Buch lesen: «The Pobratim: A Slav Novel», Seite 27

At last the storm subsided, and then the captain ascertained that the ship had sustained such damage as to render her unsafe. In such a predicament, with the crew all ailing, the captain deemed it necessary to go back to Marseilles for repairs.

After a short stay there, the Ave Maria set sail again for Palermo, where she arrived without further mishap; only the sick sailors, having had to work hard during the storm, were rather worse than better. On leaving Palermo two other men of the crew had to be put on the sick-list, so that by the time they reached the Adriatic the ship was not much better than a pestiferous floating hospital. In fact, the only ones who had escaped the loathsome contagion were Vranic and the two boys, and they had to do the work of the whole crew.

It was fortunate that, notwithstanding the stormy season of the year, the weather kept steadily fair, for, in case of a hurricane, the crew would have been almost helpless. At last land was within sight; the hills of Istria were seen, towards evening, as a faint greyish line on the dark grey sky. The captain and the men heaved a sigh of relief; that very night they would cast anchor in the port of Trieste. There some had their homes; all, at least, had relations or friends. Vranic alone hoped to meet no one he knew.

That evening they made a hearty meal, for, as their provisions had slightly begun to fall short, they had scarcely satisfied their hunger for several days; but now – almost within sight of the welcoming, flashing rays of the Trieste lighthouse – they could, indeed, be somewhat prodigal.

The sirocco, which had accompanied them all the way from Palermo, now fell all at once, just as they had reached the neighbourhood of Cape Salvore. That sudden quietness boded nothing good. Soon, the captain perceived that the wind was shifting in the Gulf of Trieste. By certain well-known signs, he argued that the north-easterly wind was rising; and soon afterwards, a fierce bora, the scourge of all the neighbourhood, began to blow.

Orders were at once given to reef the topsails; then they began to tack about, so as to come to an anchorage in the roads of Trieste as soon as possible.

With the want of hands, the work proceeded very slowly and clumsily. Night came on – dark, dismal night – amidst a howling wind and raging billows dashing furiously against the little ship. It was a comfort on the next morning to see the white houses and the naked hills of Trieste; for they were not far from the port. Every means was tried to get near the land without being dashed against it and stranded, or split against the rocks; but the fierce wind baffled all their efforts. And the whole of the day was passed in uselessly tacking about and ever being driven farther off in the offing. Still, late in the afternoon, they managed to get nearer the port, and at sunset both anchors were dropped, not far from the jetty; still, the violence of the wind was such that all communication with the land was rendered impossible. That evening the last provisions were eaten, for they had spent the whole day fasting. The strength of the gale increased with the night. More chain was then added; but still the anchors began to come home. By degrees, all the chains were paid out; and, nevertheless, the ship was drifting. In so doing, she struck her helm against a buoy. The shock caused one of the chains, which was old and rusty, to snap. After that, the Ave Maria was driven back bodily towards the coasts of Istria, till finding, at last, a better bottom, the anchor held and the ship was stopped at about a mile from Punta Grossa, not far from Capo d'Istria. There was no moon; the sky was overcast; the darkness all around was oppressive. The huge surges, dashing against the bows and the forecastle, washed away everything on deck. The boats themselves were rendered unserviceable. The thermometer had fallen eighteen degrees in two days, and the keen, sharp wind blowing rendered the cold most intense. A fringe of icicles was hanging down from the sides of the ship, the spray froze on the tackle, and rendered the ropes as hard as iron cables.

Then the ship sprung a leak, and the pumps had to be worked to prevent her from sinking. To keep the men alive, the captain opened a pipe of Marsala which had been destined for the shippers. That night, which seemed everlasting, finally wore away, dawn came, and the signal of distress was hoisted; a ship passed at no great distance, but took no notice of them. Anyhow, help could be expected from Trieste; the coastguards must have seen them struggling against the storm. That day the wind increased; not a ship, not a sailing-boat was to be seen in the offing; what a long, dreary day of baffled hope that was. When evening came on, the fasting crew, now completely fagged out, began to lose courage, and yet they were but a few miles from the coast. That night Vranic had a dreadful vision. When he took his place at the pump, opposite him, at the other handle, stood the vampire grinning at him, with the horrible gash in his cheek. That gruesome sight was too dreadful to be borne; he felt his arms getting stiff, and he fell fainting on the deck. He only recovered his senses when a huge wave came breaking against the deck and almost washed him overboard.

