The Captain of the Janizaries
Page 15
CHAPTER XV.
Out of a broad valley, through which lies the chief highway leading tothe north-west of Albania, there opens a narrow ravine which seems toend abruptly against the precipitous front of a mountain range. But,turning into this ravine, one is surprised to find that it windssharply, following a swift stream, and climbing for many miles throughthe mountain, until it suddenly debouches into a picturesque valley,which affords grazing space for sheep and enough arable land tosustain the peasants who once dwelt there.
A hamlet nestled in this secluded vale. No road led beyond it, and itwas approached only by the narrow and tortuous path we have described.A rude mill sentineled a line of three houses. These dwellings, thoughsimple in their construction, were quite commodious. A room of ampledimensions was enclosed with walls of stone and loam, supporting aconical roof of thatch. On three sides of this room and opening intoit were smaller chambers, having detached roofs of their own. Thecentral apartment was the common gathering place for quite anextensive community, consisting of a family in three or fourgenerations; for each son upon marrying brought his wife to thepaternal homestead, and built a new chamber connecting with thecentral one. The three houses contained altogether nearly a hundredsouls. The last of these dwellings was of ampler proportions than theothers, and was occupied by a branch of an ancient family to which theinhabitants of the other houses were all of kin. By reason of itsantiquity as well as the comparative wealth of its occupants, it wasregarded as the konak, or village mansion; and the senior member ofits little community was recognized as the stargeshina, or chief ofthe village.
It was the latter part of April; the day before that upon which fromtime immemorial the peasants among these mountains had observed thefestival of Saint George, which they devoted to ceremoniescommemorative of the awakening summer life of the world.
It was still early in the afternoon, though the high mountain wall onthe west had shut out the sun, whose bright rays, however, stillburning far overhead, dropped their benediction of roseate shadowsinto the valley they were not permitted to enter; loading theatmosphere with as many tints as there were in Buddha's bowl when thepoor man threw in the bud of genuine charity, and it burst into athousand flowers.
A group of maidens gathered at the little mill, each holding anearthen bowl to catch the glistening spray drops which danced from theedge of the clumsy water-wheel. When these were filled they cast intothe "witching waters" the early spring flowers, anemones and violetsand white coral arbutus, which they had picked during the day. It wasa pleasing superstition that the water, having been beaten into spray,received life from the flowers which the renewed vitality of theawakening spring spirit had pressed up through the earth; and that, ifone should bathe in this on St. George's day, health and happinesswould attend him during the year.
"What is it?" cried one as a crackling in the bushes far above theirheads on a steep crag was followed in a moment by the beat of apebble, as it glanced from ledge to ledge almost to their feet.
"The sheep are not up there!" said another.
"Perhaps the Vili!"[47] suggested a third, "for I am sure that I haveseen one this very day."
"What was he like?" exclaimed several at once, while all kept theireyes upon the cliff above.
"There! there! Did you see it?" Several avowed that they saw itstealing along the very brow of the hill; but all agreed that itpassed so swiftly that they could not tell just what they saw.
"It was just so with the one I saw to-day," said the former speaker."I was on the ledge by the old eagle's nest, gathering my flowers. Atall being passed below me on the path, dressed so beautifully that Iknow it was none of us, and had dealings with none of us. It seemedanxious not to be seen; for my little cry of surprise caused it tovanish as if it melted into the foam of the stream as it plunges intothe pool."
"That was just like the Vili," interposed one. "They live under theriver's bank. They talk in the murmur of the streams. Old Mirko, whoused to work much in the mill, learned to understand what they said.Did this one you saw have long hair? The Vili, Mirko said, alwaysdid."
"I cannot say," replied the girl, "for its head was hidden in ablossoming laurel bush between it and me."
"It was one," cried another, "for there are no blossoming laurels yet.It was its long white hair waving in the wind, that you saw."
"Let us go down to the pool!" proposed one, "maybe we can see itagain."
"No! No!" cried the others, in a chorus of tremulous voices.
"No, indeed," said one of the larger girls, "for it might be they areeating, or they are dancing the Kolo--which they always do as the sungoes down, and if any body sees them then they get angry, and willcome to your house and look at you with the evil eye."
Hasting home with their bowls of water crowned with flowers, they toldtheir story to the stargeshina.
The old man laughed at their credulity:--
"Girls always see strange things on the eve of Saint George."
At the evening meal in the great room of the first house, thepatriarch, taking his cue from the story the girls belonging to thathousehold had told of their imagined vision, repeated legend afterlegend about those strange beings that people the unknown caverns inthe mountains, and rise from the brooks, leaving the water-spiders tomark the spot where they emerged so that they may find their way backagain, and of the wjeshtiges, who throw off their bodies as easily asothers lay aside their clothes, flit through the fire, ride upon thesparks as horses, float on the threads of white smoke--all the timewatching the persons gathered about the blazing logs, that they maymark the one who is first to die. "This doomed person," the old mansaid, "they visit when he has gone to sleep, and, with a magic rod,open his breast; utter in mystic words the day of his death; take outhis heart and feast upon it. Then they carefully close up the side,and, though the victim lives on, having no heart, no spring of life inhim, sickens and droops until the fatal day; as the streams vanishwhen cut off from the fountains whence they start."
These stories were followed by songs, the music of which was within anarrow range of notes, and sung to the accompaniment of the gusle--arude sort of guitar with a single string. The subjects of these songsand the ideas they contained were as limited in their range as thenotes by which they were rendered; such as the impossible exploits ofheroes, and improbable romances of love. The merit of the singinggenerally consisted in the additions or variations with which thegenius of the performer enabled him to adorn the hackneyed music ororiginal narrative.
"Let Constantine take the gusle, and sing us the song about thepeasant maid who conquered the heart of the king," said thestargeshina.
"Constantine is not here," replied a clear and sweet, but commandingsort of voice. "He went out as it began to darken, and has notreturned."
The speaker rose as she said it, and went toward the large door of theroom to look out. She was a young woman of slender, but superb form,which the costume of the country did not altogether conceal. She wastall and straight, but moved with the graceful freedom of a child, forher straightness was not that of an arrow--rather of the unstrung bow,whose beauty is revealed by its flexibility. Her limbs were roundedperfectly to the feminine model, but were evidently possessed ofmuscular strength developed by daily exercise incident to her mountainlife. A glance at her would disprove that western theory whichassociates the ideal of female beauty only with softness of fleshlytexture and lack of sinew. Her face was commanding, brow high, eyesrather deep-set and blue, mouth small--perhaps too straight for thebest expression of amiability--chin full, and suggestive of firmnessand courage. As she gazed through the doorway into the night atroubled look knit her features--just enough, however, to make onenotice rather the strong, steady and heroic purpose which conqueredit. When she turned again to the company the firelight revealed only agirlish sweetness and gentleness of face and manner. She took thegusle and sang a pretty song about the dancing of the witches; hermerry voice starting a score of other voices in the simple chorus.Then followed a
war song, in which the daughter of a murderedchieftain calls upon the clan to avenge her father, and save theirland from an insulting foe. It was largely recitative, and renderedwith so much of the realistic in her tones and manner as to draw eventhe old men to their feet, while, with waving hands and marchingstamp, they started the company in the refrain.
Milosch set the example of retiring when the evening was welladvanced. Though Constantine was still absent, it gave his father noanxiety, for the boy was accustomed to have his own private businesswith coons in the forest, and the eels in the pool, and, indeed, withthe stars too--for often he would lie for hours looking at them, onlyMorsinia being allowed to interrupt his conference with thebright-eyed watchers above.
FOOTNOTE:
[47] Still a Servian and Albanian superstition.