CHRISTMAS EVE
The fierce equinoctial blasts which that year had lasted for more than
a month, were followed by a fortnight of fitful, heavy rain,
intermitted by sudden gales and stormy showers. Then after a period
of dull, drizzling, foggy weather, ending in a thick squall, the
clouds cleared up beautifully, the sun showed itself again, and
Spring apparently succeeded to Autumn.
The wind fell entirely. Not the slightest breeze was blowing to bring
down the dry leaves, or to bicker the smooth surface of the waters.
For days and days the sea remained as even as a mass of shining
melted lead, with the only difference that it was as fathomably
liquid and as diaphanously pure as the air itself, of which it even
had the vaporous cerulean clearness. Far away on the offing, the
waters blended with the watchet airiness of the surrounding
atmosphere, so that the line of the horizon could nowhere be seen,
the blueish-grey ocean melting into the greyish-blue of the sky.
Nearer the shore, the smooth translucent sheet was streaked and
spotted with those sheeny stripes and silvery patches, which Shelley
terms a "coil of crystalline streams."
The earth itself had a fleecy look. The shadowy opal greys of the
headlands, the liquid amethystine tints of the hills, the light
irradiated coasts, all rising out of the luminous waves, looked
lovelier even than they had done in summer, at noontide, when swathed
by a splendent haziness, for now the cold opaque clay tints themselves
looked transparent, wrapped up as they were in that vaporous pellucid
veil of mists.
Nature was wearing now her garishly gorgeous autumnal garment, and
the foliage of the trees had acquired the richest prismatic dyes, for
the reddish russets and the glowing orange yellows predominated over
the whitish blues and the faint greens. The vegetation, but for the
funereal cypresses, had the sere hectic hue of dying life.
The seafaring people of Budua had anything but an admiration for that
calm, soft, misty weather, or for that placid, unruffled sea; not
that they lacked the sense of beauty, but they chafed at being kept
at home, when they ought already to have been in distant parts of the
Mediterranean, or even returning from the farthermost corners of the
Adriatic.
Thus the departure of the _pobratim_ had already been postponed for
about a fortnight, as every day they waited patiently for a
favourable wind to swell their flagging sails; but the wind never
came. The friends, however, did not fret at this delay, and now,
having stayed so long, they hoped that the calm weather would
continue a little longer, so that they might spend Christmas at home
with their families.
Radonic had sailed off some time since. Milena, after that, had gone
to spend some weeks with her parents in Montenegro. On her return,
she kept a good deal at home, for after the fright she had had on
that eventful night when she had seen Milenko all covered with blood,
she had made up her mind to give up flirting, either with Uros or
with any other young man, and, for a short time, she kept her
resolution. Moreover, she felt that she cared for the young man far
more than she liked to confess to herself, and that she thought
oftener of him than she ought to have done, and much more than was
good for the peace of her mind. Another reason now prompted her to be
seen abroad as little as possible.
The man who, after the quarrel at the inn, had followed Radonic to
his house, and told him of his wife's levity in her conduct towards
Uros, was a certain Vranic, one of Milena's rejected suitors. He was
more than a plain-looking man; he was mean and puny. Besides this, he
had a cast in his eye, which rendered him hateful to all people, and
justly so, for does not the wisdom of our ancients say: "Beware of a
man branded by the hand of God?" Still, as if this was not enough,
Vranic possessed the gift of second sight, if it can be called a
gift. He was, therefore, a most unlucky fellow. The priest had, it
appears, made some mistake in christening him, so that nothing ever
had gone on well with him.
Vranic had, therefore, always been not only shunned by all the girls
as an uncanny kind of man who always saw ghosts, but even all the men
avoided him. He ought to have left Budua and gone to live abroad in a
place where he was not known, but it is a hard thing for a man to
leave his own country for ever.
Amongst many defects, Vranic had one quality, if really it can be
called a quality. This was the stern tenacity of purpose, the stolid
opiniativeness of the peasant, the stubborn firmness of the mule, the
ant and the worm, that nothing baffles, nothing turns aside. Once
bent upon doing something, it would have been as easy to keep water
from running down a hill as make him desist from his obstinacy.
He had, in fact, the inert, unreasoning will of the Slovene.
