Buch lesen: «The Pobratim: A Slav Novel», Seite 2
He, as upon the evening before, went round the room, talking with the young men and teazing the prettiest girls. Then he stepped up to Jella, and asked her to dance with him.
The Kolo at last came to an end, the boys went off with the girls, the old folks hobbled after them, and the unknown youth, putting his arm round his partner's waist, as if he had been engaged to her, accompanied her home.
They soon reached her house; Jella then gave the stranger the tobacco-pouch, and, having bid him good-night, she stood forlorn on the door-step, to see him go off. No sooner had he turned his back, than the father, who was holding the door ajar and listening to every word they said, slipped out, like a weasel, and followed him by the smell of his musk pouch.
The night was as still as it was dark, the moon had not yet risen, a hushed silence seemed to have fallen over nature, and not the slightest animal was heard stirring abroad.
The young fellow, after following the road for about a hundred paces, left the highway and took a short cut across the fields. The old man was astounded to see that, though a stranger, he was quite familiar with the country, for he knew not only what lane to take, but also what path to follow in the darkness of the night, almost better than he did himself. He climbed over walls, slipped through the gaps in the hedges, leapt over ditches, just as if it had been broad daylight.
Jella's father had a great ado to follow him; still, he managed to hobble along, like an ungainly, bow-legged setter, as fast as the other one capered. They crossed a wood, where the boles of the trees had weird and fantastic shapes, where thorny twigs clutched him by his clothes; then they came out on a plain covered with sharp flints, where huge scorpions lurked under every stone. Afterwards they reached a blasted heath, where nothing grew but gnarled, knotty, and twisted roots of trees, which, by the dusky light of the stars, looked like huge snakes and fantastical reptiles; there, in the clumps of rank grass, the horned vipers curled themselves. After this they crossed a morass, amidst the croaking of the toads and the hooting of owls, where unhallowed will-o'-the-wisps flitted around him.
The old man was now sorely frightened; the country they were crossing was quite unknown to him, and besides, it looked like a spot cursed by God, and leading to a worse place still. He began to lag. What was he to do? – go back? – he would only flounder in the mire. He crossed himself, shut his eyes tightly, and followed the smell of the musk. He thus walked on for some time, shivering with fear as he felt a flapping of wings near him, and ever and anon a draught of cold air made him lose the scent he was following.
At last he stopped, hearing a loud creaking sound, a grating stridulous noise, like that of the rusty hinges of some heavy iron gate which was being closed just behind him.
A gate in the midst of a morass! thought he; where the devil could he have come to? As he uttered the ominous word of Kudic he heard the earth groan under his feet.
It is a terrible thing to hear the earth groan; it does so just before an earthquake!
He did not dare to open his eyes; he listened, awed, and then the faint sound of a distant bell fell upon his ears.
It was midnight, and that bell seemed to be slowly tolling – aye, tolling for the dead, the dead that groan in the bosom of the earth.
A shiver came over him, big drops of cold sweat gathered on his forehead. He sniffed the cold night air; it smelt earthy and damp, the scent of musk had quite passed away.
At last he half-opened his eyes, to see if he could perceive anything of the young stranger. The moon, rising behind a hillock, looked like a weird eye peeping on a ghastly scene. What did he see – what were those uncouth shapes looming in the distance, amidst the surrounding mist?
Why was the earth newly dug at his feet, shedding a smell of clay and mildew?
He felt his head spinning, and everything about him seemed to whirl.
What was that dark object dangling down, as from a huge gallows?
Whither was he to go? – back across the wide morass, where the earth, soft and miry, sank under his feet, where the unhallowed lights lead the wanderers into bottomless quagmires?
He opened his eyes widely, and began to stare around. He saw strange shapes flit through the fog, figures darker than the fog itself rise, mist-like, from the earth. Were they night-birds or human beings? He could not tell.
All at once he bethought himself that they were witches and wizards,carovnitsi and viestitche, the morine or nightmares, and all the creatures of hell gathering together for their nightly frolic.
Fear prompted him to run off as fast as he possibly could, but huge pits were yawning all around him; moreover, curiosity held him back, for he would have liked to see where the damned store away their gold; so, between these two feelings, he stood there rooted to the earth.
