Bosnian Chronicle

by Ivo Andrić

  “Enlightenment won’t do us any good unless we also have faith in God,” interrupted the friar. “Even in Europe this enlightenment won’t last any length of time. But while it lasts, it can only bring upheaval and misfortune.”

  “You are wrong, my dear Fra Julian. Wrong from the bottom up. A little more upheaval here wouldn’t do you any harm. You can see that the people of Bosnia are divided into three, even four religions—divided and at one anothers’ throats. All of them together are cut off from Europe—that is, from the world and life at large—by an impassable wall. Watch out, or you may find yourself committing the historical sin of not having grasped this, of leading your people in the wrong direction, of not getting them ready in time for what is undoubtedly their due and birthright. Among the Christians of the Turkish Empire one hears more and more talk of freedom and liberation. And really, one day freedom is bound to come to these countries. But you know the old saying, it’s not enough to become free, it’s much more important to deserve freedom. Getting rid of the Turkish rule won’t help you much unless you have modern education and liberal ideas. In all these centuries your people have become so much like their oppressors that they will gain very little if the Turks should go away one day, leaving them not only with their own weaknesses as a subject people but with a legacy of Turkish faults as well—idleness, intolerance, violence, and the cult of brute force. What kind of liberation would that be? You would not deserve freedom and wouldn’t know how to enjoy it. You would be the same as the Turks, who don’t know anything but slavery and how to enslave others. There’s no doubt that one day your country will join the European family, but it might very well happen that she will do so divided and weighted down by a legacy of prejudice, habits, and tendencies which have become outdated everywhere else and which, like some malevolent ghosts, will stand in the way of her normal development and make of her an antiquated curiosity, an easy target for any comer, just as today she is for the Turk. I think your people deserve better. You can see for yourself that no nation, no country in Europe, would think of basing its future progress on religion—”

  “Exactly, that’s the whole tragedy,” Fra Julian broke in.

  “No, it’s a tragedy to live as you do.”

  “When you live without God and betray the faith of your ancestors, that’s tragedy. Whereas we, with all our mistakes and flaws, have remained true to it. You can say about us, ‘Multum peccavit, sed fidem non negavit’—He sinned much but did not deny his faith.”

  Fra Julian was pleased with his quotation. Presently the young men’s argument came back to where it had started. Both believed firmly in what they were saying, but neither made himself very clear or listened to what the other said.

  Desfosses had stopped by an old plum tree that was gnarled and covered with thick green lichen. “Did it never occur to you,” he said, “that one day when the Turkish Empire falls and abandons these parts, these people under the Turkish yoke, calling themselves different names and professing different faiths, will have to find some common ground for their existence, a broader, better, more sensible and humane rule of life—”

  “We Catholics have had this rule a long time—the Credo of the Roman Catholic Church. We don’t need any better rule.”

  “But you know, not all your compatriots in Bosnia and the Balkans belong to that Church. And you never will—all of you together, that is. No one in Europe associates any more on that basis, don’t you see? You ought to be looking for some other common denominator.”

  They were interrupted by the swelling chorus of peasant song coming from the Church. Timid and ragged at first, then waxing stronger, mixed female and male voices rang out in unison, in a droning peasant monotone: “Ha-a-il, Bo-o-dy of Je-e-su-us.” The singing grew in volume. The massive, squatting church without a belfry, roofed in a dark-colored wood and slightly askew all the way from the apse to the façade, began to roar and echo like a ship casting off, her sails billowing in the wind, a crew of unseen singers on its deck.

  They both stopped talking for a moment. Desfosses wanted to know the words of the hymn which the congregation was singing with so much pious enthusiasm, and the friar translated it word for word. Its general meaning reminded him of the ancient Church hymn:

  “Ave verum corpus natum

  De Maria virgine . . .”

  While the friar was searching for words to render the second verse, Desfosses followed his efforts absently; he was in fact giving all his attention to the doleful, simple, grave, and crude melody that reminded him now of the united bleating of an enormous flock of sheep, now of the soughing winds in a dark forest. And at the same time he asked himself whether it was possible that this shepherd’s dirge reverberating through the squat church could be expressing the same idea and the same faith as the singing of the well-fed, learned canons or the pale seminary students in the French cathedrals. “This is Urjammer, a howl of primeval misery,” he said to himself, remembering Daville’s and von Mitterer’s opinion of Musa’s song, and instinctively he walked deeper into the plum orchard, trying to escape the melody like someone averting his head from an unspeakably sad scene.

  There, at a distance from the church, Desfosses and the friar resumed their conversation, swapping arguments in which each one stuck to his original position.

  “Ever since I came to Bosnia,” said Desfosses, “I’ve asked myself how it is that you Franciscans, who’ve had some schooling and have seen something of the world outside, who are at bottom good men and genuine altruists, do not have a broader, freer outlook and fail to grasp the needs of the age. How is it that you don’t feel the human urge to gather your people together and seek with them a saner, more dignified kind of life?”

  “With Jacobin Clubs, for instance?”

  “My dear Fra Julian, Jacobin Clubs have been out of date for a long time, even in France.”

  “No, they’ve been absorbed in the ministries and schools.”

