by Ivo Andrić
companions. He was now like some gigantic monster far above them. His first
steps were slow and hesitating. His heavy clogs kept slipping on the stones
coveredwithice.Itseemedtohimthathislegswerefailinghim,thatthedepths
below attracted him irresistibly, that he must slip and fall, that he was already
falling. But his unusual position and the nearness of great danger gave him
strength and hitherto unknown powers. Struggling to maintain his balance, he
made more and more little jumps and bent more and more from his waist and
knees. Instead of walking he began to dance, he himself did not know how, as
freeofcareasifhehadbeenonawidegreenfieldandnotonthatnarrowand
icyedge.Allofasuddenhefelthimselflightandskilfulasamansometimesis
in dreams. His heavy and exhausted body felt without weight. The drunken
Ćorkandancedandfloatedabovethedepthsasifonwings.Hefeltasifagay
strength flowed through his body which danced to an unheard music and that
gave him security and balance. His dance bore him onward where his walk
wouldneverhavebornehim.Nolongerthinkingofthedangerorthepossibility
ofafall,heleaptfromonelegtotheotherandsangwithoutstretchedarmsasif
accompanyinghimselfonadrum.
"Tiridam,tiridam,tiritiritiritiridam,tiridam,tiridam....'
Corkansangandhimselfbeatouttherhythmtowhichdancingsurefootedlyhe
madehisdangerouscrossing.Hislegsbentatthekneesandhemovedhishead
toleftandright.
'Tiridam,tiridam...hai...hai....'
Inthatunusualanddangerousposition,exaltedabovealltheothers,hewasno
longerĆorkantheOne-Eyed,thebuttofthetownandtheinn.Belowhimthere
wasnolongerthatnarrowandslipperystoneparapetofthatfamiliarbridgeon
whichhehadcountlesstimesmunchedhisbreadand,thinkingofthesweetness
ofdeathinthewavesbeneath,hadgonetosleepintheshadeofthe kapia.
No, this was that distant and unattainable voyage of which they had spoken
everynightattheinnwithcoarsejokesandmockeryandonwhichnow,atlast,
he had set out. This was that glorious long-desired path of great achievements
andthatinthedistanceattheendofitwastheimperialcityofBrusawithitsreal
riches and his legitimate heritage, the setting sun and the lovely Paša with his
son;hiswifeandhischild.
So,dancinginasortofecstasy,hepassedtheparapetaroundthe sofa and then
the second half of the bridge. When he came to the end he leapt down and
looked confusedly about him, in wonder that he had once again landed on the
hard and familiar Višegrad road. The crowd which till then had accompanied
himwithencouragementandjokeswelcomedhim.Thosewhohadhaltedinfear
rushedup.Theybegantoembracehim,toclaphimonthebackandonhisfaded
fez.Allofthemshoutedtogether:
'Aferim,bravo,Ćorkan,ourfalcon!'
'Bravo,hero!'
'RumforĆorkan!'yelledSantoPapoinaraucousvoicewithaSpanishaccent,
thinkingthathewasintheinn.
Inthisgeneraluproarandcommotionsomeoneproposedthattheystaytogether
andnotgohome,butgoondrinkinginhonourofĆorkan'sexploit.
Those children who were then in their eighth and ninth years and were that
morning hurrying across the frozen bridge to their distant school stopped and
staredattheunusualsight.Theyopenedtheirmouthsinastonishmentandlittle
cloudsofsteamrosefromthem.Tiny,muffledup,withslatesandschoolbooks
undertheirarms,theycouldnotunderstandthisgameofthegrown-ups,butfor
therestoftheirlivestheywouldremember,togetherwiththelinesoftheirown
bridge, the picture of Ćorkan the One-Eyed, that man so well known to them
whonow,transfiguredandlight,dancingdaringlyandjoyouslyasiftransported bymagic,walkedwhereitwasforbiddentowalkandwherenooneeverdared
togo.
XVI
AscoreofyearshadpassedsincethefirstyellowAustrianmilitaryvehicleshad
crossed the bridge. Twenty years of occupation — that is a long sequence of
days and months. Each such day and month, taken by itself, seemed uncertain
and temporary, but all of them taken together constituted the longest period of
peaceandmaterialprogressthatthetowneverremembered,themainpartofthe
lifeofthatgenerationwhichatthemomentoftheoccupationhadjustcometo
yearsofdiscretion.
Thesewereyearsofapparentprosperityandsafegains,eventhoughsmall,when
mothersspeakingoftheirsonssaid:'MayheliveandbehealthyandmayGod
grant him easy bread!', and when even the wife of tall Ferhat, the eternal poor
man, who lit the municipal street lamps and received for his work the wage of
twelveflorinsamonth,saidwithpride:'ThanksbetoGod,evenmyFerhathas
becomeanofficial.'
The last years of the nineteenth century, years without upheavals or important
events,flowedpastlikeabroadcalmriverbeforereachingitsunknownmouth.
Judgingfromthem,itseemedasiftragicmomentshadceasedtodisturbthelife
oftheEuropeanpeoplesorthatofthetownbesidethebridge.Insofarasthey
tookplacenowandagainintheworldoutside,theydidnotpenetratetoVišegrad
andwerefar-offandincomprehensibletoitstownspeople.
Thus, one summer day after so many years, there once more appeared on
the kapia a white official notice. It was short and this time framed in a heavy blackborder,andannouncedthatHerMajestytheEmpressElizabethhaddiedin
Geneva, the victim of a dastardly assassination by an Italian anarchist,
Lucchieni. The announcement went on to express the disgust and profound
sorrowofallthepeoplesofthegreatAustro-HungarianMonarchyandcalledon
themtorallystillmorecloselyaroundthethroneinloyaldevotionandthereby
affordthegreatestconsolationtotherulerwhomfatehadsoheavilybereaved.
The announcement was pasted up below the white plaque with the Turkish
inscription,ashadatonetimebeentheproclamationofGeneralFilipovićabout
the occupation, and all the people read it with emotion since it concerned an
Empress,awoman,butwithoutanyrealunderstandingordeepsympathy.
For a few evenings there were no songs or noisy gatherings on the kapia by
orderoftheauthorities.
There was only one man in the town whom this news deeply affected. He was
Pietro Sola, the only Italian in the town, a contractor and builder, stonemason
andartist,inshortamanofalltasksandthespecialistofthetown.Maistor-Pero,
as the whole town called him, had come at the time of the occupation and had
remainedinthetown,marryingacertainStana,apoorgirlofnottoosavourya
reputation. She was reddish, powerful, twice as big as Maistor-
Pero and was
considered a woman of sharp tongue and heavy hand with whom it was better
not to quarrel. Maistor-Pero himself was a small, bent, good-natured man with
mild blue eyes and pendent moustaches. He worked well and earned much. In
time he had become a real townsman only, like Lotte, he was never able to
master the language and the pronunciation. Because of his skilful hands and
gentlenaturehewaslovedbythewholetownandhisathleticallypowerfulwife
ledhimthroughlifestrictlyandmaternally,likeachild.
When,returninghomefromworkgreywithstone-dustandstreakedwithpaint,
Maistor-Peroreadtheannouncementonthe kapia, hepulledhishatdownover
hiseyesandfeverishlybitonthethinpipewhichwasalwaysbetweenhisteeth.
He explained to the more serious and respected citizens whom he met that he,
although an Italian, had nothing in common with this Lucchieni and his
dastardlycrime.Thepeoplelistenedtohim,consoledhimandassuredhimthat
theybelievedhim andthat,furthermore, theyhadnever eventhoughtanything
ofthesortabouthim.Nonetheless,hewentonexplainingtoeveryonethathe
wasashamedtobealive,thathehadneverevenkilledachickeninhislifehow
muchlessahumanbeing,andthatawomanandsogreatapersonage.Intheend
his timidity became a real mania. The townspeople began to laugh at Maistor-
Pero's worries, his zeal and his superfluous assurances that he had nothing in
common with anarchists and murderers. The urchins of the town at once made
upacruelgame.HiddenbehindsomefencetheywouldshoutatMaistor-Pero:
'Lucchieni!'Thepoordevildefendedhimselffromtheseshoutsasfromaswarm
ofwasps,pulledhishatdownoverhiseyesandfledhometobewailhisfateand
weeponthebroadlapofhisStana.
'Iamashamed,Iamashamed,'sobbedthelittleman,'Ican'tlookanyoneinthe
face.'
'Get along, you old fool, what have you to be ashamed of? That an Italian has
murderedtheEmpress?LettheItaliankingbeashamedofthat!Butwhoareyou
andwhathaveyoudonetobeashamedof?'
'Iamashamedtobealive,'wailedMaistor-Perotothewoman,whoshookhim
and tried to instil a little strength and resolution into him and to teach him to walkthroughthemarketplacewithheadheldhigh,notloweringhisgazebefore
anyone.
Meanwhiletheoldermensatonthe kapia withstonyfacesanddowncastlooks
andlistenedtothemostrecentnews,withdetailsofthemurderoftheAustrian
Empress.Thenewswasnomorethananexcuseforadiscussiononthefateof
crownedheadsandgreatmen.Surroundedbyagroupofrespectable,inquisitive
and unlettered Turkish merchants, the Višegrad schoolmaster Hussein Effendi
washoldingforthonwhoandwhatwereanarchists.
The schoolmaster was just as stiff and solemn, clean and neat, as he had been
twenty years before when awaiting the arrival of the first Schwabes with Mula
IbrahimandPopNikola,bothofwhomhadlongbeenlyingintheirrespective
graveyards. His beard was already grey but just as carefully trimmed and
rounded,hiswholesmoothfacecalmandpeaceful,formenwitharigidunder-
standihgandhardheartageslowly.Thehighopinionwhichhehadalwayshad
ofhimselfhadgrownevengreaterintheselasttwentyyears.Itmaybesaidin
passingthatthecaseofbooksonwhichhisreputationasalearnedmanrestedto
agreatextentwasstilllargelyunread,andhischronicleofthetownhadgrown
inthesetwentyyearsbyfourpagesonly,fortheoldertheschoolmastergrewhe
esteemed himself and his chronicle more and more and the events around him
lessandless.
Now he spoke in a low voice, slowly as if reading from some obscure
manuscript and in a dignified manner, solemnly and severely, using the fate of
theinfidelEmpressonlyasapretextwhichdidnotinanywayenterintothereal
senseofhisinterpretation.Accordingtothisinterpretation(andthattoowasnot
his own, for he had found it in the good old books inherited from his onetime
teacher, the famous Arap-hodja) those now known as anarchists had always
existed and would always exist while the world lasted. Human life was so
ordered—andGod,theOne,theMercifulandCompassionate,hadsoordained
—thatforeverydramofgoodthereweretwodramsofevilandtherecouldbe
nogoodnessonthisearthwithouthatredandnogreatnesswithoutenvy,evenas
therewasnoteventhesmallestobjectwithoutitsshadow.Thatwasparticularly
trueoffamouspeople.Besideeachoneofthem,alongsidetheirglory,wasalso
their executioner waiting for his chance and who seized it, sometimes earlier,
sometimeslater.
'Take for example our countryman Mehmed Pasha who has long been in
Paradise,' said the schoolmaster and pointed to the stone plaque above the
proclamation,'whoservedthreeSultansandwaswiserthanAsafandwhobyhis
power and piety erected even this stone on which we are sitting and who too
diedbytheknife.Despiteallhispowerandwisdomhewasunabletoescapehis
appointed hour. Those whom the Grand Vezir hindered in their plans, and they
wereagreatandpowerfulparty,foundawaytoarmandsubornamaddervishto
killhim,andthatjustatthemomentwhenhewasenteringthemosquetopray.
Withhisshabbydervishcloakonhisbackandarosaryinhishandthedervish
barredthewayoftheVezir'ssuiteandhumblyandhypocriticallyaskedforalms,
andwhentheVezirwasabouttoputhishandinhispockettogivethemtohim,
thedervishstabbedhim.AndsoMehmedPashadiedasamartyrtothefaith.'
Themenlistenedandblowingthesmokeoftheircigarettesfarfromthemlooked
nowatthestoneplaquewiththeinscription,nowatthewhiteplacardbordered
by a black line. They listened attentively, though not one of them fully
understoodeverywordoftheschoolmaster'sinterpretation.But,lookingthrough
their cigarette smoke into the distance, beyond the inscription and the placard,
theyseemedtoseesomewhereintheworldanotheranddifferentlife,alifeof
great ascents and sudden falls, in which greatness mingled with tragedy and
whichinsomemannermaintainedabalancewiththispeacefulandmonotonous
existenceoftheirsonthe kapia.
Butthosedayspassedtoo.Theoldorderreturnedtothe kapia withitsusualloud
conversations, jokes and songs. Discussions about anarchists ceased; the
announcement of the death of that foreign and little-known Empress changed
undertheinfluenceofsun,rainanddustuntilatlastthewindtoreitawayandit
floatedinfragmentsdownriverintothevoid.
Foralittlelongertheragamuffinsofthetownshouted'Lucchieni'afterMaistor-
Pero without knowing themselves what they meant nor why they did so, but
solelyfromthatchildish
needtoteaseandtormentweakandsensitivecreatures.
They shouted, and then ceased to shout having found some other amusement.
StanaofMejdancontributednotalittletothisresultbymercilesslybeatingtwo
ofthemostobstreperousoftheurchins.
After a couple of months no one mentioned the Empress's death or anarchists
any longer. That life at the end of the century, which seemed tamed and
domesticated for ever, concealed everything beneath its wide and monotonous
course and left among men the feeling that a century was opening of peaceful
industryleadingintosomedistantandunattainablefuture.
That unceasing and irresistible activity to which the foreign administrators
seemed condemned and with which the townspeople were with difficulty
reconciled, though they had just this to thank for their livelihood and their
prosperity, changed many things in the course of those twenty years, in the
outwardappearanceofthetownandinthecostumeandhabitsofitscitizens.It
was natural that it would not stop short of the ancient bridge which looked
eternallythesame.
It was in 1900, the close of that happy century and the beginning of the new,
which in the feelings and opinions of many was to be even happier, that
engineerscameto examinethebridge. Thepeoplewere alreadyaccustomed to
such things; even the children knew what it meant when these men in leather
overcoats,withbreast-pocketsstuffedwithvaricolouredpencils,begantoprowl
aboutsomehillorsomebuilding.Itmeantthatsomethingwouldbedemolished,
built,duguporchanged.Onlynoonewasabletoimaginewhattheycouldbe
doing with the bridge which to every living soul in the town meant a thing as
eternalandunalterableastheearthonwhichtheytrodortheskiesabovethem;
Buttheengineersinspectedit,measureditandtooknotes;thentheyWentaway
and the matter was forgotten. But about midsummer, when the river was at its
lowest,contractorsandworkmensuddenlybegantoarriveanderecttemporary
lean-tostostoretheirtoolsnearthebridge.Alreadytherumourspreadthatthe