At last, when fear prevailed over covetousness, he was about to flee; he felt the ground shiver under his feet, a grave slowly opened on the spot where he stood, for – as you surely must have understood – he was in the very midst of a burying-ground. At midnight in a burying-ground, when the tombs gape and give out their dead! His hair stood on end, his blood was curdling within his veins, his very heart stopped beating.
Can you fancy his terror in seeing a voukoudlak, a horrid vampire all bloated with the blood it nightly sucks. Slowly he saw them rise one after the other, each one looking like a drowsy man awaking from deep slumbers. Soon they began to shake off their sluggishness, and leap and jump and frolic around, and as the mist cleared he could see all the other uncouth figures whirl about in a mazy dance, like midges on a rainy day.
It was too late to run away now, for as soon as these blood-suckers saw him, they surrounded him, capering and yelling, twisting their boneless and leech-like bodies, grinning at him with delight, at the thought of the good cheer awaiting them, telling him that it was by no means a painful kind of death, and that afterwards he himself would become a vampire and have a jolly time of it.
At the sight of these dead-and-alive kind of ghosts, the poor man wished he had either a pentacle, a bit of consecrated candle, or even a medal of the Virgin; but he had nothing, he was at the mercy of the fiends; therefore, overpowered by fear, he fell down in a fainting-fit.
That night, and the whole of the following day, Jella and her mother waited for the old man to come back; but they waited in vain. When the evening came on, her mother persuaded her to go to the dancing-party and see if the young stranger would come again.
"Perhaps," said she, "he might tell you something about your father; if not, ask no questions. Anyhow, take this ball of thread, which I have spun myself, and on bidding him good-bye, manage to cast this loop on one of his buttons, drop the ball on the ground, and leave everything to me. Very likely your father has lost the scent of the musk, and is still wandering about the country. This thread, which is as strong as wire, is a much surer guide to go by."
Jella did as she was bid. She went to the house where the Kolo was being danced; she spent the whole evening with the young stranger, who never said a word about her father, and when the moment of parting on the threshold of the door arrived, she deftly fastened the end of the thread to one of his buttons, and then stood watching him go off.
The ball having slowly unwound itself, the old woman darted out and caught hold of the other end of the string. Then she followed the youth in the darkness, through thorns and thickets, through brambles and briars, as well as her tottering legs could carry her, much in the same way her husband had done the evening before.
That night and the day afterwards, Jella waited for her father and mother, but neither of them returned. When evening came on, afraid of remaining alone, she again went to dance the Kolo.
The evening passed very quickly, and the rustic ball came to an end. The youth accompanied her home as he had done the evening before, and on their way he whispered words of love in her ear, that made her heart beat faster, and her head grow quite giddy, words that made her forget her father and mother, and the dreaded night she was to pass quite alone. Still, as they got in sight of the house, Jella, who was very frightened, grew all at once quite thoughtful and gloomy. Seeing her so sorrowful, the young stranger put again his arm round her waist, and looking deep into her dark blue eyes, he asked her why she was so sad.
She thereupon told him the cause of all her troubles.
"Never mind, my darling," said the youth, "come along with me."
"But," faltered Jella, hesitatingly, "do you go far?"
"No, not so very far either."
"Still, where do you go?"
"Come and see, dear."
Jella did not exactly know what to do. She fain would go with him, and yet she was afraid of what people might say about her, and again she shuddered at the thought of having to remain at home quite alone.
"You are not afraid to come with me," he asked; "are you?"
"Afraid? No, why should I be? you surely would take care of me?"
"Of course; why do you not come, then?"
"Because the old women might say that it is improper."
"Oh," quoth he, laughing, "only old women who have daughters of their own to marry, say such things!"
Thereupon he offered her his arm, and off they went.
Soon leaving the village behind them, they were in the open fields, beyond the vineyards and the orchards, in the untilled land where the agaves shoot their gaunt stalks up towards the sky, where the air is redolent with the scent of thyme, sage and the flowering Agnus castus bushes; then again they went through leafy lanes of myrtle and pomegranate-trees and meadows where orchis bloomed and sparkling brooks were babbling in their pebbly beds.
Though they had been walking for hours, Jella did not feel in the least tired; it seemed as if she had been borne on the wings of the wind. Moreover, all sense of gloom and sadness was over, and she was as blithe and as merry as she had ever been.
