Chelkash and Other Stories (6 page)

“Well, we all sat assembled, discussing affairs. Then things got dull. So Danilo asks Loiko: ‘Sing a song, Loiko, something to cheer the soul!' The lad glanced at Radda who was lying at a little distance with her face looking up into the sky, and drew his bow across the strings. The fiddle spoke as though it were really a maiden's heart, and Loiko sang:

“Radda turned her head, and rising on her elbow, smiled mockingly into the singer's eyes. He reddened like the dawn.

“Did he sing! Nobody sings like that any more! And Radda says, letting the words drop:

“‘You shouldn't fly so high, Loiko. You might fall and come down on your nose in a puddle and wet your moustache, be careful.' Loiko glared fiercely at her and said nothing—he swallowed it and went on singing:

“‘What a song!' said Danilo, ‘never heard anything like it before, may the Devil make a pipe out of me if I lie!' Old Noor twitched his moustache and shrugged his shoulders and everybody was delighted with that brave song of Zobar's! Only Radda didn't like it.

“ ‘That's how a wasp once buzzed when he tried to imitate the cry of an eagle,' said she, and it was as if she had thrown snow over us.

“‘Maybe you'd like a taste of the whip, Radda?' Danilo said, starting up, but Zobar threw his cap on the ground and spoke, his face as dark as the earth:

“‘Stop, Danilo! A spirited horse needs a steel bridle! Give your daughter to me as wife!'

“‘Now you've said something!' said Danilo with a smile. ‘Take her if you can!'

“‘Good!' said Loiko and spoke thus to Radda:

‘“Well, lass, listen to me a while and don't put on airs! I've seen a lot of your sisterhood in my time, aye quite a lot! But not one of them ever touched my heart like you have. Ah, Radda, you have snared my soul! Well? What's to be must needs be, and ... the steed does not exist on which one could escape from one's self! ... I take you to wife before God, my conscience, your father and all these people. But mind, you are not to oppose my will—1 am a free man and will live the way I want!' And he went up to her, his teeth clenched and eyes flashing. We saw him holding out his hand to her—now, thought we, Radda has bridled the horse of the steppe! Suddenly we saw his hand go up and he fell, hitting the ground with the back of his head with a crash! ...

“Good heavens! It was as if a bullet had struck the lad in the heart. Radda, it appears, had swept the whiplash round his legs and pulled it, sending him off his feet.

“There she was lying back again without stirring, with a mocking smile on her face. We waited to see what would happen next. Loiko sat on the ground clutching his head as though afraid it would burst. Then he got up quietly and walked off into the steppe without a glance at anyone. Noor whispered to me: ‘Keep your eye on him!' And I crawled after Zobar into the darkness of the steppe. Yes, my lad!”

Makar knocked the ashes out of his pipe and began refilling it again. I drew my coat closer about me and lay looking at his old face, blackened by the sun and winds. He was whispering to himself, shaking his head sternly; his grizzled moustache moved up and down and the wind stirred the hair on his head. He was like an old oak tree seared by lightning, but still strong and sturdy and proud of its strength. The sea still carried on a whispered converse with the shore and the wind still carried its whispers over the steppe. Nonka had stopped singing, and the clouds that had gathered in the sky made the autumn night still darker.

“Loiko dragged his feet wearily along, his head bent and hands hanging nervelessly by his sides, and when he reached a ravine by the stream he sat down on a boulder and groaned. It was a groan that made my heart bleed for pity, but I didn't go up to him. Grief won't be comforted by words, will it? That's just it! He sat on for an hour, then another, and a third, just sat without stirring.

“And I was lying on the ground nearby. It was a bright night, the whole steppe was bathed in silver moonlight and you could see far away in the distance.

“Suddenly, I saw Radda hurrying towards us from the camp.

