by Ivo Andrić
bloodlust. All that took place still had the outer semblance of dignity and the
attraction of novelty, a terrible, shortlived and inexpressible charm which later
disappearedsocompletelythateventhosewhothenfeltitsostronglycouldno
longerevokeitsmemory.
But these are all things which we recall only in passing and which poets and
scientistsofcomingageswillinvestigate,interpretandresurrectbymethodsand
mannerswhichwedonotsuspectandwithaserenity,freedomandboldnessof
spirit which will be far above ours. Probably they will succeed in finding an
explanationevenforthatstrangeyearandwillgiveititstrueplaceinthehistory
oftheworldandthedevelopmentofhumanity.Buthereitisuniqueforus,for
aboveallthatwasthefatalyearforthebridgeontheDrina.
Thesummerof1914willremaininthememoryofthosewholivedthroughitas
the most beautiful summer they ever remembered, for in their consciousness it
shoneandflamedoveragiganticanddarkhorizonofsufferingandmisfortune
whichstretchedintoinfinity.
That summer did in fact begin well, better than so many earlier summers. The
plumsripenedastheyhadnotdonefor«longbefore,andthewheatpromiseda
good harvest. After ten years or so of troubles and commotions, the people
hopedforatleastalullandagoodyearwhichwouldrecompenseineveryway
fortheharmsandmisfortunesofearlieryears.(Themostdeplorableandtragic
ofallhumanweaknessesisundoubtedlyourtotalincapacityforseeingintothe
future, which is in sharp contrast to so many of our gifts, our skills and our
knowledge.)
Sometimesthereissuchayearwhentheheatofthesunandthemoistureofthe
earthcombine,andthewholeVišegradvalleytremblesfromthesuberabundance
of its force and the universal urge towards fecundity. The earth swells and
everythinginitburstsvigorouslyintobudsandleavesandblossomsandbrings
forthfruitahundredfold.Thatbreathoffertilitycouldeasilybeseenquivering
likeawarmbluecloudovereveryfurrowandeveryheapofearth.Thecowsand
goats walked with hindlegs astraddle and moved with difficulty because of
swollen and brimming udders. The fish in the river which every year at the
beginningofsummercameinshoalsdowntheRzavtospawnatitsmouthwere
in such numbers that the children scooped them out of the shallows in buckets
andthrewthemontothebank.Theporousstoneofthebridgebecamesofterand
as if it were alive swelled with the force and abundance which beat upwards
from the soil and hovered over the whole town in the heat of the dog-days in
whicheverythingbreathedmorequicklyandmaturedmorevigorously.
SuchsummerswerenotfrequentintheVišegradvalley.Butwhenoneoccurred,
men forgot all the bad days that had been and did not even think of the
misfortuneswhichmightstillbeinstore,butlivedwiththethreefoldintensityof
thelifeofthevalleyuponwhichtheblessingsoffertilityhadfallen,themselves
onlyapartinthatgameofmoistureandheatandripeningjuices.
Eventhepeasantswhoalwaysfoundoccasiontocomplainofsomethinghadto
agreethattheyearhadfruitedwell,buttoeverywordofpraisetheyaddedthe
qualification:'Ifthisweatherholds....'Themerchantsofthemarketplacethrew
themselves headlong into business like bees into the cups of flowers. They
scatteredintothevillagesaroundthetowntomakedepositpaymentsonwheat
intheearandplumsstillinblossom.Thepeasants,bewilderedbythisinvasion
ofeagerbuyers,aswellasbythelargeandexceptionalyield,stoodbesidetheir
fruit trees already bending under the weight of fruit or beside the fields which
werelikewavesinthewind,andcouldnotbesufficientlyprudentandrestrained
todealwiththetownsmenwhohadtakenthetroubletocometovisitthem.That
prudenceandrestraintgavetheirfacesashutteredandanxiousexpression,twin
ofthatmaskofwoewornbypeasantfacesinyearsofbadharvest.
When the merchants were rich and powerful, it was the peasants who came to
them.OnmarketdaystheshopofPavleRankovićwasalwaysfullofpeasantsin
needofreadymoney.SotoowastheshopofSantoPapowhohadforlongbeen
theleadingfigureamongtheVišegradJews,forevendespitethefactthatbanks,
mortgage banks and other credit facilities had long existed in the town, the
peasants, especially the older ones, liked to commit themselves in the old-
fashionedwaywiththemerchantsfromwhomtheyboughttheirgoodsandwith
whomtheirfathersbeforethemhadcontractedobligations.
SantoPapo'sshopwasoneofthehighestandmostsolidintheVišegradmarket.
Itwasbuiltofstone,withthickwallsandafloorofstoneflags.Theheavydoors
andwindow-shutterswereofwroughtironandtherewerethickclosegrilleson
thetallandnarrowwindows.