At last – towards dawn – they reached a dense wood, where stately oaks and fine beech-trees formed fretted domes high up in the air. There nightingales warbled erotic songs, and the merle's throat burst with love; there the crickets chirped with such glee that you could hardly help feeling how pleasant life was. The moon on its wane cast a mellow, silvery light through the shivering leaves, whilst in the east the sky was of the pale saffron tint of early dawn.
"Stop!" said the young girl, laying her hand on the stranger's arm. "Do you not see there some beautiful ladies dancing under the trees, swinging on the long pendant branches and combing the pearly drops of dew from their black locks?"
"I see them quite well."
"They must be Vile?"
"I am sure they are."
"Fairies should not be seen by mortal eyes against their wish. Then do not let us seek their wrath."
"Do not be afraid, sweet child; we are no ordinary mortals, you and I."
"You, perhaps, are not; but as for me, I am only a poor peasant girl."
"No, my love, you are much better than you think. Look there! the fairies have seen you, and they are beckoning you to go to them."
"But, then, tell me first what I am."
"You are a foundling; the old man and woman with whom you lived were not your parents. They stole you when you were an infant for your beauty and the rich clothes you wore."
"And you, who are you, gospod?"
"I?" said the young man, laughing. "I am Macic, the merry, the mischievous sprite. I have known you since a long time. I loved you from the first moment I saw you, and I always hoped that, 'as like matches with like,' you yourself might perhaps some day get to like me and marry me. Tell me, was I right?" said he, looking at her mischievously.
Jella told him he was a saucy fellow to speak so lightly about such a grave subject, but then – woman-like – she added that he was not wrong.
They were forthwith welcomed by the Vile with much glee, and, soon afterwards, their wedding was celebrated with great pomp and merriment.
"But what became of the old man and his wife?" asked an interested listener.
"They met with the punishment their curiosity deserved. They were found a long time afterwards locked up in an old disused burying-ground. They were both of them quite dead, for when they fainted at the terrible sights they saw, the vampires availed themselves of their helplessness to suck up the little blood there was in them."
"May St. John preserve us all from such a fate," said Milos Bellacic, crossing himself devoutly.
The story having come to an end, toasts were drunk, songs were sung to the accompaniment of the guzla, the young people flirted, their elders talked gravely about politics and the crops, whilst the women huddled together in a corner and chatted about household matters.
After a while, an old ladle having been brought out, lead was melted and then thrown into a bucket of water, and the fanciful arborescent silvery mass it formed was used as a means of divination.
Most of the girls were clever in reading those molten hieroglyphics, but none was so versed in occult lore as an old woman, an aunt of theStarescina's, who was also skilled in the art of curing with simples.
Uros and Milenko, therefore, begged the good old woman to foretell them their future; and she, looking at the glittering maze, said to them:
"See here, these two are the paths of your life; see how smoothly they run, how they meet with the same incidents. These little needles that rise almost at marked distances are the milestones of the road; each one is a year. Count them, and you will see that for a length of time nothing ruffles the course of your life. But here a catastrophe, then both paths branch out in different directions; your lives from then have separate ends." The two young men heaved a deep sigh.
"Anyhow, you have several years of happiness in store for you. Make good use of your time while it is yours, for time is fleeting."
Then, as she was rather given to speak in proverbs, she said to Uros:
"Let your friend be to you even as a brother. Remember that one day, not very far off either, you will owe your life to him."
Drinking and carousing, singing and chatting, the evening came to an end. In the early hours the guests took leave of their host, wishing him a long and happy life, firing their pistols, not only as a compliment to him, but also as a means of scaring away the evil spirits. Upon reaching their houses, they bathed and washed with dew, they rubbed themselves with virgin oil, so as to be strong and healthy, besides being proof against witchcraft, for a whole year.
CHAPTER II
THE BOND OF FRIENDSHIP
"Milenko," said Uros, "have you the least idea how people that are in love feel?"
Milenko arched his eyebrows and smiled.
"No, not exactly, for I've never been spoony myself." Then, after pondering for a moment, he added: "I should think it's like being slightly sea-sick; don't you?"
Uros looked amused. He thought over the simile for a while, then said:
"Well, perhaps you are not quite wrong."
"But why do you ask? You are surely not in love, are you?"
Uros sighed. "Well, that's what I don't exactly know; only I feel just a trifle squeamish. I'm upset; my head is muddled."
