_By_ JULIAN STREET
From _Collier’s Weekly_
_Copyright, 1918, by P. F. Collier & Son, Inc._
_Copyright, 1919, by Julian Street._
“Here’s a queer item,” remarked the man at the window end of the long
leather-covered seat, looking up from his newspaper and apparently
speaking in general to the other occupants of the Pullman smoking
compartment. “There’s a dispatch here announcing the death from
tuberculosis of that Serbian who shot the Archduke of Austria at
Sarajevo. It seems he has been in prison ever since. I thought he had
been executed long ago.”
Four of us, strangers to one another, had settled in the smoking
compartment at the beginning of the journey from Chicago to New York,
and as we had been on our way nearly an hour it seemed time for
conversation.
“They didn’t execute him,” replied a man who sat in one of the chairs,
“because he was under age. It’s against the law, over there, to execute
a person under twenty-one. This boy was only nineteen.”
“The law wouldn’t have cut much figure over here in a case like that,”
replied the first speaker.
“Perhaps not,” returned the man in the chair, “but respect for law is
one of the few benefits that seem to go with autocratic government. I
don’t find that dispatch in my paper. May I borrow yours?”
The other handed over the journal, indicating the item with his finger.
“I had almost forgotten that fellow,” spoke up a third traveler. “The
rush and magnitude of the war have carried our thoughts—and for the
matter of that, our soldiers too—a pretty long way since the
assassination occurred. Yet I suppose historians, digging back into the
minute beginnings of the war, will all trace down to the shot fired by
that Serbian.”
“That’s what the paper says,” returned the one who had begun to talk.
“It speaks of ‘the historic shot fired in Serbia’ as the thing that
fired the world.”
“And in doing so,” declared the man who had borrowed the paper, “it
falls into a popular error. The shot was _not_ fired in Serbia, but in
Austria-Hungary, and the boy who did the shooting was an
Austro-Hungarian subject.”
“But that doesn’t seem possible,” interposed the man who had spoken of
the historical aspect of the case. “If he was an Austrian subject and
did the shooting in Austria, how could Austria make that an excuse for
attacking Serbia?”
The other looked from the window for a moment before replying.
“It was one of the poorest excuses imaginable,” he returned.
“Autocracies can do those things; that’s why they must be stamped out.
As you said, historians will trace back to the assassination. It so
happened that I was over there at the time and got a glimpse of what lay
back of the assassination—microscopic, unclean forces of which
historians will never hear, yet which seem peculiarly suitable in
connection with Austria’s crime. But I had better not get to talking
about all that.”
As though in indication of his intention to be silent, he closed his
mouth firmly. It was a strong mouth and could shut with finality.
Everything about him expressed strength and determination mixed, as
these qualities often are in the highest type of American business man,
with gentleness, good nature, and modesty. I liked his looks. He was the
kind of man you would pick out to take care of your watch and
pocketbook—or your wife—in case of emergency. I wanted him to go on
talking, and said so, and when both the other men backed up my request,
he began in a spirit evidently reluctant but obliging:
“For some years before the outbreak of this war,” he said, “I
represented a large American oil company in southeastern Europe, where
we had a considerable market. My headquarters were at Vienna, but my
travels took me through various countries inhabited by people of the
Serb race, and I found it advantageous to learn to speak the Serbian
tongue, both for business reasons and because I enjoyed making friends
among the people. In order to practice the language and form some
knowledge of the people, I made it a custom, when traveling, to stop at
small hotels used by the Serbs themselves, in preference to the more
cosmopolitan establishments; or, where the small hotels were not clean,
I would sometimes take a room with some Serbian family.
”In Bosnia there was one very attractive little city to which I was
always particularly glad to go. It was a place of thirty or forty
thousand inhabitants and lay in a lovely, fertile valley among the
hills; and you may judge something of it by the fact that the Serbs
coupled the adjective ‘golden’ with the town’s name. Not one American in
a thousand—probably not one in a hundred thousand—had ever heard of the
place then, yet it was the capital of Bosnia. The Austrian governor of
Bosnia had his palace there, and the life of the place was like that of
some great capital in miniature. One thing about the town which
interested me was the way in which its people and its architecture
reflected Bosnian history. In the first place there were many Serbs
there, the more prosperous of them dressing like conventional
Europeans—except that the fez was worn by almost all of them—and living
in low, picturesque Serbian houses, with roofs of tile or flat stone
shingle; the rest peasants in the Bosnian costume, who came in from the
outlying agricultural regions. But also there were Mohammedans—leftovers
from the days of Turkish dominion—and the town had minarets and other
architectural signs of the Turk. And last there were the Austrians—the
Austrian governor, Austrian soldiers in uniform about the streets,
Austrian minor officials everywhere; and in new buildings, parks, and
boulevards, Austrian taste. For, after taking Bosnia, under the Treaty
of Berlin, in 1878, the Austrians, knowing well that their grabbing
policy was criticized, went to some pains to beautify the Bosnian
capital, with the object, it is commonly understood, of impressing
visitors—and perhaps also the inhabitants themselves—with the ‘benefits’
of Austrian rule—as though palaces, parks, pavements, and prostitutes
were sufficient compensation to the Serbs for the racial unity and
freedom which have been denied them, first by one nation, then by
another.“
“But,” some one broke in, “up to the time of the present war, didn’t the
Serbs have Serbia?”