In the morning the wind began to abate; but now all the sailors were not only thoroughly exhausted, but all more or less in a state of intoxication. The pumps could hardly be worked any more; even Vranic, the boys and the captain, who had worked to the last, hoping to save their lives, were obliged to leave the vessel to sink.

The Ave Maria was going down rapidly, and now, even if the men could have worked, it was impossible to think of saving her; she was to be the prey of the waves. As for help from Trieste, it was useless looking out for it. Still, the titled gentlemen, in their warm and cosy offices of the See-Behörde, which fronted the harbour, had seen the ship fighting against the wind and the waves. They knew, or, at least, ought to have known, of her distress; but it was carnival time, and their thoughts were surely not with the ships at sea.

At last, at eight o'clock, a ship was seen, and signals of distress were made. The ship answered, and began tacking about and trying to come near the sinking craft. When within reach of hearing, the whole crew of the Ave Maria summoned up all their strength and shouted that they were starving.

CHAPTER XXII
THE "GIUSTIZIA DI DIO"

Since his departure, Milenko had never received any letters from his parents, for, in those times of sailing-ships, captains got news from home casually, by means of such fellow-countrymen as they chanced to meet, rather than through the post. Lately they had happened to come across a Ragusian ship at Brindisi, but, as this ship had left Budua only a short time after Milenko himself had sailed, all the information the captain could give was rather stale. As for Vranic, nothing had been heard of him these many months.

Peric (the youth sailing with Milenko) heard, however, that the forebodings he had had concerning his brother were but too well founded; the poor boy had been killed while taking care of his father's horse. Still, the man who told him the news did not know, or had partly forgotten, all the details of the dreadful accident, for all he remembered was that the poor child had been brought home to his mother a mangled, bleeding corpse.

Milenko then seemed again to see the vision he had witnessed within the waters, and he could thus relate to the poor boy all the particulars of the tragic event.

Poor Peric cried bitterly, thinking of the poor boy he had been so fond of, and whom he would never see again; then, having somewhat recovered from his grief:

"It is very strange," said he, "that, on the very night on which you saw my brother dragged by the horse, I heard a voice whispering in my ear: 'Jurye is dead!' and then I fancied that the wind whistling in the rigging repeated: 'Jurye is dead!' and that same phrase was afterwards lisped by the rushing waters. Just then, to crown it all, I looked within the palm of my hand – why, I really do not know; but that, as you are aware, brings about the death of the person we love most. At that same moment a cold shivering came over me, and I felt sure that my poor brother was dead. All this is very strange, is it not?"

"Not so very strange, either," replied Milenko; "the saints allow us to have an inkling of what is to happen, so that when misfortune does come, we are not crushed by it."

"Oh! we all knew that one of our family would die during the year; only, as I was going to sea, I thought that I might be the one who – "

"How did you know?" asked Milenko.

"Because, when our grandmother died, her left eye remained open; and, although they tried to shut it, still, after a while, the lids parted again, and that, you well know, is a sure sign that someone of the house would follow her during the year."

The youth remained thoughtful for a little while, and then he added:

"I wonder how my poor mother is, now that she has lost both her sons."

"We shall soon have news from home, for, if the weather does not change, to-morrow we shall be in Trieste, where letters are surely awaiting us."

"Do you ever have voices whispering in your ears?" asked Peric.

"No, never; do you?"

"Very often, especially when I keep very still and try to think of nothing at all, just as if I were not my own self, but someone else."

"Try and see if you can hear a voice now."

The youth remained for some time perfectly still, looking as if he were going off into a trance; when he came to himself again:

"I did hear a voice," said he.

"What did it say?"

"That to-morrow you will meet the man you have been looking for."

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing."

"Is it not imagination?"

"Oh, no! besides, poets often hear the voice of the moon, who tells them all the stories they write in their books."

"Do they?" quoth Milenko, smiling.

"Yes; do you not know the story of 'The Snowdrop,' that Igo Kas heard whilst he was seated by a newly-dug grave?"

"No, I never heard it."

"Then I'll read it to you, if you like."