“That cheered me up! ‘Ah, splendid!' I thought, ‘brave lass, Radda!' She drew close, but he hadn't heard her coming. She put her hand on his shoulder; Loiko started, unclasped his hands and raised his head. Then he leapt to his feet and gripped his knife! ‘Ah, he'll knife the maid, I thought,' and I was just going to shout out to the camp and run to them when I suddenly heard:

“‘Drop it! I'll smash your head!' I looked—there was Radda with a pistol in her hand aimed at Zobar's head. There's a hell-cat for you! Well, I thought, they're now matched in strength, I wonder what'll happen next?

“‘Look here!'—Radda thrust the pistol into her waistband—‘I didn't come here to kill you, but to make up—drop the knife!' He dropped it and looked sullenly into her eyes! It was a sight, brother! There were two people glaring at each other like animals at bay, and both such fine, brave people. There were just the shining moon and I looking on, that's all.

“‘Now, listen to me, Loiko. I love you!' said Radda. He merely shrugged, as though tied hand and foot.

“‘I've seen brave youths, but you're braver and better in face and soul. Any of them would have shaven their moustache had I so much as winked my eye, all of them would have fallen at my feet had I wished it. But what's the sense? They're none too brave anyway, and I'd have made them all womanish. There are few brave Gypsies left in the world as it is, very few, Loiko. I never loved anybody, Loiko, but you I love. But I love liberty too! I love liberty, Loiko, more than I do you. But I cannot live without you, as you cannot live without me. So I want you to be mine, body and soul, do you hear?' He smiled a twisted smile.

“‘I hear! It cheers the heart to hear your speeches! Say some more!'

“ ‘This more I want to say, Loiko: no matter how you twist I'll have my way with you, you'll be mine. So don't waste time—my kisses and caresses are awaiting you, and I shall kiss you sweetly, Loiko! Under my kisses you shall forget your adventurous life ... and your lively songs which so gladden the hearts of the Gypsy lads will be heard no more in the steppe—you shall sing other songs, tender love songs to me, Radda.... Waste not time then—I have spoken, therefore tomorrow you shall obey me like the youth who obeys his elder comrade. You shall bow the knee to me before the whole Gypsy camp and kiss my right hand—then I shall be your wife.'

“So that's what she was after, the mad girl! It was unheard of! It had been the custom once among the Montenegrins, so the old men said, but never among the Gypsies! Well, my lad, can you think of anything funnier than that? Not if you racked your brains a year, you wouldn't!

“Loiko recoiled and his cry rang out over the steppe like that of a man wounded in the breast. Radda winced but did not betray herself.

“‘Well, good-bye till tomorrow, and tomorrow you will do as I bade you. Do you hear, Loiko?'

“‘I hear! I will,' groaned Zobar and held his arms out to her. She went without even turning her head, and he swayed like a tree broken by the wind and dropped to the ground, sobbing and laughing.

“That is what the accursed Radda did to the poor lad. I had a job bringing him to his senses.

“Ah well! Why the devil should people have to drain the cup of misery? Who cares to hear a human heart moaning in pain and grief? Make it out if you can! ...

“I went back to the camp and told the old men all about it. They thought the matter over and decided to wait and see what would happen. And this is what happened. When we all gathered next evening around the campfire Loiko joined us. He was gloomy and had become terribly haggard overnight and his eyes were sunken. He cast them down and, without raising them, said to us:

“‘I want to tell you something, comrades. I looked into my heart this night and found no place therein for the old carefree life of mine. Radda alone dwells in it—and that's all! There she is, beautiful Radda, smiling like a queen! She loves her liberty more than me, and I love her more than my liberty, and I have decided to bend my knee to her, as she bade me, so that all may see how her beauty has conquered brave Loiko Zobar, who until he knew her used to play with the girls like a gerfalcon with the ducks. After that she will become my wife and will kiss and caress me, so that I will have no more desire to sing you songs and will not regret my liberty! Is that right, Radda?' He raised his eyes and looked darkly at her. She silently and sternly nodded her head and pointed her hand to her feet. And we looked on, understanding nothing. We even felt like going away, not to see Loiko Zobar prostrate himself at a maid's feet, even though that maid were Radda. We felt sort of ashamed, and sorry and sad.