“The present kingdom of Serbia proper was inhabited by Serbs,” returned
the other, “but the Serbia we know is only a small part of what was,
long ago, the Serbian Empire. Since the fall of the empire, in the
fourteenth century, it has been the great ambition of the Serbs to
become again a unified nation. Bosnia was a part of the old empire, but
was conquered by the Turks, and later taken over by the Austrians. The
story I am about to tell shows, however, what an enduring race
consciousness the Bosnian Serbs have maintained.
“Our district manager for Bosnia lived in the town of which I have been
speaking, and when I first went there he took me to a small but
particularly clean and attractive hotel, run by an Austrian Serb. As is
usual in small hotels in Europe, the proprietor’s family took part in
the work of running the place; and as I used to stay there frequently,
sometimes for two or three weeks at a stretch, I soon came to know them
all well. As the years passed I became really attached to them, and
there were many signs to show that they were fond of me. Michael, the
father, exercised general supervision—though he was not above carrying a
trunk upstairs; Stana, the mother, kept the accounts and superintended
the cooking, which was excellent; the two daughters worked in the
kitchen and sometimes helped wait on table. Even the boy, Gavrilo, the
youngest member of the family, helped after school with light work,
though he studied hard and was not very strong. I often sat with them at
their own family table at one end of the dining-room; I called them all
by their given names, and addressed them with the ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ of
familiarity.
“When I first knew Gavrilo he was twelve or thirteen years old. His
father, though of pure Serb blood, had acquired, with years and
experience in business, a certain resignation to the existing order of
things. He had seen several wars and revolutions, and as he grew older
had begun to think that peace under Austrian domination was better than
continual conflict, whatever the cause.
“The boy Gavrilo was, however, more like Stana, his mother. Stana could
grow old, but the flame in her, the poetry, the mysticism, and above all
the Serbian racial feeling, never diminished. Gavrilo learned the
Serbian folk stories and songs at her knee; also he learned from her
Serbian history, which, under Austria, was not taught in the schools;
for the Austrians have long desired to crush out Serbian racial feeling.
“Gavrilo and I became great friends. He was hungry for knowledge and
never tired of asking me about the United States and our freedom, free
speech, and free opportunity—all of which, of course, seemed very
wonderful to one growing up in a decadent, bureaucratic empire, made up
of various races held together against their will. In return I gathered
from Gavrilo a considerable knowledge of Serb history and legend—and you
may be sure that in what he told me, neither the Turks nor the Austrians
came off very well. Even as a lad he always referred to the Austrians as
_shvaba_—a Serbian word meaning something like our term boches—and by
the time he was sixteen he had promoted them to be _proclete shvaba_,
which may be freely translated as ‘damned boches.’
“For a long time I took his strong anti-Austrian utterances lightly,
considering them the result of boyish ebullience of spirit, but as he
grew nearer manhood, and the fierceness of his feeling seemed to
increase rather than diminish, I became concerned about him; for it is
no wiser for an Austrian Serb to call the Austrians _shvaba_ than it
would be for an Alsatian to call the Prussians boches.
“As Gavrilo grew up, his passionate racial feeling disturbed me more and
more, though, of course, I sympathized with it. I determined to make an
opportunity for a serious talk with him on the subject, and to that end
suggested that he go with me to the neighboring hills for a couple of
days’ gunning; for Bosnia abounds in game.
“Gavrilo proved to be a very good shot. He would shoot wild pigeons,
grouse, and woodcock from the hip, and he even brought along a pistol
with which he could hit a hare at a considerable distance. These
exhibitions of skill were, however, accompanied by remarks which did not
make it easier for me to broach the topic upon which I wished to speak
to him. When he would hit a pigeon he would exclaim: ‘There goes another
member of the Hapsburg family!’ or: ‘That one was a _shvab_ tax
collector!’ or, mock-heroically, ‘So much for you, you nobleman of
brilliant plumage with a _von_ before your name. No more will the
peasants step out of the road and bow down before you!’
“‘Look here, Gavrilo,’ I said, when we sat to rest upon a fallen tree,
‘you are a Serb, and that is something to be proud of, but after all,
you are an Austrian subject, and your forefathers have been Austrian
subjects for a long time. You have your home here, so why not make the
best of a bad bargain, and be like the rest of the young fellows?’
“‘You think I am not like them?’ he replied. ‘That is only because you
do not know them as you know me. Every _momche_ who is a worthy
descendant of the race that fought to the death at Kossovo—the Field of
the Black Bird—is of the _comitajia_. We younger fellows are to be
_comitajia_ also. We have our meetings in the same _kafana_ where the
others meet to make their plans. When we are a little older they will
take us in and we shall all work together.’
“‘But what is this work you speak of?’
“‘Whatever it is,’ he returned, ‘you may be sure it is in the interest
of our race.’
“‘But you speak of _comitajia_,’ I said. ‘Has not that word more than
one significance? I know the military scouts with bombs are _comitajia_,
but are not revolutionists called by the same term?’
“Gavrilo showed his strong white teeth in one of those extraordinary
mischievous smiles which now and then illuminated his face. Instead of
giving me a direct answer he said:
“‘Dear friend, I am glad to perceive that your knowledge of our beloved
Serbian tongue becomes daily more accurate.’
“‘But, Gavrilo,’ I protested, refusing to be put off with a jest, ‘to be
concerned in a revolution would be the worst thing that could happen to
you.’
“‘No, not the worst thing. Worse than being a Serb and joining in a
revolution would be to be a Serb and fail to lift a hand in the struggle
for freedom.’
