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  companions. He was now like some gigantic monster far above them. His first

  steps were slow and hesitating. His heavy clogs kept slipping on the stones

  coveredwithice.Itseemedtohimthathislegswerefailinghim,thatthedepths

  below attracted him irresistibly, that he must slip and fall, that he was already

  falling. But his unusual position and the nearness of great danger gave him

  strength and hitherto unknown powers. Struggling to maintain his balance, he

  made more and more little jumps and bent more and more from his waist and

  knees. Instead of walking he began to dance, he himself did not know how, as

  freeofcareasifhehadbeenonawidegreenfieldandnotonthatnarrowand

  icyedge.Allofasuddenhefelthimselflightandskilfulasamansometimesis

  in dreams. His heavy and exhausted body felt without weight. The drunken

  Ćorkandancedandfloatedabovethedepthsasifonwings.Hefeltasifagay

  strength flowed through his body which danced to an unheard music and that

  gave him security and balance. His dance bore him onward where his walk

  wouldneverhavebornehim.Nolongerthinkingofthedangerorthepossibility

  ofafall,heleaptfromonelegtotheotherandsangwithoutstretchedarmsasif

  accompanyinghimselfonadrum.

  "Tiridam,tiridam,tiritiritiritiridam,tiridam,tiridam....'

  Corkansangandhimselfbeatouttherhythmtowhichdancingsurefootedlyhe

  madehisdangerouscrossing.Hislegsbentatthekneesandhemovedhishead

  toleftandright.

  'Tiridam,tiridam...hai...hai....'

  Inthatunusualanddangerousposition,exaltedabovealltheothers,hewasno

  longerĆorkantheOne-Eyed,thebuttofthetownandtheinn.Belowhimthere

  wasnolongerthatnarrowandslipperystoneparapetofthatfamiliarbridgeon

  whichhehadcountlesstimesmunchedhisbreadand,thinkingofthesweetness

  ofdeathinthewavesbeneath,hadgonetosleepintheshadeofthe kapia.

  No, this was that distant and unattainable voyage of which they had spoken

  everynightattheinnwithcoarsejokesandmockeryandonwhichnow,atlast,

  he had set out. This was that glorious long-desired path of great achievements

  andthatinthedistanceattheendofitwastheimperialcityofBrusawithitsreal

  riches and his legitimate heritage, the setting sun and the lovely Paša with his

  son;hiswifeandhischild.

  So,dancinginasortofecstasy,hepassedtheparapetaroundthe sofa and then

  the second half of the bridge. When he came to the end he leapt down and

  looked confusedly about him, in wonder that he had once again landed on the

  hard and familiar Višegrad road. The crowd which till then had accompanied

  himwithencouragementandjokeswelcomedhim.Thosewhohadhaltedinfear

  rushedup.Theybegantoembracehim,toclaphimonthebackandonhisfaded

  fez.Allofthemshoutedtogether:

  'Aferim,bravo,Ćorkan,ourfalcon!'

  'Bravo,hero!'

  'RumforĆorkan!'yelledSantoPapoinaraucousvoicewithaSpanishaccent,

  thinkingthathewasintheinn.

  Inthisgeneraluproarandcommotionsomeoneproposedthattheystaytogether

  andnotgohome,butgoondrinkinginhonourofĆorkan'sexploit.

  Those children who were then in their eighth and ninth years and were that

  morning hurrying across the frozen bridge to their distant school stopped and

  staredattheunusualsight.Theyopenedtheirmouthsinastonishmentandlittle

  cloudsofsteamrosefromthem.Tiny,muffledup,withslatesandschoolbooks

  undertheirarms,theycouldnotunderstandthisgameofthegrown-ups,butfor

  therestoftheirlivestheywouldremember,togetherwiththelinesoftheirown

  bridge, the picture of Ćorkan the One-Eyed, that man so well known to them

  whonow,transfiguredandlight,dancingdaringlyandjoyouslyasiftransported bymagic,walkedwhereitwasforbiddentowalkandwherenooneeverdared

  togo.