“‘Well!' cried Radda to Zobar.

‘“Aha, don't be in a hurry, there's plenty of time, you'll have more than enough of it ...' he retorted with a laugh. And that laugh had a ring of steel in it.

“‘So that's all I wanted to tell you, comrades! What next? It remains next but to test whether Radda has so strong a heart as she showed me. I'll test it—forgive me, brothers!'

“Before we could fathom these words Radda lay stretched on the earth with Zobar's curved knife sunk to the hilt in her breast. We were horror-struck.

“And Radda pulled out the knife, threw it aside, and pressing a lock of her black hair to the wound, said loudly and audibly with a smile:

“‘Farewell, Loiko! I knew you would do that! ...' and she died....

“D'you grasp the kind of maid that was, my lad? A hell of a maid she was, may I be damned to eternity!

“‘Oh! Now I'll kneel at your feet, proud queen!' Loiko's loud cry echoed all over the steppe, and throwing himself to the ground he pressed his lips to the feet of dead Radda and lay motionless. We took off our caps and stood in silence.

“What do you say to that, my lad? Aye, that's just it! Noor said: ‘We ought to bind him! ...' No hand would lift to bind Loiko Zobar, not a hand would lift, and Noor knew it. He waved his hand and turned away. And Danilo picked up the knife which Radda had cast aside and gazed long at it, his moustache twitching. The blade of that knife, so curved and sharp, was still wet with Radda's blood. And then Danilo went up to Zobar and stuck the knife into his back over the heart. For he was Radda's father, was Danilo the old soldier!

“‘There you are!' said Loiko in a clear voice, turning to Danilo, and he followed on the heels of Radda.

“And we stood looking. There lay Radda, pressing a lock of hair to her bosom, and her open eyes stared into the blue sky while at her feet brave Loiko Zobar lay stretched. His face was covered by his locks and you couldn't see his face.

“We stood lost in thought. Old Danilo's moustaches trembled and his bushy brows were knitted. He stared at the sky and said nothing, while Noor, grey old Noor, lay down with his face on the ground and all his old body was racked with sobs.

“There was something to cry over, my lad!

“. . . So you're going on the tramp—well, go your way, don't turn off the road. You go straight on. Maybe you won't go to the dogs. That's all, my lad!”

Makar fell silent, and putting the pipe into his pouch, wrapped his coat over his chest. Rain began to fall in a drizzle, the wind was rising, the sea growled and rumbled angrily. The horses one by one came up to the dying campfire and regarding us with their big intelligent eyes stopped motionless around us in a dense ring.

“Hey, hey, ho!” Makar cried to them kindly, and patting the neck of his favourite black horse, said, turning to me:

“Time to go to sleep!” and, drawing his coat over his head and stretching his great length out on the ground he fell silent. I did not feel like sleeping. I gazed into the darkness of the steppe and before my eyes swum the queenly beautiful image of proud Radda. She was pressing a lock of hair to the wound in her breast and through her delicate swarthy fingers the blood oozed drop by drop, falling to the ground like flaming-red little stars.

Following close on her heels there floated the vision of the brave Gypsy lad Loiko Zobar. His face was screened by thick black locks from under which big cold tears fell fast....

The rain grew heavier and the sea was chanting a mournful solemn dirge to the proud pair of Gypsy lovers—to Loiko Zobar and to Radda, the daughter of the old soldier Danilo.

And they both hovered silently in the misty darkness, and the dashing Loiko, try as he may, was unable to catch up with the proud Radda.