"And you are afraid it's love?"
Uros made a sign of assent.
"It's not nice, is it?"
"No."
"And you'd like to get out of it?" asked Milenko.
"Yes."
"Well, then, take a deep plunge. Make love to her heart and soul, as if you were going to marry her to-morrow. Then, I daresay, you'll soon get over it. You see, the worst thing with sea-sickness is to mope, to nurse yourself, and fancy every now and then that you are going to throw up. It's better to be sick like a dog for a day or two, as we were, and then it's all over. I think it must be the same thing with love."
"I daresay you are right, but – "
"But what?"
"I can't follow your advice."
"Why not?"
"Because – because – " and thereupon he began to scratch his head. "I can't make love to her."
"Can't make love to a girl?"
"No; for, you see, she's not a girl."
Milenko opened his eyes and stared.
"Who is she?" he asked.
Uros looked gloomy. He hesitated for an instant; then he whispered:
"Milena!"
Milenko started back.
"Not Milena Radonic?"
Uros nodded gravely.
"You are right," said Milenko seriously; "you can't make love to a married woman. It's a crime, first of all; then you might get her into trouble, and find yourself some day or other in a mess."
"You are right."
The two friends were silent for a moment; then Milenko, thinking to have caught the dilemma by its horns, said:
"Wouldn't it be the same thing if you made love to some other pretty damsel?"
Uros shook his head doubtfully.
"Darinka, our neighbour Ivo's daughter, is a very nice girl."
"Very."
"Well, don't you think you might fall in love with her?" asked Milenko, coaxingly.
"No, I don't think I could."
"Then there is Liepa, for instance; she is as lovely as her name; moreover, I think she looks a little like Milena."
"No; no woman has such beautiful eyes. Why, the first time I saw Milena, I felt her glances scorching me; they sank into my flesh," and he heaved a deep sigh.
There was another pause; both the friends were musing.
"Well, then, I'll tell you what," said Milenko, after a while; "we'll just go off to sea again. It's a pity, but it can't be helped."
"And the harvest?"
"They'll have to manage without us; that's all."
After having discussed the subject over and over again, it was agreed that they were to sail as soon as they could find a decent vessel that could take them both. In the meanwhile, Uros promised to avoid Milena as much as possible, which was, indeed, no easy matter.
The day of Milena Zwillievic's marriage had, indeed, been a Black Friday to her. First, she knew that she was being sold to pay her father's debts; secondly, Radonic was old enough to be her father. Added to all this, he was a heavy, rough, uncouth kind of a fellow, the terror of all seamen, and, as he treated his crew as if they had been slaves, no man ever sailed with him if he could possibly get another berth.
Two or three days after the wedding, Radonic brought his girlish bride to live with his mother, the veriest old shrewish skinflint that could be imagined. She disliked her daughter-in-law before she knew her; she hated her the first moment she saw her. Milena was handsome and penniless, two heinous sins in her eyes, for she herself had been ugly and rich. She could not forgive her son for having made such a silly marriage at his age, and not a day passed without her telling him that he was an old fool.
During the first months poor Milena was to be pitied, and, what was worse, everybody pitied her. She never ate a morsel of bread without hearing her mother-in-law's taunts. If she cried, she was bullied by the one, cuffed by the other.
A month after the wedding, Radonic, however, went off with his ship, and shortly afterwards his vixen of a mother died, and Milena was then left sole mistress of the house. Her life, though lonesome, was no more a burden to her, as it had hitherto been, only, having nothing to do the whole day, time lay heavy on her hands.
Handsome and young as she was, with a slight inborn tendency to flirtation; living, moreover, quite alone; many a young man had tried to make love to her; but, their intentions being too manifest, all, hitherto, had been repulsed. On seeing Uros, however, she felt for him what she had, as yet, never felt for any man, for her husband less than anybody else.
She tried not to think of Uros, and the more she tried the more his image was before her eyes; so the whole of the live-long day she did nothing else but think of him. She decided to avoid him, and still – perhaps it was the devil that tempted her, but, somehow or other, she herself could not explain how it happened – she was always either at the door or at the window at the time he passed, and then what could she do but nod in a friendly way to him?
If she went to pay his mother a visit, she would hurry away before he came home, and then she was always unlucky enough to meet him on her way. Could she do less than stop and ask him how he was; besides, after all, he was but a boy, and she was a married woman.
