dance the Kolo with them, and to whisper all kinds of pretty things to her. But she, blushing, refused them all, declaring that she would not dance, elbowed her way to a corner of the room, where she sat down quite alone. All the young men soon came buzzing around her, like moths round a candle, each one hoping to be fortunate enough to become her partner. Anyhow, when the music struck up, and the Kolo began, their toes were now itching, and one by one they slunk away, and she, to her great joy, and the still greater joy of the other girls, was left quite by herself.
While she was looking at the evolutions of the Kolo, she saw a young stranger enter the room. Although he wore the dress of the Kotor, he evidently was from some distant part of the country. His clothes – made out of the finest stuffs, richly braided and embroidered in gold – were trimmed with filigree buttons and bugles. The pas, or sash, he wore round his waist was of crimson silk, woven with gold threads; the wide morocco girdle – the pripasnjaca– was purfled with lovely arabesques; his princely weapons, studded with precious stones and damaskened, were numerous and costly. His pipe, stuck not in his girdle like his arms, but 'twixt his blue satin waistcoat —jacerma– and his shirt, had the hugest amber mouthpiece that man had ever seen; aye, the Czar himself could not possibly have a finer pipe. What young man, seeing that pipe with its silver mounting, adorned with coral and turquoises, could help breaking the Tenth Commandment? He was, moreover, as handsome as aMacic, aye, as winsome as Puck.
He came in the room, doffed his cap to greet the company like a well-bred young man, then set it pertly on his head again. After that, he went about chatting with the lads, flirting with the lassies, as if he had long been acquainted with them, like a youth accustomed to good company. He did not notice, however, poor Jella in her corner. He took no part in the dances, probably because, every Jack having found his Jill, there was nobody with whom he could dance.
The girls all looked slily at him, and many a one wished in her heart that she had not been so hasty in choosing her partner, nay, that she had remained a wallflower for that night.
At last the young stranger wended his steps towards that corner where Jella was sitting alone, moping. He no sooner caught sight of her than he went gracefully up, and, looking at her with a merry twinkle in his eyes, and a most mischievous smile upon his lips:
"And you, my pretty one? Don't you dance this evening?" he asked.
"I never dance, either this evening or any other."
"And why not?"
"Because there is not a single young man I care to dance with."
"Oh, Jella!" whispered the girls, "dance with him if he asks you; we should so much like to see how he dances."
"Then it would be useless asking you to dance the Kolo with me, I suppose?"
"Oh, Jella! dance with him," whispered the young men; "it would be an unheard-of rudeness to refuse dancing with a stranger who has no partner."
"Even if I did not care about dancing, I should do so for the sake of our village."
"Then you only dance with me that it might not be said: 'He was welcomed with the sour lees of wine'?"
"I dance with you because I choose to do so."
"Thank you, pretty one."
The two thereupon began to go through the maze of the Kolo, and, as he twisted her round, they both moved so gracefully, keeping time to the music, that they looked like feathery boughs swayed by the summer breeze.
About ten o'clock the dances came to an end, and every youth, having gone to thank his host for the pleasant evening he had passed, went off with his partner, laughing and chatting all the way.
"And you, my lovely one, where do you live?" asked the stranger of Jella.
"In one of the very last houses of the village, quite at the end of the lane."
"Will you allow me to see you home?"
"If I am not taking you out of your way."
"Even if it were, it would be a pleasure for me."
Jella blushed, not knowing what to answer to so polite a youth.
They, therefore, went off together, and in no time they reached her house. Jella then bid the stranger good-bye, and, standing on the door-step, she saw him disappear in the darkness of the night.
Whither had he gone? Which turning had he taken? She did not know.
A feeling of deep sadness came over her; for the first time in her life she felt a sense of bereavement and loneliness.
Would this handsome young man come back again? She almost felt like running after the stranger to ask him if they would meet on the morrow, or, at least, after some days. Being a modest girl, she, of course, could not do so; moreover, the youth had already disappeared.
"Did you bring me any cakes?" was the mother's first question, peevish at being awakened in her first sleep.
"Oh, no! mati; I never ate a crumb of a cake myself."
"And you enjoyed yourself?"
"Oh! very much so; far more than I ever thought."
Thereupon she began to relate all that had happened, and would have made a long description of the young man who had danced with her, but her father woke in the midst of a tough snore and bade her hold her tongue.
On the morrow there was again a party in the village, for it was carnival, the time of the year when good folks make merry. When night came on, Jella went to the dance without needing to be much pressed by her parents. She was anxious to know if the young stranger would be there, and, also, if he would dance with her or with some other girl.
"Remember," said her mother to her as she was going off, "do not dance with him 'like a fly without a head'; but measure him from top to toe, and think how lucky it would be if he, being well off, would marry a dowerless girl like you. The whole village speaks of him, of his weapons and his pipe; still, he might be 'like a drop of water suspended on a leaf,' without house or home. Therefore, remember to question him as to his land, his castle, and so forth; try and find out if he is an only son and from where he comes, for 'Marry with your ears and not with your eyes,' as the saying is."
"Anyhow, take this tobacco-pouch," added the old man, "and offer it to him before he leaves you."
"Why?" asked Jella, guilelessly.
"Because it is made out of a musk-rat, and so it will be easy to follow him whithersoever he goes, even in the darkness of the night."
Jella, being a simple kind of a girl, did not like the idea of entrapping a young man; moreover, if she admired the stranger, it was for his good looks and his wit rather than for his rich clothes; but being frightened both of her father and her mother, who had never had a kind word for her, she promised to do as she was bidden. She then went to the party, and there everything happened as upon the preceding evening.
The girls all waited for the handsome young man to make his appearance, and put off accepting partners till the last moment, each one hoping that she might be the chosen one. The hour upon which he had come the evening before was now past, and still they all waited in vain. The music had begun, and the young men, impatient to be up and doing, were heavily beating time with their feet. At last theKolo began. They had just taken their places, and all except Jella had forgotten the stranger, when he all at once stepped into the room, bringing with him a number of bottles of maraschino, and cakes overflowing with honey and stuffed with pistachios.