WE WERE twenty-six men, twenty-six living machines cooped up in a dark hole of a basement where from morn till night we kneaded dough, making pretzels and cracknels. The windows of our basement faced a sunken area lined with bricks that were green with slime; the windows outside were encased in a close-set iron grating, and no ray of sunshine could reach us through the panes which were covered with meal. Our boss had fenced the windows off to prevent any of his bread going to beggars or to those of our comrades who were out of work and starving—our boss called us a bunch of rogues and gave us tainted tripe for dinner instead of meat....

Stuffy and crowded was life in that stony dungeon beneath a low-hanging ceiling covered by soot and cobwebs. Life was hard and sickening within those thick walls smeared with dirt stains and mildew.... We got up at five in the morning, heavy with lack of sleep, and at six, dull and listless, we sat down to the table to make pretzels and cracknels out of the dough our comrades had prepared while we were sleeping. And all day long, from morning till ten o'clock at night some of us sat at the table kneading the stiff dough and swaying the body to fight numbness, while others were mixing flour and water. And all day long the simmering water in the cauldron where the pretzels were cooking gurgled pensively and sadly, and the baker's shovel clattered angrily and swiftly on the hearthstone, throwing slippery cooked pieces of dough onto the hot bricks. From morning till night the wood burned at one end of the oven, and the ruddy glow of the flames flickered on the bakery walls, as though grinning at us. The huge oven resembled the ugly head of some fantastic monster thrust up from under the floor, its wide-open jaws ablaze with glowing fire breathing incandescent flames and heat at us, and watching our ceaseless toil through two sunken air-holes over its forehead. These two hollows were like eyes—the pitiless impassive eyes of a monster; they looked at us with an invariable dark scowl, as though weary with looking at slaves of whom nothing human could be expected, and whom they despised with the cold contempt of wisdom.

Day in, day out, amid the meal dust and the grime that we brought in on our feet from the yard, in the smelly stuffiness of the hot basement, we kneaded the dough and made pretzels which were sprinkled with our sweat, and we hated our work with a fierce hatred, and never ate what our hands had made, preferring black rye bread to pretzels. Sitting at a long table facing one another—nine men on each side—our hands and fingers worked mechanically through the long hours, and we had grown so accustomed to our work that we no longer watched our movements. And we had grown so accustomed to one another that each of us knew every furrow on his comrades' faces. We had nothing to talk about, we were used to that, and were silent all the time—unless we swore, for there is always something one can swear at a man for, especially one's comrade. But we rarely swore at each other—is a man to blame if he is half-dead, if he is like a stone image, if all his senses are blunted by the crushing burden of toil? Silence is awful and painful only for those who have said all there is to say; but to people whose words are still unspoken, silence is simple and easy.... Sometimes we sang, and this is how our song would begin: during the work somebody would suddenly heave a deep sigh, like a weary horse, and begin softly to sing one of those long-drawn songs whose mournfully tender melody always lighten the heavy burden of the singer's heart. One of the men would sing while we listened in silence to the lonely song, and it would fade and die away beneath the oppressive basement ceiling like the languishing flames of a campfire in the steppe on a wet autumn night, when the grey sky hangs over the earth like a roof of lead Then another singer would join the first, and two voices would float drearily and softly in the stuffy heat of our crowded pen. And then suddenly several voices at once would take up the song—it would be lashed up like a wave, grow stronger and louder, and seem to break open the damp, heavy walls of our stony prison....

All the twenty-six are singing; loud voices, brought to harmony by long practice, fill the workshop; the song is cramped for room; it breaks against the stone walls, moaning and weeping, and stirs the heart with a gentle prickly pain, reopening old wounds and wakening anguish in the soul.... The singers draw deep and heavy sighs; one will suddenly break off and sit listening for a long time to his comrades singing, then his voice will mingle again in the general chorus. Another will cry out dismally: “Ach!” singing with closed eyes, and maybe he sees the broad torrent of sound as a road leading far away, a wide road lit up by the brilliant sun, and he himself walking along it....