The front part of the building served as a shop. Along the walls were wooden
shelvesfilledwithenamelware.Fromtheceiling,whichwasexceptionallyhigh,
sothatitwaslostinthegloom,hunglightergoods:lanternsofallsizes,coffee-
pots,traps,mouse-trapsandotherobjectsoftwistedwire.Allthesehungingreat
bunches. Around the long counter were piled boxes of nails, sacks of cement,
plaster and various paints; hoes, shovels and mattocks without handles were
strung on wire in heavy garlands. In the corners were large tin containers with
paraffin, turpentine and lamp-black. It was cool there even in the height of
summerandevenatnoonwasdarkandgloomy.
But most of the stock was in the rooms behind the shop, through a low entry
with iron doors. The heavy goods were kept there: iron stoves, crowbars,
ploughshares,picksandotherlargetools.Theywereallpiledupingreatheaps
sothatonecouldonlywalkbetweenthepiledgoodsalongthenarrowpathsasif between high walls. Perpetual darkness reigned there and no one entered save
withalantern.
A chill dank air of stone and metal, which nothing could warm or disperse,
exuded from the thick walls, stone ceiling and piled up iron. That air in a few
years transformed the lively and red-cheeked apprentices into silent, pale and
puffy assistants, but made them skilful and thrifty. It was undoubtedly harmful
alsotothegenerationsofshopkeepersbutitwasatthesametimesweetanddear
tothemsinceitmeantthefeelingofproperty,thethoughtofgainandthesource
ofriches.
Themanwhonowsatinthefrontpartofthecool,half-litshopatasmalltable
beside a great green Wertheim safe in no way resembled that turbulent and
vivaciousSantowhohadonce,thirtyyearsbefore,hadhisownspecialwayof
shouting'RumforOorkan!'.Thepassageofyearsandtheworkintheshophad
changed him. Now he was heavy and p
onderous and yellow in the face; dark
rings about his eyes stretched half way down his cheeks; his eyes had grown
weak, those black and protruding eyes which now peered out from behind
spectacles with thick lenses and metal rims, with a severe and yet timid
expression.Hestillworehischerry-colouredfezasalastremnantofhisonetime
Turkish costume. His father, Mente Papo, a wizened and bald old man in his
eighties, was still in reasonable health though his sight was failing. He would
come to the shop on sunny days. With his watery eyes which seemed to be
meltingawaybehindthickspectacleshewouldlookathissonseatedbythesafe
andhisgrandsonatthecounter,breatheinthataromaofhisshopandthenreturn
home at a slow pace, his right hand resting on the shoulder of his ten-year-old
great-grandson.
Santo had six daughters and five sons, most of them married. His eldest son,
Rafo,alreadyhadgrown-upchildrenwhohelpedhisfatherintheshop.Oneof
Rafo's sons, who bore his grandfather's name, was at the Sarajevo secondary
school. He was a pale, short-sighted and slender youth who at the age of eight
had known perfectly how to recite the poems of the patriotic poet Zmaj, but
otherwisewasnotgoodathisstudies,didnotliketogotothesynagogueorhelp
in his grandfather's shop during the holidays and said that he was going to
becomeanactororsomethingequallyfamousandunusual.
Santo sat bowed over the huge, worn and greasy counter with an alphabetical
ledger, and in front of him, on an empty nailbox, squatted the peasant Ibro
ĆemanovićofUzavnica.SantowasreckoninguphowmuchIbroalreadyowed
him and therefore how much and on what conditions he could obtain a fresh
loan.
'Sinquenta, sinquenta i ocho . . . sinquenta i ocho, sesienta i tres . . . ,' Santo whispered,reckoninginLadinoSpanish.
Thepeasantwatchedhimwithanxiousanticipationasifwatchinganincantation
and not listening to the account which he already knew to the last para and whichranthroughhisheadevenwhenhewasasleep.WhenSantofinishedand
announced the amount of the loan with interest, the peasant murmured slowly:
'Willthatbeso...?'merelytogaintimeenoughtocomparehisownreckoning
withSanto's.
'So it is, Ibraga, and in no way different,' replied Santo in the formula time-
honouredinsuchcases.
After they had agreed on the state of present indebtedness, the peasant had to
demandafreshloanandSantotomakeclearthelikelihoodandtheconditions.
But that was no rapid or easy task. A conversation developed between them,
similarintheminutestdetailtotheconversationswhich,tenyearsagoormore,
also before the harvest, had been held in this same spot between the father of
Ibro from Uzavnica and Santo's father, Mente Papo. The main subject of the
conversation would be broached in a torrent of words which meant nothing in
themselvesandwhichseemedentirelysuperfluousandalmostsenseless.Anyone
uninitiated,lookingatthemandlisteningtothem,mighteasilyhavethoughtthat
thetalkhadnothingtodowithmoneyoraloan,oratleastsoitoftenappeared.
'Theplumsarewellforwardandbroughtforthmuchfruitamongstus,evenmore
than in any other district,' said Santo. 'It has been years since there was such a crop.'
'Yes, thanks be, they have borne well enough; if Allah permits the weather to
holdtherewillbefruitandbread.Onecannotdenyit.Onlywhoknowswhatthe
pricewillbe,'saidtheanxiouspeasant,rubbinghisthumbalongtheseamofhis
heavygreenclothtrousersandlookingatSantooutofthecornerofhiseye.