Milenko having nothing better to do, listened attentively to the youth's tale.

THE SNOWDROP

A Slav Story.

The last feathery flakes of snow, fallen in the night, had not yet melted away, when the first snowdrop, which had sprung up in the dark, glinted at the dawning sun. A drop of dew, glistening on the edge of its half-opened leaves, looked like a sparkling tear. That dainty little flower, as white as the surrounding snow, had sprouted up beside a newly-dug grave. As I stooped down to pick the little snowdrop, I saw the words inscribed on the white marble slab, and then sorrow's heavy hand was laid upon my heart. The name was that of the Countess Anya Yarnova, a frail flower of early spring, as spotless as the little snowdrop.

What had been the cause of her sudden death? Was it some secret sorrow? Was it her love for that handsome stranger whose flashing eyes revealed the hunger of his heart?

At gloaming I was again beside the newly-opened grave. The sun had set, the birds in the bushes were hushed; the breeze, that before seemed to be the mild breath of spring, began to blow in fitful, cold blasts.

The round disc of the moon now rose beyond the verge of the horizon, and its mild, amber light fell upon the marble monument of the Yarnova family, almost hidden under a mass of white roses, camellias and daffodils, made up in huge wreaths.

Mute and motionless, I sat for some time musing by the tomb; then at last, looking up at

 
"That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,"
 

I said:

 
"Tell me, Moon, thou pale and grey
Pilgrim of Heaven's homeless way,"
 

didst thou know young Countess Yarnova, so full of life a few days ago, and now lying there in the cold bosom of the earth? Tell me what bitter and unbearable grief broke that young heart; speak to me, and I shall listen to thy words as to the voice of my mother, when, in the evening, she whispered weird tales to me while putting me to sleep.

A loud moan seemed to arise from the tomb, and then I heard a voice as silvery sweet as the music of the spheres, lisp softly in my ear: – Passing by the Yarnova Castle three days ago, I peeped within its casements, and, in a dimly-lighted hall, I saw Countess Yadviga, who had just returned from Paris. She wore a black velvet dress, and her head was muffled in a lace mantilla; although her features twitched and she was sad and careworn, still she looked almost as young and even handsomer than her fair daughter.

Presently, as she sat in the dark room, the door was opened; a page stepped in, drew aside the gilt morocco portière emblazoned with the Yarnova arms, and ushered in the handsome stranger, Aleksij Orsinski.

The Baron looked round the dimly-lighted room for a while. At last he perceived the figure of the Countess as she sat in the shadow of the huge fire-place; then he went up to her and bowed.

"Thank you, Countess Yarnova, for snatching yourself away from beautiful Paris and coming in this dismal place."

The figure in the high-backed arm-chair bowed slightly, and without uttering a single word, motioned the stranger to a seat at a short distance. The Baron sat down.

"Thank you especially for at last giving your consent to my marriage with the beautiful Anya."

The Baron waited for a reply, but as none came, he went on:

"Although her guardian hinted that Anya was somewhat too young for me, still I know she loves me; and as for myself, I swear that henceforth the aim of my life will be that of making her happy."

The Baron, though sixteen years older than his childlike bride, was himself barely thirty; he was, moreover, a most handsome man – tall, stalwart, with dark flashing eyes, a long flowing moustache, a mass of black hair, and a remarkably youthful appearance. He waited again a little while for an answer, but the mother did not speak.

The large and lofty hall in which they were, with its carved stalls jutting out of the wainscot, looked far more like a church than a habitable room; the few fantastic oil lamps seemed like stars shining in the darkness, while the mellow light of the moon, pouring in from the mullioned windows, fell on the Baron's manly figure, and left the Countess in the dark.

As no answer came, the stranger, at a loss what to say, repeated his own words:

"Yes, all my days will be devoted to the happiness of our child."

"Our child?" said the Countess at last, with a slight tremor in her voice.

The Baron started like a man roused in the midst of a dream.

"Your daughter I mean, Countess."

Seized by a strange feeling of oppression, which he was unable to control, the Baron, in his endeavour to overcome it, began to relate to the mother how he had met Anya by chance, how he had fallen in love with her the very moment he had seen her, how from that day she had engrossed all his thoughts, for, from their first meeting, her image had haunted him day and night.

