The Bridge on the Drina (50 page)

It was true that the long speeches of Glasičanin to which she had at first listened avidly, drinking them in like medicine, were now less interesting. At times this need for mutual confession and confidence weighed on her. She asked herself with genuine wonder how this closeness between them had come about, but then she remembered that last winter he had 'saved her soul' and, mastering her boredom, listened to him like a good debtor, as carefully as she could.

That summer night his hand was over hers (that was the ultimate limit of his modest daring). Through that contact the warm richness
of 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 dissatisfaction of his life was being transformed into fruitful power sufficient to take two people to even the most distant goal, if love bound them and sustained them.

Filled with those feelings in the darkness he was no longer the everyday Glasičanin, a minor clerk of the great Višegrad enterprise, but quite another man, strong and self-confident, who controlled his own life freely and far-sightedly. For a man filled with a great, true and unselfish love, even if it be on one side only, there open horizons and possibilities and paths which are closed and unknown to so many clever, ambitious and selfish men.

He spoke to the woman beside him.

'I do not think I am mistaken; if for no other reason, then just because I should never be able to deceive you. While some talk and rave and others do business and make gains, I follow everything and watch everything and I see more and more clearly that there is no sort of life here. For a long time there will be neither 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. Since we cannot help, we can at least save ourselves.'

The girl remained silent.

'I have never spoken to you about this, but I have thought often and much, 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 good wage. I know that it is not a simple matter to do all this, but I do not think it is impossible. I have thought everything over and calculated everything. I will sell the little property I have up there at Okolište. If you will say yes, we will get 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. We could wait there until Bogdan sends us an affidavit. In the interval we could learn English. If we are not successful, perhaps because of my military service, then we will cross over into Serbia and leave from there. I will arrange everything to make it as easy as possible for you. In America we will both work. There
are Serbian schools there where you could teach. I would easily find work there, for over there all jobs are open and unrestricted. We will be free and happy. I will arrange everything, if only you would ... if only you would agree.'

The young man stopped. By way of answer she put both her hands on his. In that he felt the expression of a great gratitude. But her answer was neither yes nor no. She thanked him for all his trouble and attention and for his boundless goodness and, in the name of that goodness, asked for a month before she gave him a definite answer; until the end of the school year.

'Thank you, Nikola, thank you! You are good to me!' she whispered, pressing his hands.

From the 
kapia 
below rose the sound of young men singing. They were Višegrad youths, perhaps also some students from Sarajevo. In a fortnight the university students were due to arrive. Until then she would not be able to come to any decision. Everything made her suffer, most of all the goodness of this man, but at that moment she would not have been able to say 'yes' even if she were to be cut to pieces. She no longer hoped for anything save to see once more 'that man who can love no one'. Once more, and then let be what would! Nikola would wait; that she knew.

They rose and, hand in hand, went slowly down the slope which led towards the bridge whence the singing came.

XXII

On Vidovdan the Serbs held their regular outing at Mezalin. Under the dense walnut-trees, at the the meeting of the two rivers Drina and Rzav, on the high green banks, tents were put up in which drinks were on sale and before which lambs were turning on spits over slow fires. Families who had brought their lunch with them sat in the shade. Below a canopy of fresh branches an orchestra was already playing. On the well beaten open space there had been a 
kolo 
since morning. Only the youngest and idlest were dancing, those who had come here directly after morning service, straight from the church. The real general outing only began in the afternoon. But the 
kolo 
was already lively and enthusiastic, better and more vigorous than it would be later on when the crowd came, and married women, unsatisfied widows and young children began to take part and when everything was transformed into a single long and gay, but haphazard and disconnected, garland. That shorter 
kolo 
in which more young men than girls were taking part was fast and furious, like a thrown lasso. Everything around it seemed to be moving, swaying to the rhythm of the music, the air, the thick crowns of the trees, the white summer clouds and the swift waters of the two rivers. The earth trembled under it and around it and seemed only to be trying to adapt its movement to the movements of the young bodies. Young men ran in from the main road to take their places in the
kolo, 
but the girls restrained themselves and stood for a time watching the dancing as if counting the beats and waiting for some secret impulse in themselves; then they would suddenly leap in to the 
kolo 
with lowered heads and slightly bended knees as if eagerly leaping into cold water. The powerful current passed from the warm earth into the dancing feet and spread along the chain of warm hands; on that chain the 
kolo 
pulsed like a single living thing, warmed by the same blood and carried away by the same rhythm. The young men danced with heads thrown back, pale and with quivering nostrils, while the young girls danced with reddened cheeks and modestly downcast eyes, lest their glances betray

the passion with which the dance had filled them.

