Makar Chudra

A cold damp wind came out of the sea, wafting over the steppe the pensive melody of the waves breaking on the shore and the rustle of dry bushes. Now and then a gust would lift up some shrivelled yellow leaves and throw them into our camp-fire, causing the flames to flare up; then the darkness of the autumn night would shudder and start back in fright, giving us a glimpse of the boundless steppe to the left, the limitless sea to the right, and in front of me – the form of Makar Chudra, an old Gipsy who was keeping watch over the horses belonging to his camp pitched some fifty paces away.

Heedless of the cold wind that blew open his Caucasian coat and struck mercilessly at his bare hairy chest, he lay facing me in a graceful and vigorous pose, drawing regularly at his enormous pipe, emitting thick clouds of smoke through his nose and mouth, gazing fixedly over my head into the silent darkness of the steppe, talking incessantly and making not the slightest effort to protect himself from the vicious attacks of the wind.

“So you go tramping about the world, do you? Good for you. You have made the right choice, young falcon. That is the only way. Go about the world seeing things, and when you have looked your fill, lie down and die.”

“Life? Your fellow-men?” he queried on hearing my objections to his “That is the only way.”

“Why should you worry about that? Are not you life itself? And as for your fellow-men, they always have and always will get on famously without you. Do you really think anybody needs you? You are neither bread nor a stick, and so nobody wants you.

“Learn and teach others, you say. Can you learn how to make people happy? No, you cannot. Wait until your hair is grey before you try to teach others. What will you teach them? Every man knows what he needs. The wise ones take what life has to offer, the stupid ones get nothing, but each man learns for himself.

“A curious lot, people: they all herd together, trampling on each other, when there is this much space —” and he made a sweeping gesture out towards the steppe. “And all of them work. What for? Nobody knows. Whenever I see a man ploughing a field I think to myself: there he is pouring his strength and his sweat into the earth drop by drop, only to lie down in that very earth at last and rot away. He will die as big an ignoramus as he was born, leaving nothing behind him, having seen nothing but his fields.

“Is that what he was born for – to dig in the soil and die without having had time even to dig himself a grave? Has he ever tasted freedom? Has he a knowledge of the vastness of the steppe? Has his heart ever been cheered by the murmur of the sea? He is a slave – a slave from the day of his birth to the day of his death. What can he do about it? Nothing but hang himself, if he has the sense to do that.

“As for me, at fifty-eight I have seen so much that if it were all put down on paper, a thousand bags like the one you have there would not hold it all. Can you name a land I have not seen? You cannot. I have been to places you have never even heard of. That is the only way to live – moving from one place to another. And never stop long in one place – why should you? Just see how day and night are always moving, chasing each other round the earth; in just the same way you must chase away your thoughts if you would not lose your zest for life. One is sure to lose it if he broods too much over life. Even I did once; I did indeed, young falcon.

“It was when I was in jail in Galicia. ‘Why was I ever born?’ I thought in my misery. It is a great misery to be locked up in jail – ekh, what a misery! My heart was gripped as in a vice every time I looked out of the window at the open fields. Who can say why he was born? No one can, and one should never ask himself such a question. Live, and be thankful to be alive. Roam the earth and see what there is to see, and then you will never be miserable. Ah, but I almost hanged myself with my belt that time.

“Once I had a talk with a certain man. A stern man he was, and a Russian, like you. A person must not live as he likes, he said, but as is pointed out in the word of God. If a man lives in obedience to God, he said, God will give him whatever he asks for. He himself was dressed in rags and tatters. I told him to ask God for a new suit of clothes. He was so angry he cursed me and drove me away. But just a minute before he had said one ought to love his neighbours and forgive them. Why did he not forgive me if I had offended him? There’s your preacher for you! They teach people to eat less, while they themselves eat ten times a day.”

He spat into the fire and was silent as he refilled his pipe. The wind moaned softly, the horses whinnied in the darkness, and the tender impassioned strains of a song came from the Gipsy camp. It was Nonka, Makar’s beautiful daughter, who was singing. I recognized the deep throaty timbre of her voice, in which there was always a note of command and of discontent, whether she was singing a song or merely saying a word of greeting. The haughtiness of a queen was frozen upon her swarthy face, and in the shadows of her dark eyes glimmered a consciousness of her irresistible beauty and a contempt for everything that was not she.

Makar handed me his pipe.

