Doruntine (13 page)

“As I listened to her speak—in tears she looked even more beautiful—I was suddenly gripped by a desire for her so violent that without a moment's thought I said that if she agreed I could take her to her family myself. My trade has accustomed me to
long journeys, and I told her that as simply as if I had offered to take her to the next town, but she thought the idea mad. It was only natural for it to seem insane to her at first, yet curiously, the passion with which she initially rejected my proposal gave me hope, for I had the impression that her protest was meant not so much to persuade me that the idea was really insane as to convince herself The more she said, ‘You're mad, and I am madder still for listening to you,' the more I felt my desire increase, along with my hope that she would yield. So on the next day, when after a sleepless night she told me—pale, her voice dull—that she did not see what she could say to her husband if she agreed to come with me, I told myself that I had won. I was convinced that the main thing was to set out alone with her on the roads of Europe. After that, God would provide! Nothing else seemed to matter. I suggested that we didn't have to tell him, for at bottom it was he who was forcing her to act in that way. Had she herself not told me that he had promised to take her to her mother, but that he was kept from doing so by his business? All she had to do, then, was to leave without telling him anything. But how can I, how can I, she asked feverishly. How can I explain it to him afterwards? Alone with a stranger! And she blushed. Of course not, I said, you cannot tell him that you made the journey with a stranger, God forbid! “Then what can I do?” she asked. And I told her: I've thought about it, and
what you must do is leave him a letter saying that your brother came to fetch you in great haste, for misfortune has befallen your family. ‘What misfortune?' she interrupted. ‘You, stranger, you know what it is, but you don't want to tell me. Oh, my brother must be dead, otherwise he would have come to see me!'

“Two days passed and still she hesitated. I was afraid of being found out and tried to meet her secretly. My desire became uncontrollable. At last she agreed. It was a gloomy late afternoon when she came in haste to the crossroads where I had told her that I would wait for her one last time. I helped her to the crupper and we set off without a word. We rode for a long time, until we felt that we were far enough away that they would not be able to trace us. We spent the night in an out-of-the-way inn and set off again before dawn. I need hardly tell you that she was in a constant state of anxiety. I comforted her as well as I could, and we pressed on. We spent the second night in another inn even farther off the beaten track than the first, in a region I don't even know the name of. I'll spare you the details of my attempts to win her favors. Her pride, and especially her constant anxiety, held her back. But I used every means, from passionate entreaty to threats to abandon her, to leave her alone on the high plateaus of Europe. And so, on the fourth night she gave in. I was so drunk with passion, so giddy, that by the next morning I hardly knew
where we were or where we were going. If I am giving useless detail, please stop me. We spent several strange days and nights. We slept in inns that we passed on the way, then we took up our journey again. We sold some of her jewels to pay our expenses. I wanted the journey to last as long as possible, but she was impatient. The closer we came to the Albanian border, the greater was her anxiety. What could have happened there? she asked from time to time. What of that war, that plague? We asked often at the inns, but received only evasive answers. There had indeed been talk of great conflict in Albanian territory, but the reports differed about when it had happened. Some said it had not been war, but plague; others held that the disease had not stricken Albania, but some more distant land. Meanwhile, as we neared the Albanian border, the answers grew more definite. Without telling her, I tried to find out more while she rested at the inns. Here everyone knew that war and plague had allied themselves, and had decimated the men of Albania. Once we were in the country's northern principalities, we tried to avoid the major roads and inns, traveling mostly by night. We had now reached the principalities neighboring her own, and she insisted that we do nothing to call attention to ourselves. We cut across fallow fields, often leaving the roads altogether. We made love wherever we could. In one of the few inns in which we were forced to take shelter by bad weather, I
learned the terrible truth about her brothers. Everyone was talking about the great sorrow that had befallen that illustrious house. All her brothers were dead, Constantine among them. The innkeeper knew the whole story. I began to fear that she would be recognized. As we came closer to her home, we strained our wits to find some acceptable explanation for her arrival. Believing her brothers still alive, she was more frightened than she need have been, whereas for me, knowing the truth as I did, things seemed simpler. In any event, it was easier to account to an old woman stunned by misfortune than to nine brothers.

“She was beside herself in her anxiety about what she could say to her brothers and her mother to explain her arrival. What would she answer when they asked her, ‘Who brought you back?' Would she tell the truth? Would she lie? And if so what would she say?

“So I found myself compelled to tell her a part of the truth; that is, of the terrible misfortune. I gave her to understand that her brother Constantine, the one who had promised to bring her back, had died, together with some of his brothers.

“You can well imagine that she went mad with grief, but neither the fatigue of the journey nor her sorrow lessened her worry over the explanation she would have to give for her sudden arrival. It was I who had the idea of explaining her journey in terms of some supernatural intervention. Though I
racked my brain, I could find no better explanation. ‘There is no other way,' I told her. ‘You have to repeat the lie you've already used with your husband. You'll say that Constantine brought you back.' ‘But I was able to lie to my husband,' she replied, ‘because he believed my brother was still alive. How can I say the same thing about someone they know is dead?' ‘But it'll be even easier,' I told her, ‘just because he isn't alive. You'll say that it was your brother who brought you, and they can take it any way they like. What I mean is, they have only to imagine that it was his ghost who brought you back. After all, didn't he promise that, dead or alive, he would fetch you? Everyone knows the exact words of his promise, and they will believe you.'

“Since I knew that her mother alone was still alive, I found the matter quite simple, but she, thinking as she did that at least half of her brothers were alive, scarcely hoped to be believed. But like it or not, she had to yield to my reasoning. There was no other way. We had no time to think of a more plausible explanation, and in any case neither of us was thinking clearly by then.

