MARGARET OF LOPUD
Though the _pobratim_ would have sailed with any ship rather than
with the ill-fated green caique, still Uros had pledged his word to
the Greek captain to go with him as far as Zara or Trieste, and,
moreover, there was no other vessel sailing just then for either of
these ports, and they were both anxious to catch up with the _Spera
in Dio_ without further delay. The Greek captain, likewise--out of a
kind of superstitious dread--would have preferred any other sailors
to these two young men; still, as Dalmatians only sail with their own
fellow-countrymen and never on Greek crafts, it was no easy matter to
find two able-bodied men to go only for a short trip, for those were
times when sailors were not as plentiful, nor ships so scarce, as
they are now.
On the day after the one on which Milenko was set free, the
_pobratim_ set sail with the little caique, and they, as well as the
captain, were thoroughly glad to shake the dust off their shoes on
leaving Gravosa; Milenko especially hoped never to set his foot in
Ragusa again.
The fresh breeze swelled out the broad white sails of the graceful
little ship, which flew as fleetly as a halcyon, steered, as it was,
with utmost care, in and out the narrow channels and through that
archipelago of volcanic rocks which surround the Elaphite Islands, so
dangerous to seamen. It soon left far behind the graceful mimosas,
the dark cypress-trees and the feathery palms of the Ragusean coast.
After all the anxiety of the last days it was pleasant to be again on
those blue waters, so limpid that the red fretted weeds could be seen
growing on the grey rocks several fathoms below. It was a delight to
breathe the balmy air, wafted across that little scented garden of La
Croma. The world looked once more so beautiful, and life was again a
pleasure. The sufferings the _pobratim_ had undergone only served to
render them fonder of each other, so that if they had been twins--not
only brothers--they could not have loved each other more than they
did.
The sun went down, and soon afterwards the golden bow of the new moon
was seen floating in the hyacinthine sky. At the sight of that
slender aureate crescent--which always awakens in the mind of man a
vision of a chaste and graceful maiden--all the crew crossed
themselves and were happy to think that the past was dead and gone,
for the new moon brings new fortune to mortals.
A frugal supper of salted cheese, fruit and olives gathered all the
men together, and then those who were not keeping watch were about to
retire, when a small fishing-boat with a lighted torch at its prow
was seen not very far off. As it came nearer to them the light went
out, and the dark boat, with two gaunt figures at the oars, was seen
for an instant wrapped in a funereal darkness, and then all vanished.
The _pobratim_ crossed themselves, shuddering, and Milenko whispered
something to Uros in Slav, who nodded without speaking.
"What is it?" asked the captain, astonished.
"It is the phantom fishing-boat," replied Uros, almost below his
breath, apparently unwilling to utter these words, and Milenko added:
"It is seen on the first days of the new moon, as soon as darkness
comes over the waters."
For a few moments everybody was silent. All looked towards the spot
where the boat had disappeared, and then the captain asked Milenko
who those two men were, and why they were condemned to ply their
oars, and thereupon Milenko began to relate the story of
MARGARET OF LOPUD.
Some centuries ago, during the great days of the Republic, there
lived a young patrician whose name was Theodor. He belonged to one of
the wealthiest and oldest families of Ragusa, his father having been
rector of the Commonwealth. Theodor was of a most serious
disposition, possessing uncommon talents, and, therefore, taking no
delight in the frivolities of his age. His learning was such that he
was expected to become one of the glories of his native town.
Theodor, to flee from the bustle and mirth of the capital and to give
himself entirely up to his studies, had taken up his abode in the
Benedictine convent on the little island of St. Andrea.
Once he went to visit the island of Lopud--the middle one of the
Elaphite group--and there passed the day; but in the evening, wishing
to return to the brotherhood, he could not find his boat on the
shore. Wandering on the beach, he happened to meet a young girl
carrying home some baskets of fish. Theodor, stopping her, asked her,
shyly, if she knew of anyone who would take him in his boat across to
the island of St. Andrea. No, the young girl knew nobody, for the
fishermen who had come back home were all very tired with their hard
day's work; they were now smoking their pipes. Seeing Theodor's
disappointed look, the young girl proffered her services, which the
bashful patrician reluctantly accepted.
