Those races that have not undergone the beneficial and domesticating
influences of civilisation, and that are isolated from the more cultured
nations, possess to an excess the different qualities or impulses inherent
to our nature. Amongst the emotions that move the heart of man, love is
certainly the one that has the greatest empire over him; it rules the soul
so imperiously that all the other passions are crushed by it. It makes
cowards of the bravest men, and gives courage to the timid. Love is,
indeed, the great motive-power of life.
Our passions and our emotions are, however, more subdued than those of the
semi-civilised nations; for, in the first place, we undergo the softening
influences of education, and secondly, we are more or less under the
restraint of the rules which govern society. Besides this, our mind is
usually engrossed by the numerous cares which our state of living
necessitates; for we are not like them, contented with little; on the
contrary, instead of being satisfied with what is necessary, we require
luxuries and superfluities, the procurement of which takes up a
considerable portion of our energy and our mental activity.
The Slavonians, and more especially those belonging to the southern
regions, such as the Dalmatians and Montenegrins, are, as a general rule,
very passionate; ardent in their affections, they are likewise given to
anger, resentment, and hatred, the generic sister passion of love.
The Slavonian women are, however, not indolent, nor do they ever indulge
in idle dreams; for they are not only occupied with the household cares,
but they also take a share, and not the smallest or the slightest, of
those toils which in other countries devolve upon the men alone. They
therefore, in the manly labours of the field, not only get prematurely
old, but they hardly ever possess much grace, slenderness, or delicate
complexions. No Slavonian woman, for instance, is ever _mignonne_. They,
in compensation, acquire in health, and perhaps in real aesthetic beauty of
proportions, what they lose in prettiness or delicacy of appearance,
consequently they never suffer from vapours or from the numerous nervous
complaints to which the generality of our ladies are subjected; the
natural result of this state of things is _mens sana in corpore sano_;
this is doubtless the reason why Slavonian women are, as a general rule,
fond mothers and faithful wives.
They are certainly not endowed with that charming refinement, the
_morbidezza_ of manners which but too often is but a mask covering a
morbid selfish disposition, a hypocritical and false nature. Though
ignorant, they are neither void of natural good sense nor wit; they only
want that smattering of worldly knowledge which the contact of society
imparts, and which but too often covers nothing but frivolity, gross
ignorance, and conceit. Their conversation is, perhaps, not peculiarly
attractive; for being simple and artless, speech was not given to them as
a means of disguising their thoughts; their lips only disclose the
fullness of their hearts. Conversation is, besides, a gift conferred to
few; and even in our polite circles not many persons can converse in an
interesting manner, and fewer can be witty without backbiting; moreover,
if man were suddenly to become transparent, would he not have to blush for
the frivolous demonstrations of friendship daily interchanged in our
artificial state of society?
The different amusements that absorb so much of our time and occupy our
minds are unknown in Slavonian countries; the daily occupations and the
details of the toilet do not captivate the whole attention; so that when a
simple affection is awakening in the heart of a man or of a woman, it by
degrees pervades the whole soul and the whole mind, and a strong and
ardent passion usually ensues. Moreover, amongst those simple-minded
sincere people flirtations are generally unknown; yet when they do love,
their affections are genuine; they never exchange amongst each other those
false coins bearing Cupid's effigy, and known as coquetry; for their lips
only utter what their hearts really feel. People there do not delight in
playing with the fire of love, or trying how far they can with impunity
make game of sentiments which should be held sacred. Amongst the virile
maidens of Slavonia many of them therefore have virgin hearts, that is to
say, artless souls, fresh to all the tender sentiments; the reason of this
is, that from the age of fifteen they do not trifle with their affections
until they have become so callous and sceptical that marriage is merely
wealth or a position in life. Men do not first waste away all the tender
emotions which the human heart is capable of, and then settle down into a
_mariage de raison_.
The following story, which happened about a century ago, will serve as an
illustration of the power of love amongst the Slavonians; it is, indeed, a
kind of repetition of the fate which attended the lovers of Sestos and
Abydos. This, however, is no legend, but an historical fact; the place
where this tragedy happened was the island of St. Andrea, situated between
those of Malfi and Stagno, not far from the town of Ragusa.
Though no Musaeus has immortalised this story by his verses, it is,
however, recorded in the "Revista Dalmata" (1859), in the "Annuario
Spalatino" of the same year, as well as other Slavonian periodicals.