"In fact," added he, "it was the first time I had loved, the very first."

"The first?" echoed the voice in the dark.

The strong man trembled like an aspen leaf. Those two words coming from that dark, motionless figure, sitting at some distance, seemed to be a voice from the tomb, an echo from the past; that past which never buries its dead. To get over his increasing nervousness the Baron began to speak with greater volubility:

"In my early youth, or rather in my childhood I should say," added he, "I did love once – "

"Once?" repeated the voice.

The Baron started again and stopped. Was it Anya's mother who spoke, or was there an echo in that room? Still, he went on:

"Yes, once I loved, or, at least, thought myself in love."

"Thought?" added the voice.

That repetition was getting unbearable; anyhow, he tried not to heed it.

"Well, Countess, it was only a childish fancy, a boy's infatuation; at sixteen, I was spoony on a girl two years younger than myself, just about the age my Anya is now. Fate parted us; I grieved a while; but, since I saw your daughter, I understood that I had never loved before, no, never!"

"Never before – no, never!" uttered the woman in the dark.

The Baron almost started to his feet; that voice so silvery clear, so mournfully sweet, actually seemed to come from the far-off regions from where the dead do not return. After a short silence, only interrupted by two sighs, he went on:

"There were, of course, other loves between the first and the last – swift, evanescent shadows, leaving no traces behind them. And now that I have made a full confession of my sins, Countess, can I not see my Anya?"

"Your Anya?"

This was carrying a joke rather too far.

"Well, my fiancee?" said he, rather abruptly.

"No, Aleksij Orsinski, not yet. You have spoken, and I have listened to you; it is my turn to speak. I, too, have something to say about Anya's father."

The Baron had always been considered as a brave man, but now either the darkness oppressed him, or the past arose in front of him threateningly, or else the strange and almost weird behaviour of his future mother-in-law awed him; but, somehow or other, he had never felt so uncomfortable before. Not only a disagreeable feeling of creepiness had come over him, but even a slight perspiration had gathered on his brow. He almost fancied that, instead of a woman, a ghost was sitting there in front of him echoing his words. Who was that ghost? Perhaps, he would not – probably, he dared not recognise it. He tried, however, to shake off his nervousness, and said, with forced lightness:

"I have had the honour of knowing Count Yarnova personally; he was somewhat eccentric, it is true; still, a more honourable man never – "

"He was simply mad," interrupted the Countess; "anyhow, it is not of Count Yarnova, but of Anya'a father of whom I wish to speak." Then, after a slight pause, as if nerving herself to the painful task, the woman in the dark added: "For you must know that not a drop of the Count's blood flows in my daughter's veins."

There was another awkward pause; Aleksij's heart began to beat much faster, the perspiration was gathering on his brow in much bigger drops.

"Count Yarnova was not your daughter's father, you say?" He would have liked to add: "Who was, then?" but he durst not.

"No, Aleksij Orsinski, he was not."

A feeling of sickness came over the Baron; he hardly knew whether he was awake, or asleep and dreaming. Who was that woman in the dark?

The Countess, after a while, resumed her story: "I was born in St. Petersburg, of a wealthy and honourable, but not of a noble family. I, too, was but a child when I fell in love, deeply in love, with a neighbour's son. Unlike yours, Baron, and I suppose all men's, a woman's first love is the only real one. I was then somewhat younger than my daughter now is, for I had barely reached my thirteenth year, and as for my lover, he was fifteen. We often met, unknown to our parents, in our garden; I saw no harm in it – I was too young, too guileless, not to trust him – "

She stopped.

"And he?" asked the Baron, as if called upon to say something.

"He, like Romeo, whispered vows of love, of eternal fidelity. He believed in his vows just then, as you did, Aleksij Orsinski; for I daresay that with you, as with all men, the last love is the only true one."

"Then?" asked the Baron.

"Once we stepped out of the garden together; a carriage was waiting for us; we drove to a lonely chapel not far from our house; a priest there blessed us and made us man and wife. Our marriage, however, was to be kept a secret till we grew older, or, at least, till my husband was master of his actions, for he knew that his parents would never consent to our union."

There was another pause; but now the Baron could not trust himself to speak, his teeth were almost chattering as if with intense cold.

