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  sweeper brushed them up every morning. But that irritated no one, for men

  quickly become accustomed to cleanliness even when it forms no part of their

  needs or habits; naturally on condition that they personally do not have to

  observeit.

  There was still one more novelty which the occupation and the newcomers

  brought with them; women began to come to the kapia for the first time in its existence. The wives and daughters of the officials, their nursemaids and

  servants would stop there to chat or come to sit there on holidays with their

  militaryorcivilescorts.Thisdidnothappenveryoften,butnonethelessitwas

  enoughtodisturbtheoldermenwhocametheretosmoketheirpipesinpeace

  andquietoverthewater,anddisconcertedandconfusedtheyoungerones.

  Therehad,naturally,alwaysbeenalinkbetweenthe kapia andthewomeninthe

  town,butonlyinsofarasthemenfolkgatheredtheretopasscomplimentstothe

  girlscrossingthebridgeortoexpresstheirjoys,painsandquarrelsoverwomen

  andfindrelieffromthemonthe kapia. Manyalonelymanwouldsitforhoursor

  even days singing softly to himself 'for my soul only', or wreathed in tobacco

  smoke, or simply watching the swift waters in silence, paying tribute to that

  exaltation to which we must all pay due and from which few escape. Many a contest between rivals was settled there, many love intrigues imagined. Much

  wassaidorthoughtaboutwomenandaboutlove,manypassionswerebornand

  many extinguished. All this there was, but women had never stopped or sat on

  the kapia, neitherChristiannor,stillless,Moslem.Nowallthatwaschanged.

  Now on Sundays and holidays on the kapia could be seen cooks tightly laced andredintheface,withrollsoffatoverflowingaboveandbelowtheircorsetsin

  which they could scarcely breathe. With them were their sergeants in well

  brusheduniforms,withshiningmetalbuttonsandriflemen'spompomsontheir

  chests. And on working days at dusk, officers and civil servants strolled there

  with their wives, halted on the kapia, chatted in their incomprehensible

  language,strolledaboutattheireaseandlaughedloudly.

  These idle, laughing women were a cause of scandal to all, some more some

  less. The people wondered and felt insulted for a time and then began to grow

  accustomed to them, as they had grown accustomed to so many other

  innovations,eventhoughtheydidnotapprovethem.

  In fact it could be said that all these changes on the bridge were insignificant, fleetingandsuperficial.Themanyandimportantchangeswhichhadtakenplace

  inthespiritsandhabitsofthecitizensandintheoutwardappearanceofthetown

  seemedasthoughtheyhadpassedbythebridgewithoutaffectingit.Itseemed

  that the white and ancient bridge, across which men had passed for three

  centuries, remained unchanged without trace or mark even under the 'new

  Emperor' and that it would triumph over this flood of change and innovation

  even as it had always triumphed over the greatest floods, arising once more,

  white and untouched, from the furious mass of troubled waters which had

  wantedtoflowoverit.

  XII

  Now life on the kapia became even livelier and more varied. A large and

  variegated crowd, locals and newcomers, old and young, came and went on

  the kapia all day long until a late hour of the night. They thought only of themselves, each one wrapped up in the thoughts, moods and emotions which

  had brought him to the kapia. Therefore they paid no heed to the passers-by who,impelledbyotherthoughtsandbytheirowncares,crossedthebridgewith

  loweredheadsorabsentglances,lookingneithertorightnorleftandpayingno

  attentiontothoseseatedonthe kapia.

  Amongsuchpassers-byonewascertainlyMilanGlasičaninofOkolište.Hewas

  tall, thin, pale and bowed. His whole body seemed transparent and without

  weight,yetattachedtoleadenfeet,sothatheswayedandbentinhiswalklikea

  church banner held in a child's hands during the procession. His hair and

  moustaches were grey, like those of an old man, and his eyes were always

  lowered.Hedidnotnoticethatanythinghadchangedonthe kapia oramongthe

  people gathered there, and passed among them almost unnoticed by those who

  cametheretosit,todream,tosing,totrade,tochatorsimplytowastetime.The

  older men had forgotten him, the younger men did not recall him and the

  newcomers had never known him. But none the less his fate had been closely

  bound up with the kapia, at least judging from what was said about him or whisperedinthetowntenortwelveyearsbefore.

  Milan's father, Nikola Glasičanin, had settled in the town about the time when

  the insurrection in Serbia was at its height. He had bought a fine property at

  Okolište. It was generally believed that he had fled from somewhere or other

  with a large but ill-gotten fortune. No one had any proof of this and everyone

  onlyhalfbelievedit.Butnooneeverdefinitelydeniedit.Hehadmarriedtwice

  but none the less had few children. He had brought up one child only, his son

  Milan, and left him all that he possessed, whether open or hidden. Milan, too,

  had only a single son, Peter. His property would have been sufficient and he

  wouldhaveleftthattohissonafterhisdeathhadhenothadonevice,onlyone,

  butthatanoverwhelmingpassion—gambling.