The day after Radonic's departure, Vranic had come again to make love
to Milena. Of course, she would not listen to him, but spurned him
from her like a cur. He simply smiled, in the half-shrewd, half-apish
way in which peasants grin, and threatened to report everything she
did to her husband on his return. He told her he would poison
Radonic's ear in such a way that her life would henceforth be
anything but a pleasure. Milena answered that, as her conscience was
quite clear, she allowed him to act as he pleased.
In the meanwhile Uros' love was getting the mastery over him.
Milena's presence haunted him day and night; it overflowed his heart
in a way that made him feel as if he were suffering from some slow,
languishing fever. Looking upon Milena's face was like gazing at the
full moon on a calm summer night; only that this planet's amber light
shed a sense of peace on the surface of the rippleless waters, whilst
this woman's beauty made his heart beat faster and his nerves tingle
with excitement. Listening to her voice reminded him of the
love-songs he had heard the _guzlari_ chant on winter evenings
--amatory poems which heated the blood like long draughts of strong
wine. His love for her had changed his very nature; instead of caring
only for fishing and shooting, unfurling the broad sails and seeing
the breeze swell the white canvas, a yearning hitherto unknown now
filled his breast. At times he even avoided his friend, and went
wandering alone, his steps--almost unwillingly--leading him to choose
places where he had met Milena, and which were still haunted by her
presence. Many a night he would roam or linger near her house, hoping
to catch a glimpse of her; but, alas! she seldom came out, and she
was never seen either at her window or her door. Her lonely cottage
looked deserted, desolate.
On the night when the brig was expected to weigh anchor, Uros slunk
away stealthily, when the crew were fast asleep, and went on shore.
The inns were already shut, and not a light was to be seen in any
window. He, therefore, plucked up all his courage, hastened to reach
Milena's lonely house, and there, under her casement, he sang to her
the following _rastanak_, or farewell song:
Though cold and deaf, farewell, love;
We two must part.
But can you live alone, love,
If I depart?
From o'er the boundless sea, love,
And mountains high,
From o'er the dark, deep wood, love,
You'll hear me sigh.
If you are deaf to me, love,
Still on the plain
You'll see the flowers fade, love,
Seared by my pain.
Still you are deaf to me, love,
Without a tear;
I go without a word, love,
My soul to cheer.
I send you back those blooms, love,
Which once you gave;
For they are now to me, love,
Rank as the grave.
Amongst those cold, grey buds, love,
A snake doth lie,
As you have not for me, love,
A single sigh.
He finished and listened, then he heard a slight noise overhead; the
window was quietly opened, and Milena's face was seen peeping between
the cranny as she held the shutters ajar, for her beautiful, lustrous
eyes sparkled in the darkness.
"Uros!" she whispered, "how can you be so very foolish as to come and
sing under my windows! What will the people say, if they should
happen to see you?"
"Who can hear me in this lonely spot? Everybody is asleep, not a
mouse is stirring abroad."
"Someone or other seems always to hang about, spying all I do. For
your sake, and for mine, go away, I beg you. After the fright I had
upon that dreadful night, I have got to be such a coward."
"No; the truth is, after that night, you never cared for me any
more."
"I must not care for you;" then, with a sigh, and faintly: "nor must
you for me."
"Would it make you very happy if I forgot you--if I loved someone
else?"
She did not give him any reply.
"You don't answer," he said.
"You'll forget me soon enough, Uros--far from the eyes, far from the
heart."
"And if I come back loving you more than ever?"
"You'll be away for a long time; when you come back----"
"Well?"
"Perhaps I'll be dead."
"Don't say such things, Milena, or you'll drive me mad."
Then, with cat-like agility, he climbed the low wall, and, with hands
clutching at the window-sill, and the tips of his _opanke_, or
sandal-like shoes, resting on some stones jutting out, he stood at
the height of her head. His other arm soon found itself resting round
her unresisting neck. He lifted up his mouth towards hers, and their
pouting lips met in a long, lingering kiss.
But all at once she shivered from head to foot, and, drawing herself
away, she begged Uros to have pity on her and to go away.
"Milena, it is perhaps the last time we meet; more than one ship
never came back to the port from which it sailed; more than one
sailor never saw his birth-place again."
"But, only think, if some one passing by should see us here."
"Well, then, let me come in, so nobody'll see me."
"Uros, are you mad? Allow you to come in at this hour of the night!"
"What greater harm would there be than in the broad daylight?"
"No; if you really love me, don't ask me such a thing."