“Have a smoke. She sings well, doesn’t she? Would you like to have a maid like that fall in love with you? No? Good for you. Put no faith in women and keep away from them. A maid gets more joy out of kissing a man than I do out of smoking my pipe. But once you have kissed her, gone is your freedom. She holds you with invisible bonds that are not to be broken, and you give yourself to her heart and soul. That is the truth. Beware of the maids. They always lie. She swears she loves you above all else, but the first time you cause her a pin-prick she will tear your heart out. I know what I say. There are many things I know. If you wish, I will tell you a true tale. Remember it well, and if you do, you will be as free as a bird all your life.

“Once upon a time there was a young Gipsy named Zobar – Loiko Zobar. He was a fearless youth whose fame had spread throughout Hungary and Bohemia and Slavonia and all the lands that encircle the sea. There was not a village in those parts but had four or five men sworn to take Zobar’s life, yet he went on living, and if he took a fancy to a horse, a regiment of soldiers could not keep him from galloping off on it. Was there a soul he feared? Not Zo-bar. He would knife the devil himself and all his pack if they swooped down on him, or at least he would curse them roundly and give them a cuffing, you can be sure of that.

“All the Gipsy camps knew Zobar or had heard of him. The only thing he loved was a horse, and that not for long. When he had tired of riding it he would sell it and give the money to anyone who asked him for it. There was nothing he prized; he would have ripped his heart out of his breast if he thought anyone had need of it. That was the sort of man he was.

“At the time I am speaking of – some ten years ago – our caravan was roaming through Bukovina. A group of us were sitting together one spring night – Danilo, a soldier who fought under Kossuth; old Nur; Radda, Danilo’s daughter, and others.

“Have you seen my Nonka? She is a queen among beauties. But it would be doing her too great an hon-our to compare her with Radda. No words could describe Radda’s beauty. Perhaps it could be played on a violin, but only by one who knew the instrument as he knew his own soul.

“Many a man pined away with love for Radda. Once in Moravia a rich old man was struck dumb by the sight of her. There he sat on his horse staring at her and shaking all over as if with the ague. He was decked out like the devil on holiday, his Ukrainian coat all stitched in gold, the sabre at his side set with precious stones that flashed like lightning at every movement of his horse, the blue velvet of his cap like a patch of blue sky. He was a very important person, that old man. He sat on and on staring at Radda, and at last he said to her: ‘A purse full of money for a kiss!’ She just turned her head away. This made the rich old man change his tune. ‘Forgive me if I have insulted you, but you might at least give me a smile,’ and with this he tossed his purse at her feet, and a fat purse it was. But she just pressed it into the dust with her foot, as if she had not noticed it.

“‘Ah, what a maid!’ he gasped, bringing his whip down on his horse’s flank so that the dust of the roadway rose in a cloud as the horse reared.

“He came back on the next day. ‘Who is her father?’ he asked in a voice that echoed throughout the camp. Danilo came forward. ‘Sell me your daughter. Name your own price.’ ‘It is only gentlemen who sell anything from their pigs to their consciences,’ said Danilo. ‘As for me, I fought under Kossuth and sell nothing.’ The rich man let out a roar and reached for his sabre, but someone thrust a lighted tinder into his horse’s ear and the beast went flying off with its master on its back. We broke camp and took to the road. When we had been on the way two whole days, we suddenly saw him coming after us. ‘Hey!’ he cried. “I swear to God and to you that my intentions are honest. Give me the maid to wife. I will share all that I own with you, and I am very rich.’ He was aflame with passion and swayed in his saddle like feathergrass in the wind. We thought over what he said.

“‘Well, daughter, speak up,’ muttered Danilo into his beard.

“‘If the eagle’s mate went to nest with the crow of her own free will, what would you think of her?’ said Radda.

“Danilo burst out laughing and so did the rest of us.

“‘Well said, daughter! Have you heard, my lord? Your case is lost! Woo a pigeon – they are more docile.’ And we went on our way.

“At that the rich man pulled off his hat and hurled it down on the ground and rode off at such speed that the earth shook under his horse’s hoofs. That was what Radda was like, young falcon.

“Again one night we were sitting in camp when all of a sudden we heard music coming from the steppe. Wonderful music. Music that made the blood throb in your veins and lured you off to unknown places. It filled us all with a longing for something so tremendous that if we once experienced it there would be no more reason to go on living, and if we did go on living, it would be as lords of the whole world.