  Therealtownsmenwerenotgamblersbynature.Aswehaveseen,theirpassions

  were other and different; an immoderate love of women, an inclination to

  alcohol, song, lounging and idle dreamings beside their native river. But man's capacitiesarelimited,eveninsuchmatters.Thereforetheirvicesoftenclashed

  with one another, contradicted one another and often completely cancelled one

  anotherout.Thisdidnotmeanthatinthetowntherewerenotmenaddictedto

  thisvice,buttheactualnumberofgamblerswasalwaysfewincomparisonwith

  othertowns,andforthemostparttheywerestrangersornewcomers.Anyhow,

  MilanGlašicaninwasoneofthem.Fromhisearliestyouthhehadbeenentirely

  givenovertogambling.Whenhecouldnotfindthecompanyheneededinthe

  town, he would go to nearby districts whence he would return, either weighed

  down with money like a merchant from a fair or with empty pockets, without

  watch or chain, tobacco pouch or rings, but always pale and washed out like a

  sickman.

  HishabitualplacewasinUstamujić'sinnatthefarendoftheVišegradmarket.

  There,inanarrowwindowlessroomwhereacandleburneddayandnight,could

  alwaysbefoundthreeorfourmentowhomgamblingwasdearerthananything

  else on earth. In that room, shut off from the world, they would crouch in the

  tobacco smoke and stale
air, with bloodshot eyes, dry mouths and quivering

  hands. They met there frequently, day or night, slaves to their passion like

  martyrs.InthatlittleroomMilanpassedagreatpartofhisyouthandtherelefta

  goodpartofhisstrengthandproperty.

  He had not been much more than thirty when that sudden and to most people

  inexplicablechangetookplaceinhim,whichcuredhimforeverofhisdriving

  passion but at the same time altered his whole way of life and completely

  transfiguredhim.

  Oneautumn,somefourteenyearsbefore,astrangerhadcometotheinn.Hewas

  neither young nor old, neither ugly nor handsome, a man of middle age and

  mediumheight,silentandsmilingonlywithhiseyes.Hewasamanofbusiness,

  entirely wrapped up in the affairs for which he had come. He passed the night

  thereandatduskenteredthatlittleroominwhichthegamblershadbeenshutup

  sinceearlyafternoon.Theygreetedhimwithdistrustbuthebehavedsoquietly

  andmeeklythattheydidnotevennoticewhenhetoobegantoputsmallstakes

  onthecards.Helostmorethanhewon,frowneduncertainlyandwithanunsure

  hand took some silver money from an inner pocket. After he had lost a

  considerable sum, they had to give him the deal. At first he dealt slowly and

  carefully,thenmoreswiftlyandfreely.Heplayedwithoutshowinghisfeelings

  butwaspreparedtostakethelimit.Thepileofsilvercoinsbeforehimgrew.One

  by one, the players began to drop out. One offered to stake a gold chain on a

  card,butthenewcomerrefusedcoldly,sayingthatheplayedformoneyonly.

  Aboutthetimeofthelastprayerthegamebrokeup,fornoonehadanyready

  moneyleft.MilanGlasičaninwasthelast,butintheendhetoohadtowithdraw.

  Thenewcomerpolitelytookhisleaveandretiredtohisownroom.

  Next day they played again. Again the stranger alternately lost and won, but

  always won more than he lost, so that once again the townsmen were left

  without ready money. They looked at his hands and his sleeves, watched him

  fromeveryangle,broughtfreshcardsandchangedplacesatthetable,butallto

  no purpose. They were playing that simple but ill-famed game called otuz

  bir(thirty-one)whichtheyhadallknownfromchildhood,butnonethelessthey

  were not able to follow the newcomer's mode of play. Sometimes he drew

  twenty-nineandsometimesthirty,andsometimeshestoodpatattwenty-five.He

  accepted every stake, the smallest as well as the greatest, overlooked the petty

  irregularitiesofindividualplayersasifhehadnotnoticedthem,butdenounced

  moreseriousonescurtlyandcoldly.

  The presence of this newcomer at the inn tormented and irritated Milan

  Glasičanin.Hewasinanycaseatthattimefeverishandwashedout.Hesworeto

  himselfthathewouldplaynomore,butcameagain,andagainlosthislastcoin,

  returning home filled with gall and shame. The fourth and fifth evenings he

  managedtocontrolhimselfandremainedathome.Hehaddressedandprepared

  his ready money but none the less stood by his resolution. His head felt heavy

  and his breath came in fits and starts. He ate his supper in haste, scarcely

  knowingwhathewaseating.Finallyhewentout,smoked,walkedupanddown

  in front of his house several times, and looked at the silent town in the clear

  autumnnight.Afterhehadwalkedthusforsometime,hesuddenlysawavague

  figuregoingalongtheroadwhoturnedandstoppedbeforehishouse.

  'Goodevening,neighbour!'shoutedtheunknown.Milanknewthevoice.Itwas

  the stranger from the inn. Clearly the man had come to see him and wanted to

  talktohim.Milancameuptothefence.

  'Whydidn'tyoucometotheinntonight?'thestrangeraskedcasually,calmand

  indifferent.

  'Iwasnotinthemoodtoday.Aretheothersthere?'

  'Thereisnooneleft.Theyallleftearlierthanusual.Comealongandlet'shavea

  handtogether.'