Uros obeyed, and, after a few minutes, with the tears gushing to his
eyes, he bade her good-bye. As he was sliding down, he thought he
heard a noise of footsteps on the shingle of the pathway near the
house. Uros shuddered and listened. Was it some man lurking there, he
asked himself. If so, who could it be? Radonic had, perhaps, come
back to Budua to keep watch over his wife--catch her on the hop, and
then revenge himself upon her. The sudden fright now curdled his
blood. Still, he was not afraid for himself; he was young and strong,
and he was on his guard. Even if it was the incensed husband, the
night was too dark for anyone to take a good aim and fire from a
distance. If he was afraid, it was for Milena's sake. Radonic had,
perhaps, returned; he had seen him climb down from his own house at
that late hour. Rash as he was, he would surely go and kill his wife,
who, even if she was a flirt, was by no means as bad as what he or
the world would think her to be.
"Anyhow," said Uros to himself, "if it is Radonic, he will either
rush at me, or fire at me from where he is hiding; or else he will go
towards his own house." His suspense would only last a few seconds.
It lasted much longer. Many minutes passed, if he could reckon time
by the beating of his heart. In the meanwhile he tried to fathom the
darkness from whence the slight sound had come. Not being able to see
or hear anything, he went off, walking on tip-toe; but he listened
intently as he went. All at once there was again a slight rustling
sound. Uros walked on for a while, then, stepping on the grass and
crouching between the bushes, slowly and stealthily he came back near
the house and waited. Not many minutes had elapsed when he heard the
noise of footsteps once more, but he saw nobody.
Oh! how his heart did beat just then! The sound of steps was
distinctly heard upon the shingle, and yet no human being, no living
creature, was to be seen. What could this be?
"_Bogme ovari!_--God protect me"--he said to himself, "it is,
perhaps, a ghost, a vampire!"
Darkness in itself is repellent to our nature; therefore, to be
assaulted at night, by any unseen foe, must daunt the bravest amongst
the brave.
It is, then, not to be wondered that Uros was appalled at the idea of
having to become the prey of an invisible, intangible ghost, against
which it was impossible to struggle. He waited for a while,
motionless, breathless. There was not the slightest noise, nothing
was stirring any more; but in the dusky twilight everything seemed to
assume strange and weird shapes--the gnarled branches of the olive
trees looked like stunted and distorted limbs, whilst the bushes
seemed to stretch forth long waving tentacles, with which to grasp
the passer-by. As he looked about, he saw a light appear at a
distance, flit about for a while, extinguish itself, reappear again
after some time, then go out as before. Then he heard the barking of
a dog; the sound came nearer, then it lost itself in the stillness of
the night.
Uros, horror-stricken, was about to take to his heels, when again he
heard the footsteps on the shingle. He, therefore, stood stock-still
and waited, with a heart ready to burst. He could not leave Milena to
the danger that threatened her, so he chose to remain and fall into
the clutches of a vampire. He listened; the steps, though muffled,
were those of a rather heavy man. The sound continued, slowly,
stealthily, distinctly. Uros looked towards the place from whence the
noise came, and thereupon he saw a man creep out from within the
darkness of the bushes and go up towards Radonic's house.
Uros, seeing a human figure, felt all his superstitious fears vanish;
he looked well at it to convince himself that it was not some
deceptive vision, some skin all bloated with blood, as vampires are.
No, it was a man. Still, who could it be, he was too short and puny
to be Radonic?
Who could this man be, going to Milena's in the middle of the night?
A bitter feeling of jealousy came over him, a steel hand seemed to
grasp his heart. Milena had just been flirting with him, could she
not do the same with another man. She had listened to his vows of
love, he had been a fool to go off when she begged him to remember
that she was another man's wife. At that moment he hated her, and he
was vexed with himself.
There are moments in life when we repent having been too good, for
goodness sometimes is but a sign of weakness and inexperience; it
only shows our unfitness for the great struggle of life, where the
weak go to the wall.
During the time that Radonic had been at home he had never felt the
bitter pangs of jealousy as much as he did now. It humbled him to
think that he had left his place to another more fortunate rival,
apparently an older man.
Then he asked himself how he could have been so foolish as to love a
married woman.
"After all," said he to himself, "it is but right that I should
suffer, why have I lifted up my eyes upon a woman who has sworn to
love another man?"
He had sinned, and he was now punished for his crime.