The flames in the oven still flicker, the baker's shovel still scrapes on the brick, the water in the cauldron still bubbles and gurgles, the firelight on the wall still flutters in silent laughter.... And we chant out, through words not our own, the dull ache within us, the gnawing grief of living men deprived of the sun, the grief of slaves. And so we lived, twenty-six men, in the basement of a big stone house, and so hard was our life, that it seemed as though the three stories of the house were built on our shoulders....

 

Besides our songs there was something else that we loved and cherished, something that perhaps filled the place of the sun for us. On the second floor of our house there was a gold embroidery workshop, and there, among many girl hands, lived sixteen-year-old Tanya, a housemaid. Every morning a little pink face with blue merry eyes would be pressed to the pane of the little window cut into the door of our workshop leading into the passage, and a sweet ringing voice would call out to us:

“Jail-birdies! Give me some pretzels!”

We would all turn our heads to the sound of that clear voice and look kindly and joyfully at the pure girlish face that smiled at us so sweetly. We liked to see the nose squashed against the glass, the little white teeth glistening from under rosy lips parted in a smile. We would rush to open the door for her, jostling each other, and there she would be, so winsome and sunny, holding out her apron, standing before us with her little head slightly tilted, and her face all wreathed in smiles. A thick long braid of chestnut hair hung over her shoulder on her breast. We grimy, ignorant, ugly men look up at her—the threshold rises four steps above the floor—look up at her with raised heads and wish her good morning, and our words of greeting are special words, found only for her. When we speak to her our voices are softer, our joking lighter. Everything we have for her is special. The baker draws out of the oven a shovelful of the crustiest browned pretzels and shoots them adroitly into Tanya's apron.

“Mind the boss doesn't catch you!” we warn her. She laughs roguishly and cries merrily:

“Good-bye jail-birdies!” and vanishes in a twinkling like a little mouse.

And that is all.... But long after she was gone we talk about her—we say the same things we said the day before and earlier, because she, and we, and everything around us are the same they were the day before and earlier.... It is very painful and hard when a man lives, and nothing around him changes, and if it doesn't kill the soul in him, the longer he lives the more painful does the immobility of things surrounding him become.... We always talked of women in a way that sometimes made us feel disgusted with ourselves and our coarse shameless talk. That is not surprising, since the women we knew did not probably deserve to be talked of in any other way. But of Tanya we never said a bad word; no one of us ever dared to touch her with his hand and she never heard a loose joke from any of us. Perhaps it was because she never stayed long—she would flash before our gaze like a star falling from the heavens and vanish. Or perhaps it was because she was small and so very beautiful, and everything that is beautiful inspires respect, even with rough men. Moreover, though hard labour was turning us into dumb oxen, we were only human beings, and like all human beings, could not live without an object of worship. Finer than she there was nobody about us, and nobody else paid attention to us men living in the basement—though there were dozens of tenants in the house. And finally—probably chiefly—we regarded her as something that belonged to us, something that existed thanks only to our pretzels; we made it our duty to give her hot pretzels, and this became our daily sacrifice to the idol, almost a holy rite, that endeared her to us ever more from day to day. Besides pretzels we gave Tanya a good deal of advice—to dress warmly, not to run quickly upstairs, not to carry heavy bundles of firewood. She listened to our counsels with a smile, retorted with a laugh and never obeyed them, but we did not take offence—we were satisfied to show our solicitude for her.

Often she asked us to do things for her. She would, for instance, ask us to open a refractory door in the cellar or chop some wood, and we would gladly and with a peculiar pride do these things for her and anything else she asked.

But when one of us asked her to mend his only shirt, she sniffed scornfully and said:

“Catch me! Not likely!”

We enjoyed a good laugh at the silly fellow's expense, and never again asked her to do anything. We loved her—and there all is said. A man always wants to foist his love on somebody or other, though it frequently oppresses, sometimes sullies, and his love may poison the life of a fellow creature, for in loving he does not respect the object of his love. We had to love Tanya, for there was no one else we could love.