“‘Revolutions,’ I said, sententiously, ‘do not pay, Gavrilo.’
“‘But since when has that been so?’ he countered quickly. ‘There was,
for instance, the French Revolution. Did not that pay? And there was the
American Revolution. Surely that paid! And there was the revolution of
Serbia against the Turks. That is paying too.’ His luminous black eyes,
so like those of a wild deer, snapped as he spoke. Then his expression
changed quickly to one of amusement over my discomfiture, and he added
with a little laugh: ‘I have an American friend—a gentleman who manages
the business of a large oil company over here. He can tell you, as he
has me, of the benefits of the American Revolution and of American
freedom. I promise you that some day you shall meet him face to face—let
us say to-morrow morning when he is shaving.’
“It seemed to me that I had taken an unfortunate line with him there, so
I tried another.
“‘Well, then, let us put it on selfish grounds. There is no great reason
why you, personally, should be dissatisfied. You have good prospects in
your father’s business. The thing for you to do, in the natural course,
is to marry and settle down. And certainly a man who has a sweetheart
such as yours hasn’t any business in a _comitajia_; for such things lead
to prisons and executions, not to domesticity.’
“‘What makes you think I have a sweetheart?’ he demanded, flushing.
“‘Haven’t I seen Mara?’
“‘Well, what of it?’
“‘If you can resist Mara,’ I told him, ‘you have more strength than I
would give you credit for.’ And it was quite true; for Mara, who lived
next door to the hotel, was a beautiful young thing, and they were much
together.
“‘Mara is a flirt,’ said he.
“‘What matter,’ I returned, ‘so long as she flirts most with you?’
“‘But does she like me best?’ he mused. ‘There is this fellow in the
Government railways who comes as often as he can to see her. He has the
advantage of being a connection by marriage, and is very handsome.
Really too handsome for a man. I am glad he does not live here all the
time.’
“‘You have the advantage of living next door,’ I encouraged. ‘The one
thing that might interfere is this idea of yours about being one of the
_comitajia_.’
“‘Still,’ he protested, shaking his head doubtfully, ‘a man’s first duty
is not to the woman he loves, but to the race he loves, because both she
and he belong to it. You know our old song?’ And he sang there in the
woods:
“‘Doucho, _my soul, I love thee second best;_
_Thou art the dearest part of Serbia to me;_
_But after all thou art but a part, even as I am a part;_
_And it is Serbia, always Serbia, that together we love most!_’
“Though not altogether satisfied with our conversation, I felt that in
appealing to the boy’s love for Mara I had struck the right note, and I
hoped that as time went on he would think more about her than about the
_comitajia_. For, though one may be heartily in sympathy with
revolutionary ideas, especially in the case of an oppressed race, one
does not like to see a youth of whom one is really fond, heading toward
disaster, even in such a cause. Moreover, as I have said, Gavrilo was
not as solidly built as the average Serb, and I had the feeling that the
burning spirit in him—and I assure you it was more like a living flame
than anything I have seen in the nature of man or woman—must either be
kept under control or else destroy his body.
“Consequently I was much relieved to see, as I returned from time to
time, that the boy-and-girl romance between Gavrilo and Mara was
naturally and charmingly developing into something more mature. This led
me to hope the more that, as he turned from a youth into a man, Gavrilo
would shed some of the violence of his revolutionary aspirations, and
from the indications I judged that such a thing was indeed coming to
pass. In order more fully to reassure myself, I more than once took
occasion to lead conversations with him into such channels that, should
he desire to do so, he could speak to me of the _comitajia_; but he
always let the openings pass, seeming eager, now, to speak only of the
lovely Mara.
“When, in the summer of 1913, I arrived for one of my periodical visits,
Gavrilo came rushing to my room, and seizing both my hands told me that
he and Mara were now betrothed. He was then eighteen and she
seventeen—for you understand, of course, that these dark South Europeans
develop younger than our people do. Both families were pleased, and I
felt that the dangers I had feared for Gavrilo were past, and was duly
thankful. I went out and bought a necklace for Mara, and when I gave it
to her, she and Gavrilo made me clasp it around her neck, and he said to
her, very seriously: ‘Yes, and our dear friend shall be the godfather of
our first child. Is it not so, Maro _doucho_?’ And Mara, taking me by
the hand, told me it was quite true, and that she was going to love me
as much as Gavrilo loved me, and that, moreover, they were going to have
hundreds of children, and that every one of the children should love me
too. It was all indescribably naïve and pretty until Gavrilo
unfortunately added: ‘Yes, our children will love you, and they will
love us, but most of all they will love the idea of a free Serb race.’
“At that a cloud passed over Mara’s face.
“‘Oh, Gavrilo!’ she cried impatiently, ‘shall we never hear of anything
but the Serb race? Is there nothing else in the world? Must that come
before your thought of your friend, here’—indicating me—‘before your
thought of me, of the children we hope to have, of everything? Must you
have Serbian freedom on your bread in place of cheese, and in your glass
in place of wine? Sometimes I think your eyes shine more brightly when
you speak of our race than when you call me _doucho_—my soul. I ask
myself, is it indeed the soul of Mara that he loves, or is it the soul
of the race?’
“‘Mara, my dear child,’ I put in, ‘I believe you are jealous.’
“‘Of whom, pray?’ she demanded, turning upon me and flinging her head
back proudly.
“‘Not of an individual,’ I answered, ‘but of a people.’
“‘Perhaps it is true,’ she returned with a shrug. ‘Well, what of it?’
