by Ivo Andrić
Their pain grew, escalating sharply and intensely and with it, like a strange intoxication, the feeling that just because of that sharpness and intensity, it could not last much longer, for, as it rose and grew, it moved steadily closer to its end and disappearance. Just a little, just a little longer, sharper and more acute, and the dream of pain would end and disappear, transformed suddenly into life-saving, victorious reality. Only a terrible story about the renegade seraskier and his evil, violent deeds would be left, as history and a warning to posterity.
And it was here, at its height, that someone would stumble again, felled by sunstroke; but since he could not fall to the ground because of the chains that attached him to the others, he would remain hanging, his arms loose and his head bowed, on the chain between his two companions. The column would falter with a clatter of steel and pause once more for one of those self-imposed breaks, without anyone’s volition or decision. There the whole illusion of pain growing and rising and thus getting steadily closer to its vanishing point would suddenly be extinguished. Not a trace of the anticipated life-saving explosion. Sitting in the shade by the road, waiting for the one who had fainted to regain consciousness and recover, the captives looked dejected and disappointed and, as if suddenly sober, they looked in surprise at the untouched rings of steel on the bare, sunburnt necks of their companions. Defeated, and oppressed by the insupportable truth, they lay as if they would never again rise. But after a longer than usual rest and silence, at the hoarse word of command, they would all stand, some faster some more slowly, becoming once again what they now were: a column of serious criminals in chains and uniformed soldiers, and as such they traveled on.
A WINE CALLED ŽILAVKA
THE FINE large house that had until a few days earlier belonged to Mujaga Telalagić, now empty, echoed all day long with the thud of boots and heavy shoes, the occasional laughter of officers and drunken shouting, with cavalrymen and servants running and calling to each other. The new occupant of the house was the artillery colonel Arifbey, known as Topčibaša, or Cannon Master, the most hospitable and prodigal of Omer Pasha’s officers, a man not happy or at peace unless his house was brimming with boisterous guests. “That man thinks any mouthful he eats alone, without gluttons and idlers around, will poison him,” Omer Pasha would say when he was angry with Arifbey because of his extravagance. This Arifbey was in fact Sigismund Ehring, an exile from Poland and for several years now one of the best officers in Omer Pasha’s army. The son of a Warsaw builder, he had studied engineering. When he fled, having wandered about for a while, he ended up in Istanbul. There he joined the Turkish army, formally converted to Islam and soon became an artillery officer. He advanced rapidly. Had he not been inclined to drink and therefore indifferent to his career, he could have attained the highest ranks, but he preferred the freedom afforded him by service with the troops and in operative units in campaigns in various lands of the empire. For some time he had been inseparably attached to Omer Pasha. All the engineering in the army was under Arifbey’s command, and he in turn reported directly to the seraskier.
Tall, strong, with an early stoop, square and asymmetrically built, his appearance and bearing alone distinguished him from the other officers. On that large body, with its long, supple arms, thin legs and drooping shoulders, his small head with its sharp profile lived its own life, appearing smaller still under a heavy, crumpled fez the color of sour cherries, from which a few rare strands of red hair hung. A small face, with no beard or moustache, but in that face big, unexpectedly black eyes and in them a lively, tremulous and elusive smile, which was lit up and extinguished, narrowed and broadened, and which, changing constantly, gave his eyes a different expression from one moment to the next, by turns wise and mocking, good-natured, coldly alien and warmly human, mercilessly penetrating, boyishly cheerful, menacingly angry and dreamily misty. His movements were lazy and he had the gait “of a convalescent,” as his friend the regimental doctor Fritz used to tease him. He spoke in a deep, gruff bass voice, connecting syllables slowly and saying always more with his lively, shining eyes than with words or gestures. His whole appearance suggested a lethargic and capricious man, as did his uniform, nonregulation and eccentric, from his soft, worn civilian shoes to the outrageous yellow scarf round his neck. Omer Pasha, Ehring’s contemporary and true friend, reproached and reprimanded him constantly for his lackadaisical demeanor and unmilitary dress, and used to say in jest that he didn’t understand how a man could be “inwardly a talented soldier, and in his outward appearance a circus ringmaster.” Only on formal occasions did Arifbey make a supreme effort to adapt his uniform to service regulations, but he did not succeed even then in changing and improving his attitude or his bearing.