At that moment, when the outing had only just begun, a number of gendarmes appeared at the edge of the meadow, their black uniforms and weapons shining in the afternoon light. There were more of them than was usual for the patrol which regularly visited fairs and outings. They went straight to the canopy where the musicians were playing. One after the other, irregularly, the players ceased. The 
kolo 
wavered and stopped. Young men's cries of protest could be heard. The dancers stood hand in hand. Some were so carried away and filled with the rhythm that they went on dancing where they were, waiting for the music to begin again. But the players rose in haste and wrapped up their trumpets and their violins. The gendarmes went on farther, to the tents and the families sitting on the grass. Everywhere the sergeant said his piece, in a low harsh voice, and like some magic charm the gaiety faded away, the dancing ceased and conversations were broken off. Whomever they approached left the place where he had been till then, forgot whatever he was doing, gathered up his things as quickly as possible and left. The last to disperse was the 
kolo 
of youths and girls. They did not want to abandon their dancing and could not get it into their heads that this was really the end of the gaiety and the outing. But when they saw the white face and bloodshot eyes of the sergeant of gendarmes even the most obstinate slunk away.

Disillusioned and perplexed, the people trailed back from Mezalin along the wide, white road; the farther they went into the town the more they heard vague and frightened whispers about the assassination that morning at Sarajevo and the death of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife and the persecution of the Serbs which was generally expected. In front of the Municipal Offices they came upon the first group of arrested men, amongst them the young priest Mihailo, being taken to prison.

So the second part of that summer day, which should have been a festival, was transformed into a bewildered, bitter and frightened expectation.

On the 
kapia, 
instead of a festival mood and the gaiety of men released from work, there was the silence of the dead. A guard had already been mounted. A soldier in a new uniform paced slowly from the 
sola 
to the spot where the iron manhole covered the way down into the mined pier. He marched these five or six paces incessantly, and at each turn his bayonet glinted in the sun like a signal. The next day, beneath the plaque with the Turkish inscription, a white official notice appeared on the wall, printed in large letters and surrounded by a thick black border. It announced the news of
the assassination and death in Sarajevo of the Crown Prince and expressed the indignation roused by this evil deed. None of the passers-by stopped to read it, but passed in front of the notice and the guard as quickly as possible with lowered heads.

From that time onward the guard remained on the bridge. The whole life of the town was suddenly interrupted, like the 
kolo 
at Mezalin and that July day which should have been a day of festivity.

The days to come were strange, filled with the avid reading of newspapers, of whispers, of fear and defiance, the arrests of Serbs and suspect travellers and the rapid reinforcement of military measures on the frontiers. The summer nights passed, but without song, without meetings of young men on the 
kapia 
and without the whispering of couples in the darkness. In the town mainly soldiers were to be seen. At nine o'clock at night when the buglers sounded the melancholy notes of the Austrian last-post in the cantonments at Bikavac and in the great barracks by the bridge, the streets were almost entirely deserted. Those were bad times for young lovers eager to meet and have private conversations. Every evening Glasičanin passed Zorka's house. She was sitting at an open window on the ground-floor. There they talked, but only for a short time, since he was in haste to cross the bridge and return to Okolište before nightfall.

So it happened that evening also. Pale, hat in hand, he begged the girl to come out to the gate for he had something private to tell her. After some hesitation she came. Standing on the threshold of the courtyard she was now level with the youth who spoke excitedly in a scarcely audible whisper.

'We have decided to flee. This evening. Vlado Marić and two others. I think that we have foreseen everything and that we shall get across. But if not... if something should happen. Zorka!'

The young man's whisper ceased. In her wide-open eyes he saw fear and embarrassment. He was deeply moved as if he regretted that he had spoken to her and come to say goodbye.

'I thought it better to tell you.'

Thank you! Then there is nothing of our... nothing of America!'

'No, not "nothing". Had you consented when I suggested a month ago that we should finish the matter at once, then perhaps we might already be far away from here. But perhaps it is better this way. Now you can see what the position is. I must go with my friends. The war is here already and there is need for all of us in Serbia. I must, Zorka, I must. It is my duty. If I come out of all this alive and if we become free, then it may no longer be necessary to go across the sea to America, for we shall have our own America here, a land in which

a man may work hard and honestly and live well and freely. There will be a life in it for both of us, if only you will consent. It will depend on you. I will... I will think of you over there, and you, and you ... sometimes ...'

Words failed him and he suddenly put up his hand and quickly stroked her rich chestnut hair. That had always been his greatest desire and now, like a condemned man, he felt permitted to fulfil it. The girl withdrew in fright and he remained with his hand in the air. The gate shut silently and a moment later Zorka appeared at the window, pale, with wide-open eyes and feverishly twisting fingers. The young man came close up to the window, threw his head back and revealed his face, laughing, carefree, almost handsome. As if afraid to see what would happen next, the girl drew back into the room which was already dark. There she sat down on her bed, bent her head and began to weep.

At first she wept quietly and then more and more unrestrainedly with a feeling of heavy, universal hopelessness. The more she wept, the more reason she found to weep as everything around her seemed more and more hopeless. There was no way out, no solution; never would she be able to love, truly and as he deserved, that good and honest Nikola who was going away; never would she live to see the day when that other one, who could love no one, should love her. Never again would she see those lovely, happy days which she had passed only last year in this town. Not a single one of the Serbs would ever succeed in coming alive out of that dark circle of mountains, nor would see America, nor would create here a land where, so they said, a man could work hard and live freely. Never!