The Pobratim: A Slav Novel. Jones P.
a few days, Milenko managed to keep Uros and Milena apart, but, young as they were, love soon prevailed over prudence. They therefore began to meet in by-lanes and out-of-the-way places, especially during those hours when the husband was busy at the building yard. At first they were very careful, but the reiteration of the same act rendered them more heedless.
Uros was seen again and again at Milena's door when the husband was not at home. People began to suspect, to talk; the subject was whispered mysteriously from ear to ear; it soon spread about the town like wild-fire.
A month after Radonic had returned, he was one evening at the inn, drinking and chatting with some old cronies about ships, cargoes and freights. In the midst of the conversation, an old guzlar passing thereby, stepped in to have a draught of wine. Upon seeing the bard, every man rose and, by way of greeting, offered him his glass to have a sip.
"Give us a song, Vuk; it is years since I heard the sound of your voice," said Radonic.
The bard complied willingly; he went up to a guzla hanging on the wall, and took it down. He then sat on a stool, placed his instrument between his legs, and began to scrape its single gut-string with the monochord bow; this prelude served to give an intonation to his voice, and scan the verses he was about to sing. He thought a while, and then – his face brightening up – he commenced the ballad of "Marko Kraglievic and Janko of Sebinje."
We Slavs are so fond of music and poetry, that we will remain for hours listening to one of our bards, forgetting even hunger in our delight. No sooner was the shrill sound of Vuk's voice heard than every noise was hushed, hardly a man lifted his glass up to his mouth. Even the passers-by walked softly or lingered about the door to catch some snatches of the poet's song.
The ballad, however, was a short one, and as soon as the bard had finished, the strong Dalmatian wine went round again, and at every cup the company waxed merrier, more tender-hearted, more gushing; a few even grew sentimental and lachrymose.
Wine, however, brought out all the harshness of Radonic's character, and the more he drank the more brutal he grew; at such moments it seemed as if all the world was his crew, and that he had a right to bully even his betters, and say disagreeable things to everybody; his excuse was that he couldn't help it – it was stronger than himself.
"Bogme!" he exclaimed, turning to one of his friends; "I should have liked to see your wife, Tripko, with Marko Kraglievic. Ah, poor Tripko!"
"Why my wife more than yours?"
"Oh, my wife knows of what wood my stick is made; you only tickle yours!"
Tripko shrugged his shoulders, and added:
"Every woman is not as sharp as Janko of Sebinje's wife, but most of them are as honest."
"That means to say that you think your wife is honest," said Radonic, chuckling. "Poor Tripko!"
"Come, come," quoth a friend, trying to mend matters, "do not spit in the air, Radonic Marko, lest the spittle fall back on your face."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Radonic, who, like all jokers, could never take a jest himself.
"I? nothing; only I advise you to be more careful how you trifle with another man's wife – that's a ticklish subject."
"Oh, Tripko's wife!" said he, disparagingly.
"Radonic Marko, sweep before your own door, bogati!" replied Tripko, scornfully.
"Sweep before my door – sweep before my door, did you say?" and he snatched up the earthen mug to hurl it at his friend's head, but the by-standers pinioned his arm.
"I did, and I repeat it, bogati!"
"And you mean that there's dirt before my house?" asked Radonic, scowling.
"More than before mine, surely."
"Come, Tripko, are you going to quarrel about a joke?" said one of his friends.
"My wife is no joking matter."
"No, no," continued Radonic, "but he who has the itch scratches himself."
"Then scratch yourself, Marko, for surely you must itch when you're not at home."
"Hum!" said the host, "when asses joke it surely rains."
Then he went up to the guzlar, and begged him to give them a song. "Let it be something lively and merry," said he, "something they can all join in."
The bard thereupon scraped his guzla, silence was re-established, and he began to sing the following zdravica:
"Wine that bubbles says to man:
Drink, oh! drink me when you can;
For I never pass away,
You albeit last but a day;
I am therefore made for you,
And I love men brave and true;
Then remember, I am thine;
Drink, oh! drink the flowing wine!"
As not one of them cared to see the quarrel continue, and end, perhaps, in bloodshed, they all began to sing the drinking-song; the wine flowed, the glasses jingled together in a friendly way, and, for the nonce, peace prevailed.
Just then, Milenko – unperceived by everybody except the landlord – happened to come in, and the host, taking him aside, said to him:
"Markovic Milenko, tell your friend, Uros, not to be seen fooling about with Milena, for people have long tongues, and will talk; and, above all, do not let him be found lurking near Radonic's house to-night, for it might cost him his life."
"What! has anybody been slandering him?"
"Slandering is not the word; enough, tell him that Radonic Marko is not a man to be trifled with."
Milenko thanked the innkeeper, and, fearing lest his friend might be getting into mischief, went at once in search of him.
As Radonic was about to begin the discussion again, the host stopped him.
"You had better wait for an explanation till to-morrow, for when our heads are fuddled we, like old Marija, do not see the things exactly as they are.
"What old Marija?" asked one of the men.
"Don't you know the story of old Marija? Why, I thought everyone knew it."
"No; let's hear it."
Well, Marija was an old tippler, who was never known to be in her senses.
One morning she rose early, and, as usual, went into the wood to gather a bundle of sticks. Presently she was seen running back as if Old Nick was at her heels. Panting, and scared out of her wits, she dropped on a bench outside the inn. As soon as she could speak, she begged for a little glass of brandy.
The people crowded around her and asked her what had happened.
"No sooner had I left the roadside and got into the wood," she said, "I bent down to gather some sticks, when, lo and behold! fifty wild cats, as big as bears, with bristling hair, glaring eyes and sharp claws, suddenly jumped out from behind the bushes. Holy Virgin! what a fright I got, and see how scratched and torn I was by those brutes."
"Come, come, Marija," said the innkeeper; "you must have seen double – you know you often do. How many cats were there?"
"Well, I don't say there were exactly fifty, for I didn't count them; but as true as God is in heaven there were twenty-five."
"Don't exaggerate, Marija – don't exaggerate; there are not twenty-five cats in the whole village."
"Well, if there were not twenty-five, may the devil take me; surely there were fifteen?"
"Pooh! Marija, have another little drop, just to get over your fright, and then you'll confess that there were not fifteen."
Marija drained down another glass, and said:
"May a thunderbolt strike me dead this very moment but five wild cats pounced upon me all at once."
"Come,