Soon she began to surmise that Uros was in love with her; then she thought herself foolish to believe such a thing, and she rated herself for being vain. And then, again, she thought: "If he cares for me more than he ought, it is but a foolish infatuation, of which he will soon get rid when he goes again to sea." Thereupon she heaved a deep sigh, and a heaviness came over her heart, at which she almost confessed to herself that she did love that boy.
Milena, after the conversation Uros had had with his friend, seeing herself shunned, felt nettled and sorry. At the same time she was glad to see that he did not care for her, and then her heart yearned all the more for him.
But if he shunned her, was it a sign that he did not care for her? she asked herself.
Puzzled, as she was, she wanted to find out the truth, merely out of curiosity, and nothing more.
Thus it came to pass that, standing one day on her doorstep, she beckoned to the young man, as soon as she saw him, to come up to her. It was a bold thing to do, nor did she do so without a certain trepidation.
"Uros," said she to him, "come here; I have something to ask you."
"What is it?" said the young man, looking down rather shyly.
"You that have travelled far and wide, can you tell me who speaks all the languages of this world?"
"Who speaks all the languages of this world?" echoed Uros, lifting up his eyes, astonished, and then lowering them, feeling Milena's glances parch up his blood.
"Who can it be?" said he, puzzled.
He tried to think, but his poor head was muddled, and his heart was beating just as if it would burst. He had never been good at guessing, but now it was worse than ever.
"I've heard of people speaking three, four, and five languages, but I've never heard of anyone speaking more than five."
"What! You've been in foreign countries," quoth she, smiling archly, and displaying her pearly teeth, "and still you cannot answer my question?"
"I cannot, indeed. There was a man who said he spoke twenty-five languages, but, of course, he was a humbug. First, there are not twenty-five languages in the world, and then he couldn't even speak Slav."
"Well, well; think over it till to-morrow."
"And then?"
"Perhaps you'll be able to guess."
"But if I don't?"
"Well, I shall not eat you up as the dragon, that Marko Kraglievic killed, used to do, if people couldn't answer the questions he put them."
"And you'll tell me?" Thereupon he lifted up his eyes yearningly towards her.
"Perhaps," she replied, blushing, "but then, you must promise not to ask Milenko."
"I promise."
She stretched forth her hand. He pressed it lingeringly.
"Nor anybody else?"
"No."
"Then I'll tell you to-morrow."
He bade her good-bye, and went off with a heavy heart; she saw him disappear with a sigh.
That whole day Uros thought a little of the riddle, and a great deal of Milena's sparkling eyes; moreover, he felt the pressure of her soft hand upon his palm. But the more he pondered over her question, the more confused his brain grew, so he gave up thinking of the riddle, and continued thinking of the young woman. On the morrow his excitement increased, as the time of hearing the answer drew near.
Milena, as usual, was on the watch for him, leaning on the door-post, looking more beautiful than ever. As soon as he saw her, he hurried up to her without being called.
"Well," said she, with a nervous smile, "have you guessed?"
"No."
"Oh, you silly fellow! Who speaks all the languages of the world?"
"It's useless to ask me; I don't know."
"What will you give me if I tell you?" said she, in a low, fluttering voice, and with a visible effort.
He would willingly have made her a present, but he did not know what she would like, and, as he looked up into her eyes to guess, he felt his blood rising all up to his head.
"Do you want me to bring you something from abroad – a looking-glass from Venice, or a coral necklace from Naples?"
No, she did not want anything from abroad.
"Then a silk scarf?"
"No, I was only joking. I'll tell you for nothing. Why, who but the echo speaks all the languages of this world?"
"Dear me, how stupid not to have thought of it. Tell me, do you think me very stupid?"
Milena smiled. She did think him rather dull, but not in the way he meant.
"You see how good I am. I tell you for nothing. Now, if you had put me a riddle, and I could not have answered, you surely would have asked" – here there was a catch in her voice – "a kiss from me."
Uros blushed as red as a damask-rose; he tried to speak, but did not know what to say.
"Oh! don't say no; you men are all alike."
The young man looked up at her with an entreating look, then down again; still he did not speak. Milena remained silent, as if waiting for an answer; she fidgeted and twisted the fringe of her apron round her fingers, then she heaved a deep sigh. After a few minutes' pause:
"Do you know any riddles?" she asked.