“And so, the last night came, the night of October eleventh if I am not mistaken, when, slipping through the darkness like ghosts, we came up to the house. I won't try to tell you about her state of mind—I couldn't describe it. It was past midnight. As we had decided, I stood out of sight, hiding in
the half-darkness as she went toward the door. But she was in no condition to walk. So I had to lead her to the door where, her hand trembling, she knocked, or more accurately she rested her hand on the knocker, for it was I in fact who moved her hand, cold as a corpse's. I wanted to run off at once, but she was terrified, and wouldn't let go of me. In order to calm her, I stroked her hair with my other hand one last time, but at that instant, God be praised, she not only let go, but pushed me away in terror. I heard the old woman's voice from behind the door: ‘Who is it?', then her answer: ‘Open, Mother, it's me, Doruntine,' then the old woman's voice again: ‘What did you say?' I had moved away and could not hear the other words clearly, the more so because they were increasingly faint and interrupted with exclamations.

“I made my way back to the highway, to the place where I had left my horse and, mounting, I wandered awhile looking for shelter for the night. We had agreed to meet secretly in two days, but at that point I knew that I would never see her again. The next day and in the days that followed, as I saw the turmoil caused by her arrival, I became convinced not only that I would never see her again but that I had better leave these parts as quickly as possible. I had in the meantime heard of the orders you had issued, and was sure that I was guilty of something impious which, however unaware of it I may have been, might cost me dear indeed. I
wanted to slip away as quickly as possible, but how? All the inns, all the relay stations, had been alerted to arrest me on sight. At first I thought of turning myself in and confessing: yes, it was I who brought this woman back, forgive me if I did something wrong, but if I did, it was without realizing it. Then I changed my mind. Why take such a risk? With a bit of skill I could evade the traps that were set for me and be quit of the whole affair. Yet I had a premonition that the honeymoon I had spent with that young woman would turn out to be deadly poison. I moved about very cautiously, far from the roads and inns, and mostly by night. I thought that if I could cross the border of your principality I would be out of danger. I didn't know that the neighboring principalities and counties had also been notified. And that's how I came to grief. I caught a cold while fording a stream by the baneful name of the Wicked Uyan—I think that was the name—and I am not quite sure what happened to me next. I was burning with fever, and I remember nothing until I came to and found myself bound hand and foot in an inn. And that's it, Captain. I don't know if I have explained everything properly, but you can ask me any detail at all, and I'll tell you everything. I'm sorry that I didn't behave as I should have from the very beginning, but I hope you'll understand my situation. I'll do everything I can to make amends by answering all your questions honestly.”

At last he fell silent, and he sat unblinking under Stres's inspection. His mouth was dry, but he dared not ask for water. Stres stared at him for a long moment. Then, as he opened his mouth to speak, a smile crossed his face like a flash of lightning.

“Is that the truth?” Stres asked.

“Yes, Captain. The whole truth.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The whole truth, Captain.”

Stres rose and, his neck stiff as a board, slowly turned his head toward his deputy and the two guards.

“Put him to the torture,” he ordered.

Not only the prisoner, but the three other men as well, stiffened in astonishment.

“Torture?” asked his deputy, as though afraid he had misunderstood.

“Yes,” said, Stres, his tone icy. “Torture. And don't look at me like that. I know what I'm doing.”

He turned on his heels, but at that instant, behind him, the prisoner began to scream:

“Captain, no! No! My God, what is this? Why, why?”

Stres climbed the stairs quickly, but he still heard the clanking of the chains with which they secured the prisoner, and his cries as well, which were no less poignant for being muffled.

Stres returned to his office, took up a pencil, and began drafting a report for the prince's chancellery:

Last night Captain Stanish of the border detachment delivered to me the man suspected of having brought Doruntine back. In the first interrogation he admitted nothing and denied even knowing a woman by that name, much less having traveled with her. Then, under the threat of torture, he confessed everything, finally throwing light on the mystery of this affair. The events seem to have happened in this manner: At the end of September of this year the man, finding himself in Bohemia in the course of his peregrinations as a seller of icons, made the acquaintance of D.V. and hearing her express her despair at having had no news of her family, promised to lead her to her parents' home. He persuaded her to lie to her husband and to write him a letter saying that she had left with her brother Constantine. The two of them then left Bohemia. On the way he managed to seduce her. At the conclusion of this trying journey, after revealing to her that her brother Constantine was long dead and finding no other lie with which to justify the journey she had just made with a stranger, he persuaded her to tell her mother that she had been brought back by the ghost of her dead brother, who had thereby fulfilled the promise he had made while he was alive. Subsequently, taking fright, he tried to flee unnoticed and was finally arrested, under circumstances that are well known to you, in the neighboring county, in an establishment called the Inn of the Two Roberts. He is now being held, on my orders, in complete isolation. I
await your instructions on the measures to be taken in this case.

Captain Stres

Of the torture he had ordered inflicted on the prisoner down below in the basement Stres said not a word. He closed the envelope carefully, sealed it, and instructed a courier to set out at once to deliver it to the capital of the principality. A more or less identical letter was sent to the archbishop at the Monastery of the Three Crosses, with a notice asking that it be forwarded to him in the capital if necessary.

It had started snowing again, but this snow was different from the last, somehow closer to the world of men. That which was meant to be whitened was whitened, and that which was fated to stay dark remained so. The first icicles hung from the eves, some of the rivulets had frozen as usual, and the layer of ice was just strong enough to support the weight of the birds. It soon appeared that this would be one of those winters the earth could live with.

Under roofs weighed down by their heavy burden the people talked of Doruntine. By now every-one
knew of the arrest of the man who had brought her back, and though they had heard only bits and pieces of the tale he had told, that was enough to cover all the world with words, just as a handful of wheat can sow a field.