The Pobratim: A Slav Novel. Jones P.
devoutly.
"It is better not to think of them, they cannot come near us," said the Starescina.
"It is not long ago that we saw three witches burnt at Zavojane. When was it, Bellacic?"
"It was in 1823, in the month of August, on the 3rd, if I remember rightly."
"Oh! then they were real witches?"
"Of course."
"Were they very ugly? Had they beards?"
"Oh, no! they were very much like all the other elderly women of the place."
"And what had they done?"
"No end of mischief. One of them had eaten a child alive. Another had taken a young man's heart out of his body whilst he was asleep. He, on awaking – not knowing what had happened to him – felt a great void in his chest."
"Poor fellow!" said Milena, compassionately, whilst her glances fell on Uros, and he actually felt like the young man who had lost his heart.
"But what was she going to do with it?"
"Why, roast and eat it."
"A friar who had witnessed the whole thing, but who had been deprived of all power of rendering assistance, accused her of witchcraft, and she was made to give back the heart before she had had time to devour it."
"How wonderful!"
"The third had rendered all the balls of the guns aimless, and all weapons blunt and useless. But these are only some of the many evils they had done."
"And you saw them burnt?"
"Yes, in the presence of the Catholic parish priest, two friars and all the local authorities."
The bonfires were now over, and nothing but the glowing embers remained. All then went in the house to partake of the many good things that St. John, or his namesake, had prepared for them.
There was for supper: first, whole lambs, roasted on the spit, then fish, castradina, and many other dishes, all more or less stuffed with garlic – a condiment which never fails anywhere. It is said that the gods, having been asked if this bulb was to rank amongst eatables, decreed that no dish should ever remain without it; and the Slavs have faithfully followed out their decree.
When all had eaten till they were crop full, and had drunk their fill, they all raught after their meat as seemly as Madame Eglentine; then, loosening their belts, they remained seated on their stools, or squatted on the ground, chatting, punning, telling anecdotes, or listening to the grave discourses of the old men about St. John.
"Fancy," said a deacon of a neighbouring church, "when we have fasted for a day or two, we think we have done much. St. John, instead, fasted for forty days and forty nights, without even taking a sip of water."
"But why did he fast so long?"
"Because he had committed a great sin; and on account of this sin he always walked with his head bent down. When the people said to him, 'John, why do you not lift up your head?' he always replied demurely, 'Because I am not worthy to lift up my eyes heavenwards; and I shall only do so when an infant, that cannot yet speak, will bid me do it.' Now, it happened that one day John met a young woman carrying a little child, and when the infant saw John, he said: 'John, lift up thine eyes heavenward; my Father has forgiven thee.' The saint, in great joy, knowing that the babe was Jesus Christ, went at once home; and with a red-hot iron he burnt the initials of the Saviour on his side, so that he might never forget his name."
"And now let's have a story," said the host.
As Milos Bellacic was noted for his skill in relating a good story, he was asked by everybody to tell them one of his very best tales.
Being a man who had travelled, he knew how to treat women with more deference than the remainder of the Buduans. So turning towards his host's wife:
"Which will you have?" said he.
"Any one you like."
"'Hussein and Ayesha'?"
"No," said some. "Yes," added the others, without waiting for the lady of the house to have her choice.
"Then 'The Death of Fair Jurecevic's Lovers'?"
"No, that was an old story."
"Perhaps, 'The Loves of Adelin the Turk and Mary the Christian'?"
"They all knew it."
"Or, 'Marko Kraglievic and the Vila'?"
"No, leave Marko to the guzlari."
"Well, then, it must be 'The Story of Jella and the Macic.'"
"Oh!" said the gospodina, "I once heard it in my childhood, and now I only remember its name. Still, I have always had a longing to hear it again; therefore, do tell it."
Milos Bellacic swallowed another glass of slivovitz, leaving, however, a few drops at the bottom of his glass, which he spilt on the floor as a compliment to the Starescina, showing thereby that in his house there was not only enough and to spare, but even to be wasted. He then took a long pull at the amber mouthpiece of his long Marasca cherry pipe, let the smoke rise quietly and curl about his nose, and, after clearing his throat, began as follows:
Once upon a time there lived in a village of Crivoscie an old man and his wife; they had one fair daughter and no more. This girl was beyond all doubt the prettiest maiden of the place. She was as beautiful as the rising sun, or the new moon, or as a Vila; so nothing more need be said about her good looks. All the young men of the village and of the neighbouring country were madly in love with her, though she never gave them the slightest encouragement.
Being now of a marriageable age, she was, of course, asked to every festivity. Still, being very demure, she would not go anywhere, as neither her father nor her mother, who were a sullen couple of stingy, covetous old fogeys, would accompany her.
At last her parents, fearing lest she might remain an old maid, and be a thorn rather than a comfort to them, insisted upon her being a little more sociable, and go out of an evening like the other girls. "Moreover, if some rich young man comes courting you, be civil to him," said the mother. "For there are still fools who will marry a girl for her pretty face," quoth the father. It was, therefore, decided that the very next time some neighbours gathered together to make merry, Jella should take part in the festivity. "For how was she ever to find the husband of her choice if she always remained shut up at home?" said the mother.
Soon afterwards, a feast in honour of some saint or other happened to be given at the house of one of their wealthy neighbours, so Jella decked herself out in her finest dress and went. She was really beautiful that evening, for she wore a gown of white wool, all embroidered in front with a wreath of gay flowers, then an over-dress of the same material, the sleeves of which were likewise richly stitched in silks of many colours. Her belt was of some costly Byzantine stuff, all purfled with gold threads. On her head she wore a red cap, the headgear of the young Crivosciane.
As she entered the room, all the young men flocked around her to invite her to dance the Kolo with them, and to whisper all kinds of pretty things to her. But she, blushing, refused them all, declaring that she would not dance, elbowed her way to a corner of the room, where she sat down quite alone. All the young men soon came buzzing around her, like moths round a candle, each one hoping to be fortunate enough to become her partner. Anyhow, when the music struck up, and the Kolo began, their toes were now itching, and one by one they slunk away, and she, to her great joy, and the still greater joy of the other girls, was left quite by herself.
While she was looking at the evolutions of the Kolo, she saw a young stranger enter the room. Although he wore the dress of the Kotor, he evidently was from some distant part of the country. His clothes – made out of the finest stuffs, richly braided and embroidered in gold – were trimmed with filigree buttons and bugles. The pas, or sash, he wore round his waist was of crimson silk, woven with gold threads; the wide morocco girdle – the pripasnjaca– was purfled with lovely arabesques; his princely weapons, studded with precious stones and damaskened, were numerous and costly. His pipe, stuck not in his girdle like