When flushed with success the voice of conscience had ever been mute,
but now, when disappointment was sinking his heart, that voice cried
out loudly to him. Conscience is but a coward at best, a sneak in
prosperity, a bully in our misfortune.
There in the darkness of the night, lifting his eyes up towards
heaven, he called upon the blessed Virgin to come to his help.
"Oh! immaculate mother of Christ our Saviour, grant me the favour of
seeing that this man is no fortunate rival, that he is not Milena's
lover, and henceforth I shall never lift up my eyes towards her, even
if I should have to crush my heart, I shall never harbour in it any
other feeling for her except that of a brother or a friend."
During this time the man had gone up to the cottage door. Almost
unthinkingly and with the words of the prayer upon his lips, Uros
stood up, went a step onwards, and then he stopped. The man now
tapped at the door. A pause followed. The man knocked again a little
louder. Thereupon Milena's voice was heard from within. Though Uros
was much too far to hear what she had said, he evidently understood
that she was asking who was outside; the young man, treading on the
grass as much as he could, stole on tip-toe a little nearer the
house.
He could not catch the answer the man had given, for it was in a low
muffled undertone.
"Who are you?" repeated Milena from inside, "and what do you want?"
"It is I, Uros," said the man in a muffled tone; "open your door, my
love."
"Liar," shouted Uros from behind, and with a bound he had jumped upon
the man and, gripping him by the nape of the neck and by the collar
of his _jacerma_, he tugged at him and dragged him away from the
door.
As the man struggled to free himself, Uros recognised him to be
Vranic--Vranic the ghost-seer, Vranic the spy.
"How dare you come here in my name, you scoundrel," said the young
man, and giving him a mighty shake, that tore the strong cloth of the
jacket, he cast him away.
"And pray what are you doing here at this time of the night?" asked
Vranic, his hand on the haft of his knife.
"And what is that to you--are you her husband or her kinsman? But as
you wish to know, I'll tell you; I came to protect her from a
dastardly coward like yourself."
"I doubt whether Radonic will be glad to hear that you go sneaking
into his house at the dead of night, just to keep his wife from any
harm; that is really good of you." And Vranic, standing aloof, burst
out laughing. Then he added, "Anyhow, he'll be most grateful to you
when he knows it."
"And who'll tell him?"
"I shall."
"If I let you, you spy."
Thereupon Uros rushed upon Vranic so unexpectedly, that the latter
lost his balance, slipped and fell. The younger man held him down
with one hand, and with the other he lifted up his dagger. Seeing
himself thus overpowered:
"What, are you going to murder me like that?" he gasped out, "do you
not see that I was joking? If you'll but let me go I'll swear not to
say a word about the matter to anyone."
"On what will you swear?"
"On anything you like, on the holy medals round my neck."
With a jerk that almost choked the man, Uros broke the string and
snatched the amulets from Vranic's neck, and presented them to him,
saying:
"Now, man, swear."
Vranic took his oath.
"Now," said Uros, "swear not to harm Milena while I am away, swear
not to worry her by your threats, or in any other way soever."
Vranic having sworn again, was left free to get up and go off.
When he was at a few paces from Uros he stopped, and with a scowl
upon his face he muttered:
"Those medals were not blessed, so you can use your dagger now, if
you like, and I shall use my tongue, we shall see which of us two
will suffer most; anyhow, remember the proverb, 'Where the goat
breathes, even the vine withers.'"
Then, stooping down, he gathered a handful of stones and flung them
with all his might at Uros, after which he took to his heels and ran
off with all his might.
The stones went hissing by Uros, but one of them caught him on his
brow, grazing off the skin and covering his eyes with blood. Uros,
blinded by the stone, remained standing for a while, and then, seeing
that Vranic had run off, he went up to Milena's door and tapped
lightly.
"Milena," said he, "have you heard the quarrel I have had with
Vranic?"
"Yes, did he hurt you?"
"Only a mere scratch."
"Nothing more?"
"No."
"Surely?"
"No, indeed!"
Milena would willingly have opened the door to see if Uros was only
scratched, but she was in too great a trepidation to do so.
"Well," added she, "if you are not hurt, please go away."
"But are you not afraid Vranic might come back?"
"Well, and if he does? He'll find the door shut as before. Moreover,
I'm by no means afraid of him, he is the greatest coward, or at least
the only coward, of the town; therefore do not stay here on my
account, you can do me no good."