The sail was unfurled and managed with a strong and skilful hand; the
boat went scudding over the waves like an albatross; the breeze was
steady, and the sea quiet. The girl steered through the reefs like a
pilot.
Those two human beings in the fishing-smack formed a strong contrast
to one another. He, the aristocratic scion of a highly cultured race,
pale with long study and nightly vigils, looked like a tenderly
reared hot-house plant. She, belonging to a sturdy race of fishermen,
tanned by the rays of the scorching sun and the exhilarating surf,
was the very picture of a wild flower in full bloom.
Theodor, having got over the diffidence with which women usually
inspired him, began to talk to the young girl; he questioned her
about her house, her family, her way of living. She told him simply,
artlessly, that she was an orphan; the hungry waves--that yearly
devour so many fishermen's lives--had swallowed up her father; not
long after this misfortune her mother died. Since that time she had
lived with her three brothers, who, she said, took great care of her.
She kept house for them, she cooked, she baked bread, she also helped
them to repair their nets, which were always tearing. Sometimes she
cleaned the boat, and she always carried the fish to market. Besides,
she tilled the little field, and in the evening she spun the thread
to make her brothers' shirts. But they were very kind to her, no
brothers could be more so.
He could not help comparing this poor girl--the drudge of the
family--with the grand ladies of his own caste, whose task in life
was to dress up, to be rapidly witty in a saloon, to slander all
their acquaintances, simply to kill the time, for whom life had no
other aim than pleasure, and against whose love for sumptuary display
the Republic had to devise laws and enforce old edicts.
For the young philosopher this unsophisticated girl soon became an
object, first, of speculative, then of tender interest; whilst
Margaret--this was the fishermaiden's name--felt for Theodor, so
delicate and lovable, that motherly sympathy which a real womanly
nature feels for every human being sickly and suffering.
They met again--haunted as he was by the flashing eyes of the young
girl, it was impossible for him not to try and see her a second time,
and from her own fair lips he heard that the passion which had been
kindled in his heart had also roused her love. Then, 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 his feelings had made so much progress that he promised
to marry her, forgetting, however, that the strict laws of the
aristocratic Republic forbade all marriages between patricians and
plebeians. His noble character and his bold spirit prompted him to
brave that proud society in which he lived, for those refined ladies
and gentlemen, who would have shrugged their shoulders had he seduced
the young girl and made her his mistress, would have been terribly
scandalised had he taken her for his lawful wife.
His studies went on in a desultory way, his books were almost
forsaken; love engrossed all his mind.
In the midst of his thoughtless happiness, the young lover was
suddenly summoned back home, for whilst Theodor was supposed to be
poring over his old volumes, the father, without consulting him, 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 from that time been a bond between the
two families. The whole town, nay, the Commonwealth itself, rejoiced
at this auspicious event. The young lady, being now of a marriageable
age, and having duly concentrated all her affections upon the man she
had always been taught to regard as her future husband, looked
forward with joy to the day that would remove her from the thraldom
in which young girls were kept. Henceforth she would take her due
share in all festivities, and not only be cooped up in a balcony or a
gallery to witness those enjoyments of which she could not take part.
Theodor was, therefore, summoned back home to assist at a great
festivity given in honour of his betrothal. This order came upon him
as a thunderbolt; still, as soon as he recovered from the shock, he
hastened back to break off the engagement contracted for him. He
tried to remonstrate, first with his father, and then with his
mother; but his eloquence was put to scorn. He pleaded in vain that
he had no inclination for matrimony, that, moreover, he only felt for
this young lady a mere brotherly affection, that could never ripen
into love; still, both his parents were deaf to all his arguments.
Now that the wedding day was settled, that the father had pledged his
word to his friend, it was too late to retreat. A refusal would be
insulting; it would provoke a rupture between the two families--a
feud in the town. No option was left but to obey.
