by Ivo Andrić
sweeper brushed them up every morning. But that irritated no one, for men
quickly become accustomed to cleanliness even when it forms no part of their
needs or habits; naturally on condition that they personally do not have to
observeit.
There was still one more novelty which the occupation and the newcomers
brought with them; women began to come to the kapia for the first time in its existence. The wives and daughters of the officials, their nursemaids and
servants would stop there to chat or come to sit there on holidays with their
militaryorcivilescorts.Thisdidnothappenveryoften,butnonethelessitwas
enoughtodisturbtheoldermenwhocametheretosmoketheirpipesinpeace
andquietoverthewater,anddisconcertedandconfusedtheyoungerones.
Therehad,naturally,alwaysbeenalinkbetweenthe kapia andthewomeninthe
town,butonlyinsofarasthemenfolkgatheredtheretopasscomplimentstothe
girlscrossingthebridgeortoexpresstheirjoys,painsandquarrelsoverwomen
andfindrelieffromthemonthe kapia. Manyalonelymanwouldsitforhoursor
even days singing softly to himself 'for my soul only', or wreathed in tobacco
smoke, or simply watching the swift waters in silence, paying tribute to that
exaltation to which we must all pay due and from which few escape. Many a contest between rivals was settled there, many love intrigues imagined. Much
wassaidorthoughtaboutwomenandaboutlove,manypassionswerebornand
many extinguished. All this there was, but women had never stopped or sat on
the kapia, neitherChristiannor,stillless,Moslem.Nowallthatwaschanged.
Now on Sundays and holidays on the kapia could be seen cooks tightly laced andredintheface,withrollsoffatoverflowingaboveandbelowtheircorsetsin
which they could scarcely breathe. With them were their sergeants in well
brusheduniforms,withshiningmetalbuttonsandriflemen'spompomsontheir
chests. And on working days at dusk, officers and civil servants strolled there
with their wives, halted on the kapia, chatted in their incomprehensible
language,strolledaboutattheireaseandlaughedloudly.
These idle, laughing women were a cause of scandal to all, some more some
less. The people wondered and felt insulted for a time and then began to grow
accustomed to them, as they had grown accustomed to so many other
innovations,eventhoughtheydidnotapprovethem.
In fact it could be said that all these changes on the bridge were insignificant, fleetingandsuperficial.Themanyandimportantchangeswhichhadtakenplace
inthespiritsandhabitsofthecitizensandintheoutwardappearanceofthetown
seemedasthoughtheyhadpassedbythebridgewithoutaffectingit.Itseemed
that the white and ancient bridge, across which men had passed for three
centuries, remained unchanged without trace or mark even under the 'new
Emperor' and that it would triumph over this flood of change and innovation
even as it had always triumphed over the greatest floods, arising once more,
white and untouched, from the furious mass of troubled waters which had
wantedtoflowoverit.
XII
Now life on the kapia became even livelier and more varied. A large and
variegated crowd, locals and newcomers, old and young, came and went on
the kapia all day long until a late hour of the night. They thought only of themselves, each one wrapped up in the thoughts, moods and emotions which
had brought him to the kapia. Therefore they paid no heed to the passers-by who,impelledbyotherthoughtsandbytheirowncares,crossedthebridgewith
loweredheadsorabsentglances,lookingneithertorightnorleftandpayingno
attentiontothoseseatedonthe kapia.
Amongsuchpassers-byonewascertainlyMilanGlasičaninofOkolište.Hewas
tall, thin, pale and bowed. His whole body seemed transparent and without
weight,yetattachedtoleadenfeet,sothatheswayedandbentinhiswalklikea
church banner held in a child's hands during the procession. His hair and
moustaches were grey, like those of an old man, and his eyes were always
lowered.Hedidnotnoticethatanythinghadchangedonthe kapia oramongthe
people gathered there, and passed among them almost unnoticed by those who
cametheretosit,todream,tosing,totrade,tochatorsimplytowastetime.The
older men had forgotten him, the younger men did not recall him and the
newcomers had never known him. But none the less his fate had been closely
bound up with the kapia, at least judging from what was said about him or whisperedinthetowntenortwelveyearsbefore.
Milan's father, Nikola Glasičanin, had settled in the town about the time when
the insurrection in Serbia was at its height. He had bought a fine property at
Okolište. It was generally believed that he had fled from somewhere or other
with a large but ill-gotten fortune. No one had any proof of this and everyone
onlyhalfbelievedit.Butnooneeverdefinitelydeniedit.Hehadmarriedtwice
but none the less had few children. He had brought up one child only, his son
Milan, and left him all that he possessed, whether open or hidden. Milan, too,
had only a single son, Peter. His property would have been sufficient and he
wouldhaveleftthattohissonafterhisdeathhadhenothadonevice,onlyone,
butthatanoverwhelmingpassion—gambling.
Therealtownsmenwerenotgamblersbynature.Aswehaveseen,theirpassions
were other and different; an immoderate love of women, an inclination to
alcohol, song, lounging and idle dreamings beside their native river. But man's capacitiesarelimited,eveninsuchmatters.Thereforetheirvicesoftenclashed
with one another, contradicted one another and often completely cancelled one
anotherout.Thisdidnotmeanthatinthetowntherewerenotmenaddictedto
thisvice,buttheactualnumberofgamblerswasalwaysfewincomparisonwith
othertowns,andforthemostparttheywerestrangersornewcomers.Anyhow,
MilanGlašicaninwasoneofthem.Fromhisearliestyouthhehadbeenentirely
givenovertogambling.Whenhecouldnotfindthecompanyheneededinthe
town, he would go to nearby districts whence he would return, either weighed
down with money like a merchant from a fair or with empty pockets, without
watch or chain, tobacco pouch or rings, but always pale and washed out like a
sickman.
HishabitualplacewasinUstamujić'sinnatthefarendoftheVišegradmarket.
There,inanarrowwindowlessroomwhereacandleburneddayandnight,could
alwaysbefoundthreeorfourmentowhomgamblingwasdearerthananything
else on earth. In that room, shut off from the world, they would crouch in the
tobacco smoke and stale
air, with bloodshot eyes, dry mouths and quivering
hands. They met there frequently, day or night, slaves to their passion like
martyrs.InthatlittleroomMilanpassedagreatpartofhisyouthandtherelefta
goodpartofhisstrengthandproperty.
He had not been much more than thirty when that sudden and to most people
inexplicablechangetookplaceinhim,whichcuredhimforeverofhisdriving
passion but at the same time altered his whole way of life and completely
transfiguredhim.
Oneautumn,somefourteenyearsbefore,astrangerhadcometotheinn.Hewas
neither young nor old, neither ugly nor handsome, a man of middle age and
mediumheight,silentandsmilingonlywithhiseyes.Hewasamanofbusiness,
entirely wrapped up in the affairs for which he had come. He passed the night
thereandatduskenteredthatlittleroominwhichthegamblershadbeenshutup
sinceearlyafternoon.Theygreetedhimwithdistrustbuthebehavedsoquietly
andmeeklythattheydidnotevennoticewhenhetoobegantoputsmallstakes
onthecards.Helostmorethanhewon,frowneduncertainlyandwithanunsure
hand took some silver money from an inner pocket. After he had lost a
considerable sum, they had to give him the deal. At first he dealt slowly and
carefully,thenmoreswiftlyandfreely.Heplayedwithoutshowinghisfeelings
butwaspreparedtostakethelimit.Thepileofsilvercoinsbeforehimgrew.One
by one, the players began to drop out. One offered to stake a gold chain on a
card,butthenewcomerrefusedcoldly,sayingthatheplayedformoneyonly.
Aboutthetimeofthelastprayerthegamebrokeup,fornoonehadanyready
moneyleft.MilanGlasičaninwasthelast,butintheendhetoohadtowithdraw.
Thenewcomerpolitelytookhisleaveandretiredtohisownroom.
Next day they played again. Again the stranger alternately lost and won, but
always won more than he lost, so that once again the townsmen were left
without ready money. They looked at his hands and his sleeves, watched him
fromeveryangle,broughtfreshcardsandchangedplacesatthetable,butallto
no purpose. They were playing that simple but ill-famed game called otuz
bir(thirty-one)whichtheyhadallknownfromchildhood,butnonethelessthey
were not able to follow the newcomer's mode of play. Sometimes he drew
twenty-nineandsometimesthirty,andsometimeshestoodpatattwenty-five.He
accepted every stake, the smallest as well as the greatest, overlooked the petty
irregularitiesofindividualplayersasifhehadnotnoticedthem,butdenounced
moreseriousonescurtlyandcoldly.
The presence of this newcomer at the inn tormented and irritated Milan
Glasičanin.Hewasinanycaseatthattimefeverishandwashedout.Hesworeto
himselfthathewouldplaynomore,butcameagain,andagainlosthislastcoin,
returning home filled with gall and shame. The fourth and fifth evenings he
managedtocontrolhimselfandremainedathome.Hehaddressedandprepared
his ready money but none the less stood by his resolution. His head felt heavy
and his breath came in fits and starts. He ate his supper in haste, scarcely
knowingwhathewaseating.Finallyhewentout,smoked,walkedupanddown
in front of his house several times, and looked at the silent town in the clear
autumnnight.Afterhehadwalkedthusforsometime,hesuddenlysawavague
figuregoingalongtheroadwhoturnedandstoppedbeforehishouse.
'Goodevening,neighbour!'shoutedtheunknown.Milanknewthevoice.Itwas
the stranger from the inn. Clearly the man had come to see him and wanted to
talktohim.Milancameuptothefence.
'Whydidn'tyoucometotheinntonight?'thestrangeraskedcasually,calmand
indifferent.
'Iwasnotinthemoodtoday.Aretheothersthere?'
'Thereisnooneleft.Theyallleftearlierthanusual.Comealongandlet'shavea
handtogether.'
'Itistoolate,andthere'snowheretogo.'
'Letusgodownandsitonthe kapia. Themoonwillsoonberising.'
'But it is not the right time,' Milan objected. His lips were dry and his words
seemedasifanotherhadspokenthem.
Thestrangerwentonwaiting,certainthathissuggestionwouldbeaccepted.
And, in fact, Milan unlatched his gate and followed the man, as though his
wordsandthoughtsandeffortshadallgivenwaybeforethatcalmpowerwhich
drew him on and from which he could not free himself, however much he felt
humiliatedbythisstrangerwhorousedinhimresistanceandrevulsion.
TheydescendedtheslopefromOkolištequickly.Alargeandwaxingmoonwas
rising behind Staniševac. The bridge seemed endless and unreal, for its ends
were lost in a milky mist and the piers merged into the darkness; one side of
each pier and of each arch was brightly lit while the other remained in the
deepestshadow.Thesemoonlitanddarkenedsurfaceswerebrokenandcutinto
sharpoutlines,sothatthewholebridgeseemedlikeastrangearabesquecreated
byamomentaryplayoflightanddarkness.
Onthe kapia therewasnotalivingsoul.Theysatdown.Thestrangertookouta
packofcards.Milanstartedtosayhowunsuitablethiswas,thattheycouldnot
seethecardswellandcouldnotdistinguishthemoney,butthestrangerpaidno
attentiontohim.Theybegantoplay.
At first they still exchanged an occasional word, but as the game grew faster
theyfellsilent.Theyonlyrolledcigarettesandlitthemoneaftertheother.The
cards changed hands several times, only to remain finally in the hands of the
stranger.Themoneyfellsoundlesslyonthestoneswhichwerecoveredbyafine
dew.Thetimehadcome,whichMilanknewsowell,whenthestrangerdrewa
two to twenty-nine or an ace to thirty. His throat contracted and his gaze
clouded.Butthefaceofthestranger,bathedinmoonlight,seemedcalmerthan
usual.InnotquiteanhourMilannolongerhadanyreadymoney.Thestranger
proposed that he should go home and get some more and said that he would
accompany him. They went there and returned and went on with the game.
Milanplayedasifdumbandblind,guessingatthecardsandshowingbysigns
what he wanted. It almost seemed as if the cards between them had become
incidental, a pretext in this desperate and unrelenting duel. When he again ran
outofmoney,thestrangerorderedhimtogohomeandbringsomemore,while
hehimselfremainedonthe kapia smoking.Henolongerthoughtitnecessaryto
accompanyhim,forhecouldnolongerimaginethatMilanwouldnotobey,or
playatrickonhimandremainathome.Milanobeyed,wentwithoutargument
andreturnedhumbly.Thenthelucksuddenlychanged.Milanwonbackallthat
hehadlost.Theknotinhisthroattightenedmoreandmoreunderthestresso
f
emotion. The stranger began to double the stakes and then to treble them. The
game grew more and more swift, more and more intense. The cards flew
between them weaving a web of gold and silver. Both were silent. Only Milan
breathed excitedly, sweating and feeling chilled alternately in the mild moonlit
night.Heplayed,dealtandcoveredhiscards,notfromthepleasureofthegame
butbecausehehadto.Itseemedtohimthatthisstrangerwantedtodrawoutof
himnotonlyallhismoney,ducatbyducat,butalsothemarrowfromhisbones
and the blood from his veins, drop by drop, and that his strength and his will-
powerwereleavinghimwitheverynewlossinthegame.Fromtimetotimehe
stoleaglanceathisopponent.Heexpectedtoseeasatanicfacewithbaredteeth
and eyes like red-hot coals, but on the contrary he still saw before him the
stranger's ordinary face with the intent expression of a man working at an
everydaytask,hasteningtofinishtheworkinhandwhichwasneithereasynor
pleasant.
Once more Milan rapidly lost all his ready money. Then the stranger proposed
stakingcattle,landandproperty.
'I wager four good Hungarian ducats against your bay with its saddle. Is it a
deal?'
'Iagree.'
So the bay went, and after it two packhorses, then cows and calves. Like a
carefulandmeticulousmerchant,thestrangernumberedallthebeastsinMilan's
stables by name and set down accurately the value of each head, as if he had
beenbornandrearedinthehouse.
'Here are thirteen ducats for that field of yours you call salkusha. Have I your word?'
'Youhave.'
Thestrangerdealt.Milan'sfivecardstotalledtwenty-eight.
'More?'askedthestrangercalmly.
'One,'mutteredMilaninascarcelyaudiblevoiceandallhisbloodrushedtohis
heart.
The stranger slowly turned a card. It was a two, a lucky draw. Milan muttered indifferentlythroughclosedteeth.
'Enough.'
Heclosedhiscards,concealingthemfeverishly.Hetriedtomakehisvoiceand
expressionindifferent,topreventhisopponentfromguessinghowhestood.