"Then you do not want me?" said Uros, in a lingering way, and with a
sigh.
"No; go," quoth she. "If you love me, go."
Uros turned his back on the cottage and wended his steps homewards.
The moon was now rising above the hills in the distance. Milena went
to the window and looked at the young man going off. Her heart
yearned after him as he went, and she fain would have called him
back.
Poor fellow, he had fought for her, he was wounded, and now she let
him go off like that. It was not right. Was his wound but a scratch?
She ought to have seen after it. It was very ungrateful of her not to
have looked after it.
All at once Uros stopped. Her heart began to beat. He turned round
and came back on his steps. At first she was delighted, then she was
disappointed. She wished he had not turned back.
He walked back slowly and stealthily, trying to muffle his steps.
What was he going to do?
Milena ran to the door and put her ear close to the key-hole.
She heard Uros come up to the very sill and then it seemed to her
that he had sat or crouched upon the step.
Was he hurt? Was he going to stay there and watch over the house like
a faithful dog?
She waited a while; not the slightest sound was heard; she could
hardly keep still. At last, unable to bear it any longer:
"Uros," said she, "is that you?"
"Yes."
"And what are you doing there?"
"I was going to watch over you."
Overcome by this proof of the young man's love, Milena slowly opened
the door, and taking Uros by both his hands she made him come in.
The wind did not rise and the brigantine rode still at anchor in the
bay. The days passed, and at last merry Christmas was drawing near.
The _pobratim_--though anxious to be off--hoped that the calm weather
would last for a week longer, that they might pass the
_badnji-vecer_--or the evening of the log--and Christmas Day with
their parents.
Their wishes were granted; one day passed after the other and the
weather was always most beautiful. Not the slightest cloud came
either to dim or enhance the limpid blue sky, and though the mornings
were now rather fresh, the days were, as yet, delightfully warm and
radiant with sunshine. In the gardens the oleanders were all in full
bloom, so were also the roses, the geraniums and the China asters;
whilst in the field many a daisy was seen glinting at the modest
speedwell, and the Dalmatian convolvulus entwined itself lovingly
around the haughty acanthus, which spread out their fretted leaves to
the sun, taking up as much space as well they could, while in damp
places the tall, feathery grasses grew amidst the sedges, the reeds,
and the rushes and all kinds of rank weeds of glowing hues. Not a
breath of wind came to ripple the surface of the shining blue waters.
On the 24th a little cloud was seen far off, the colour of the waters
grew by degrees of a dull leaden tint, and the wind began to moan. In
the meanwhile the cloudlet that had been the size of a weasel grew to
be as big as a camel, then it swelled out into the likeness of some
huge megatherium, it rolled out its massy coils and overspread the
whole space of the sky. Then the clouds began to lower, and seemed to
cover the earth with a ponderous lid. The wind and the cold having
increased, the summer all at once passed away into dreary and bleak
winter.
Christmas was to be kept at Milos Bellacic's house, for though the
two families had always been on the most friendly terms, they, since
the day upon which the two young men had become _pobratim_, got to be
almost one family. Some other friends had been asked to come and make
merry with them on that evening. Amongst other guests Zwillievic,
Milena's father, who was a cousin of Bellacic's, having come with his
wife to spend the Christmas holidays at Budua, had accepted his
kinsman's hospitality. Milena had also been asked to come and pass
those days merrily with her parents.
At nightfall, all the guests being already assembled, the yule-log,
the huge bole of an olive tree, was, with great ado, brought to the
house. Bellacic, standing on the threshold with his cap in his hand,
said to it:
"Welcome log, and may God watch over you."
Then, taking the _bucara_ or wooden bottle, he began to sprinkle it
with wine, forming a cross as he did so, then he threw some wheat
upon it, calling a blessing upon his house, and upon all his guests,
who stood grouped behind him, after which all the guests answered in
chorus, "And so be it." Thereupon all the men standing outside the
house fired off their guns and pistols to show their joy, shouting:
"May Christmas be welcome to you."
After this Uros brought in his own log and the same ceremony had once
more to be gone through.
The logs were then festively placed upon the hearth, where they had
to burn the whole night, and even till the next morning.
In the meantime a copious supper was prepared and set upon the table.