Theodor thereupon retired to his own room, where he remained in
strict confinement, refusing to see anyone. The evening of that
eventful day the guests were assembled, the bride and her family had
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 down at once.
The young man at last made his appearance dressed in a suit of deep
mourning, whilst his hair--which a little while before had fallen in
long ringlets over his shoulders--was clipped short. In this strange
dress he came to inform his father--before the whole assembly--that
he had decided to forego the pleasures, the pomp and vanity of this
world, and to take up his abode in a convent, where he intended to
pass his days in study and meditation.
The scene of confusion which followed this unexpected declaration can
easily be imagined. The guests thought it advisable to retire; still,
the first person to leave the house was Theodor himself, bearing with
him his father's curse. The discarded bride was borne away by her
parents, and her delicate health never recovered from that unexpected
disappointment.
That very night the young man went back to the Benedictine convent,
and, although the prior received him kindly, he still advised him to
yield to his father's wishes; but Theodor was firm in his resolution
of passing his life in holy seclusion.
After a few days, the fire which love had kindled within his veins
was so strong that he could not resist the temptation of going to see
Margaret to inform her of all that had happened. Driven as he was
from house and home, unable to go against the unjust laws of his
country, he had made up his mind to spend his life in holy celibacy,
in the convent where he had taken shelter. The sight of the young
girl, however, made him forget all his wise resolutions; he only swore
to her that he would brave the laws of his country, the wrath of his
parents, and that he would marry her in spite of his family and of
the whole world.
He thus continued to see the young girl, stealthily at first, then
oftener and without so many precautions, till at last Margaret's
brothers were informed of his visits. They--jealous of the honour of
their family, as all Slavs are--threatened their sister to kill her
lover if ever they found him with her. Then--almost at the same
time--the prior of the Benedictines, happening to hear of Theodor's
love for the fair fisher-girl of Lopud, expressed his intention of
expelling him, should he not discontinue his visits to the
neighbouring island.
Every new difficulty only seemed to give greater courage to the
lovers. They would have fled from their native country had it not
been for the fear of being soon overtaken, brought back and punished;
they, therefore, decided to wait for some time, until the wrath of
their persecutors had abated, and the storm that always threatened
them had blown over.
As Theodor could not go to see the young girl, Margaret now came to
visit her lover. Not to excite any suspicion, they only met in the
middle of the night; and, as they always changed their
trysting-place, a lighted torch was the signal where the young girl
was to steer her boat. Sometimes--as not a skiff was to be got--the
young girl swam across the channel, for nothing could daunt her
heroic heart.
These ill-fated lovers were happy in spite of their adverse fortune;
the love they bore one another made amends for all their woes. They
only lived in expectation of that hour they were to pass together
every night. Then, clasped in each other's arms, the world and its
inhabitants did not exist for them. Those were moments of such
ineffable rapture, that it seemed impossible for them ever to drain
the whole chalice of happiness. In those moments Time and Eternity
were confounded, and nothing was worth living for except the bliss of
loving and being loved. The dangers which surrounded them, their
loneliness upon those rocky shores, the stillness of the night, and
the swiftness of time, only rendered the pleasure they felt more
intense, for joy dearly bought is always more deeply felt.
Their happiness, however, was not to last long. Margaret's brothers,
having watched her, soon found out that when the young nobleman had
ceased coming to Lopud, it was she who visited her lover by night,
and, like honourable men, they resolved to be avenged 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.
Theodor, not to entice her to expose herself rashly to the fury of
the sea, had not lighted his torch; still, unable to remain shut up
within his cell, he roamed about the desolate shore, listening to the
roaring billows. All at once he saw a light--not far from the rocks.
No fisherman could be out in the storm at that hour. His heart sank
within him for fear Margaret should see the light and take it for his
signal. In a fever of anxiety he walked about the shore and watched
the fluttering light--now almost extinguished, and then burning
brightly.