  XVI

  AscoreofyearshadpassedsincethefirstyellowAustrianmilitaryvehicleshad

  crossed the bridge. Twenty years of occupation — that is a long sequence of

  days and months. Each such day and month, taken by itself, seemed uncertain

  and temporary, but all of them taken together constituted the longest period of

  peaceandmaterialprogressthatthetowneverremembered,themainpartofthe

  lifeofthatgenerationwhichatthemomentoftheoccupationhadjustcometo

  yearsofdiscretion.

  Thesewereyearsofapparentprosperityandsafegains,eventhoughsmall,when

  mothersspeakingoftheirsonssaid:'MayheliveandbehealthyandmayGod

  grant him easy bread!', and when even the wife of tall Ferhat, the eternal poor

  man, who lit the municipal street lamps and received for his work the wage of

  twelveflorinsamonth,saidwithpride:'ThanksbetoGod,evenmyFerhathas

  becomeanofficial.'

  The last years of the nineteenth century, years without upheavals or important

  events,flowedpastlikeabroadcalmriverbeforereachingitsunknownmouth.

  Judgingfromthem,itseemedasiftragicmomentshadceasedtodisturbthelife

  oftheEuropeanpeoplesorthatofthetownbesidethebridge.Insofarasthey

  tookplacenowandagainintheworldoutside,theydidnotpenetratetoVišegrad

  andwerefar-offandincomprehensibletoitstownspeople.

  Thus, one summer day after so many years, there once more appeared on

  the kapia a white official notice. It was short and this time framed in a heavy blackborder,andannouncedthatHerMajestytheEmpressElizabethhaddiedin

  Geneva, the victim of a dastardly assassination by an Italian anarchist,

  Lucchieni. The announcement went on to express the disgust and profound

  sorrowofallthepeoplesofthegreatAustro-HungarianMonarchyandcalledon

  themtorallystillmorecloselyaroundthethroneinloyaldevotionandthereby

  affordthegreatestconsolationtotherulerwhomfatehadsoheavilybereaved.

  The announcement was pasted up below the white plaque with the Turkish

  inscription,ashadatonetimebeentheproclamationofGeneralFilipovićabout

  the occupation, and all the people read it with emotion since it concerned an

  Empress,awoman,butwithoutanyrealunderstandingordeepsympathy.

  For a few evenings there were no songs or noisy gatherings on the kapia by

  orderoftheauthorities.

  There was only one man in the town whom this news deeply affected. He was

  Pietro Sola, the only Italian in the town, a contractor and builder, stonemason

  andartist,inshortamanofalltasksandthespecialistofthetown.Maistor-Pero,

  as the whole town called him, had come at the time of the occupation and had

  remainedinthetown,marryingacertainStana,apoorgirlofnottoosavourya

  reputation. She was reddish, powerful, twice as big as Maistor-
Pero and was

  considered a woman of sharp tongue and heavy hand with whom it was better

  not to quarrel. Maistor-Pero himself was a small, bent, good-natured man with

  mild blue eyes and pendent moustaches. He worked well and earned much. In

  time he had become a real townsman only, like Lotte, he was never able to

  master the language and the pronunciation. Because of his skilful hands and

  gentlenaturehewaslovedbythewholetownandhisathleticallypowerfulwife

  ledhimthroughlifestrictlyandmaternally,likeachild.

  When,returninghomefromworkgreywithstone-dustandstreakedwithpaint,

  Maistor-Peroreadtheannouncementonthe kapia, hepulledhishatdownover

  hiseyesandfeverishlybitonthethinpipewhichwasalwaysbetweenhisteeth.