  'Itistoolate,andthere'snowheretogo.'

  'Letusgodownandsitonthe kapia. Themoonwillsoonberising.'

  'But it is not the right time,' Milan objected. His lips were dry and his words

  seemedasifanotherhadspokenthem.

  Thestrangerwentonwaiting,certainthathissuggestionwouldbeaccepted.

  And, in fact, Milan unlatched his gate and followed the man, as though his

  wordsandthoughtsandeffortshadallgivenwaybeforethatcalmpowerwhich

  drew him on and from which he could not free himself, however much he felt

  humiliatedbythisstrangerwhorousedinhimresistanceandrevulsion.

  TheydescendedtheslopefromOkolištequickly.Alargeandwaxingmoonwas

  rising behind Staniševac. The bridge seemed endless and unreal, for its ends

  were lost in a milky mist and the piers merged into the darkness; one side of

  each pier and of each arch was brightly lit while the other remained in the

  deepestshadow.Thesemoonlitanddarkenedsurfaceswerebrokenandcutinto

  sharpoutlines,sothatthewholebridgeseemedlikeastrangearabesquecreated

  byamomentaryplayoflightanddarkness.

  Onthe kapia therewasnotalivingsoul.Theysatdown.Thestrangertookouta

  packofcards.Milanstartedtosayhowunsuitablethiswas,thattheycouldnot

  seethecardswellandcouldnotdistinguishthemoney,butthestrangerpaidno

  attentiontohim.Theybegantoplay.

  At first they still exchanged an occasional word, but as the game grew faster

  theyfellsilent.Theyonlyrolledcigarettesandlitthemoneaftertheother.The

  cards changed hands several times, only to remain finally in the hands of the

  stranger.Themoneyfellsoundlesslyonthestoneswhichwerecoveredbyafine

  dew.Thetimehadcome,whichMilanknewsowell,whenthestrangerdrewa

  two to twenty-nine or an ace to thirty. His throat contracted and his gaze

  clouded.Butthefaceofthestranger,bathedinmoonlight,seemedcalmerthan

  usual.InnotquiteanhourMilannolongerhadanyreadymoney.Thestranger

  proposed that he should go home and get some more and said that he would

  accompany him. They went there and returned and went on with the game.

  Milanplayedasifdumbandblind,guessingatthecardsandshowingbysigns

  what he wanted. It almost seemed as if the cards between them had become

  incidental, a pretext in this desperate and unrelenting duel. When he again ran

  outofmoney,thestrangerorderedhimtogohomeandbringsomemore,while

  hehimselfremainedonthe kapia smoking.Henolongerthoughtitnecessaryto

  accompanyhim,forhecouldnolongerimaginethatMilanwouldnotobey,or

  playatrickonhimandremainathome.Milanobeyed,wentwithoutargument

  andreturnedhumbly.Thenthelucksuddenlychanged.Milanwonbackallthat

  hehadlost.Theknotinhisthroattightenedmoreandmoreunderthestresso
f

  emotion. The stranger began to double the stakes and then to treble them. The

  game grew more and more swift, more and more intense. The cards flew

  between them weaving a web of gold and silver. Both were silent. Only Milan

  breathed excitedly, sweating and feeling chilled alternately in the mild moonlit

  night.Heplayed,dealtandcoveredhiscards,notfromthepleasureofthegame

  butbecausehehadto.Itseemedtohimthatthisstrangerwantedtodrawoutof

  himnotonlyallhismoney,ducatbyducat,butalsothemarrowfromhisbones

  and the blood from his veins, drop by drop, and that his strength and his will-

  powerwereleavinghimwitheverynewlossinthegame.Fromtimetotimehe

  stoleaglanceathisopponent.Heexpectedtoseeasatanicfacewithbaredteeth

  and eyes like red-hot coals, but on the contrary he still saw before him the

  stranger's ordinary face with the intent expression of a man working at an

  everydaytask,hasteningtofinishtheworkinhandwhichwasneithereasynor

  pleasant.

  Once more Milan rapidly lost all his ready money. Then the stranger proposed

  stakingcattle,landandproperty.

  'I wager four good Hungarian ducats against your bay with its saddle. Is it a

  deal?'

  'Iagree.'

  So the bay went, and after it two packhorses, then cows and calves. Like a

  carefulandmeticulousmerchant,thestrangernumberedallthebeastsinMilan's

  stables by name and set down accurately the value of each head, as if he had

  beenbornandrearedinthehouse.

  'Here are thirteen ducats for that field of yours you call salkusha. Have I your word?'

  'Youhave.'

  Thestrangerdealt.Milan'sfivecardstotalledtwenty-eight.

  'More?'askedthestrangercalmly.

  'One,'mutteredMilaninascarcelyaudiblevoiceandallhisbloodrushedtohis

  heart.

  The stranger slowly turned a card. It was a two, a lucky draw. Milan muttered indifferentlythroughclosedteeth.

  'Enough.'

  Heclosedhiscards,concealingthemfeverishly.Hetriedtomakehisvoiceand

  expressionindifferent,topreventhisopponentfromguessinghowhestood.