  “And you here don’t even have schools, or anything else for that matter. And one of these days, when civilization catches up with you, you won’t know any more how to take it. You will be torn apart, bewildered, a shapeless mass without a head or a goal, lacking every organic link with the rest of mankind or with your own countrymen or even with your closest fellow-citizens.”

  “But still believing in God, monsieur.”

  “Believing, yes, believing! Do you think you’re the only ones who believe in God? Millions of people do, you know. Everyone in his fashion. But that doesn’t give anyone the right to stand aside and shut himself off in a cocoon of unhealthy pride, turning his back on humanity, often even on his neighbor next door.”

  Groups of people began to come out of the church, although the peasant singing still went on like the rhythmic rolling of a bell that was growing fainter and fainter. Madame Daville also appeared and brought their endless discussion to a halt.

  They had lunch in the monastery, where Fra Julian and Desfosses continued their dickering at the table. Then they took leave of each other, forever, parting the best of friends. Madame Daville and the young man started back for Travnik.

  Daville took Desfosses to an audience with the Vizier, to pay his respects and take his leave. He thus saw Ibrahim Pasha once more. The Vizier was gloomier and more ponderous than ever; he talked in a deep hoarse voice and rolled his words slowly, moving his lower jaw to and fro as if grinding them. His tired, bloodshot eyes gazed at the young man with an effort, almost crossly. One could see that his mind was a world away, that he had trouble understanding this youth who was saying good-bye and moving off in God knew what direction, that he did not particularly care if he understood him and only wanted to be rid of it all as soon as possible.

  But the official visit to the Austrian Consulate was brief and went off well. The Colonel received him with a sort of melancholy dignity, but kindly, and regretted that Frau von Mitterer was unable to see him on account of a severe and persistent migraine.

  Taking leave of Davill
e was a more difficult and wearisome matter. In addition to written reports, the young man was to take with him a number of verbal messages that were complicated and ambiguously worded. As the day of his departure drew near, the messages were modified and qualified over and over again, and expanded with fresh recommendations. In the end the young man had no clear idea of what he was supposed to say about life in Travnik or the work of the Consulate, as Daville filled his head with endless complaints, requests, observations, and remarks, some of which were intended for the Minister in person, some for both the Minister and his Department, some only for Desfosses, and some for the world in general. The labyrinthine subtlety and pedantic hedging of these innumerable messages numbed the young man and caused him to yawn and think of other things.

  On the last day of October the Chancellor left Travnik in a freezing, unseasonable blizzard, like the one in which he had arrived. Travnik was not a town that gradually floated out of sight on the horizon; it sank abruptly into its hold and vanished. It dropped like that out of the young man’s consciousness too. The last he saw of it was the fortress, squat and vaulted like a helmet, and a mosque and a minaret next to it, straight and slender like a plume. On top of the sheer cliff to the right of the citadel, he could barely make out the large abandoned house in which he had once called on Cologna.

  As he passed along the good level road toward the Tombs, young Desfosses thought about the old doctor, about his fate, and about the strange conversation they had had that night long ago: “You’re living here now, but you know that sooner or later you’ll go back to your own country, to a better and finer life. You’ll wake up and throw off this nightmare, but we never will, for it is the only life we know.”

  As on that night when he had sat next to him in the smoke-filled room, he felt again that breath which hovered around the doctor—like some great and mysterious excitement—and heard his warm and intimate whisper: “In the end, when all is truly said and done, everything is still for the best and all things find their good and just solution.”

  That was how Desfosses left Travnik, remembering, of all things, only the luckless “Illyrian doctor” and thinking of him during a few brief moments. But only a few moments—for youth spends little time on memories and does not linger long on the same thoughts.

  18

  From the very first, life in the French Consulate had been centered in the family. It was a true family life, the kind that depended so much on the wife, a life in which the living reality of family sentiment overcame all changes and shocks, a life of births, dying, troubles, joys, and a beauty unknown to the outside world. This life reached out beyond the confines of the Consulate and achieved what no other thing could possibly achieve, no force, no bribe, no persuasion: it brought the inmates of the Consulate closer to the people of the town, at least to some extent, and this in spite of the hate which, as we have seen, was still felt against the Consulate as such.

  Already the year before, when the Daville family had lost their child so suddenly, there was hardly a house in town that did not know every detail of the sad event and did not take a lively and sympathetic interest in it. And for long months afterwards, during Mme Daville’s rare visits to town, people on the street still turned to look after her with a feeling of wistful compassion. Moreover, the domestic help and the women of Dolats and Travnik—especially Jewish women—had spread tales of the harmonious family life and the “golden touch” of Mme Daville, her deftness, her thrift, her housekeeping, and the cleanliness of her home. Even in Moslem houses, where no one ever mentioned the foreign consulates without spitting to avert the evil eye, everyone knew in detail how Madame Consul bathed her children before putting them to bed, what frocks they wore, how their hair was combed, and the color of ribbons used in tying it.