  He explained to the more serious and respected citizens whom he met that he,

  although an Italian, had nothing in common with this Lucchieni and his

  dastardlycrime.Thepeoplelistenedtohim,consoledhimandassuredhimthat

  theybelievedhim andthat,furthermore, theyhadnever eventhoughtanything

  ofthesortabouthim.Nonetheless,hewentonexplainingtoeveryonethathe

  wasashamedtobealive,thathehadneverevenkilledachickeninhislifehow

  muchlessahumanbeing,andthatawomanandsogreatapersonage.Intheend

  his timidity became a real mania. The townspeople began to laugh at Maistor-

  Pero's worries, his zeal and his superfluous assurances that he had nothing in

  common with anarchists and murderers. The urchins of the town at once made

  upacruelgame.HiddenbehindsomefencetheywouldshoutatMaistor-Pero:

  'Lucchieni!'Thepoordevildefendedhimselffromtheseshoutsasfromaswarm

  ofwasps,pulledhishatdownoverhiseyesandfledhometobewailhisfateand

  weeponthebroadlapofhisStana.

  'Iamashamed,Iamashamed,'sobbedthelittleman,'Ican'tlookanyoneinthe

  face.'

  'Get along, you old fool, what have you to be ashamed of? That an Italian has

  murderedtheEmpress?LettheItaliankingbeashamedofthat!Butwhoareyou

  andwhathaveyoudonetobeashamedof?'

  'Iamashamedtobealive,'wailedMaistor-Perotothewoman,whoshookhim

  and tried to instil a little strength and resolution into him and to teach him to walkthroughthemarketplacewithheadheldhigh,notloweringhisgazebefore

  anyone.

  Meanwhiletheoldermensatonthe kapia withstonyfacesanddowncastlooks

  andlistenedtothemostrecentnews,withdetailsofthemurderoftheAustrian

  Empress.Thenewswasnomorethananexcuseforadiscussiononthefateof

  crownedheadsandgreatmen.Surroundedbyagroupofrespectable,inquisitive

  and unlettered Turkish merchants, the Višegrad schoolmaster Hussein Effendi

  washoldingforthonwhoandwhatwereanarchists.

  The schoolmaster was just as stiff and solemn, clean and neat, as he had been

  twenty years before when awaiting the arrival of the first Schwabes with Mula

  IbrahimandPopNikola,bothofwhomhadlongbeenlyingintheirrespective

  graveyards. His beard was already grey but just as carefully trimmed and

  rounded,hiswholesmoothfacecalmandpeaceful,formenwitharigidunder-

  standihgandhardheartageslowly.Thehighopinionwhichhehadalwayshad

  ofhimselfhadgrownevengreaterintheselasttwentyyears.Itmaybesaidin

  passingthatthecaseofbooksonwhichhisreputationasalearnedmanrestedto

  agreatextentwasstilllargelyunread,andhischronicleofthetownhadgrown

  inthesetwentyyearsbyfourpagesonly,fortheoldertheschoolmastergrewhe

  esteemed himself and his chronicle more and more and the events around him

  lessandless.

  Now he spoke in a low voice, slowly as if reading from some obscure

  manuscript and in a dignified manner, solemnly and severely, using the fate of

  theinfidelEmpressonlyasapretextwhichdidnotinanywayenterintothereal

  senseofhisinterpretation.Accordingtothisinterpretation(andthattoowasnot

  his own, for he had found it in the good old books inherited from his onetime

  teacher, the famous Arap-hodja) those now known as anarchists had always

  existed and would always exist while the world lasted. Human life was so

  ordered—andGod,theOne,theMercifulandCompassionate,hadsoordained

  —thatforeverydramofgoodthereweretwodramsofevilandtherecouldbe

  nogoodnessonthisearthwithouthatredandnogreatnesswithoutenvy,evenas

  therewasnoteventhesmallestobjectwithoutitsshadow.Thatwasparticularly

  trueoffamouspeople.Besideeachoneofthem,alongsidetheirglory,wasalso

  their executioner waiting for his chance and who seized it, sometimes earlier,

  sometimeslater.

