by Ivo Andrić
andsummitsaroundthetown.Intheeveningthewindowsoftheofficers'mess,
overtheriverandbythebridge,werelightedandwideopenasintheprevious year, only the sound of the piano and the violin no longer came from them.
ColonelBauersatathistablewithafewofhisseniorofficers,good-humoured,
smiling and sweating from the effects of the red wine and the heat of the
summer.
Theyoungmensatonthe kapia onwarmnightsandsang.Itwasnearlytheend
ofJuneandthestudentswereshortlyexpectedtoarrive,astheydideveryyear.
Onsuchnightsonthe kapia itseemedasiftimehadstopped,whilelifeflowed
onendless,richandeasyandonecouldnotforeseehowlongitwouldcontinue
thus.
Atthattimeofthenightthemainstreetswereilluminated,forthetownhadhad
electric light since spring that year. About a year earlier an electrically driven
sawmillhadbeenbuiltontheriverbankaboutamilefromthetownandbeside
it a factory for extracting turpentine from pine refuse; it also produced resin.
This factory had made an agreement with the municipality to light the town
streets from its private power station. So the green lamp-standards with their
petroleum lights disappeared, and with them tall Ferhat who used to clean and
lightthem.Themainstreetwhichstretchedthewholelengthofthetown,from
the bridge to the new quarter, was lit by powerful lamps of white milky glass,
whilethesidestreetswhichbranchedofftorightandleftandmeanderedaround
Bikavac or climbed upwards to Mejdan and Okolište were lighted by ordinary
bulbs. Between these lines of similar lights stretched long irregular patches of
darkness.Thesewerecourtyardsorlargegardensontheslopes.
In one of these dark gardens Zorka the schoolmistress was sitting with Nikola
Glasičanin.
Thedissensionwhichhadarisenbetweenthesetwolastyear,whenStikovićhad
appeared at the time of the vacation, had lasted for long, right up to the
beginningofthenewyear.Then,aseverywinter,preparationsfortheFestivalof
St Sava had been begun in the Srpski Dom. A concert and a play were being
prepared. Both Zorka and Glasičanin took part and returning home after the
rehearsalstheyhadspokentogetherforthefirsttimesincetheprevioussummer.
At first their talks had been short, reserved and distant. But they did not stop
seeingoneanother,foryoungpeopleprefereventhemostbitterandhopelessof
lovers' quarrels to the boredom and loneliness of a life without the play and
thoughtsoflove.Somewhereinthecourseoftheirendlessargumentstheyhad
made peace, they themselves knew not how or when. Now, on these warm
summer nights, they met regularly. From time to time the figure of the absent Stikovićrosebetweenthemandthewholepointlessargumentflamedupagain,
butitdidnotdrivethemapart,whileeveryreconciliationdrewthemcloserand
closertogether.
Now they sat in the warm darkness on the stump of an old walnut tree and
wrapped in their own thoughts looked down at the big and little lights of the
town along the river which roared monotonously. Glasičanin, who had been
talkingforalongtime,wasnowsilentforamoment.Zorka,whohadbeensilent
all evening, remained silent as only women know how when they are
disentangling their love troubles in their minds, those troubles which are more
intimateandmoreimportanttothemthananythingelseinlife.
Aboutthistimelastyear,whenStikovićhadfirstappearedonthescene,Zorka
had thought that an endless paradise of happiness had opened before her, in
which perfect affinity of feelings and unity of thought and desires had the
sweetnessofakissandthedurationofahumanexistence.Butthatillusionhad
notlastedlong.Howeverinexperiencedandenrapturedshemayhavebeen,she
couldnotfailtonoticethatthismanquicklytookfirebutequallyquicklyburnt
out, according to his own ideas, without any consideration for her and without
any connection with those things which she considered greater and more
important than either herself or him. He had left her almost without saying
goodbye.Shehadbeenleftapreytoindecisionfromwhichshesufferedasfrom
a hidden wound. The letter which had come from him had been perfectly
phrased, a perfect example of literary skill, but as measured as a counsel's
opinionandasclearandastransparentasanemptyglassjar.Inithehadspoken
ofhislove,butasifthepairofthemhadalreadybeenacenturyintheirgraves,
likepersonsfamousandlongdead.Toherwarmandvividreplycamehiscard:
'In the tasks and anxieties which harass and annoy me I think of you as of a
peaceful Višegrad night, filled with the sound of the river and the perfume of
unseen grasses.' And that was all. In vain she tried to remember when she had
heard the sound of the river and sensed the perfume of those unseen grasses.
Theyexistedonlyonhispostcard.Certainlyshedidnotrememberthem,even
ashe,itseemed,didnotrememberanythingthathadtakenplacebetweenthem.