“Then a horse came out of the darkness, and on the horse a man was sitting and playing the fiddle. He came to a halt by our camp-fire and stopped playing, looking at us and smiling.

“‘Zobar! So it is you!’ called out Danilo heartily.

“This, then, was Loiko Zobar. His moustaches swept down to his shoulders, where they mingled with his curly hair; his eyes shone like two bright stars, and his smile was the sun itself. It was as if he and his horse had been carved of one piece. There he was, red as blood in the fire-light, his teeth flashing when he laughed. Damned if I did not love him as I loved my own self, and he had not so much as exchanged a word with me or even noticed my existence.

“There are people like that, young falcon. When he looked into your eyes your soul surrendered to him, and instead of being ashamed of this, you were proud of it. You seemed to become better in his presence. There are not many people like that. Perhaps it is better so. If there were a lot of good things in the world, they would not be counted good. But listen to what happened next.

“Radda said to him: ‘You play well, Zobar. Who made you such a clear-voiced fiddle?’ ‘I made it myself,’ he laughed. ‘And not of wood, but of the breast of a maiden I loved well; the strings are her heart-strings. It still plays false at times, my fiddle, but I know how to wield the bow.’

“A man always tries to becloud a girl’s eyes with longing for him so that his own heart will be protected from the darts of those eyes. And Zobar was no exception. But he did not know with whom he was dealing this time. Radda merely turned away and said with a yawn: ‘And they told me Zobar was wise and witty. What a mistake!’ And she walked away.

“‘You have sharp teeth, my pretty maid!’ said Zo-bar, his eyes flashing as he got off his horse. ‘Greetings to you, friends. I have come to pay you a visit.’

“‘We are glad to have you,’ replied Danilo.

“We exchanged kisses, chatted a while and went to bed. We slept soundly. In the morning we found Zobar with a bandage round his head. What had happened? It seems his horse had kicked him in the night.

“Ah, but we knew who that horse had been! And we smiled to ourselves; and Danilo smiled. Could it be that even Zobar was no match for Radda? Not at all. Lovely as she was, she had a petty soul, and all the gold trinkets in the world could not have added one kopek to her worth.

“Well, we went on living in that same place. Things were going well with us, and Loiko Zobar stayed on. He was a good companion – as wise as an old man, and very knowing, and able to read and write Russian as well as Magyar. I could have listened to him talk the night through, and as for his playing – may the lightning strike me dead if there ever was another his equal. He drew his bow once across the strings and the heart leaped up in your breast; he drew it again and everything within you grew tense with listening – and he just went on playing and smiling. It made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. Now someone was moaning bitterly and crying for help, and it was as if a knife were being turned in your side; now the steppe was telling a tale to the sky – a sad tale. Now a maid was weeping as she said farewell to her lover. Now her lover was calling to her from the steppe. And then, like a bolt from the blue, would come a gay and sweeping tune that made the very sun dance in the sky. That was how he played, young falcon!

“You felt that tune with every fibre of your body, and you became the slave of it. And if at that moment Zobar had called out: ‘Out with your knives, comrades!’ every man of us would have bared his knife against anyone he pointed out. He could wind a person round his little finger, but everyone loved him dearly. Yet Radda would have nothing to do with him. That was bad enough, but she mocked him besides. She wounded his heart and wounded it badly. He would set his teeth and pull at his moustache, his eyes deeper than wells, and at times something would flash in them that struck terror into your heart. At night he would go deep into the steppe and his violin would weep there until morning – weep for his lost freedom. And we would lie and listen and think to ourselves: what will happen next? And we knew that when two stones are rolling towards each other, they will crush anything that stands in their way. That was the way things were.

“One night we sat for long round the fire discussing our affairs, and when we got tired of talking, Danilo turned to Zobar and said: ‘Sing us a song, Zobar, to cheer our hearts.’ Zobar glanced at Radda who was lying on the ground not far away gazing up at the sky, and he drew his bow across the strings. The violin sang out as if the bow were really being drawn over a maiden’s heart-strings. And he sang:

 

Hi ho, hi ho! My heart is aflame,

The steppe is like the sea,

And like the wind, our gallant steeds

Are bearing you and me.

 

“Radda turned her head to him, propped herself up on one elbow and laughed in his face. Zobar flushed crimson.

 

Hi ho, hi ho! My comrade true,

The hour of dawn is nigh;

The steppe is wrapped in shades of night,

But we shall climb the sky.

Spur on your horse to meet the day

That glimmers o’er the plain,

But see that lovely Lady Moon

Is touched not by its mane!