In the very midst, taking the place of an _epergne_, there was a
large loaf, all trimmed up with ivy and evergreens, and in the centre
of this loaf there were thrust three wax candles carefully twisted
into one, so as to form a taper, which was lit in honour of the Holy
Trinity. Christmas Eve being a fast day, the meal consisted of fish
cooked in different ways.
First, there was a pillau with scallops, then cod--which is always
looked upon as the staple fare of evening--after which followed
pickled tunny, eels, and so forth. The _starescina_, taking a
mouthful of every dish that was brought upon the table, went to throw
it upon the burning log, so that it might bring him a prosperous
year; his son then followed his example.
After all had eaten and were filled, they gathered around the hearth
and squatted down upon the straw with which the floor was strewn
--for, in honour of Christ, the room had been made to look as much as
possible like a manger, or a stable. They again greeted each other
with the usual compliments, "for many years," and so forth, and black
coffee was served in Turkish fashion, that is, in tiny cups, held by
a kind of silver, or silvered metal, egg-cup instead of a saucer.
Most everyone loosened his girdle, some took off their shoes, and all
made themselves comfortable for the night. Thereupon Milenko, who was
somewhat of a bard and who had studied an epic song for the
occasion, one of those heroic and wild _junaske_, took his _guzla_,
and gave the company the story of "Marko Kraglievic and the Moor of
Primorye," as follows:--
KRAGLIEVIC MARKO I CRNI ARAPIN.
An Arab lord had once in Primorye,
A mighty castle by the spray-swept shore;
Its many lofty halls were bright and gay,
And Moorish lads stood watching at each door.
Albeit its wealth, mirth never echoed there;
Its lord was prone to be of pensive mood,
And oft his frown would freeze the very air;
On secret sorrow he e'er seemed to brood.
At times to all his _svati_ would he say:
"What do I care for all this wide domain,
Or for my guards on steeds in bright array?
Much more than dazzling pomp my heart would fain
Have some fond tie so that the time might seem
Less tedious in its flight. I am alone.
A mother's heart, a sister's, or, I deem,
A bride's would be far more than all I own."
Thus unto him his liegemen made reply:
"O, mighty lord! they say that Russia's Czar
Has for his heir, a daughter meek and shy,
Of beauty rare, just like the sparkling star
That gleams at dawn and shines at eventide.
Now, master, we do wait for thy behest.
Does thy heart crave to have this maid for bride?
Say, shall we sally forth unto her quest?"
The master mused a while, then answered: "Aye,
By Allah! fetch this Russian for my mate!
Tell her she'll be the dame of Primorye,
The mistress of my heart and my estate.
But stop.--If Russia should not grant his child,
Then tell him I shall kill his puny knights,
And waste his lands. Say that my love is wild,
Hot as the Lybian sun, deep as the night!"
Now, after riding twenty days and more,
The _svati_ reached at last their journey's end,
Then straightway to the Russian King they bore
Such letters as their lord himself had penned.
The great Czar having read the Moor's demand,
And made it known to all his lords at Court,
Could, for a while, but hardly understand
This strange request; he deemed it was in sport.
A blackamoor to wed his daughter fair!
"I had as lief," said he, "the meanest lad
Of my domains as son-in-law and heir,
Than this grim Moor, who must in sooth be mad."
But soon his wrath was all changed into grief,
On learning to his dread and his dismay,
That not a knight would stir to his relief,
No one would fight the Moor of Primorye!
Howe'er the Queen upon that very night
Did dream a dream. Within Prilipu town,
Beyond the Balkan mounts, she saw a knight,
Whose mighty deeds had won him great renown.
(Kraglievic Marko was the hero's name);
His flashing sword was always seen with awe
By faithless Turks, who dreaded his great fame;
And in her dream that night the Queen then saw
This mighty Serb come forth to save her child.
Then did the Czarin to her lord relate
The vision which her senses had beguiled,
And both upon it long did meditate.
Upon the morrow, then, the Czar did write
To Marko, asking him to come and slay
This haughty Moor, as not a Russian knight
Would deign to fight the lord of Primorye.
As meed he promised him three asses stout,
Each laden with a sack of coins of gold.
As soon as Marko read this note throughout,
These words alone the messenger he told:
"What if this Arab killed me in the strife,
And from my shoulders he do smite my head.
Will golden ducats bring me back to life?
What do I care for gold when I am dead?"
The herald to the King this answer bore.
Thereon the Queen wrote for her daughter's sake:
"Great Marko, I will give thee three bags more,
Six bags in all, if you but undertake
To free my daughter from such heinous fate,
As that of having to become the bride
Of such a man as that vile renegade."