The young girl seeing the light, and unable to resist the promptings
of her heart, made the sign of the Cross, recommended herself to the
mercy of the Almighty, and bravely plunged into the waters. She
struggled against the fury of the wind, and buffeted against the
waves, swimming towards that beacon-light of love. That night,
however, all her efforts seemed useless; she never could reach the
shore; that _ignis-fatuus_ light always receded from her. Still, she
took courage, hoping soon to reach that blessed goal; in fact, she
was now getting quite near it.
A flash of lightning, which illumined the dark expanse of the waters,
showed her that the torch, towards which she had been swimming, was
tied to the prow of her brothers' boat. She also perceived that the
Island of St. Andrea, towards which she thought she had been
swimming, was far behind her. A moment afterwards the torch was
thrown into the sea, and the boat rowed off. She at once turned
towards the island, and there, in the midst of the darkness, she
struggled with the huge breakers that dashed themselves in foam
against the reefs; but soon, overpowered with weariness, she gave up
every hope of rejoining her lover, and sank down in the briny deep.
The sea that separated the lovers was, however, less cruel than man,
for upon the morrow the waves themselves laid the lifeless body of
the young girl upon the soft sand of the beach.
The young patrician, who had passed a night of most terrible anxiety,
wandering on the strand, found the corpse of the girl he so dearly
loved. He caused it to be committed to the earth, after which he
re-entered the walls of the convent, took the Benedictine dress, and
spent the rest of his life praying for her soul and pining in grief.
Milenko did not exactly relate this story in these words, for to be
intelligible he had to make use of a mixture of Italian, Slav and
even Greek, and even then Captain Panajotti was often puzzled to
understand what he meant; therefore, he had to express himself in a
kind of dumb show, or in those onomatopoetic sounds rather difficult
to be transcribed.
As soon as he had finished, the captain said:
"We, too, have a story like that, and, on the whole, ours is a much
prettier one; for it was the man who swam across the Straits of the
Dardanelles to meet the girl he loved, and, on a stormy night, he was
drowned."
"Only ours is a true story; you yourself have seen, just now, the
hard-hearted brothers rowing in the dark."
"Ours is also true."
"And when did it happen?"
"More than a thousand years ago, when we Greeks were the masters of
all the world."
The _Spera in Dio_, having met with contrary winds and a storm in the
rough sea of the Quarnero, had been obliged to cruise about and shift
her sails every now and then, thus losing a great deal of time, and
she only reached Trieste after a week's delay. The caique instead had
a steady, strong wind, and less than twenty-four hours after they
left Ragusa they cast their anchor in front of the white walls of
Zara.
To the _pobratim_'s regret the boat was only to remain there two or
three days at most, just time enough to take some bales of hides, and
then set sail for Trieste; so, although they were so near Nona, it
was impossible for them to go and pay a visit to Ivanka. The two
young sailors had, however, no need of going to Nona to see their
friends, for no sooner had the ship dropped her anchor than Giulianic
himself came on board, for he was the Sciot merchant about whom
Captain Panajotti had often spoken to them, and who was to give them
the extra cargo.
"What! you here?" said Giulianic, opening his eyes with astonishment.
"Well, this is an unexpected pleasure; but I thought you were in
Trieste." Then, turning to Milenko, he added: "I had a letter from
your father only a few days ago informing me that your ship would be
there now. You have not been shipwrecked, I hope?"
"No, no," replied Uros, at once; "we were detained at Ragusa; but we
are on our way to Trieste, aren't we, captain?"
"If God grants us a fair wind, we are."
Milenko thereupon opened his mouth to speak, but his friend
forestalled him.
"So you had a letter from his father? Well, what news from home? Are
they all in good health? And how are the crops getting on?" Thereupon
he stepped on his friend's foot to make him keep quiet.
"Yes, all are well. Amongst other things, he says that your father
has gone to Montenegro."
"My father?" asked Uros, with a sly wink at Milenko.
"Yes; on account of a murder that had been committed at Budua." Then,
turning to the captain: "By-the-bye, you knew Radonic, didn't you?"