"A time of sickness and sorrow reigned over our country; the people were dying by hundreds and by thousands. The plague was raging in St. Petersburg. My husband's family were the first to flee from the contagion. We remained. The scourge had just abated, when, to my horror and dismay, I understood that I should in a few months become a mother. I wrote to my husband, but I received no answer; still, I knew he was alive and in good health. I wrote again, but with no better success. The day came when, at last, I had to disclose my terrible secret to my parents."

The Countess stopped, passed her hands over her brow as if to drive away the remembrance of those dreadful days.

"It is useless to try and relate their anger and my shame. My parents would not believe in my marriage; besides, the priest that had married us, even the witnesses, had all been swept away by that weird scavenger, the plague. I had no paper, no certificate, not even a ring to show that I was married. Contumely was not enough; I was not only treated by my parents with pitiless scorn, but I was, moreover, turned out of their house. When our own parents shut their doors against us, is it a wonder if the world is ruthless?

"What was I to do? where was I to go? With the few roubles I had I could not travel very far or live very long. I wandered to the castle where my husband was living; I asked for him, but I was told that he was ill."

"But he was ill," said the Baron, "was he not?"

"Perhaps his watery love had already flowed away, and he had given orders not to receive me if I should present myself. For a moment I stood rooted on the doorstep, bewildered, not knowing what to do; then I asked to see his mother. This was only exposing myself to one humiliation more. She came out in the hall; there she called me bitter names, and when I told her that I had not a bed whereon to lie that night, she replied that the Neva was always an available bed for girls like me; then she ordered her servants to cast me out.

"Houseless, homeless, almost penniless; my husband's mother was right – the Neva was the only place where I could find rest. In its fast-fleeting waters I might indeed find shelter.

"With my thoughts all of suicide I directed myself towards the open country, hoping soon to reach the banks of the broad river, for I was not only tired out, but weak and faint for want of food. My legs at last began to give way; weary, disheartened, I sank down by the roadside and began to sob aloud. All at once I heard a creaking noise of wheels, the tramp of horses, and merry human voices singing in chorus. As I lifted up my head I saw two carts passing, wherein a band of gipsies were all huddled together. Seeing my grief and hearing my sobs, the driver stopped; a number of boys and young men, girls and women jumped, crawled or scrambled down from the carts, as crabs do out of a basket; then they all crowded around me to find out what had befallen me. I would not answer their questions, nor could I have done so even if I had wanted. I was almost too faint to speak. An elderly woman, the chief's wife, pushed all the others aside, came up to me, took my hand and examined it carefully; then she began to speak in a language I did not understand.

"'Poor child!' said she at last, patting my hair and kissing me on my eyes; 'you are indeed in trouble; still, bright days are in store for you; take courage, cheer up, live, for you will soon be a grand lady, and then you will trample over all your enemies – yes, over every one of them. You have no home,' said she, as if answering my own thoughts; 'What does it matter? Have we a home? Have the little birds that nestle in the leafy boughs a home? No, all the world is their home. Come with us. You have no family; well, you will be our child.'

"Saying this she gave an order to the men around her, and almost before I was aware of it, half-a-dozen brawny arms lifted me tenderly and placed me on a heap of clothes in one of the carts. Soon my protectress was by my side whispering words of endearment in my ear; and as for myself, weak and starving, forlorn and dejected as I was, I cared very little what became of me.

"The gipsy woman, who was versed in medicine, poured me out some kind of cordial or sleeping draught and made me drink it; a few minutes afterwards a pleasant drowsiness came over me, then I fell fast asleep. I only awoke some hours later, and I found myself lying on a mattress in a tent. I remained for some time bewildered, unable to understand where and with whom I was; still, when I came to my senses the keen edge of my grief was blunted. The gipsy woman, my protectress, kissed me in a fond, mother-like way; then she brought me a plate of food.

"'Eat,' said she, 'grief has a much greater hold on an empty stomach than on a satiated one.'

"I was young and hungry; the smell of the food was good; I did not wait to be asked twice. I never remembered to have tasted anything so delicious. It was not soup, but a kind of savoury stew, containing vegetables and meat – an olla-podrida of ham, beef and poultry. After that, they offered me some fragrant drink, which soon made me feel drowsy, and then sent me off to sleep again. I woke early the next morning, when they were about to start on their daily wanderings. With my head still muddled with sleep, I was helped into the cart, and sat down between my new friend and her husband.