The hero of this story, whose Christian name was Teodoro, belonged to one
of the wealthiest patrician families of Ragusa, his father being, it is
said, Rector of the Republic. He was a young man of a grave character, but
withal of a gentle and tender disposition; he not only possessed great
talents, but also great culture, for his time was entirely given up to
study.
One day, the young patrician having gone from the island of St. Andrea,
where he had been staying at the Benedictine convent, to one of the other
two neighboring islands, he in the evening wished to return to his abode.
He met upon the beach a young girl who was carrying home some baskets of
fish. Having asked her if she knew of anybody who would take him across to
the island of St. Andrea, the young girl proffered her services, which the
young and bashful patrician reluctantly accepted.
The young girl was as beautiful, as chaste, and as proud as the Arrabiata
of Paul Heyse; and for the first time Teodoro felt a new and vague feeling
awake in his bosom. He began to talk to the girl, asking her a thousand
questions about herself, about her home; and the young girl doubtless told
him that she was an orphan, and that she lived with her brothers. Instead
of returning to his family, the young nobleman remained at the Benedictine
convent, with the purpose of studying in retirement; his mind, however,
was not entirely engrossed by his books, and his visits to the island
where Margherita lived daily became more frequent.
The love which had kindled in his heart found an echo in the young girl's
bosom, and instead of endeavouring to suppress their feelings they yielded
to the charms of this saintly affection, to the rapture of loving and
being loved. In a few days their mutual feelings had made such progress
that the young man promised the _barcarinola_ to marry her. His noble
character and his brave spirit made him forget that he could not with
impunity break the laws of the society amongst which he lived; for that
society, which would have smiled had he seduced the young girl and made
her his mistress, would nevertheless have been scandalised had he taken
her for his lawful wife.
Peccadilloes are overlooked, and it is almost better in high life to be a
knave than a fool; it was, indeed, a quixotic notion for a patrician to
marry a plebeian, an unheard of event in the annals of the aristocratic
republic of Ragusa. The difficulties which our hero was to encounter were
therefore insurmountable.
In the midst of his thoughtless happiness our young lover was suddenly
summoned back to his home; for whilst Teodoro was supposed to be deeply
engaged in his studies his father, without the young man's knowledge, and
not anticipating any opposition, promised his son in marriage to the
daughter of one of his friends, a young lady of great wealth and beauty.
This union had, it is true, been concerted when the children were mere
babes, and it had until then been a bond between the two families. The
young lady being now of a marriageable age, and having concentrated all
her affections on the young man she had always been taught to regard as
her future husband, she now looked forward with joy for the anticipated
event.
Teodoro was therefore summoned back home to assist at a great festivity
given in honour of his betrothal; he at once hastened back to Ragusa, in
order to break off the engagement contracted for him. Vainly, however, did
he try to remonstrate, first with his father and then with his mother. He
avowed that he had no inclination for matrimony, that he felt no love for
this young lady, nothing but a mere brotherly affection, and that he could
not cherish her as his wife; he found, nevertheless, both his parents
inexorable. It was too late; the father had given his word to his friend;
a refusal would prove an insult, which would provoke a rupture between
these two families; no option was left but to obey.
Teodoro thereupon retired to his own room, where he remained in the
strictest confinement, refusing to see any one. The evening of that
eventful day, the guests were assembled; the bride and her family had
already arrived; the bridegroom, nevertheless, was missing. This was
indeed a strange breach of good manners, and numerous comments were
whispered from ear to ear. The father sent at last a peremptory order to
his undutiful son to come at once to him. The young man ultimately made
his appearance, attired like Hamlet at his stepfather's court, in a suit
of deep mourning, whilst his long hair, which formerly fell in ringlets
over his shoulders, was all clipped short. In this strange accoutrement he
came to acquaint his father before the whole assembly that he had decided
to forego the pleasure, the pomp and vanity of this world, to renounce
society, and take up his abode in a convent, where he intended passing his
days in study and meditation.
The scene of confusion which followed this unexpected declaration can be
imagined. The guests all wished to retire: the first person, however, to
leave the house was Teodoro, expelled by his father and bearing with him
the paternal malediction. Thus this day of anticipated joy ended in
disappointment and humiliation. The discarded bride was borne away by her
parents, and it is said that her delicate health never recovered from this
unexpected blow.
That very night the young man retired to the Benedictine convent upon the
island of St. Andrea, with the firm resolution of passing his life in holy
seclusion. When a few days had passed, his love proved, nevertheless,
stronger than his will, and he could not refrain from going to see his
Margherita, and informing her of all that had happened, telling her that
he had been driven from home, and that he had taken refuge at the convent,
where he intended passing his life in a state of holy celibacy.