"Yes, I did."
"Well, it appears he's gone and murdered the only friend he had."
"That's not astonishing. The only thing that surprises me is that he
ever had a friend to murder. He was one of the most unsociable men I
ever met."
Afterwards they spoke of the accident that had kept the two young men
at Ragusa, at which Giulianic seemed greatly concerned.
"Anyhow," said he, "it's lucky that my wife and Ivanka have come with
me from Nona. They'll be so glad to see you again; for you must know,
Captain Panajotti, that my bones, and those of my wife and daughter,
would now be lying at the bottom of the sea, had it not been for the
courage of these two young men."
"Oh! you must thank him," said Uros, pointing to Milenko. "I only
helped so as not to leave him to risk his life alone."
"They never told me anything about it; but, of course, they did not
know that I was acquainted with you." Then, laughing, the captain
added: "Fancy, I have been warning them not to lose their hearts on
seeing your beautiful daughter."
"And didn't I tell you that my friend had already left his heart at
Nona?"
Saying this, Uros pinched his friend's arm. Milenko blushed, and was
about to say something, but Giulianic began to speak about business;
then added:
"And now I must leave you; but suppose you all three come and meet us
at the Cappello in about an hour's time, and have some dinner with
us? I'll not say a word either to my wife or Ivanka, and you may
fancy how surprised they'll be to see you."
Captain Panajotti seemed undecided.
"No, I'll not have any excuse; you captains are little tyrants the
moment the anchor is weighed, but the moment it's dropped you are all
smiles and affability. Come, I'll have a dish of _scordalia_ to whet
your appetite; now, you can't resist that; so ta-ta for the present."
The moment Giulianic disappeared Milenko looked at his friend, whose
eyes were twinkling with merriment.
"It's done," said Uros, smiling.
"But what made you take the poor fellow in as you did?"
"_I_ take him in? Well, I like that."
"Well, but----"
"If he deceived himself, am I to be held responsible for his
mistakes?"
"Still----"
"Besides, if there was any deception, I must say you did your best to
let it go on."
"Of course, I did; but who made me do it?"
"I did."
"And now is it to continue?"
"Of course."
"But why?"
"Milenko, you're a good fellow, but in some things you are a great
ninny. You ask me why? Well, because, for two days, you can make love
to the daughter under the father's very nose; in the meantime I'll
devote myself to the father and mother, and make myself pleasant to
them."
"Yes, but what'll be the upshot of all this?"
"'Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof,' the proverb says; why
will you make yourself wretched, thinking of the future, when you can
be so happy? If I only had the opportunity of spending two long days
with----"
Uros did not finish his phrase; his merry face grew dark, and he
sighed deeply; then he added: "There is usually some way out of all
difficulties; see how you got out of prison."
"Still, look in what a predicament you've placed me."
"Well, if you feel qualmish, we can tell the old man that he's a
goose, for he really doesn't know who his son-in-law is; then I'll
make love to fair Ivanka, and you'll look on. Now are you satisfied?"
"What are you wrangling about?" said Captain Panajotti, appearing out
of the hatchway in his best clothes, his baggy trowsers more
voluminous than those that Mrs. Bloomer tried to set in fashion a few
years afterwards.
"Oh! nothing," said Uros, laughing; "only you must know that every
first quarter of the moon I suffer from lunacy. I'm not at all
dangerous, quite the contrary; especially if I'm not contradicted. So
you might try and bear with me for a day or two; by the time we sail
again I'll be all right; it's only a flow of exuberant animal spirits,
that must vent themselves. But, how fine you are, captain; I'm afraid
you are trying to out-do my friend, and if it wasn't that you are
married, I'd have thought that all your warnings for us not to fall
in love with the Sciot's daughter----"
"I see that the lunacy is beginning, so I'll not contradict; but
hadn't you better go and dress?"
"All right," quoth Uros, and in a twinkling the two young men
disappeared down the hatchway.
Half-an-hour afterwards they were at the Albergo Cappello, the only
inn of the town, where they found Giulianic awaiting them. The two
women were very much astonished to see them. Ivanitza's eyes flashed
with unrestrained delight on perceiving her lover, but then she
looked down demurely--as every well-bred damsel should--and blushed
like a pomegranate flower. Only, when she heard her father address
him by his friend's name, she looked up astonished; but seeing Uros
slily wink at her, she again cast down her eyes, wondering what it
all meant.
After a while the mother whispered to her husband that she had always
mistaken one of the young men for the other.
"Did you?" said he, laughing. "Well, I am astonished, for you women
are so much keener in knowing people than we men are; for, to tell
you the truth, I've often been puzzled myself; they are both the same
age, they are like brothers, they are dressed alike, so it's easy to
mistake them."
"Anyhow," added she, "I'm glad to have been mistaken, because,
although I like both of them, still I prefer our future son-in-law to
young Bellacic; he's more earnest and sedate than his friend."
"Yes, I think you are right; the other one is such a chatterbox."
"And, then, he displayed so much courage at the time of our
shipwreck; indeed, had it not been for his bravery, we should all
have been drowned."
"Yes, I remember; he was the first one to come to our rescue. Still,
we must be just towards the other one, for he is a brave and a plucky
fellow to boot."
"And so lively!"
"That's it; rather too much so; anyhow, I'm glad that Ivanka has
fallen in love with the right man; because it would have been exactly
like the perverseness of the gentle sex for her to have liked the
other one better."
"Oh, my daughter has been too well brought up to make any objection!
Just fancy a girl choosing for herself; it would be preposterous!"
"Yes, of course it would; still, she might have moped and threatened
to have gone into a decline. Oh, I know the ways of your model
girls!"
In the meanwhile, Milenko explained to the young girl how the mistake
had originated, and how her father had, from the first, believed him
to be Uros.
Dinner was soon served in a private room of the hotel; and Uros, who,
to keep up the buoyancy of his spirits, and act the part he had
undertaken to play brilliantly, had swallowed several glasses of
_slivovitz_, and had induced Captain Panajotti to follow his example,
was now indulging freely with the strong Dalmatian wine. Still, he
only took enough to be talkative and merry; but, as he exaggerated
the effects of the wine, everybody at table believed him to be quite
tipsy.
No sooner had the dish of macaroni been taken away than he began to
insist upon Captain Panajotti telling them a story.
"Oh, to-morrow you'll be master on board again; but now, you know,
you must do what I like, just as if you were my wife!"
"What! Your wife----"
But Uros did not let Mrs. Giulianic finish her question, for he
insisted upon doing all the talking himself.
"My wife," said he, sententiously, "my wife'll have to dance to the
tune I play; for I intend to wear the breeches and the skirts, too,
in my house; so I hope you've brought up your daughter to jump
through paper hoops, like a well-trained horse--no, I mean a girl!"
"My daughter----"
"Oh, I daresay that your daughter's like you, turning up her nose;
but I say, D----n it! I'll not have a wife whose nose turns up."
Giulianic looked put out; his wife's face lengthened by several
inches, whilst Ivanka did her best to look scared.
"Come, captain," continued Uros, "spout us one of your stories. Now
listen, for he'll make you split with laughter. Come, give us one of
your spicy ones; tell us your tale about the lack of wit, but without
omitting the----"
"I'm afraid that the ladies----"
"Oh, rot the ladies! Now, all this comes from this new-fangled notion
of having women at table; if they are to be squeamish and spoil all
the fun, let them stop up their ears. Come, I told you I'd not brook
contradiction to-day."
"Well, by-and-by; let me have my dinner now."
"What's the matter with him?" asked Mrs. Giulianic of the captain;
"is he drunk?"
"Oh, worse! he's moon-struck; he's like that for a few days at every
new moon."
Mrs. Giulianic made the sign of the Cross, and whispered something to
her husband.
"Then, if you'll not tell us a story, our guest must sing us a song.
Come, father-in-law, sing us a song, a merry, rollicking one, for
when I'm on shore I like to laugh."
"No, not here; we are not in our own house, you know."
"Do you pay for the dinner, or don't you?"
"I do, but there are gentlemen dining in the next room."
"If they don't like your song, don't let them listen."
Thereupon the waiter came in.
"I say, you, fellow, isn't it true that we can sing in this stinking
hole of an old tub?"
"Oh! if you like; only this isn't a tavern, and there are two judges
dining in the next room."
"And you think I'm not going to sing for two paltry judges! I'll
howl, then."
"No; let's have some riddles," said Giulianic, soothingly; "I'm very
fond of riddles, aren't you? Now, tell me, captain, who was it that
killed the fourth part of mankind?"
"Why, that's as old as your wife," quoth Uros, at once; "why, Cain,
of course. But as you like riddles, I'll tell you one that suits you,
though, as the proverb says, a bald pate needs no comb."
Giulianic winced, for his bald head was his sore point, but then he
added, with a forced smile:
"Come, let's have your riddle."
"Well, you ought to know what makes a man bald, if anyone does."
"Sorrow," answered the bald man.
"Rot, I say!"
"What is it, then?"
"The loss of hair, of course," and he poked Giulianic in the ribs.
"That was good, wasn't it, father-in-law?"
"Well, I don't see much of a joke in it," answered the host,
snappishly.
"No; I didn't expect you would; that's the joke, you see." Then,
turning to Ivanka, with a slight wink: "Now, here's one for you."
"Let's hear it."
"Why are there in this world more women than men?"
"Because they are more necessary."
"That's your conceit; but you're wrong."
"What is it, then?" asked the young girl.
"Because the evil in this world is always greater than the good."
"So," said she, with a pretty smile, "then, women ought to be called
men's worse halves."
"Of course, they ought--though there are exceptions to all rules."
Then, after drinking very slowly half a glass of wine: "Now, one for
you, _babica_. This is the very best of the lot; I didn't invent it
myself, though I, too, can say a smart thing now and then, _babica_.
Tell me, when is a wife seen at her best?"
Ivanka's mother, who prided herself upon her youthful looks, winced
visibly on hearing herself twice called a granny; still, she added,
simpering:
"I suppose, when she's a bride."
"Oh! you suppose that, do you? Well, your supposition is all wrong."
"Well, when is it?"
"Ask your husband; surely, he's not bald for nothing."
"I'm sure, I don't know; I think----"
"You think it's when she turns up her nose, but that's not it, for
it's when she turns up her toes and is carried out of the house."
Captain Panajotti laughed, and so did Ivanka; but her mother, seeing
her laugh, could hardly control her vexation, so she said something
which she intended to be very sarcastic.
"Oh! you are vexed, _babica_, because I explained you the riddle."
"Vexed! there's nothing to be vexed about. I'm only sorry that, at
your age, you have such a bad opinion of women."
"_I_, a bad opinion, _takomi Boga!_ I haven't made the riddle; I've
only heard it from my father, and he says that riddles are the wisdom
of a nation. So, to show you that I have the best regard for you,
here's a bumper"--and thereupon he filled his glass to the brim and
stood up--"to your precious health, mother-in-law."
Then, pretending to stumble, he poured the glass of wine over her
head and face.
Giulianic uttered an oath, and struck the table with his fist; Ivanka
and Milenko thought he had gone too far. Still, the poor woman looked
such a pitiful object, with her turban all soaked and her face all
dripping with wine, that they all burst out laughing.
Mrs. Giulianic, unable to control her vexation, and angry at finding
herself the laughing-stock of the whole company, forgot herself so
far as to call Uros a fool and a drunkard. He, however, went on,
good-humouredly:
"I'm so sorry; but, you see, it was quite unintentional, _Bogami_,
quite unintentional. But never mind, don't be angry with me; I'll buy
you another dress."
"Do you think my wife is vexed on account of her dress?" said
Giulianic, proudly. "Thank Heaven! she doesn't need your dresses
yet."
"Oh, yes!" said Uros, mopping up the wine with his napkin, "I know
that you can afford to buy your wife dresses; but as I spoilt this
one, it is but right that I should pay for it. I can't offer to buy
you a yard of stuff, can I? And, besides, a dress is always welcome,
isn't it, mother-in-law?"
"Well, never mind about the dress," quoth Giulianic.
"Oh! if you don't mind it, your wife does; but there, don't be angry,
don't be wriggling with your nose. When I marry your daughter, my
pretty Ivanka----"
"You marry my daughter!" gasped the father.
"You, indeed!" quoth the mother.
"Yes, _babica_; then I'll buy you the dearest dress I can get for
money in Trieste. What is it to be, velvet or satin? plain or with
bunches of flowers? What colour would you like? as red as your face
is now?"
"When you marry Ivanka, you can buy me a bright green satin."
"Well, here's my hand upon it; only you'll look like a big parrot in
that dress. Isn't it true, father-in-law?"
"A joke is a joke," answered Giulianic; "but I wish you wouldn't be
'father-in-lawing' me, for----"
"Well, I hope you are not going to break off the engagement because I
happened to christen mother-in-law with a glass of good wine, are
you?"
"Your engagement?"
"Of course."
"I told you I don't mind a joke, still this is carrying----"
"Don't mind him, poor fellow," said Captain Panajotti. "The poor
fellow is daft."
"If anybody is engaged to my daughter," continued Giulianic, "it's
your friend there, Uros Bellacic!"
"Oh! I like that," said Uros, laughing. "I'm afraid the wine's all
gone up to your bald pate, old man." Then turning to Captain
Panajotti, he added: "He doesn't know his own son-in-law any more,"
and he laughed idiotically.
Giulianic and his wife looked aghast.
Thereupon, thumping the table, Uros exclaimed:
"I tell you I'm going to marry your daughter, though, if the truth
must be known, I don't care a fig for her, pretty as she is. I've
got----"
"And I swear by God that you'll never marry her!" cried Giulianic,
exasperated.
"That's rich," quoth Uros. "On what do you swear, old bald-pate?"
"I swear on my faith."
"And on your soul, eh?"
"On my soul, too."
"With your hand on the Cross?" asked Uros, handing him a little
Cross.
"I swear," answered Giulianic, beyond himself with rage.
"Well, well, that'll do; don't get angry, take it coolly as I do. You
see, I'm not put out. As long as you settle the matter with my
father, Milos Bellacic, I'm quite satisfied."
"Milos Bellacic your father?"
"Of course."
"Then you mean to say that you are----?"
"Uros Bellacic. Although the wine may have gone a little to my head,
still, I suppose I know who I am."
"Is it true?" said Giulianic, turning towards Milenko.
"Yes!" replied the young man, nervously, "Didn't you know it?"
"No."
"Didn't I tell you?" whispered his wife.
"Oh! you always tell me when it's too late," he retorted, huffishly.
"And now, what's to be done? Will you release me from my oath?"
Ivanka looked up, alarmed.
"Decidedly not; I'll never marry a girl who doesn't want me, whose
father has sworn on his soul not to have me, for whose mother I'm a
drunkard and a fool."
The dinner ended in a gloomy silence; a dampness had come over all
the guests, and, except Ivanka and Milenko, all were too glad to get
rid of one another.
On the morrow Uros called on Mrs. Giulianic, when her husband was not
at home. He apologised for his boorish behaviour, and explained
matters to her.
"Your daughter is in love with Milenko, to whom you all owe your
lives; he, too, has lost his heart on her, whilst I--well, it's
useless speaking about myself."
"I see it all now," quoth she, "and you are too good-hearted to wish
us all to be miserable on account of a stupid promise. Well, on the
whole, I think you were right."
"Then you forgive me for what I did and what I said?"
"Of course I do, now that I understand it all."
Before the caique sailed off, Uros was fully forgiven, and Giulianic
even promised to write to his friend and explain matters to him.