He drank like the rest of them, sometimes less, sometimes more, yet even when drunk or hung over there was something self-aware, superior and, so to speak, sober about him. Drunkenness in his case was manifested in greater eloquence, daring paradoxes and fantastic imaginings on every binge. He suffered, as most of his colleagues did, from various ailments. But, ailing, unkempt and slovenly, he was a conscientious and strict commander. All his officers and soldiers knew that there was no joking with him and that the guns had to be cleaned, in working order and ever ready like “marriageable girls,” the ammunition secured, and every tool shining, every horse shod and groomed, and every ammunition wagon greased and in good repair. Never out of control, or shouting or cursing, he punished his men mercilessly for every mistake or carelessness, and all accepted his punishments with a full sense of their own guilt, just as his commands brooked no questioning or grumbling or thought of disobeying. It was well known that Topčibaša’s artillery was the main strength of Omer Pasha’s army. The seraskier’s successes were of course above all the result of his skill and politician’s ruthlessness and his exceptional gifts as a strategist and tactician, but it was also known that Arifbey’s artillery was his best weapon and that it was in fact the artillery that had enabled his army of some ten thousand men to defeat numerically stronger rebel armies in various Turkish lands.
Now Arifbey was resting in Sarajevo, between two campaigns, with his friends and in his own way.
Telalagić’s tall house echoed with noise on this summer’s day. Evidently many objects and carpets had been taken out and stored before the true owner of the house, Mujaga Telalagić, was arrested along with a large number of Sarajevo’s leading men, and his family had left for their estate in the Sarajevo valley. But the new host didn’t notice. Today too officers were gathering, though it was not yet time for lunch. Because of the heat, their duties started early and were completed by around 10 a.m. After that, Arifbey’s guests arrived one after another for lunch and drinks, the drink being the main thing. He was to leave in a few days’ time with his heavy guns for western Bosnia and was now giving his adjutant orders between two glasses of strong Bosnian brandy, which was weak to his taste, making one lose heart. From the kitchen came the aroma of roasting meat and fried onions. In anticipation of lunch the little glasses of brandy were drained and the conversation became ever more lively.
Someone complained that there was no beer anywhere in Sarajevo. A voice, from a full mouth, said, barely intelligibly: “This Bosnian brandy will be the death of us.”
At a given moment, a laid table was carried in, with dishes and plates, and placed beside the sofa on which Arifbey was sitting with his right leg bent under him. Odd chairs of various shapes and heights were brought. Some eight officers, four Poles, three Hungarians and the Austrian Dr. Fritz, sat down at the table.
Just then two soldiers entered, one in a white waiter’s jacket, the other in a dark soldier’s tunic buttoned up to the throat. Each carried two glass decanters, dewy and cool, filled with a greenish-yellow liquid. The host, who had already hinted, as the surprise of the day, at a new wine of excellent reputation, announced solemnly:
“Žilavka from Mostar! Let’s sample this marvel as well!”
They drank a lot and ate
little. From his sofa, Arifbey reached for small portions with his long right arm.
The young officers raised their glasses somewhat stiffly in a silent toast to their host. The older ones drank attentively, their eyes lowered, with a knowing and preoccupied expression.
The Žilavka repaid several times over the attention it received. And it did so quickly and powerfully, you noticed nothing inside you or around you other than its gold and green vistas, with a hint of the vast blue southern sky in the distance and a succession of promises, which brought a blissful smile to the face. A precious wine from a hard, dry and blessed land, after all the dull and dubious drinks served here. It was as if one was drinking laughter and song and, after the third glass, greeted the world around with nothing but laughter and song. Feeling the need to say so, the officers fidgeted in their seats and outdid each other in praising the new wine and giving it affectionate names in various languages. Dr. Fritz stood up and, with his arms outstretched as in a blessing, pronounced the soldiers’ motto:
“Vita militum est male vivere et bene bibere!”