 

“How he sang! No one sings like that nowadays. But Radda murmured under her breath:

“‘I would not climb so high if I were you, Loiko Zobar. You might fall down into a puddle and spoil those lovely moustaches of yours.’

“Zobar threw her a furious glance, but said nothing. He was able to control himself and go on singing:

 

Hi ho, hi ho! If daylight comes

And finds us both asleep,

Our cheeks will burn with crimson shame

As out of bed we leap.

 

“‘A splendid song,’ said Danilo. ‘Never have I heard a better one; may the devil turn me into a pipe if I have!’

“Old Nur stroked his whiskers and shrugged his shoulders, and all of us were pleased with Zobar’s brave song. But Radda did not like it.

“‘Once I heard a gnat trying to imitate the eagle’s call,’ she said. It was as if she had thrown snow in our faces.

“‘Perhaps you are longing for a touch of the whip, Radda,’ drawled Danilo, but Zobar threw down his cap and said, his face as dark as the earth:

“‘Wait, Danilo! A spirited horse needs a steel bridle! Give me your daughter to wife!’

“‘A fine speech,’ chuckled Danilo. ‘Take her, if you can.’

“‘Very well,’ said Zobar; then, turning to Radda: ‘Come down off your high horse, maid, and listen to what I have to say. I have known many a girl in my day – many, I say – but not one of them ever captured my heart as you have. Ah, Radda, you have enslaved my soul. It cannot be helped – what must be will be, and the horse does not exist that can carry a man away from himself. With God and my own conscience as witness, and in the presence of your father and all these people, I take you to wife. But I warn you not to try to curb my liberty; I am a freedom-loving man and will always live as I please.’ And he walked up to her with set teeth and blazing eyes. We saw him stretch his hand out to her, and we thought: at last Radda has put a bridle on the wild colt of the steppe. But suddenly Zobar’s arms flew out and he struck the ground with the back of his head.

“What could have happened? It was as if a bullet had struck him in the heart. But it was Radda who had flicked a whip about his legs and jerked it. That was what had made him fall.

“And again she was lying there motionless, a scornful smile on her lips. We watched to see what would happen next. Zobar sat up and held his head in his hands as if he were afraid it would burst, then he got up quietly and went out into the steppe without a glance at anyone. Nur whispered to me: ‘You had better keep an eye on him.’ And so I crept after him into the steppe, in the darkness of the night. Think of that, young falcon. “

Makar scraped the ashes out of the bowl of his pipe and began to refill it. I pulled my coat tighter about me and lay back, the better to study his aged face, bronzed by sun and wind. He was muttering to himself, emphasizing what he said by shaking his head gravely; his grey moustaches twitched and the wind ruffled his hair. He reminded me of an old oak which has been struck by lightning but is still strong and powerful and proud of its strength. The sea went on whispering to the sand, and the wind carried the sound to the steppe. Nonka had stopped singing. The clouds that had gathered made the autumn night darker than ever.

“Loiko dragged one foot after the other as he walked, his head drooping, his arms hanging as limp as whip-cords, and when he reached the bank of a little stream he sat down on a stone and groaned. The sound of that groan nearly broke my heart, but I did not go near him. Words cannot lessen a man’s grief, can they? That is the trouble. He sat there for an hour, for another, for a third without stirring, just sitting there.

“I lay not far away. The sky had cleared, the moon bathed the whole steppe in silver light so that you could see far, far into the distance.

“Suddenly I caught sight of Radda hurrying towards us from the camp.

“I was overjoyed. ‘Good for you, Radda, brave girl!’ thought I. She came up to Zobar without his hearing her. She put her hand on his shoulder. He started, unclasped his hands and raised his head. Instantly he was on his feet and had seized his knife. God, he’ll kill her, I thought, and was about to jump up and raise the alarm when I heard:

“‘Drop it or I’ll blow your head off!’ I looked: there was Radda with a pistol in her hand aimed at Loiko’s head. A very daughter of Satan, that girl! Well, I thought, at least they are matched in strength; I wonder what will happen next.

“‘I did not come to kill you, but to make peace,’ said Radda, pushing the pistol into her belt. ‘Put away your knife.’ He put it away and gazed at her with fuming eyes.

What a sight that was! These two staring at each other like infuriated beasts, both of them so fine and brave! And nobody saw them but the bright moon and me.