'There is no way of telling that now, but we shall know by the time you bring
themtoVišegrad.Youknowthesaying;thepriceisintheowner'shands.'
'Yes, that is so. If Allah allows them to ripen and mature,' the peasant again
qualified.
'WithoutGod'swill,naturally,thereisnogatheringnorreaping;howevermuch man looks to what he has sown, it will avail him nothing if he have not God's
blessing,' broke in Santo, raising his hand to heaven to show whence that
blessing should come, somewhere high above those heavy blackened rafters of
the shop from which hung peasant lanterns of all sizes and bundles of other
goods.
'Itwillavailnothing,youareright,'sighedIbro.'Amansowsandplantsbutitis
just as if, by the Great and Only God, he had thrown it all into the water; one digs, hoes, prunes and picks, but no! If it is not so written there will be no
blessingonit.ButifGoddecidestogiveusagoodharvestthennoonewilllack
andamanmayclearhimselfofdebtandthenbecomeindebtedoncemore.Only
lethimkeephishealth!'
'Ah,yes.Healthisthemainthing.Nothingisasimportantashealth.Soisman's
life;givehimeverythingandtakehealthfromhimanditisasifheweregiven
nothing,'affirmedSanto,turningtheconversationinthatdirection.
Thenthepeasantalsoexpressedhisviewsonhealth,whichwerejustasgeneral
and commonplace as Santo's. For a moment it seemed as if the whole
conversationwouldbe lostinfutilities andgeneralizations.But atafavourable
moment,asifbysomeancientritual,hereturnedtotheopeningquestion.Then
beganthebargainingforanewloan,overtheamount,theinterest,thetermsand
the methods of payment. They discussed it for long, now vivaciously, now
quietly and anxiously, but in the end they came to an agreement. Then Santo
rose, took a bunch of keys on a chain from his pocket and without removing
themfromthechain,unlockedthesafewhichbeganbycreaking,openedslowly
andsolemnlyandthen,likealllargesafes,closedwithafinemetallicnoiselike
asigh.Hecountedoutthemoneytothepeasant,downtothecopper hellers, all
withthesamecareandattention,withasolemnitythatseemedalittlesad.Then
inachangedandmoreanimatedvoice:
'Well,isthatallrightbyyou,Ibraga?Areyousatisfied?'
'Yes,byGod,'thepeasantrepliedquietlyandpensively.
'May God send you blessing and profit! Till we meet again in good health and
goodfriendship,'saidSanto,nowquitelivelyandgay;andhesenthisgrandson
tothecaféacrossthewayfortwocoffees,'onebitter,onesweet'..
Asecondpeasantwasalreadyawaitinghisturninfrontoftheshopboundonthe
sameerrandandsimilarreckonings.
With these peasants and their reckoning about the coming harvest and the gathering of the plums, the warm and heavy breath of an exceptionally fruitful
year penetrated into the twilit gloom of Santo's shop. The green steel safe
sweated from it and Santo stretched the collar around his fat, soft, yellowish
neck with his forefinger and wiped t
he steam off his spectacles with a
handkerchief.
So didsummerbegin.
Butnonethelessattheverybeginningofthatyearofblessingtherefellatiny
shadow of fear and sorrow. In the early spring, at Uvac, a small place on the
former Turco-Austrian frontier and the new Serbo-Austrian border, a typhus
epidemicbrokeout.Astheplacewasonthefrontierandtwocaseshadoccurred
in the gendarmerie station, the Višegrad military doctor, Dr Balas, went there
with one male nurse and the necessary medicines. The doctor skilfully and
resolutely did all that was necessary to isolate the sick, and himself undertook
theirtreatment.Offifteenwhohadbeentakenillonlytwodiedandtheepidemic
waslimitedtothevillageofUvacandstampedoutatitssource.Thelastmanto
takeillwasDrBalashimself.Theinexplicablemannerinwhichhehadcaught
the disease, the shortness of his illness, the unexpected complications and
suddendeath,allborethestampofgenuinetragedy.
Because of the danger of infection the young doctor had to be buried at Uvac.
MadameBauerwithherhusbandandafewotherofficersattendedthefuneral.
She gave some money for a tombstone of roughly hewn granite to be erected
over the doctor's grave. Immediately afterwards she left both the town and her
husbandanditwasrumouredthatshehadgonetosomesanitoriumnearVienna.
Thiswasthestorycurrentamongthegirlsinthetown;theolderpeople,assoon
as the danger had passed and the measures against the epidemic ceased, forgot
boththedoctorandthecolonel'slady.Inexperiencedanduneducated,thetown
girlsdidnotknowexactlywhatthewordsanatoriummeant,buttheyhadknown
verywellwhatitmeantwhentwopersonswalkedaboutthepathsandfoothills
as the doctor and the colonel's wife had done until lately. Pronouncing that
strangewordintheirconfidentialdis-
cussionsabouttheunhappypair,theylovedtoimaginethatsanatoriumassome
sort of mysterious, distant and melancholy place in which beautiful and sinful
womenexpiatedtheirforbiddenloves.
Thatexceptionallylovelyandfruitfulsummergrewandmaturedoverthefields
