Out of a broad valley, through which lies the chief highway leading to
the north-west of Albania, there opens a narrow ravine which seems to
end abruptly against the precipitous front of a mountain range. But,
turning into this ravine, one is surprised to find that it winds
sharply, following a swift stream, and climbing for many miles through
the mountain, until it suddenly debouches into a picturesque valley,
which affords grazing space for sheep and enough arable land to
sustain the peasants who once dwelt there.
A hamlet nestled in this secluded vale. No road led beyond it, and it
was approached only by the narrow and tortuous path we have described.
A rude mill sentineled a line of three houses. These dwellings, though
simple in their construction, were quite commodious. A room of ample
dimensions was enclosed with walls of stone and loam, supporting a
conical roof of thatch. On three sides of this room and opening into
it were smaller chambers, having detached roofs of their own. The
central apartment was the common gathering place for quite an
extensive community, consisting of a family in three or four
generations; for each son upon marrying brought his wife to the
paternal homestead, and built a new chamber connecting with the
central one. The three houses contained altogether nearly a hundred
souls. The last of these dwellings was of ampler proportions than the
others, and was occupied by a branch of an ancient family to which the
inhabitants of the other houses were all of kin. By reason of its
antiquity as well as the comparative wealth of its occupants, it was
regarded as the konak, or village mansion; and the senior member of
its little community was recognized as the stargeshina, or chief of
the village.
It was the latter part of April; the day before that upon which from
time immemorial the peasants among these mountains had observed the
festival of Saint George, which they devoted to ceremonies
commemorative of the awakening summer life of the world.
It was still early in the afternoon, though the high mountain wall on
the west had shut out the sun, whose bright rays, however, still
burning far overhead, dropped their benediction of roseate shadows
into the valley they were not permitted to enter; loading the
atmosphere with as many tints as there were in Buddha's bowl when the
poor man threw in the bud of genuine charity, and it burst into a
thousand flowers.
A group of maidens gathered at the little mill, each holding an
earthen bowl to catch the glistening spray drops which danced from the
edge of the clumsy water-wheel. When these were filled they cast into
the "witching waters" the early spring flowers, anemones and violets
and white coral arbutus, which they had picked during the day. It was
a pleasing superstition that the water, having been beaten into spray,
received life from the flowers which the renewed vitality of the
awakening spring spirit had pressed up through the earth; and that, if
one should bathe in this on St. George's day, health and happiness
would attend him during the year.
"What is it?" cried one as a crackling in the bushes far above their
heads on a steep crag was followed in a moment by the beat of a
pebble, as it glanced from ledge to ledge almost to their feet.
"The sheep are not up there!" said another.
"Perhaps the Vili!"[47] suggested a third, "for I am sure that I have
seen one this very day."
"What was he like?" exclaimed several at once, while all kept their
eyes upon the cliff above.
"There! there! Did you see it?" Several avowed that they saw it
stealing along the very brow of the hill; but all agreed that it
passed so swiftly that they could not tell just what they saw.
"It was just so with the one I saw to-day," said the former speaker.
"I was on the ledge by the old eagle's nest, gathering my flowers. A
tall being passed below me on the path, dressed so beautifully that I
know it was none of us, and had dealings with none of us. It seemed
anxious not to be seen; for my little cry of surprise caused it to
vanish as if it melted into the foam of the stream as it plunges into
the pool."
"That was just like the Vili," interposed one. "They live under the
river's bank. They talk in the murmur of the streams. Old Mirko, who
used to work much in the mill, learned to understand what they said.
Did this one you saw have long hair? The Vili, Mirko said, always
did."
"I cannot say," replied the girl, "for its head was hidden in a
blossoming laurel bush between it and me."
"It was one," cried another, "for there are no blossoming laurels yet.
It was its long white hair waving in the wind, that you saw."
"Let us go down to the pool!" proposed one, "maybe we can see it
again."
"No! No!" cried the others, in a chorus of tremulous voices.
"No, indeed," said one of the larger girls, "for it might be they are
eating, or they are dancing the Kolo--which they always do as the sun
goes down, and if any body sees them then they get angry, and will
come to your house and look at you with the evil eye."
Hasting home with their bowls of water crowned with flowers, they told
their story to the stargeshina.
The old man laughed at their credulity:--
"Girls always see strange things on the eve of Saint George."
At the evening meal in the great room of the first house, the
patriarch, taking his cue from the story the girls belonging to that
household had told of their imagined vision, repeated legend after
legend about those strange beings that people the unknown caverns in
the mountains, and rise from the brooks, leaving the water-spiders to
mark the spot where they emerged so that they may find their way back
again, and of the wjeshtiges, who throw off their bodies as easily as
others lay aside their clothes, flit through the fire, ride upon the
sparks as horses, float on the threads of white smoke--all the time
watching the persons gathered about the blazing logs, that they may
mark the one who is first to die. "This doomed person," the old man
said, "they visit when he has gone to sleep, and, with a magic rod,
open his breast; utter in mystic words the day of his death; take out
his heart and feast upon it. Then they carefully close up the side,
and, though the victim lives on, having no heart, no spring of life in
him, sickens and droops until the fatal day; as the streams vanish
when cut off from the fountains whence they start."
These stories were followed by songs, the music of which was within a
narrow range of notes, and sung to the accompaniment of the gusle--a
rude sort of guitar with a single string. The subjects of these songs
and the ideas they contained were as limited in their range as the
notes by which they were rendered; such as the impossible exploits of
heroes, and improbable romances of love. The merit of the singing
generally consisted in the additions or variations with which the
genius of the performer enabled him to adorn the hackneyed music or
original narrative.
"Let Constantine take the gusle, and sing us the song about the
peasant maid who conquered the heart of the king," said the
stargeshina.
"Constantine is not here," replied a clear and sweet, but commanding
sort of voice. "He went out as it began to darken, and has not
returned."
The speaker rose as she said it, and went toward the large door of the
room to look out. She was a young woman of slender, but superb form,
which the costume of the country did not altogether conceal. She was
tall and straight, but moved with the graceful freedom of a child, for
her straightness was not that of an arrow--rather of the unstrung bow,
whose beauty is revealed by its flexibility. Her limbs were rounded
perfectly to the feminine model, but were evidently possessed of
muscular strength developed by daily exercise incident to her mountain
life. A glance at her would disprove that western theory which
associates the ideal of female beauty only with softness of fleshly
texture and lack of sinew. Her face was commanding, brow high, eyes
rather deep-set and blue, mouth small--perhaps too straight for the
best expression of amiability--chin full, and suggestive of firmness
and courage. As she gazed through the doorway into the night a
troubled look knit her features--just enough, however, to make one
notice rather the strong, steady and heroic purpose which conquered
it. When she turned again to the company the firelight revealed only a
girlish sweetness and gentleness of face and manner. She took the
gusle and sang a pretty song about the dancing of the witches; her
merry voice starting a score of other voices in the simple chorus.
Then followed a war song, in which the daughter of a murdered
chieftain calls upon the clan to avenge her father, and save their
land from an insulting foe. It was largely recitative, and rendered
with so much of the realistic in her tones and manner as to draw even
the old men to their feet, while, with waving hands and marching
stamp, they started the company in the refrain.
Milosch set the example of retiring when the evening was well
advanced. Though Constantine was still absent, it gave his father no
anxiety, for the boy was accustomed to have his own private business
with coons in the forest, and the eels in the pool, and, indeed, with
the stars too--for often he would lie for hours looking at them, only
Morsinia being allowed to interrupt his conference with the
bright-eyed watchers above.
FOOTNOTE:
[47] Still a Servian and Albanian superstition.