"That life in the open air, the kindness and good-humour of the people amongst whom I lived, soothed and quieted me. All ideas of suicide vanished entirely from my mind. Self-murder is an unknown thing amongst gipsies. Besides, my friend assured me, again and again, that I should soon become a very great lady, and then all my enemies would be at my mercy.

"'But how shall I ever repay you for your kindness?' I asked.

"'The day will come when the hand of persecution will be uplifted against us; then you alone will protect us.'

"In the meanwhile I was treated like a queen by all of them. Moreover, they were a wealthy band, possessing not only horses, carts and tents, but also money. They might have lived comfortably in some town, or settled as farmers somewhere; but their life was by far too pleasant to give it up. Heedless, jovial, contented people, their only care seemed to be where they were to have their next meal.

"A few months afterwards, my daughter was born in a tent, not far from Warsaw."

"She must have been a great comfort to you," quoth the Baron, thinking he ought to say something appropriate.

"A comfort? The unwished-for child of a man that had blighted my life, a comfort? No, indeed, Baron. In fact, I saw very little of this daughter of mine; a young gipsy nursed her and took care of her. My own parents had taught me what love was. My husband's mother – a grand lady – thought that the Neva was the best cradle for her unborn grandchild. Besides, other work was waiting for me than nursing and rearing Anya.

"Count Yarnova one day met our band of gipsies on the road, and he stretched his ungloved hand to have his fate read and explained. My friend – no ordinary fortune-teller – was well versed in palmistry, and a most lucid thought-reader; she told him that before the year was out he would be a married man.

"'In a few days,' added she, 'on Christmas Eve, you will see your young bride in your own mirror; you will see her again after a few days, and she will tend upon you and cure you from a fever when the doctor's help will be worse than useless. As soon as you get well you will start on a journey; then you will stop for some days in two large towns, both of which begin with the same letter; there you will see again that beautiful child you saw on Christmas Eve.'

"'But when and where shall I meet her, not as a vision, but as a real person?'

"The Baron wore on the forefinger of his right hand a kind of magic ring, in which a little crystal ball was set. The gipsy lifted the Baron's hand to her eyes and looked at the crystal ball for a few seconds.

"'It is spring,' said she; 'the trees are in bloom, and Nature wears her festive garb. In a splendid saloon, where all the furniture is of gold and the walls are covered with rich silks, I see a handsome young girl dressed in spotless white, holding a guitar and singing; behind her there is a mass of flowers; around her gentlemen and ladies are listening to the sound of her sweet voice.'

"Count Yarnova was a Swedenborgian, and he not only believed in the occult art, but had dabbled himself in magic, until his rather weak mind was somewhat unhinged. He, of course, did not doubt the truth of what the gipsy had foretold him; moreover, he was right, because everything happened exactly as she had predicted.

"On Christmas Eve the Count was alone in his room sitting at a little table reading, and glancing every now and then, first at a clock, afterwards at a huge cheval-glass opposite the alcove. All the servants of the house, except his valet – a young gipsy of our band – had gone to Mass, according to the custom of the place. At half-past eleven my friends accompanied me to the Count's palace; the valet opened the door noiselessly and led me unseen, unheard, in the alcove. I was dressed in white and shrouded in a mass of silvery veils. On the stroke of twelve I appeared between the two draped columns which formed the opening of the alcove; the light hanging in the middle of the room was streaming on me, and my image, reflected in the glass, looked, in fact, like a vision. The Count, seeing it, heaved a deep breath, started to his feet, drew back, stood still for an instant, uttered an exclamation of surprise, then made a step towards the looking-glass. At that moment the valet opened the door as if in answer to his master's summons. The Count looked round, thus giving me time to slip away; when he glanced again at the mirror I had disappeared. Then the thought came to him that the image he had seen within the glass was only the reflection of some one standing in the alcove; he ordered the valet to look within the inner part of the room, and when the servant man assured him that there was nobody, he ventured to look in it himself. The valet swore that nobody had come in the house, and by the time the servants returned from midnight Mass I was already far away.