“‘Only this: that a woman with nothing more concrete than a whole race
to be jealous of is in no very sad plight.’
“‘But I tell you I demand to be loved for myself!’ Mara flashed back.
“Gavrilo sighed deeply, as though at the hopelessness of making her
understand his point of view. Then, mournfully, he hummed:
“‘_Thou art the dearest part of Serbia to me;_
_But after all thou art but a part, even as I am a part;_
_And it is Serbia, always Serbia—_’
“But Mara would not let him finish.
“‘Enough!’ she cried. ‘I detest that song! You know how I detest it!’
“Gavrilo looked at me and shook his head. ‘Oh, these women!’ he
exclaimed. ‘What they do to one!’
“Then, gazing reflectively at Mara, he added in the tone of one
attempting to be philosophical: ‘Well, when a little female looks as
angelic as my Mara, naturally we expect her to think like an angel too.’
“At this Mara’s anger departed as quickly as it had come. ‘There!’ she
exclaimed, flinging her arms about his neck and kissing him upon both
cheeks, ‘there spoke my own dear Gavrilo! Poor Gavrilo! What have I been
saying? You know I love the Serbs no less than you do! You do know it,
don’t you? Well, then, say so!’
“‘God forbid that I should believe otherwise!’ answered Gavrilo, kissing
her in return.
“As I left them I thought to myself that with Mara’s temperament, to say
nothing of the ‘hundreds of children’ she promised him, Gavrilo’s
married life would not prove monotonous, whatever else it might be.
When, in the course of the subsequent fall and winter, I saw them again,
they seemed as happy as a pair of wild birds.
“Once, in the spring, when I was with them, the _comitajia_ chanced in
some way to be mentioned, whereupon Mara at once darkened, saying to me:
“‘That is my one sorrow.’
“‘But why should it be?’ Gavrilo asked her. ‘Have I not plighted you my
word that I shall not take part in any—well, in any indiscretions that
may be proposed?’
“‘Yes, I have not forgotten. You said that as long as I loved you you
would be my good Gavrilo.’
“‘So,’ he returned gaily, ‘all you need do is to continue to adore me as
I deserve.’
“‘But you meet with them at the _kafana_,’ she said, uneasily.
“‘They are my friends,’ he answered. ‘Naturally, then, I meet with them.
All men meet at the _kafana_. It is the way of men. A little wine or
coffee or prune brandy and a little talk—that is all. I go also to
church, but that does not make me a priest. And besides, dearest Maro,
if I were not sometimes with the _momchidia_, how would I know the joy
of returning to you?’
“‘If the devil had your tongue,’ laughed Mara, ‘he could talk all the
saints out of heaven!’
“So it always was with Mara. Her ideas came and went—as Gavrilo once put
it to me—like humming birds flitting in and out amongst the flowers.
Never have I seen a human being turn from gay to grave, and back again,
as rapidly as she.
“Arriving at the little hotel in the early part of June, 1914, I found
them all full of plans for a great fête to be celebrated on
Vidov-dan—Kossovo Day—June 28. This day might be called the Serbian
Fourth of July, but it partakes also of the character of our Memorial
Day, for it is the anniversary of that tragic event in Serbian history,
the Battle of Kossovo, in which the Turks defeated the Serbs in 1389,
leaving the entire Serbian nobility dead upon the field. That is one
reason why Serbia has no nobles to-day. ‘Kossovo’ means ‘the field of
the black bird,’ the _kos_ being a black songbird resembling the
starling. But this was to be no ordinary celebration of the holiday, for
in the Balkan War of the two preceding years Serbia had consummated her
independence and humbled the Turks, and a part of the Serbian racial
dream was thereby realized. Mara, Gavrilo, and their parents united in
urging me to return for the festival, and before departing I agreed to
do so.
“True to my word, I arrived several days ahead of time. Gavrilo had not
returned from the academy when I reached the hotel, but Michael and
Stana gave me a warm welcome and produced the costumes they were
intending to wear, and I remember that Stana said I ought to have a
costume too—that even though I had not been so fortunate as to be born a
Serb, they proposed to adopt me.
“‘But you should see Mara’s costume!’ she exclaimed, when I admired
hers. ‘It is a true Serbian dress, very old, which came to her from her
great-grandmother. Such beautiful embroidery you never saw.’
“That made a good excuse for me to go and see Mara, whom I found sewing
in the little garden behind the house. The costume, which she showed me,
was indeed beautiful, and I admired it in terms which were, I hope,
sufficiently extravagant to please even a girl as exacting as she.
“While talking with her I observed a bird cage hanging on a hook by the
window and, never having noticed it before, asked if she had a new bird.
“In reply she merely nodded, without looking up from her work.
“I strolled over and looked at the bird.
“‘Why,’ I said, ‘this bird appears to be a _kos_, Maro.’ Probably there
was a note of surprise in my voice, for the _kos_ is not supposed to
live in captivity.
“Mara looked up sharply.
“‘Are you visiting blame upon me, then?’ she asked.
“‘Not at all,’ I answered, mystified at her tone. ‘I did not know that
the _kos_ could be tamed; that is all.’
“‘Did Gavrilo tell you to speak to me about this?’ she demanded.
“‘Certainly not,’ I answered. ‘I have not seen Gavrilo yet.’ Then,
crossing to where she sat, and looking down at her, I asked: ‘What is
the matter, Maro? How have I offended you?’
“Her eyes filled with tears as she looked up at me.