Notwithstanding all his good intentions, the sight of the young girl
proved too great a temptation, her beauty overcame his resolutions, and he
swore to her that he would brave his parents' opposition, as well as the
anger of his caste, and that he would marry her in spite of his family and
of the whole world.
He thus continued seeing this young girl, till at last the fishermen, her
brothers, having found out why this young patrician visited the island so
often, severe and jealous like all their countrymen, they waylaid him, and
threatened to kill him if he were once more caught upon these shores. The
prior of the Benedictines, finding besides that his _protege_, far from
coming to seek peace and tranquillity within the walls of his convent,
was, on the contrary, an object of scandal, expressed his intention to
expel him, should he not discontinue his visits to the neighbouring
island, and reform.
Every new difficulty seemed to give fresh courage to the lovers; they
would have fled from their native country and their persecutors, but they
knew that they would be overtaken, brought back, and punished; so they
decided to wait some time until the wrath of their enemies had abated, and
the storm had blown over.
As Teodoro could not go any more to see the young girl, it was Margherita
who now came to visit her lover; to evade, however, the suspicion of her
brothers, and that of the friars, they only met in the middle of the
night, and as they always changed their place of meeting, a lighted torch
was the signal where the young girl was to direct her bark. There were
nights, nevertheless, when she could not obtain a boat; yet this was no
obstacle to her brave spirit, for upon those nights, she, like Leander,
swam across the channel, for nothing could daunt this heroic woman's
heart.
These ill-fated lovers were happy notwithstanding their adverse fortune,
for the sacred fire of love which burnt within them was bliss enough to
compensate for all their woes. Their days were passed in anxious
expectation for the hour which was to unite them on the sea-shore, amidst
the darkness of the night. There clasped in one another's arms, the world
and its inhabitants existed no longer for them; those were moments of
ineffable rapture, in which it seemed impossible to drain the whole
chalice of happiness; moments in which time and eternity are confounded,
instants only to be appreciated by those who have known the infinite bliss
of loving and being loved. Their souls seemed to leave their bodies, blend
together and soar into the empyreal spaces, the regions of infinite
happiness; for them all other sentiments passed away, and nothing was felt
but an unmitigated love.
The dangers which encompassed them, their loneliness upon the rocky
shores, the stillness of the night, only served to heighten their joy and
exultation, for a pleasure dearly bought is always more keenly felt.
Their happiness was, however, not to be of long duration; such felicity is
celestial; on this earth,
"Les plus belles choses
Ont le pire destin."
Margherita's brothers, knowing the power of love, watched their sister,
and at last found out that when the young nobleman had ceased coming, it
was she who by night visited the Island of St. Andrea, and they resolved
to be revenged upon her. They bided their time, and upon a dark and stormy
night, the fishermen, knowing that their sister would not be intimidated
by the heavy sea, went off with the boat and left her to the mercy of the
waves. The young girl, unable to resist the impulse of her love,
recommended herself to the Almighty, and bravely plunged into the waters.
Her treacherous brothers, having watched her movements, plied their oars
and directed their course towards the island; they landed, went and took
the lighted torch from the place where it was burning, and fastened it to
the prow of their boat; having done this, they slowly rowed away into the
open sea.
Margherita, as usual, swam towards the beacon-light of love, but that
night all her efforts were useless--the faster she swam, the greater was
the distance that separated her from that _ignis-fatuus_ light; doubtless
she attributed this to the roughness of the sea, and took courage, hoping
soon to reach that blessed goal.
A flash of lightning, which illumined the dark expanse of the waters, made
her at last perceive her mistake; she saw the boat towards which she had
been swimming, and also the island of St. Andrea far behind her. She at
once directed her course towards it, but there, in the midst of darkness,
she struggled with the wild waves, until, overpowered by fatigue, she gave
up all hopes of rejoining her beloved one, and sank down in the briny
deep.
The cruel sea that separated the lovers was, however, more merciful than
man, for upon the morrow the waves themselves softly deposited the
lifeless body of the young girl upon the sand of the beach.
The nobleman, who had passed a night of most terrible anxiety, found at
daybreak the corpse of the girl he loved. He caused it to be committed to
the earth, after which he re-entered within the walls of the convent, took
the Benedictine dress, and spent the rest of his life pining in grief.
ADRIAN DE VALVEDERE, in _Tinsley's Magazine_.