Herminddarkenedwiththethoughtthatshehadbeendeceivedandthathehad
deceivedher,andthenconsoledherselfwithsomethingthatsheherselfdidnot
understand and which was less likely than a miracle. 'It is not possible to
understand him,' she thought to herself, 'he is strange and cold, selfish, moody
andcapricious,butperhapsallexceptionalmenarelikethat.'Inanyeventwhat
shefeltwasmorelikesufferingthanlove.Herinnerflinchingandthebreakthat shefeltinthedepthsofherbeingmadeitseemtoherthatthewholeburdenof
that love which he had provoked lay upon her alone, and that he was lost
somewhere far in the fog and the distance which she dared not call by its real
name.Forawomaninlove,evenwhenshehaslostallherillusions,cherishes
her love like a child she has not been destined to bear. She hardened her heart
and did not reply to his card. But after a silence of two months another card
arrived. It was written from some high mountain in the Alps: 'At a height of
2,000metres,surroundedbypeopleofvarioustonguesandnationalities,Ilook
attheboundlesshorizonandthinkofyouandlastsummer.'Evenforheryears
andherlittleexperiencethatwasenough.Hadhewritten:'Ididnotloveyou,I
donotloveyounow,norwillIeverbeabletoloveyou,'itcouldhavebeenno
clearerormorepainfultoher.Forwhenallwassaidanddone,itwaslovethat
was in question, not far-off memories or how many metres above sea-level a
man was writing, nor what people were around him nor what languages they
spoke.Andtherewasnothingaboutlove!
Apoorgirlandanorphan,ZorkahadgrownupinVišegradw
ithsomerelations.
AftershehadfinishedherstudiesattheTeachers'TrainingCollegeatSarajevo,
shehadbeenpostedtoVišegradandhadreturnedtothehouseofthewell-to-do
butsimplefolktowhomshefeltinnowayattached.
Zorka had grown thin and pale and had withdrawn into herself, but she had
confided in no one, and did not reply to his Christmas message of greetings,
whichwasequallyshort,coldandfaultlessinstyle.Shewantedtocometoterms
with her own grief and shame without anyone's help or consolation but, weak,
discouraged, young, ignorant and inexperienced, she became more and more
involved in that inextricable net of real events and great desires, of her own
thoughtsandhisincomprehensibleandinhumanbehaviour.Hadshebeenableto
askanyoneortotakeanyone'sadvice,itwouldcertainlyhavebeeneasierforher
but shame held her back. Even so it often seemed to her that the whole town
knewaboutherdisappointmentandthatmockingandmaliciousglancesseemed
toburnintoherasshewalkedthroughthemarketplace.Neithermennorbooks
gaveheranyexplanation;andsheherselfdidnotknowhowtoexplainanything.
If he really did not love her why had there been all that comedy of passionate
wordsandvowsduringthevacationlastyear?Whathadbeenthereasonforthat
episode on the school bench, which could only be justified and defended by
love, without which it fell into the mud of unbearable humiliation? Was it
possiblethatthereweremenwhorespectedthemselvesandotherssolittlethat
they would enter lightheartedly into such a game? What drove them on if not
love?Whatdidhisburningglances,hiswarmandhaltingbreath,hispassionate kissesmean?Whatcouldtheymean,ifnotlove?Butitwasnotlove!Shesaw
thatnow,betterandmoreclearlythanshewouldhaveliked.Butshecouldnot
resign herself truly and lastingly to such a thought (who has ever been able to
resignthemselvescompletelytoit?).Thenaturalconclusionofalltheseinternal
conflictswasthethoughtofdeathwhichalwayslurksonthefrontiersofevery
dreamofhappiness.Todie,thoughtZorka,toslipfromthe kapia into the river
asifbychance,withoutlettersorfarewells,withoutadmissionsorhumiliations.
'Todie'shethoughttoherselfinthelastmomentsbeforegoingtosleepandon
recovering consciousness in the morning, in the midst of the most lively
conversations and beneath the mask of every smile. Everything in her said and
repeatedthosewords—'todie!todie!'—butonedoesnotdie,butliveswiththat
insupportablethoughtwithinone.
Comfort came from the source she least of all expected. Some time about the
Christmas vacation her hidden torment reached its height. Such thoughts and
such unanswered questions destroy one even more than an illness. Everyone
noticed changes for the worse in her and worried about her, her relatives, her
headmaster, a merry man with many children, and her friends, advising her to
seeadoctor.
Good luck had it that just at this time were the rehearsals for the St Sava
festivitiesandthat,aftersomanymonths,sheagaintalkedwithGlasičanin.Up
till then he had avoided every meeting or conversation with her. But that
goodwill that usually reigns at these naive but sincere dramatic and musical
showsinsmallplaces,andthentheclearcoldnightsastheyreturnedhome,saw
toitthatthesetwoyoungestrangedpersonsshoulddrawclosertooneanother.
Her need to lessen her torment drove her on and his love, deep and sincere,
drovehim.
Their first words were naturally cold, defiant, double-edged, and their
conversationslongexplanationswithoutissue.Buteventhosebroughtsolaceto
the girl. For the first time she could talk with a living being about her inner, shamefulwretchednesswithouthavingtoconfessitsmostshamefulandpainful
details.Glasičanin.spoketoherofitlongandanimatedlybutwithwarmthand
consideration,savingherpride.Hedidnotexpresshimselfmoreharshlyabout
Stikovićthanwasinevitable.Hisexplanationwassuchaswehavealreadyheard
that night on the kapia. It was short, sure and unsparing. Stiković was a born egoistandamonster,amanwhocouldlovenooneandwhoaslongashelived,
himself tormented and unsatisfied, would torture all those whom he deceived
andwhowereneartohim.Glasičanindidnotspeakmuchofhisownlove,butit wasevidentineveryword,everyglanceandeverymovement.Thegirllistened
tohim,remainingsilentforthemostpart.Aftereverysuchconversationshefelt
moreserene,moreatpeacewithherself.Forthefirsttimeaftersomanymonths
she had moments of respite from her internal storms and for the first time
succeededinlookingatherselfasotherthananunworthybeing.Fortheyoung
man's words, filled with love and respect, showed her that she was not
irretrievablylostandthatherdespairwasonlyanillusionevenasherdreamof
lovetheprevioussummerhadbeenonlyanillusion.Theyhadtakenheroutof
thatgloomyworldinwhichshehadalreadybeguntoloseherselfandsenther
back to living human reality, where there was healing and aid for everyone, or
nearlyeveryone.
TheirtalkscontinuedevenaftertheStSavacelebrations.Thewinterpassedand
afteritthespring.Theysawoneanotheralmosteveryday.Intimethegirlcame
to herself, grew stronger and healthier, and was transformed, quickly and
naturally,asonlyyouthcanbe.Sotoopassedthatfruitfulanduneasysummer.
PeoplewerealreadyaccustomedtoregardZorkaandGlasičaninasacouplewho
were'walkingout'.
ItwastruethatthelongspeechesofGlasičanintowhichshehadatfirstlistened
avidly,drinkingtheminlikemedicine,werenowlessinteresting.Attimesthis
need for mutual confession and confidence weighed on her. She asked herself
withgenuinewonderhowthisclosenessbetweenthemhadcomeabout,butthen
she remembered that last winter he had 'saved her soul' and, mastering her
boredom,listenedtohimlikeagooddebtor,ascarefullyasshecould.
That summer night his hand was over hers (that was the ultimate limit of his
modestdaring).Throughthatcontactthewarmrichnessof the night penetrated
him also. In such moments it was fully clear to him how much treasure was
hidden in this woman and at the same time he felt how the bitterness and
dissatisfactionofhislifewasbeingtransformedintofruitfulpowersufficientto
taketwopeopletoeventhemostdistantgoal,ifloveboundthemandsustained
them.
Filled with those feelings in the darkness he was no longer the everyday
Glasičanin,aminorclerkofthegreatVišegradenterprise,butquiteanotherman,
strong and self-confident, who controlled his own life freely and far-sightedly.
Foramanfilledwithagreat,trueandunselfishlove,evenifitbeononeside
only, there open horizons and possibilities and paths which are closed and
unknowntosomanyclever,ambitiousandselfishmen.
Hespoketothewomanbesidehim.
'IdonotthinkIammistaken;iffornootherreason,thenjustbecauseIshould
neverbeabletodeceiveyou.Whilesometalkandraveandothersdobusiness
and make gains, I follow everything and watch everything and I see more and
moreclearlythatthereisnosortoflifehere.Foralongtimetherewillbeneither
peace nor order nor profitable work. Not even Stiković, not even Herak, can
create them. On the other hand, everything will get worse. We must get away
from here, as from a house that is falling down. These countless and uneasy
saviours who pop up at every step are the best proof that we are heading for a
catastrophe.Sincewecannothelp,wecanatleastsaveourselves.'
Thegirlremainedsilent.
'Ihaveneverspokentoyouaboutthis,butIhavethoughtoftenandmuch,and
have even done a little. You know that Bogdan Djurović, my friend from
Okolište, has now been in America for three years. I have been in
correspondence with him since last year. I showed you the photograph he sent
me. He has asked me to come over there and has promised me a safe job at a
goodwage.Iknowthatitisnotasimplemattertodoallthis,butIdonotthink
itisimpossible.Ihavethoughteverythingoverandcalculatedeverything.Iwill
sellthelittlepropertyIhaveupthereatOkolište.Ifyouwillsayyes,wewillget
married as soon as possible and leave for Zagreb without saying anything to
anyone. There is a company there which arranges for emigrants to get to
America.WecouldwaitthereuntilBogdansendsusanaffidavit.Intheinterval
wecouldlearnEnglish.Ifwearenotsuccessful,perhapsbecauseofmymilitary
service,thenwewillcrossoverintoSerbiaandleavefromthere.Iwillarrange
everythingtomakeitaseasyaspossibleforyou.InAmericawewillbothwork.
ThereareSerbianschoolstherewhereyoucouldteach.Iwouldeasilyfindwork