To Prilipu the messenger did ride,
But Marko gave again the same reply.
The Czar then summoned forth his child to him:
"Now 'tis thy turn," said he; "just write and try
To get the Serb to kill this man whose whim
Is to have thee for wife." The maid thus wrote:
"O Marko, brother mine, do come at once.
I beg you for the love that you devote
To God and to St. John, come for the nonce
To free me from the Moor of Primorye.
Seven sacks of gold I'll give you for this deed,
And, if I can this debt of mine repay,
A shirt all wrought in gold will be your meed.
Moreover, you shall have my father's sword;
And as a pledge thereon the King's great seal,
Which doth convey to all that Russia's lord
Doth order and decree that none shall deal
Its bearer harm; no man shall ever slay
You in his wide domains. Come, then, with speed
To free me from the lord of Primorye."
To Prilipu the herald did proceed
With all due haste; he rode by day and night,
Through streams and meads, through many a bushy dell;
At last at Marko's door he did alight.
When Marko read the note, he answered: "Well--"
Then mused a while, then bade the young page go.
But said the youth: "What answer shall I give?"
"Just say I answered neither yes nor no."
The Princess saw that she would ne'er outlive
Her dreadful doom, and walking on the strand,
There, 'midst her sobs, she said: "O thou deep sea,
Receive me in thy womb, lest the curst brand
Of being this man's wife be stamped on me."
Just when about to plunge she lifts her eyes,
And lo! far off, a knight upon a steed,
Armed cap-a-pie, advancing on, she spies.
"Why weepest thou, O maid? tell me thy need,
And if my sword can be of any use . . ."
"Thanks, gentle sir. Alas! one knight alone
Can wield his brand for me; but he eschews
To fight."
"A coward, then, is he."
"'Tis known
That he is brave."
"His name?"
"He did enrich
The soil with Turkish blood at Cossovo.
You sure have heard of Marko Kraglievic."
Thereon he kissed her hand and answered low:
"Well, I am he; and I come for your sake.
Go, tell the Czar to give thee as a bride
Unto the Moor; then merry shall we make
In some _mehan_, and there I shall abide
The coming of the lord of Primorye."
The Princess straightway told the Czar, and he
At once gave orders that they should obey
All that the Serb might bid, whate'er it be.
That night with all his men the Arab came--
Five hundred liegemen, all on prancing steeds;
The Czar did welcome them as it became
Men high in rank, and of exalted deeds.
Then, after that, they all went to the inn.
"Ah!" said the Moor, as they were on their way,
"How all are scared, and shut themselves within
Their homes; all fear the men of Primorye."
But, as they reached the door of the _mehan_,
The Arab, on his horse, would cross the gate,
When, on the very sill, he saw a man
Upon a steed. This sight seemed to amate
The Arab lord. But still he said: "Stand off!
And let me pass."
"For you, this is no place,
Miscreant heathen dog!"
At such a scoff
Each angry liegeman lifted up his mace.
Thereon 'twixt them and him ensued a fight,
Where Marko dealt such blows that all around
The din was heard, like thunder in the night.
He hacked and hewed them down, until a mound
Of corpses lay amid a pool of blood,
For trickling from each fearful gash it streamed,
And wet the grass, and turned the earth in mud
Of gore; whilst all this time each falchion gleamed,
For Marko's sword was ruthless in the fray,
And when it fell, there all was cleaved in twain;
No coat of mail such strokes as his could stay,
Nor either did he stop to ascertain
If all the blood that trickled down each limb
Was but that of the foe and not his own.
And thus he fought, until the day grew dim,
And thus he fought, and thus he stood alone
Against them all; till one by one they fell,
As doth the corn before the reaper's scythe,
Whilst their own curses were their only knell!
The Serb, howe'er, was still both strong and lithe,
When all the swarthy Arabs round him lay.
"Now 'tis thy time to die, miscreant knight!"
He called unto the Moor of Primorye.
With golden daggers they began to fight;
They thrust and parried both with might and main;
But soon the Arab sank to writhe in pain.
Then Marko forthwith over him did bend
To stab him through the heart. Then off he took
His head, on which he threw a light cymar
(For 'twas, indeed, a sight that few could brook):
Thus covered up, he took it to the Czar.