"Oh, yes! I know several."
"Well, then, tell me one."
Uros thought for a while; he would have liked to ask her a very difficult one, but the thought of the kiss he might have for it, gave him a strong nervous pain at the back of his head.
"Well," said he, after a few moments' cogitation – "Who turns out of his house every day, and never leaves his house?"
She looked at him for a while with parted lips and eyes all beaming with smiles; nay, there was mischief lurking in her very dimples as she said:
"Why, the snail, you silly boy; everybody knows that hackneyed riddle." Then with the prettiest little moue: "It was not worth while leaving your country to come back with such a slight stock of knowledge. I hope you were not expecting a kiss for the answer?"
Uros was rather nettled by her teazing; he would fain have given her a smart answer, but he could find none on the spur of the moment. Besides, the sight of those two lips, as fresh and as juicy as the pulp of a blood-red cherry, made him lose the little wit he otherwise might have had; so he replied:
"And if I had?"
"You would have been disappointed; I don't give kisses for nothing."
"But you do give kisses?" he asked, faltering.
"When they are worth giving," in an undertone.
Uros looked up shyly, then he began to scratch his head, and tried to think of something tremendously difficult.
"Well, do you know that one and no other?" she asked, laughing.
All at once Uros' face brightened up.
"What is it that makes men bald?" and he looked up at her enquiringly.
Had he had a little more guile, he might, perhaps, have seen that this riddle of his was likewise not quite unknown to her; but he saw nothing save her pomegranate lips.
"Oh," said Milena, "their naughtiness, I daresay!"
"No, that's not it."
"Then, I suppose, it's their wit."
"Why?"
"They say that women have long hair and little wit, so I imagine that men have little hair and much wit."
"If that's the case, then, I've too much hair. But you haven't guessed."
"Then come to-morrow, and, perhaps I'll be able to tell you."
"But you'll not ask anybody?"
She again stretched out her hand to him. As he kept squeezing and patting her hand:
"Shall I tell you?" he asked, with almost hungry eyes.
"And exact the penalty?"
Uros smiled faintly.
"Now, that is not fair; I gave you a whole day to think over it."
"Well, I'll wait till to-morrow; only – "
"Only, what?"
"Don't try to guess."
He said this below his breath, as if frightened at his own boldness.
On the morrow he again waited impatiently for the moment to come when he could go and see Milena. The hour arrived; Uros passed and repassed by the house, but she was not to be seen. He durst not go and knock at her door – nay, he was almost glad that she did not expect him; it was much better so.
He little knew that he was being closely watched by her, through one of the crannies in the window-shutters. When, at last, he was about to go off, Milena appeared on the threshold. With a beating heart the youth turned round on his heels and went up to her. With much trepidation he looked up into her face.
"Does she, or does she not, know?" he kept asking himself; "and if she does, am I to ask her for a kiss?" At that moment he almost wished she had guessed the riddle, for he remembered his friend's words: "It was a crime to make love to a married woman."
"Oh, Uros, I'm like you! I can't guess. I've tried and tried, but it's useless."
There was a want of sincerity in the tone of her voice, that made it sound affected, and she was speaking as quickly as possible to bring out everything at a gush. After a slight interruption, she went on:
"Do tell me quickly, I'm so curious to know. What is it that makes men bald?"
"It's strange that you can't guess, you that are so very clever," he said, in a faltering voice.
"What, you don't believe me?" she asked, pouting her lips in a pretty, babyish fashion.
Uros stood looking at her without answering; in his nervousness he was quivering from head to foot, undecided whether he was to kiss her or not.
"Oh, I see, you don't want to tell me; you are afraid I'll not keep my promise!"
"I can ask to be paid beforehand; give me a kiss first, and I'll tell you afterwards."
Having got it out he heaved a deep sigh of relief, for he was glad it was over.
"Here, in the street?" she asked, with a forced smile.
He advanced up to her and she retreated into the house. He was obliged to follow her now, almost in spite of himself; moreover, he could hardly drag himself after her, for he had, all at once, got to be as heavy as lead.
As soon as they were both within the house, she closed the door, and leant her back against it. Then there was an awkward pause of some minutes, for neither of them knew what to do, or what to say. She took courage, however, and looking at him lovingly:
