DUCK SHOOTING AT NONA
The weather was clear and bright on the second day of the year. The
sea was not only calm, but of the most beautiful turquoise blue, not
the slightest cloud was to be seen in the sky, and the sun's rays
were as sparkling and as warm as if it had been a glowing day in the
latter part of April instead of early January. Nature looked
refreshed and coquettishly radiant; her beauty was enhanced by the
storm of the day before.
The red-tiled roofs of the higher houses, such as convents and public
buildings, the domes and spires of churches, peeped slily over the
town walls of Zara, and the brig, the _Spera in Dio_, which that
morning lay at anchor by the wharf opposite the principal gate, the
Porta San Grisogono, or Porta del Mare, as it is also called.
On the pier, along the wharf, on the strand, and within the narrow
street, a motley crowd is to be seen; everyone is gaily decked out in
festive apparel; this sight is one that would have rejoiced a
painter, for few towns present such a variety of dresses as Zara.
There were fair _Morlacchi_ in white woollen clothes, their trousers
fitting them like tights, with their reddish hair plaited into a
little pig-tail; tall and swarthy, long-moustachioed _pandours_,
handsome warlike men, that any stranger might mistake for Turks,
their coats laced and waistcoats covered with silver buttons, bugles
and large coins, glittering in the sunshine, that make them look, at
a distance, as if dressed in armour; then there were peasants, whose
cottages are built on the neighbouring reefs, clad in tight blue
trousers, trimmed in red, red waistcoats laced in yellow, and brown
jackets embroidered in various colours; country girls in green
dresses, red stockings and yellow shoes. These men and women all wear
shirts and chemises prettily stitched and worked in all possible
colours of silks and cottons. Some of these embroideries of flowers
and arabesques are of the richest dyes, and the cherry-red is mingled
with ultramarine blue and leek-green; they are sometimes interwoven
with shells or tinsel; their stockings and leggings are bits of
gorgeous tapestry, whilst the women's aprons are like Eastern
carpets. As for the jewellery, it varies from rows of arangoes to
massive gold beads studded with pearls and other precious stones,
similar to those which the Murano manufactories have artistically
imitated.
Amongst these peasants are to be seen tall, stately white friars,
portly grey friars, and stout and snuffy-brown friars; priests in
rusty black, priests in fine broadcloth, with violet stockings and
shoes with silver buckles, priests of high and priests of low degree.
Then Austrian officers in white jackets, Croat soldiers in tight
trousers, Hungarians in laced tunics. Lastly, a few civilians, who
are very much out of place in their ungainly, antiquated clothes.
On the morrow, it was found that the _Spera in Dio_ had been much
damaged by the late storm, and that it was impossible for her to sail
without being thoroughly repaired. The little ship-yard of Zara was
too busy just then to undertake the work, so Giulianic persuaded the
captain to proceed onwards as far as Nona, where he could get
shipwrights to work for him. Therefore, two days after their arrival
at Zara, they set sail for Nona, together with their shipwrecked
guests. The captain and his two mates had now become intimate friends
with Giulianic and his family, who did their utmost to try and
entertain the young men.
Nona, however, offers but few amusements, nay, hardly any, excepting
hunting; still, Giulianic being a great sportsman, a shooting party
was arranged on the brackish lake of Nona, which at that time of the
year abounds in coots, wild ducks, and other migratory birds.
Milenko, though fond of this sport, vainly tried to stay on board,
thinking that an hour in Ivanika Giulianic's company was better than
a whole day's shooting on the lake; but all the paltry excuses he
gave for staying behind were speedily overcome, so he had to yield to
Uros and the captain, and go with them.
The lake of Nona, which is just outside the old battlemented walls of
the town, is about a mile in length: its waters are always rather
salty, on account of two canals which at high tide communicate with
the sea.
The little party, composed of the captain, his two mates, Giulianic
and some other friends of his, started for the lake about an hour
before sunrise; and towards dawn they all got into the canoes that
were there waiting for them, as every hunter had a little boat and an
oarsman at his disposal.
They left the shores on different sides, and noiselessly glided
towards the place where the coots had gathered for the night,
surrounding them on every side, so as to cut away from them every
means of escape.
When they had reached the goal, the signal for beginning the attack
was given, a musket being fired from off the shore. That loud noise,
midst the stillness of early dawn, startled the poor birds from their
peaceful slumbers; they at once foolishly rise, fly and flutter about
in all directions, but without soaring to any great height. The
slaughter now begins. Soon the birds get over their first fright, and
the hunters not to scare them away, leave them a few moments'
respite; the coots then seem loath to abandon such a rich pasture and
turn back to their sedges. Therefore they see the boats appear on
every side and hedge them within a narrow circle. They are once more
on the wing, ready to fly away. Greed again prevails over fear; the
birds gather together, but do not make their escape. Pressed closer
by the hunters they at last rise all in a flock. It is too late;
death reaches them on every side. All at once, amidst the smoke and
the noise, they make a bold attempt to cross the enemy's line, but
only do so in the greatest confusion, flying hither and thither,
helter-skelter, the one butting against the other, and thus they all
kept falling a prey to the keen-eyed, quick-handed sportsmen.
At first the shores of the lake are but dimly seen through the thick
veil of mist arising from the smooth surface of the rippleless
waters, as from a huge brewing-pan, and everything is of a cold
greyish hue, fleecy on the shore. But now the sun has appeared like a
burnished disc of copper amidst a golden halo; soon all the mist
vanishes beneath his warm rays. The mellow morning light falls upon
the numberless feathered carcasses that dye the waters of the
stagnant mere.
The pulse of every sportsman flutters with excitement; despair has
given courage to the birds, which rise much higher than before, and
are making heroic efforts to break through the lines. Soon the flurry
that had prevailed amongst the birds, falls to the lot of the
sportsmen; they give orders and counter orders to the oarsmen, and
the circle of boats has become an entangled maze.
The lake now resounds, not so much with firing as with shouts of
merriment and peals of laughter, sometimes because one of the boats
has butted against the other, and one of the hunters has lost his
balance and got a ducking. The morning being now far advanced, the
sportsmen gather together for breakfast, leaving time to the birds to
get over their bewildered state and settle quietly again in a flock
round about their resting-place.
In an hour's time the shooting begins again, but the head is not so
light, the sight so keen, nor the hand so quick as before breakfast;
nay, it happened at times that the captain saw two coots instead of
one, and fired just between the two; besides, the birds were also in
a more disbanded state, so that the quantity of game killed was not
what it had been in the early part of the morning. Mirth, however,
did not flag; the mist, moreover, having quite vanished, the beauty
of the green shores was seen in all its splendour.
Many of the youthful inhabitants of Nona had come to see the sport,
picking up some wounded bird bleeding to death in the fields; whilst
many a countryman passing thereby, wearily trudging towards his home,
his long-barrelled gun slung across his shoulder, shot down more than
one stray coot that had taken refuge in a neighbouring field, hoping
thereby to have escaped from the general slaughter.
At last, late in the afternoon, our sportsmen, heavily laden,
followed Giulianic to his house, to finish there the day which they
had so well begun.
Moreover, the men having risen so very early and being tired out,
fell to dozing. Uros had gone to the ship to see how the repairs were
getting on, and Milenko was thus left alone with Ivanika, or
Ivanitza, as she was usually called. This was the opportunity he had
eagerly wished for, to confess his love to her; nay, for two days he
had rehearsed this scene over and over in his mind, and he had not
only thought of all he would say to her, but even what she would
answer.
Although he was said to be gifted with a vivid imagination, now that
he was alone with her he could hardly find a word to say. It was,
indeed, so much easier to woo in fancy than in reality.
How happy he would have been, walking in the garden with this
beautiful girl, if he could only have got rid of his overpowering
shyness. How many things he could have told her if he had only known
how to begin; but every monosyllable he had uttered was said with
trepidation, and in a hoarse and husky tone. Still, with every
passing moment, he felt he was losing a precious opportunity he might
never have again.
He did not know, however, that, if his lips were dumb, his eyes,
beaming with love, spoke a passionate speech that words themselves
were powerless to express. Nor was he aware that--though with
maidenly coyness she turned her head away--she still read in his
burning glances the love she longed to hear from his lips.
After a few commonplace phrases they walked on in silence, and then
the same thoughts filled their hearts with almost unutterable
anguish. In a few days the brig would be repaired, the sails
unfurled, the anchor weighed; then the broad sea would separate them
for ever.
The sun was just sinking beyond the waves, and the shivering waters
looked like translucent gold; a mass of soft, misty clouds was
glowing with saffron, orange and crimson hues, whilst the sky above
was of a warm, roseate flush. Little by little all the tints faded,
became duller, more delicate; the saffron changed into a pale-greyish
lemon green, the crimson softened into pink. The sun's last rays
having disappeared, the opaline clouds looked like wreaths of smoke
or pearly-grey mists.
Milenko's heart felt all the changes that Nature underwent; his
glowing love, though not less intent, was more subdued, and though,
in his yearning, he longed to clasp this maiden in his arms, and to
tell her that his life would be sadder than dusk itself without her
love, still he felt too much and had not the courage to speak.
Sometimes in the fulness of the heart the mouth remains mute.
Now the bell of a distant church began to ring slowly--the evening
song, the dirge of the dying day. Ivanitza crossed herself devoutly;
Milenko took off his cap, and likewise made the sign of the Cross.
Both of them stopped; both breathed a short prayer, and then resumed
their walk in silence.
After a few steps he tried to master his emotion and utter that short
sentence: "Ivanitza, I love you."
Then something seemed to grip his throat and choke him; it was not
possible for him to bring those words out. Besides, he thought they
would sound so unmeaning and vapid, so far from expressing the hunger
of his heart; so he said nothing.
Meanwhile the bell kept doling out its chimes slowly, one by one, and
as he asked himself whether it were possible to live without this
girl, whom he now loved so dearly, the harmony of the bell chimed in
with his thoughts, and said to him: "Ay, nay; ay, nay."
All at once, feeling that this girl must think him a fool if he kept
silent, that he must say something, no matter what it was, and
happening to see a lonely gull flying away towards the sea, he said,
in a faltering tone:
"Ivanika, do you like coots?"
It was the only thing that came into his mind. She looked up at him
with a roguish twinkle in her eyes.
"Do you mean cooked coots or live coots?"
Milenko looked for a while rather puzzled, as if bewildered by the
question. Then, taking the tips of the girl's fingers: "I was not
thinking of them, either alive or cooked."
Ivanika quietly drew her hand away.
"What were you thinking of, then?" she said.
"May I tell you?"
"Well, if you want any answer to your question," added she, laughing.
"Please don't make fun of me. If you only knew----"
"What?"
He grasped her hand, and held it tight in his.
"Well, how deeply I love you."
He said this in a tragic tone, and heaved a sigh of relief when it
was out at last.
The young girl tried to wrench away her hand, but he held it fast.
She turned her head aside, so that he could not see the
uncontrollable ray of happiness that gleamed within the depths of her
eyes. Her heart fluttered, a thrill of joy passed through her whole
frame; but she did her best to subdue her emotion, which might seem
bold and unmaidenly, so that she schooled herself to say demurely,
nay almost coldly:
"How can you possibly love me, when you know so little of me?"
"But must you know a person for ages before you love him, Ivanitza?"
"No, I don't mean that; still----"
"Though I have never been fond of any girl till now, and therefore
did not know what love was, still, the moment I saw you I felt as if
my heart had stopped beating. You may think it strange, but still it
is true. When I saw you with my spy-glass standing bravely on the
deck of your crazy boat, whilst the huge billows and breakers were
dashing against you, ever ready to wash you away, then my heart
seemed to take wings and fly towards you. How I suffered at that
moment. Every time your boat was about to sink, I gasped, feeling as
if I myself was drowning; but had the caique foundered, I should have
jumped in the waves and swum to your rescue."
Ivanitza's heart throbbed with joy, pride, exultation at the thought
of having the love of such a brave man.
"You see, I had hardly seen you, and still I should have risked my
life a thousand times to help you. It was for you, and you alone,
that I got into the boat to come to you, though the captain and Uros
at first thought it sheer madness; and if my friend and the other
sailor had not accompanied me--well, I should have come alone."
"And got drowned?"
"Life would not have been worth living without you."
The young girl looked at him with admiring eyes, and nature, for a
moment, almost got the mastery over her shyness and the stern
claustral way in which, like all Levantine girls, she had been
brought up; for her impulse was to throw herself in his arms and
leave him to strain her against his manly chest. Besides, at that
moment she remembered what a delightful sensation she had had when,
awaking from her swoon, she had felt herself carried like a baby in
his strong arms. Still, she managed to master herself, and only said:
"So, had it not been for you, we should all have been drowned."
"Oh, I don't say that! Seeing your danger, at the last moment someone
else might, perhaps, have volunteered to come to your rescue. Uros
and the captain are both very brave; only the captain has a family of
his own, and Uros---"
"What! is he married?"
"Oh, no!" said Milenko, laughing; "he is not married, but----"
"But what?"
"Well, you see, he is in love; but please do not mention a word about
it to him or anyone else."
"Why, is it a secret?"
"Yes, it is a very great secret--that is to say, not a very great
secret either, but it is a matter never to be spoken of."
"No? Why?"
"I can't tell you; indeed, I can't."
"How you tantalise me!"
"I'll tell you, perhaps, some other time."
"When?"
"Well, perhaps, when----"
"Go on."
"When we are married."
The young girl burst out laughing. It was a clear, silvery,
spontaneous, merry laugh; but still, for a moment, it jarred upon
Milenko's nerves. He looked rather downcast, for he was far from
thinking the matter to be a joke.
"Why do you laugh?" said he, ruefully.
"Because, probably, I shall never know your friend's secret."
The poor fellow's brown complexion grew livid, the muscles of his
heart contracted with a spasm, he gasped for breath; the pang he felt
was so strong that he could hardly speak; still, he managed to
falter:
"Why, are you, perhaps, already engaged to be married?"
"I?" said she, with another laugh. "No."
"Nor in love with anyone?"
"No."
"Then, don't you think----"
He stopped again.
"Think what?"
"Well, that you might love me a little some day?"
She gave him no answer.
"What, you don't think you could?" he asked, anxiously.
"But I didn't say that I couldn't, only----"
"Only what?"
"A girl cannot always choose for herself."
"Why not?"
"Suppose my father chooses someone else for me?"
"But surely he will not."
"Suppose he has already promised me----"
"Why go and suppose such dreadful things? Besides, he ought to
remember that I risked my life to save yours; that----"
Milenko stopped for a moment, and then he added:
"Well, I don't like boasting; still, if it had not been for me--well,
I suppose your caique would have foundered. No, tell me that you love
me, or at least that you might get to love me. Let me ask your
father----"
"No, no; not yet."
"Why not?"
"Well, we hardly know each other. Who knows, perhaps, the next port
you go to----"
Here she heaved a deep sigh.
"Well, what?" asked the youth, ingenuously.
"You might see some girl that you might like better than myself, and
then you will regret that you have engaged yourself to a girl whom
you think you are obliged to marry."
"How can you think me so fickle?"
"You are so young."
"So is Uros young, and still----"
"Still?" she asked, smilingly, with an inquisitive look.
"He is in love."
"With?"
"A woman," said Milenko, gloomily.
"Of course."
"Well, I'll tell you, only please don't mention it--with a married
woman. Are you not sorry for him?"
"No, not at all; a young man ought not to fall in love with a married
woman--it's a sin, a crime."
"That's what I told him myself."
After a short pause, Milenko, having now got over his shyness:
"Well, Ivanitza, tell me, will you not give me a little hope; will
you not try to love me just a little?"
"Would you be satisfied with only just a little?"
"No."
"Well, then--I am afraid----"
"What?"
"I shall have to love you a good deal."
He caught hold of her reluctant hand and covered it with kisses.
"If you think that your father might object to me because I am a
seaman, tell him that my father is well off, and that I am his only
son. Both Uros and I have gone to sea by choice, and to see a little
of the world; still, we are not to be sailors all our lives."
Afterwards he began to ask her whether she would not like to come and
sail with him in summer, when he would be master of the brig; then
again he ended by begging her to allow him to speak to her father.
"No, not now. It is better for you to go away and see if you do not
forget me. Besides, neither your father nor your mother know anything
about me, and it may happen that they have other views about you."
"Their only aim is my happiness."
"Still, they might think that you were wheedled----"
"How could they think so ill of you?"
"You forget that they do not know me. Anyhow, it is more dutiful that
you should speak to them before you speak to my father."
"Well, perhaps you are right. Only, you see, I love you so; I should
be so frightened to lose you."
"It is not likely that anybody will think of me for some years yet."
"Well, then, promise me not to marry anyone else. In a year's time,
then, I shall come and speak to your father. Will you promise?"
"I promise."
"Will you give me a pledge?"
She gave him her hand, but he gently pulled her towards him, clasped
her in his arms, and kissed her rosy lips. Then they both went into
the house.