“‘You have not offended me, dear friend,’ she said. ‘It is only that I
am made miserable by this subject. My relative who is employed in the
railway caught this bird a few days since, placed it in a cage, and
presented it to me. And if he is a handsome young fellow, am I to be
censured for that? I am not his mother nor yet his father; I did not
make him handsome! And even so, what is a little bird, to make words and
black looks over?’
“‘You mean that Gavrilo is annoyed?’
“‘Since this bird came,’ she returned, ‘I have heard of nothing else. He
begs me to let it go. He insists that it will die. He says the man who
gave it me is cruel and that I am cruel too.’
“‘Then why not release it?’ I suggested. ‘It is dying in the cage,
Maro.’
“‘Let it die, then!’ she cried, and burst into a flood of tears.
“‘Now, Maro,’ I urged when the paroxysm had abated, ‘what is all this
about?’
“‘Well,’ she gulped, wiping her eyes, ‘a girl must have a little
character, must she not? She must make up her own mind occasionally
about some little thing! Is not that true? Is the man she loves to tell
her when to draw in her breath and when to let it go again? Is he to
tell her when to wink her eyes? Is she to cease to think and do only as
he thinks? Here came this young man—with the miserable bird. I desired
it not. Then came Gavrilo, black and angry like a storm out of the
mountains, ordering me to let the bird go. I wished to do as Gavrilo
said, but as my relative had caught it and given it to me I felt I
should first speak to him. Besides, he is older and knows a great deal,
being in the Government railroads. And what did he say? “Maro,” he said,
“you do as you wish. If you wish to be a little fool, humor this boy. He
is spoiled. He has everything as he desires it. They say you are to
marry him. Very well. But if you think always with his mind, and hold no
ideas of your own, I tell you you will make a wife no better than one of
those stupid Turkish women....” That is why I determined to retain the
bird. There is a _kos_ in every second tree. Well, then, is it not
better that this one die than that my soul shall wither? Why should I be
called Mara if I shall no longer be a separate being, but only Gavrilo
in another body?’
“As she finished, we heard Gavrilo calling her name from the street, and
a moment later he came in through the garden gate.
“I saw at once that he was agitated.
“‘So you have come!’ he cried, seizing my hands. ‘But, alas, my friend,
it is in vain. You have heard the evil tidings?’
“‘You mean about—?’ I had almost said ‘about the bird,’ but fortunately
he interrupted, exclaiming:
“‘Yes, about the festival.’
“‘What tidings?’ demanded Mara.
“Gavrilo threw his arms above his head in a gesture of helpless fury.
“‘Those _proclete shvaba_!’ he burst out. ‘They issued an edict only an
hour ago, forbidding entirely our festival of Vidov-dan!’
“‘No!’ cried Mara, dismayed, half rising from her seat.
“‘Yes. There shall be no celebration—not for the Serbs. Nothing!
Attempts to commemorate the anniversary will result in arrest. It is
announced that in place of our festival there will upon that day be
extensive maneuvers of the Austrian army and that Grand Headquarters
will be here in our city. We are given to understand that the Archduke
himself will come and hold the review. Could anything be devised more to
insult us upon our national holiday? Oh, of what vile tricks are not
these accursed _shvaba_ capable?’
“‘I am surprised,’ I said, ‘that the Archduke would be party to a thing
of this kind, for it is understood that he is pro-Serb. Certainly his
wife is a Slav.’
“‘The more shame to her, then, for marrying him,’ said Gavrilo, with a
shrug. ‘He is the spawn, of an autocrat who is in turn the spawn of
generations of autocrats. Scratch them and they are all the same. They
play the game of empire—the dirty game of holding together, against
their will, the people of seven races in Austria-Hungary; grinding them
down, humiliating them, keeping them afraid. No man, no group of men,
should have such power! It is medieval, grotesque, wicked!’
“‘More than that,’ put in Mara, ‘it is unwise. They take a poor way to
gain favor with us Serbs. For my part, I do not think it safe for the
Archduke to come here.’
“‘And there, my _mila_,’ he declared, with a shrewd, sinister smile,
‘your judgment is perhaps better than even you yourself suppose. Myself,
I doubt he will be fool enough to come. At the last we shall be
informed, with a grand flourish, that he is ‘indisposed.’ Not sick, you
understand. Royalties are never sick. It is not etiquette. Peasants are
sick. The middle-classes are ill. The great are only indisposed.
Anything else is vulgar. Well, I hope he will know enough to stay away.
Otherwise he may indeed become indisposed after his arrival.’
“‘What do you mean, Gavrilo?’ I asked.
“‘That the air of this place is not good for Austrian royalties just
now,’ he said. ‘It is Serbian air. There are the germs of freedom in it,
and such germs are more dangerous to autocrats than those of
_kuga_,—cholera.’
“‘Be frank,’ I urged. ‘Do you mean that the Archduke’s life is
threatened?’
“‘It is known,’ he replied, ‘that the governor has received warning
letters. The Archduke is advised not to appear here on our holiday. One
understands, moreover, that the Austrian secret police concur in this
advice. Which shows that the filthy beasts are not so stupid as they
might be.’
“‘Assure me, Gavrilo,’ Mara broke in, ‘that your _comitajia_ has nought
to do with this threat!’
“‘Long ago,’ he answered ‘I promised you that while you love me I will
not actively participate in anything violent. You may be sure, Maro,
_mila_, that I shall keep my word.’
“‘You keep your word always,’ she replied, ‘but these threats disturb me
and I gain comfort from your reassurances.’
“Gavrilo walked slowly over and looked into the bird cage.
“‘You are certain, then, that you do requite my affection?’ he asked her
over his shoulder.
“‘You are well aware,’ she said, ‘that I worship you.’
“‘Would that I were as well aware of it,’ he returned, ‘as that I am
nothing to be worshiped.’ Then after a pause he added: ‘If you do love
me, why not release this poor bird? See how wretchedly it huddles. Its
eyes are becoming dull. It will surely die. How can we Serbs talk of
freedom for ourselves, yet hold this wild creature prisoner? And of all
birds, a _kos_—the bird of Kossovo! Permit me to open the door of the
cage, Maro. Let us celebrate the Serbian holiday by liberating the poor
_kos_. _Shvabe_ cannot prevent that, with all their edicts.’
“Mara looked black.
“‘The holiday is not yet here!’ said she.
“‘When the day comes,’ he answered, ‘the _kos_ will be dead.’
“‘I wish it were already dead!’ she exclaimed petulantly. ‘I wish I had
never seen the accursed thing. It has brought me only sorrow!’
“‘Then,’ I interjected, ‘why not let it fly away?’
“‘I have told you both,’ she answered angrily. ‘This means more to me
than the life or death of a bird. It is a symbol. I have the feeling
that if it were to fly away all my will power would fly with it.’
“‘And to me also,’ returned the boy solemnly, ‘this means more than the
life or death of a bird. And likewise to me the _kos_ is a symbol. It
should be so to every Serb. Think of Kossovo! This is a bird linked with
our racial aspirations. If we free this one, we may, perhaps, ourselves
deserve freedom. Otherwise, what do we deserve? Do we merit more than we
ourselves give?’
“Having witnessed Mara’s agitation when she first told me of their
differences over the bird, I would now have stopped Gavrilo could I have
signaled him, but he was engaged in putting some green leaves through
the door of the cage. As he finished speaking, Mara rose, dropped her
sewing upon the ground, and bursting into tears ran into the house.
“‘Maro, _mila_!’ Gavrilo cried, attempting to catch her; but the door
slammed in his face.
“He was white as he turned to me. ‘Tell me,’ he cried in a tone
childlike and baffled, ‘can anyone understand the ways of woman? As men
grow older do they understand better, or is it always like this?’
“Deeply concerned about them as I was, the naïveté of this question
forced a smile from me.
“‘You must ask some man older than I,’ I answered.
“‘Perhaps we are not intended to understand them,’ he said reflectively.
‘No doubt the Lord made them as they are so that we should forever be
enthralled by them, as by any other enigma beyond comprehension. I enjoy
lying on my back at night, to gaze up at the stars and think profoundly
of eternity whirling about us, and the infinity of space, but I assure
you, when my lovely Mara becomes agitated those phenomena of nature
seem, by contrast, trifling matters. I believe that if one could but
understand Mara, one could understand the riddles of the ages.’
“I left Gavrilo in the garden. At dinner that night he was not with us.
I did not see him again until next evening, when I came upon him
whispering with three young men upon the stairs. As I passed them they
became silent, nor did I like the nervous smile with which Gavrilo
greeted me. On the day following I saw him go into a _kafana_ with the
same youths. I think he also saw me, and from the haste with which he
moved into the little café I gathered the impression that he was
avoiding me.
“On the day before the maneuvers I cornered him after luncheon. Clearly
he was keyed to a highly nervous tension.
“‘Gavrilo,’ I said, ‘do not tell me anything you do not wish to. I have
no desire to pry into your affairs. But I beg you to remember Mara and
your promise to her, and not to become entangled in any rash escapade.’
“For a moment he stood looking at me without answering. It was as though
he was carefully formulating a reply. Then he said:
“‘I _have_ remembered. I have positively refused to participate in
certain matters in which I have been pressed to become active. At this
moment that is all that I am enabled to say.’
“‘It is all I desire to know,’ I said. ‘Tell me, what of Mara?’
“‘All is well between us,’ he returned, ‘so long as one mentions not the
bird.’
“Later I found them together in the garden. Mara was, as usual, sewing.
While I sat and talked with her, Gavrilo started picking fresh leaves to
put into the bird cage. Mara, who had been telling me how, upon the
morrow, the Serbs were to leave their shutters closed all day, so that
they should not see the Austrians, ceased to speak as Gavrilo began
gathering the leaves, and watched him narrowly for a moment.
“‘Gavrilo,’ she said, ‘please put no more leaves into the cage.’
“‘Why not?’
“‘Because it is not well for him. He has been pecking at the leaves and
I think they poison him.’
“‘No,’ said Gavrilo.
“‘Yes,’ she insisted. ‘He appears miserable to-day.’
“‘But naturally!’ returned the youth. ‘That is not new. He is dying. See
how he is huddled with closed eyes in the corner of the cage.’ As he
spoke he plucked another leaf.
“Mara’s expression became ominous.
“‘If he should die,’ she said in a quavering voice, ‘it will be because
of the leaves which you have given him!’
“‘Impossible,’ Gavrilo replied. ‘Does not a bird live among the leaves?’
“‘I tell you,’ she exclaimed, ‘I have asked the old bird man about it.
He says some leaves are good and some are not. He is coming this evening
to see the _kos_ and give it medicine in its water.’
“I was relieved when Gavrilo pressed the point no farther but dropped
the fresh leaves on the ground. Feeling that a situation had been
narrowly averted, I thought best to leave them together.
“That evening, as I was walking toward the hotel from the square at the
center of the town, I saw him coming out of the _kafana_ with several of
the youths I had come to recognize as his friends. He joined me and we
walked along together. At Mara’s garden gate he halted, saying: ‘Let us
enter and see the poor bird.’
“‘No, Gavrilo,’ I said warningly. ‘It is not the bird we go to see, but
Mara.’
“‘So be it,’ he replied. ‘Let us then visit Mara.’
“Mara was not in the garden. Gavrilo called her name. She answered from
the house, and a moment later came out to meet us.
“As she emerged I saw her glance at the bird cage. Then she gave a
startled cry.
“‘Look!’ she wailed. ‘The _kos_ is dead!’
“It was true; there lay the bird upon its back among the dry leaves at
the bottom of the cage.
“For a time we stood in silence, regarding it through the bars. I knew
that Gavrilo and Mara were filled with emotion, and for my own part I
was surprised to discover how much the death of the bird seemed to mean
to me. When, a day or two before, they had spoken of symbolism in
connection with the _kos_, I knew what they meant, but did not feel it:
yet now I felt it strongly, as though I myself were a Serb, with a
Serb’s vision and superstition. It was not a dead bird that I saw, but a
climax in a parable—a story of scriptural flavor, fraught with uncanny
meaning.
“Gavrilo was the first to speak.
“‘Poor _kos_!’ he said in a low, tragic tone. ‘It is free at last. It
was written that it should not be captive when to-morrow dawns.’
“‘What do you mean?’ demanded Mara.
“‘I told you it was destined to die unless you let it go,’ he answered
gently.
“‘And as I would not let it go,’ she retorted, ‘you desired that it
should die, in accordance with your prophecy! Yes, that is it! You made
it die! You placed the leaves of henbane in its cage and killed it!’
“‘You are excited, Maro,’ he returned. ‘You must know that I desired the
poor bird to live. Let us dig a little grave here in the garden and bury
it, and cease to speak of it until we are calmer. We are
overwrought—both of us—because of the bitterness of to-morrow. Where is
the spade?’
“‘Do not touch the _kos_!’ she commanded: ‘It shall not be buried yet.’
“‘Why not?’ I interposed. ‘It will be better for us all.’
“‘The old bird man comes this evening,’ Mara flung back. ‘He will look
at the bird and know that Gavrilo has poisoned it with henbane.’
“‘But, Maro,’ I returned, ‘Gavrilo has said that he did not. You know
that he is truthful.’
“‘His words mean nothing!’ she cried. ‘Am I not a Serb? Do I not read
the meanings in events? Gavrilo lies. Gavrilo killed the _kos_. He is a
murderer. I hate him!’
“‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘You give me the truth at last!’
“‘Yes, the truth!’
“‘So much the better that I know in time!’ cried Gavrilo, and without
another word he ran frantically from the garden.
“As for Mara, she seemed almost on the brink of madness. I do not know
how long I remained there trying to reason with her, calm her, make her
see the folly and danger of what she had done. By the time her passion
had abated the late June twilight had settled over the town. Presently I
heard the garden gate open, and a moment later a venerable Serb
appeared.
“‘Wait!’ Mara said to me. ‘Now you shall learn that I was right!’
“Then, to the old man, she said: ‘You are too late to cure my bird, but
you are not too late to tell me from what cause came its death. Look at
this leaf that was placed in its cage. Is not that the henbane?’
“The old man took the leaf, inspected it, and shook his head.
“‘No,’ said he. ‘Let me see the bird.’
“‘It lies there in the cage.’
“He opened the cage door and, reaching in, removed the little body.
“‘Ah,’ he said, ‘a _kos_. Do you not know, my child, that birds of this
species cannot long survive captivity?’
“Mara hung her head.
“‘I have heard it said,’ she answered in a low voice.
“‘To imprison wild birds is cruel,’ remarked the old bird man. ‘These
birds, in particular, are the Serbs of the air. They are descended from
birds that saw the field of Kossovo. They desire only to be free.’ Then,
as Mara did not reply, he said: ‘Bring a light.’
“She went into the house and emerged with a lamp, placing it upon a
table near the door. The old bird man sat down beside the table and,
holding the bird near the light, brushed back the soft plumage of its
breast, much in the manner of peasant mothers whom one sees,
occasionally, searching with unpleasant suggestiveness in their
children’s hair.
“‘Look,’ he said, ‘the bird would have died of these, even had it
survived captivity. It is covered with animalculæ. In a cage it could
not rid itself of them as nature enables free creatures to do.’
“Looking at the bird’s breast, Mara and I could see the deadly vermin.
“‘Give me a spade,’ said the old man. ‘I will inter the bird here in the
garden.’
“Mara indicated a spade leaning against the wall. Then, turning with
beseeching eyes to me, she seized both my hands, and said in a low,
intense voice:
“‘Go, I pray you, and find Gavrilo! Tell him that I implore his
forgiveness. Say that I love him better than all the world and ask only
that he come to me at once.’
“I went directly to the hotel and to Gavrilo’s room. He was not there.