At times one of us would suddenly begin to argue something like this:

“What's the idea of making such a fuss over the kid? What's there so remarkable about her anyway?”

We'd soon brusquely silence the fellow who spoke like that—we had to have something we could love: we found it, and loved it, and what we twenty-six loved stood for each of us, it was our holy of holies, and anybody who went against us in this matter was our enemy. We love, perhaps, what is not really good, but then there are twenty-six of us, and we therefore want the object of our adoration to be held sacred by others.

Our love is no less onerous than hate ... and, perhaps, that is why some stiff-necked people claim that our hate is more flattering than love.... But why do they not shun us if that is so?

 

In addition to the pretzel bakehouse our boss had a bun bakery. It was situated in the same house, and only a wall divided it from our hole. The bun bakers, however, of whom there were four, held themselves aloof from us, considered their work cleaner than ours, and themselves, therefore, better men; they never visited our workshop, and treated us with mocking scorn whenever they met us in the yard. Neither did we visit them—the boss banned such visits for fear we would steal buns. We did not like the bun bakers, because we envied them—their work was easier than ours, they got better wages, they were fed better, they had a roomy, airy workshop, and they were all so clean and healthy, and hence so odious. We, on the other hand, were all a yellow grey-faced lot; three of us were ill with syphilis, some were scabby, and one was crippled by rheumatism. On holidays and off-days they used to dress up in suits and creaking high boots, two of them possessed accordions, and all used to go out for a stroll in the park, whilst we were dressed in filthy tatters, with rags or bast shoes on our feet, and the police wouldn't let us into the park—now, could we love the bun bakers?

And one day we learned that their chief baker had taken to drink, that the boss had dismissed him and taken on another in his place, and that the new man was an ex-soldier who went about in a satin waistcoat and had a watch on a gold chain. We were curious to have a look at that dandy, and every now and then one of us would run out into the yard in the hope of seeing him.

But he came to our workshop himself. Kicking open the door he stood in the doorway, smiling, and said to us:

“Hullo! How do you do, boys!”

The frosty air rushing through the door in a smoky cloud eddied round his feet, while he stood in the doorway looking down at us, his large yellow teeth flashing from under his fair swaggering moustache. His waistcoat was indeed unique—a blue affair, embroidered with flowers, and all glittering, with buttons made of some kind of red stone. The chain was there too....

He was a handsome fellow, was that soldier—tall, strong, with ruddy cheeks and big light eyes that had a nice look in them—a kind, clean look. On his head he wore a white stiffly starched cap, and from under an immaculately clean apron peeped the pointed toes of a highly polished pair of fashionable boots.

Our chief baker politely asked him to close the door. He complied unhurriedly and began questioning us about the boss. We fell over each other telling him that the boss was a skinflint, a crook, a scoundrel and a tormentor—we told him everything there was to tell about the boss that couldn't be put in writing here. The soldier listened, twitching his moustache and regarding us with that gentle, clear look of his.

“You've a lot of girls around here ...” he said suddenly.

Some of us laughed politely, others pulled sugary faces, and some one informed the soldier that there were nine bits in the place.

“Use 'em?” asked the soldier with a knowing wink.

Again we laughed, a rather subdued, embarrassed laugh.... Many of us would have liked to make the soldier believe they were as gay lads as he was, but they couldn't do it, none of us could do it. Somebody confessed as much, saying quietly:

“How comes we....”

“M'yes, you're a long way off!” said the soldier convincedly, subjecting us to a close scrutiny. “You're not . . . er, up to the mark. . . . Ain't got the character . . . the proper shape ... you know, looks! Looks is what a woman likes about a man! Give her a regular body . . . everything just so! Then of course she likes a bit of muscle.... Likes an arm to be an arm, here's the stuff!”

The soldier pulled his right hand out of his pocket, with the sleeve rolled back to the elbow, and held it up for us to see. . . . He had a strong, white arm covered with shining golden hair.