This was met with uproar and applause. The last course arrived: real pancakes. The cook was the doctor’s countryman, Viennese. Some found them cold, others leathery. They all joked at the expense of the Austrian mehlspeise. The moment had come when Dr. Fritz was obliged to sing his long student song that began:
“Bibit hera, bibit herus,
bibit miles, bibit clerus . . .”
As he sang in his deep, colorless baritone, solemnly and seriously as if at a gathering of his student society, three more young officers arrived, greeted the company and sat down. Arifbey had invited them to come after lunch, to sample the new discovery and “help raise a barrel of the Mostar wine called Žilavka.” Among them was Captain Jaroslav Kot, tall, pale, with long black hair like an Italian musician’s that fell in straight tresses. With the romantic good looks of a ladies’ man, he was the taciturn and acerbic philosopher of this group.
The doctor’s quiet song had been long since replaced by the rhythm of Polish jigs, which contained under all their gaiety and mischief a hint of old tears. The officers had by now risen from their seats. They danced a Krakoviak polka, and the thin floor of Mujaga’s house, not built for such guests and such activity, sagged under their boots with a dull sob. The czardas, danced by the two enraptured Hungarians, who accompanied it with a song, seemed beyond the capacity of this kind of architecture.
In the drawing room and the room next door little groups formed, absorbed in lively, indistinct conversations. Only Arifbey sat motionless, smiling and not talking more or more loudly than usual. But the others made up for him. The effect of the Žilavka was instantaneous. As it was swallowed, it was easy on the palate, innocent, charming, but when it began to make itself felt, it was thunderous, disagreeable, aggressive. It tended to dig up old scores and easily provoked altercations. No one tried to dance any more; this wine tripped the feet and loosened the tongue.
Now they were all quarrelling and shouting. A strange drunken binge was raging in the middle of the day. Sweating, red in the face or pale, fuming with rage or enthusiasm, their buttons loosened, bare-headed, the officers moved from room to room or sat motionless, their legs outstretched, their hands in the pockets of their riding breeches, their chins on their chests, gazing at the tips of their boots, or pacing nervously the length of the bright porch, gesturing and talking.
Everyone talked at the same time, all of them trying to prove something or convince someone of something. No one listened or heard, and if they did respond it was only to express, better and more succinctly, their own drunken, burning and fleeting thought. They spoke in several languages. When the talk was about the past, and when drunk they talked a lot about the past, perhaps to make up for never mentioning it when sober, the Poles spoke Polish among themselves, the Hungarians Hungarian, their common language was German, and conversations about present matters, about their duties, women, drink and money, as well as jokes and ripostes, were usually in Turkish. Into all that Babel mix of tongues, from time to time Dr. Fritz tossed one of his numerous Latin pronouncements in verse or prose. And it was all mixed up and lost in the din and song and banging of objects and beating of fists on the table and boots on the floor.
That is how it was with every drinking session, but particularly on the day when the tasting of Arifbey’s new wine had turned out so unexpectedly, carrying everyone away and becoming a drinking spree at an unfortunate time. The Žilavka removed all restraint in them, loosened their brakes, enflamed their imaginations, shrouded reality, and between imagination and reality it erected new, miraculous bridges. All their instincts were released and all logic buried. Each man was now walking, as if in his own private garden, through a boundless expanse composed of what is, what is not, what was and will never return, what had never been nor ever would be. And each man talked about what he saw and felt there. To say what he wanted, what he had to say, no one any longer needed either a justified prompt or a specific form. Everything came of its own accord. The conversations ran parallel, intertwining or colliding, they had no connection or internal sense. But to those speaking it seemed that everything emerged with miraculous logic from everything else, connected like a question and answer, which made these unusual conversations harmonious, clever, truthful, rich in meaning and full of charm. In them, like children in a game, these serious and unhappy people performed exploits, became what they wished for, realized what they had imagined. And in the midst of this restless sea of miracles and fairy tales there appeared fleetingly, like solid islands, perceptive and accurate observations out of the suspended reality of their everyday exile life.