  So it was natural that Mme Daville’s pregnancy and delivery were a matter of close and anxious concern to the women of all households, almost as if she were an old friend and neighbor. They speculated about the “month” she was in and the way she carried her “burden,” whether she had changed noticeably and how she planned to do her lying-in. It then became apparent what great and important things birth and motherhood were in the life of these people, a life that was otherwise starved of joy and change.

  At the appointed time the old woman Matishichka came to the Consulate; she was the widow of a respected but insolvent merchant and was considered the best midwife in the whole of Dolats. The old woman, who attended all the deliveries among the well-to-do families, embellished even more Mme Daville’s reputation as mother and housewife. She described in detail the order and all the neatness and beauty of the house, which was “cleaner than paradise,” it smelled so sweet and was heated and lighted down to the last corner; she reported about the Consul’s wife, who even at the very last moment, in her labor pains, gave orders and instructions from her bed, with a mere “nod of the eyes,” and about her piety and unbelievable patience under pain; and finally, about the Consul’s solicitude which was so full of love and yet dignified, which you would never find among the local husbands. For years to come old Matishichka would talk about it to young expectant mothers when they became too excited from fear and pain, and would cite the example of the French Consul’s wife to shame them and calm them down.

  The child which was born at the end of February was a girl.

  Messages of congratulations began to pour in from the homes of Travnik and Dolats, proving anew that the people, though not yet reconciled to the existence of the Consulate, did feel closer to the Daville family. Housewives from Dolats arrived, all rustling and pink-cheeked, in fur-lined jackets of satin, solemn and waddling like ducks on ice. Behind each one came a frozen page-boy, an apprentice of her husband’s, stepping gingerly, his ears tingling with cold and a runny “icicle” forming under his nose, which he could not wipe off as his outstretched hands were full of wrapped gift packages. A number of the begs’ wives also sent their gypsy maids with presents to inquire about the health of the Consul’s wife. The gifts were displayed in the birth chamber—copper trays of baklava, stacks of fruitcakes, like miniature firewood, embroidery and rolls of silk linen, demijohns and flasks of plum brandy and mulled wine, stoppered with a few leaves of a window plant.

  As once before, after the death of Daville’s little son, Frau von Mitterer now took a lively interest in the event. She brought as a gift for the newborn a lovely and costly Italian gold medallion, studded with flowers of diamond and black enamel; and stayed on to tell its complicated and touching history. She came back several times during those days and seemed to be a little disappointed that everything went off so easily and smoothly, with no dramatic developments or cause for excitement. She sat by Mme Daville’s bedside and chatted long and disjointedly about all that was in store for the little creature, about the women’s lot in society and about fate in general. From her high white pillows, Mme Daville, small and pale, gazed at her and listened without appearing to understand.

  But the biggest and finest birthday present came from the Vizier—a huge ornamental bowl full of sweets, tied first with silk ribbons and then covered with a length of orange-red Brusa brocade. The bowl was carried by several boys, preceded by an official from the Residency. They had carried the bowl like this all the way through the bazaar, just before noon.

  D’Avenat, who sooner or later knew about everything, learned in due course about the trouble they had had in getting the bowl out of the Residency. The difficulties had started with the Treasurer. As always, Baki had tried to spare expenses and to cut the size of the Vizier’s gift. They started to choose bowls and consulted about the type of wrapping to go with it. The Vizier had ordered that the sweets be sent in the largest bowl that could be found in the Residency. Baki first tried to convince him that there was no need to make a present at all, since this was not a custom among the “Franks,” but when that didn’t help he went and hid the largest bowl and substituted a smaller one; but the servants of Tahir Beg found it. The Treasurer gave t
hem a tongue-lashing, in a voice that was choked with fury: “Go and get a larger one still! Give them the whole courtyard, why don’t you! Give it all away, make presents, ruin us all!” When he saw them selecting a covering from the finest piece of material, he screamed again, threw himself on the floor, lay on the fabric, and wrapped the ends around him. “No, no, you don’t! I won’t give it to you! Robbers, wastrels! Why don’t you give away your own!”

  They could hardly separate him from the precious material, which they proceeded to wrap around the bowl. They left Baki still wailing like a wounded man, cursing all the consuls and consulates on earth, all births and nursing mothers and the idiotic custom of birthday presents, and his own sorry Vizier who no longer knew how to defend and preserve the little that was left but listened to his mad spendthrift of a Secretary, who scattered money and presents left and right, on Moslems and unbelievers alike.

  The child in the French Consulate was christened a month later, at the first letup in the cold weather that gripped the town at the very end of the winter that year. The baby girl was named Eugénie-Stéphanie-Annunziata and recorded in the Register of Births in the parish of Dolats on March 25, in the year 1810, the day of the Feast of the Annunciation.

  That year—a year of peace and high hopes—brought everyone at least a partial fulfillment of his desires and expectations.

  At long last von Mitterer received clear instructions on how to comport himself vis-à-vis the French Consul. (“On private occasions with politeness, even cordiality, but in public, before the Moslems and the Christians, you are to refrain from any demonstration of friendliness and maintain a certain dignified distance and reserve, etc., etc.”) Armed with the directive, von Mitterer went about it more easily and a little less self-consciously. The only cramping element was Anna Maria, who never bowed to anyone’s instructions and set her own standards of conduct and discretion.