Then Marko got the Princess for his wife--
Besides the gold that was to be his meed,
And from that day most happy was his life,
Known far and wide for many a knightly deed.
The merry evening came to an end; in the meanwhile the weather had
undergone another transformation. The cold having set in, the thin
sleet had all at once changed into snow. The tiny patches of ice and
the little droplets of rain had swelled out into large fleecy flakes,
which kept fluttering about hither and thither, helter-skelter,
before they came down to the ground; they seemed, indeed, to be
chasing one another all the time, with the grace of spring
butterflies. Even when the flakes did fall it was not always for
long, for the wind, creeping slily along the earth, often lifted them
up and drove them far away, whirling them into eddies, till at last
they were allowed to settle down in heaps, blocking up doors and
windows; or else, flying away, they ensconced themselves in every
nook and corner, in every chink and cranny.
That evening, when the good Christians went to church to hear the
oft-repeated tidings of great joy, uttered by the _vladika_, or
priest, in the sacramental words: _Mir Bogig, Christos se rode_, or
"The peace of God be with you, Christ is born"; and when, after
midnight, they returned home, while huge logs were blazing on every
hearth, they hardly knew again either the town or its neighbourhood,
all wrapped up in a mantle of dazzling whiteness; the sight was a
rather unusual one, for the inhabitants of Budua had seen snow but
very seldom.
The whole Christmas Day was spent very pleasantly in going about from
house to house, wishing everyone joy and happiness, or receiving
friends at home and drinking bumpers to their health. It was, indeed,
a merry, forgiving time, when the hearts of men were full of
kindness and good-will, and peace reigned upon earth.
There were, indeed, some exceptions to the general rule of
benevolence, for, now and then, some man, even upon that hallowed
day, bore within his breast but a clay-cold heart, in which grudge,
envy and malice still rankled, and the Christmas greetings, wheezed
through thin lips, had but a chilling and hollow sound.
The very first person who came to Bellacic's house early on Christmas
morning was Vranic, the spy. It was not out of love that he came. He
had been sneaking about the house, casting long, prying glances from
beneath the hood of his _kabanica_, or great-coat, trying to find out
whether Milena were there, for he knew that she had not passed the
night in her own house.
All at once, whilst he was sneaking about, he was met by several
young men, bent on their Christmas rounds of visits; they took him
along with them, and, though quite against himself, he was the first
to put his foot in Bellacic's house upon that day.
According to the Slav custom, he was asked, after the usual
greetings, to tap the yule log with his stick. He at once complied,
with as much good grace as he could muster, uttering the well-known
phrase:
"May you have as many horses, cows, and sheep as the _badnjak_ has
given you sparks."
Knowing that while he was saying these words every member of the
family, and every guest gathered together around him, would hang upon
his looks, trying to read in his face whether the forthcoming year
would be a prosperous one, for the expression of the features, as
well as the way in which these words are uttered, are reckoned to be
sure omens, Vranic, therefore, tried to put on a pleasant look and a
good-natured appearance, but this was so alien to his nature that he
was by no means sure of success.
Uros and Milena had, however, stood aloof; they had understood that
the prediction must be unfavourable, and, though they did not look
up, they heard that the voice, which was meant to be soft and oily,
was bitter, hard and grating.
A gloom had come over the house just then; it seemed as if that man
of ill-omen had stepped in to damp everyone's joy.
Uros remained stock-still, and though his fingers instinctively
grasped the handle of his knife, still he was too much of a Slav to
harm a guest in his own house. As for Milenko, not having any reasons
for being so forbearing, he was about to thrust the fiend out of his
adopted parents' house, when Vranic, drawing back from the hearth,
caught his foot on the fag end of a log, and, not to fall, stepped
over it. This was the remainder of that log which Uros had himself
put upon the fire, and, according to the traditional custom, it had
been taken away from the hearth before it had been quite consumed,
for it was to be kept, as the fire on New Year's Eve was to be
kindled with it. Vranic hardly noticed what he had done, but everyone
present looked stealthily at one another, and quietly crossed
themselves. Vranic, they knew, had come with evil thoughts in his
head, but now he had only brought harm upon himself, for it is well
known that whoever steps over a _badnjak_ is doomed to die within the
year.
The seer went off soon after this, and then, when the other
well-wishers came, the gloom that he had left behind him was
dispelled, and the remainder of the Christmas Day was spent in mirth
and jollity.