  'Take for example our countryman Mehmed Pasha who has long been in

  Paradise,' said the schoolmaster and pointed to the stone plaque above the

  proclamation,'whoservedthreeSultansandwaswiserthanAsafandwhobyhis

  power and piety erected even this stone on which we are sitting and who too

  diedbytheknife.Despiteallhispowerandwisdomhewasunabletoescapehis

  appointed hour. Those whom the Grand Vezir hindered in their plans, and they

  wereagreatandpowerfulparty,foundawaytoarmandsubornamaddervishto

  killhim,andthatjustatthemomentwhenhewasenteringthemosquetopray.

  Withhisshabbydervishcloakonhisbackandarosaryinhishandthedervish

  barredthewayoftheVezir'ssuiteandhumblyandhypocriticallyaskedforalms,

  andwhentheVezirwasabouttoputhishandinhispockettogivethemtohim,

  thedervishstabbedhim.AndsoMehmedPashadiedasamartyrtothefaith.'

  Themenlistenedandblowingthesmokeoftheircigarettesfarfromthemlooked

  nowatthestoneplaquewiththeinscription,nowatthewhiteplacardbordered

  by a black line. They listened attentively, though not one of them fully

  understoodeverywordoftheschoolmaster'sinterpretation.But,lookingthrough

  their cigarette smoke into the distance, beyond the inscription and the placard,

  theyseemedtoseesomewhereintheworldanotheranddifferentlife,alifeof

  great ascents and sudden falls, in which greatness mingled with tragedy and

  whichinsomemannermaintainedabalancewiththispeacefulandmonotonous

  existenceoftheirsonthe kapia.

  Butthosedayspassedtoo.Theoldorderreturnedtothe kapia withitsusualloud

  conversations, jokes and songs. Discussions about anarchists ceased; the

  announcement of the death of that foreign and little-known Empress changed

  undertheinfluenceofsun,rainanddustuntilatlastthewindtoreitawayandit

  floatedinfragmentsdownriverintothevoid.

  Foralittlelongertheragamuffinsofthetownshouted'Lucchieni'afterMaistor-

  Pero without knowing themselves what they meant nor why they did so, but

  solelyfromthatchildish
needtoteaseandtormentweakandsensitivecreatures.

  They shouted, and then ceased to shout having found some other amusement.

  StanaofMejdancontributednotalittletothisresultbymercilesslybeatingtwo

  ofthemostobstreperousoftheurchins.

  After a couple of months no one mentioned the Empress's death or anarchists

  any longer. That life at the end of the century, which seemed tamed and

  domesticated for ever, concealed everything beneath its wide and monotonous

  course and left among men the feeling that a century was opening of peaceful

  industryleadingintosomedistantandunattainablefuture.

  That unceasing and irresistible activity to which the foreign administrators

  seemed condemned and with which the townspeople were with difficulty

  reconciled, though they had just this to thank for their livelihood and their

  prosperity, changed many things in the course of those twenty years, in the

  outwardappearanceofthetownandinthecostumeandhabitsofitscitizens.It

  was natural that it would not stop short of the ancient bridge which looked

  eternallythesame.

  It was in 1900, the close of that happy century and the beginning of the new,

  which in the feelings and opinions of many was to be even happier, that

  engineerscameto examinethebridge. Thepeoplewere alreadyaccustomed to

  such things; even the children knew what it meant when these men in leather

  overcoats,withbreast-pocketsstuffedwithvaricolouredpencils,begantoprowl

  aboutsomehillorsomebuilding.Itmeantthatsomethingwouldbedemolished,

  built,duguporchanged.Onlynoonewasabletoimaginewhattheycouldbe

  doing with the bridge which to every living soul in the town meant a thing as

  eternalandunalterableastheearthonwhichtheytrodortheskiesabovethem;

  Buttheengineersinspectedit,measureditandtooknotes;thentheyWentaway

  and the matter was forgotten. But about midsummer, when the river was at its

  lowest,contractorsandworkmensuddenlybegantoarriveanderecttemporary

  lean-tostostoretheirtoolsnearthebridge.Alreadytherumourspreadthatthe