No one about the place had seen him. I then went to the _kafana_ which I
knew he patronized, but the proprietor declared that he knew nothing of
his whereabouts. Through the remainder of the evening I diligently
searched the town, going to the houses of all his friends, but nowhere
could I find a trace of him. Obliged at last to acknowledge myself
defeated, I returned to the hotel. Several times during the night I
arose and stole to his room, but daylight came without his putting in an
appearance. Early in the morning I went again to the _kafana_, but
though I learned there that the Archduke had arrived the night before
with his wife and his suite, and was housed at the governor’s palace, I
got no word of the missing boy. Wherefore, after breakfast, it became my
unpleasant duty to go to Mara, inform her of my failure, and comfort her
as best I might.
“She looked ill and terrified. I wished that she would weep.
“Thinking perhaps to find him in the central square of the town before
the Archduke, the governor, and the other officials set out for the
review, I was moving in that direction when there came to my ears the
dull sound of an explosion. Continuing on my way, I encountered as I
rounded the next corner a scattering crowd of men, women, and children,
running toward me, in the street.
“I asked two or three of them what had happened, but they ran on without
reply. Presently, among them, I saw one of the youths with whom I had
several times seen Gavrilo, and him I seized by the coat, demanding
information.
“‘Let me go!’ he cried. ‘Some one threw a bomb into the Archduke’s
carriage! They are arresting everyone. Get away!’ And he tugged
violently to escape my hold.
“‘Have you seen Gavrilo?’
“‘Not to-day.’
“‘Is the Archduke dead?’
“‘No. He warded off the bomb and it exploded beneath the carriage which
followed. For God’s sake, release me!’
“I did so, and walked on toward the square. Halfway down the block I met
some Austrian police. After questioning me briefly they let me go,
whereafter I questioned them. The horses drawing the second carriage had
been killed, they said, and some officers of the archducal suite
injured. The Archduke, however, insisted upon continuing to the review
and would presently pass. They advised me to return to my hotel.
“I had hardly reached my room when I heard a bugle and the clatter of
hoofs outside. Going to the window, I saw mounted men of the Royal
Austrian Guard advancing around the corner. Behind them, between double
rows of cavalry, came several landaus, carrying outriders, and driven by
coachmen in white wigs and knee breeches. As the first of these vehicles
came nearer, I saw that the occupants of the back seat were Francis
Ferdinand, Archduke of Austria, heir apparent to the throne of
Austria-Hungary, and his morganatic wife, the Duchess of Hohenberg.
“The shutters of most of the houses were closed, but in a few windows I
saw faces, and there were scattered knots of people on the sidewalks,
closely watched by the policemen who rode ahead on horses and bicycles.
As the archducal carriage came along, hats were raised, and once or
twice I heard faint cheering, which the Archduke and his consort
acknowledged, he by touching the visor of his helmet, she by inclining
her head.
“As their carriage came below my window and I saw the expression of
condescending good will frozen on both their faces, and thought of the
constant apprehension there must be behind those polite masks, it struck
me as amazing that a man and woman could be found, in these times, to
play the royal part.
“As I was thinking thus I saw a dark-clad figure dart out suddenly from
somewhere on the sidewalk, below, pass swiftly between the horses of the
bodyguard, and reach the side of the royal carriage. Some of the
guardsmen leaped at once from their horses and there was a dash of
policemen toward the man, but before anyone laid hands upon him he
raised one arm, as though pointing accusingly at the Archduke and his
Countess, and there followed, in swift succession, two sharp reports.
“I saw the royal pair fall forward. Simultaneously the carriage stopped
and was at once surrounded by an agitated group of soldiers, policemen,
and servants; while another and more violent group pressed about the
individual who had fired the shots, beating him as they swept him away
down the street. Before they had gone a dozen yards, however, a high
official, who had jumped out of the second carriage, ran up and directed
them to take the man to the sidewalk. This brought the crowd in my
direction, and it was only as they turned toward me that I caught a
glimpse of the face of their prisoner. As I had dreaded, it was poor
Gavrilo.”
――――
For a moment all of us were too thunderstruck to speak. Somehow the
picture he had given us did not seem to be that of an assassin, as one
imagines such a man.
“You mean to say,” asked the man by the window slowly, “that this very
boy you’ve been telling us about was the one who shot the Archduke?”
“Yes,” said the other, “he was Gavrilo Prinzip of Sarajevo.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed the third. “The boy who brought on the war!”
“As we were saying earlier,” returned the one who had told the tale,
“historians will doubtless trace the beginnings of the war to Gavrilo’s
shot. Certainly Austria used the shot as her excuse, alleging that a
plot to kill the Archduke had been hatched in Serbia—which was
absolutely untrue, for Serbia was afraid of nothing so much as of giving
offense to Austria, knowing well that Austria was only seeking a pretext
to pounce upon her, precisely as she had earlier pounced upon Bosnia and
Herzegovina, annexing them.”
After a thoughtful pause he added: “Poor Gavrilo! I am glad to know that
he is free at last. Like Mara’s starling, he was not one to live long in
a cage. And it is perhaps because I was so fond of him, and also because
Austria’s excuse was so transparently despicable, that I shall always go
behind the shooting in thinking of the beginning of the war. As I
conceive it, it was Mara’s anger that released Gavrilo from the promise
which, otherwise, would have withheld him. And it was the death of the
caged starling that brought on her anger. And it was the animalculæ that
caused the bird’s death.”
“That is,” put in the man by the window, “you prefer to trace the war
down to such a small beginning as the death of that caged bird?”
“Rather,” replied the other, “to a still smaller and more repulsive
beginning—to the vermin which destroyed the bird. It seems to me I see
them always crawling through the explanations, apologies, excuses, war
messages, and peace overtures of the Teutonic autocrats.”