It was all just a hubbub of arguments and songs, loud monologues or simple yelling through which individuals expelled the fiery breath of this unfamiliar wine. And so neither the end nor the beginning of a song or remark could be made out, just disjointed fragments whose connection and sense was hard to grasp.
THE AUDIENCE
IN THE autumn, when the rains began and it grew suddenly cold, Omer Pasha recalled the army back into the towns, and he returned to Sarajevo, letting it be known that he was preparing to winter there. In fact, that too was just one of his military ploys. His troops were equipped and trained for winter fighting, but he did not want it known. Familiar with the Bosnian rebels and their age-old pattern of warfare, he calculated that their armed groups would in any case largely disperse before the winter. By withdrawing to Sarajevo, he wanted to create the impression that he too was unable to fight through the winter, thereby encouraging as many rebels as possible to abandon their positions and go home. And when that happened, he would take advantage of the first dry winter days to surprise and attack the scattered and depleted rebel forces that had remained in their positions. Experience and theory had taught him that the operations with most chance of success were those that your opponent believed you would not be able to take on.
The seraskier used this time from the end of autumn to the beginning of winter to establish connections with the most prominent men of all three faiths from around the country. Some came of their own accord, and others by invitation. There was a succession of deputations to Sarajevo. To all of them the seraskier explained his intention of implementing the sultan’s decree in full and without hesitation. Through threats and flattery, gifts and blackmail, he endeavored to put them under an obligation to him or to scare them, one way or another to force them to assist him in this task.
At the beginning of November, the village headman, Knez Bogdan Zimonjić, arrived in Sarajevo, with four other leaders from eastern Herzegovina. The five had led the company that defeated Pivodić, the commander of Ali Pasha’s force at Zijevanj, having first refused an invitation to join them and march against Omer Pasha’s army. Now the seraskier had invited them to thank them for their loyalty and give instructions about the further management and maintenance of peace and order. But Omer Pasha had another, far more important reason for talking to these men
in person. He knew that, in the campaign to stamp out hotbeds of resistance and unrest, Bosnia would in all probability be followed by Montenegro, and that task would definitely be entrusted to him. He was preparing for it in the greatest secrecy. And for such a campaign against Montenegro it was important that there was peace on the Herzegovinian-Montenegrin border and that he be able to rely, at least in part, on the more prominent men among the Serbs there. That is why he was planning, through promises and gifts, to win over one of these village headmen, Zimonjić himself, if possible, to his cause, to question him about the situation on the border, and establish the extent to which he would be able in future to count on his assistance.
Omer Pasha received Knez Bogdan alone, as the most important and prominent of the men, while the others remained downstairs in the large adjutant’s room. As he was led up to the big reception room on the first floor, the wooden stairs creaked and groaned under the tall, heavy Zimonjić. When he found himself face-to-face with Omer Pasha in the bright, carpeted room, with the clear November daylight pouring in through the windows, the knez paused for a moment, like a mountaineer in a clearing on a plateau, blinked and bent his head slightly back to see better around him and get his bearings. Omer left him to this for a moment, then warmly and simply invited him to sit down.
“Here, next to me.”
When he talked like this, one-on-one, with influential representatives of the people, Omer adopted a special timbre and tone of voice. He drew the tone from among his deeply buried memories of the speech of people from the Lika region and Bosnians he had listened to at fairs in his childhood. He was convinced that, speaking in such a familial way, he was irresistible, able to move everyone and win them over. But in this he was a victim of self-delusion and over-confidence, often the case with people who, because of exceptional success in their lives, have too much faith in their own strength and intelligence, and too little respect for that of others. Striving to speak cordially, directly and in a rough common style, he forgot how far the many years and his rapid rise in Istanbul had distanced him from the common people to whom he had never in any case been close. Self-confident and sure of himself, he was unable to judge the way a false note broke through his artificial way of speaking and behavior, of which everyone apart from himself was aware and which had exactly the opposite effect. That is why, at least on this occasion, he was betrayed by precisely what he thought would mislead and deceive his interlocutor.