“‘Listen, Zobar, I love you,’ said Radda. He did nothing but shrug his shoulders, like a man bound hand and foot.

“‘Many a man have I seen, but you are the bravest and handsomest of all. Any one of them would have shaved off his moustaches had I asked him to; any one of them would have fallen at my feet had I wanted him to. But why should I? None of them were brave, and with me they would soon have gone womanish. There are few brave Gipsies left, Zobar – very few. Never yet have I loved anyone, Zobar. But I love you. And I love freedom, too. I love my freedom even more than I love you. But I cannot live without you any more than you can live without me. And I want you to be mine – mine in soul and body, do you hear?’

“Zobar gave a little laugh. ‘I hear,’ he said. ‘It cheers my heart to hear what you say. Speak on.’

“‘This is what else I would say, Zobar: do what you will, I shall possess you; you are sure to be mine. And so waste no more time. My kisses and caresses are awaiting you – and I shall kiss you passionately, Zo-bar! Under the spell of my kisses you will forget all the brave life of the past. No longer will your gay songs, so beloved by the Gipsies, resound in the steppe; now shall you sing soft love songs to me alone – to Radda. Waste no more time. This have I said, which means that from tomorrow on you will serve me as devotedly as a youth serves an elder comrade. And you will bow at my feet before the whole camp and kiss my right hand, and then only shall I be your wife.’

“This, then, was what that devilish girl was after. Never had such a thing been heard of. True, old people said that such a custom was held among the Montenegrins in ancient times, but it never existed among the Gipsies. Could you think of anything more preposterous, young man? Not if you racked your brains a whole year.

“Zobar recoiled and the steppe rang with his cry – the cry of one who has been mortally wounded. Radda shuddered, but did not betray her feelings.

“‘Good-bye until tomorrow, and tomorrow you will do what I have said, do you hear, Zobar?’

“‘I hear. I shall do it,’ groaned Zobar and held out his arms to her, but she went away without so much as glancing at him, and he swayed like a tree broken by the wind, and he fell on the ground, sobbing and laughing.

“That was what she did to him, that accursed Radda. I could hardly bring him back to his senses.

“Why should people have to suffer so? Does anyone find pleasure in hearing the groans of one whose heart is broken? Alas, it is a great mystery.

“When I got back to camp I told the old men what had taken place. We considered the matter and decided to wait and see what would happen. And this is what happened. In the evening when we had gathered about the fire as usual, Zobar joined us. He was looking downcast, he had grown haggard in that one night and his eyes were sunken. He kept them fixed on the ground and did not raise them once as he said:

“‘This is how things are, comrades. I searched my heart this night and found no room in it for the freedom-loving life I have always lived. Radda has taken up every corner of it. There she is, the beautiful Radda, smiling her queenly smile. She loves freedom more than she loves me, but I love her more than I love freedom, and so I have decided to bow before her as she ordered me to, that all shall see how her beauty has enslaved the brave Loiko Zobar who, until he met her, played with women as a cat plays with mice. For this she will become my wife and will kiss and caress me, and I shall lose all desire to sing songs to you and Ishall not pine for the loss of my freedom. Is that how it is to be, Radda?’ He raised his eyes and looked at her grimly. She nodded without a word and pointed to the ground in front of her. We could not imagine how this had been brought about. We even felt an urge to get up and go away so as not to see Loiko Zobar throw himself at the feet of a maid, even though that maid be Radda. There was something shameful in it, something very sad.

“‘Well?’ cried Radda to Zobar.

“‘Do not be in 30 great a hurry. There is plenty of time – time enough to grow tired of me,’ laughed Zobar. Arid his laugh had the ring of steel.

“‘So that is how things are, comrades. What is left for me to do? The only thing left for me to do is to see whether my Radda’s heart is as strong as she would have us think. I shall test it. Forgive me.’

“And before we had time to guess what he was up to, Radda was lying on the ground with Zobar’s curved knife plunged into her breast up to the handle. We were dumbstruck.

“But Radda pulled out the knife, tossed it aside, held a lock of her black hair to the wound, and smiled as she said in a loud clear voice:

“‘Farewell, Zobar. I knew you would do this.’ And with that she died.

“Do you see what the maid was like, young man? A devilish maid if there ever was one, so help me God.

“‘Now I shall throw myself at your feet, my proud queen,’ said Zobar in a voice that rang out over the steppe. And throwing himself on the ground, he pressed his lips to the feet of the dead Radda and lay there without stirring. We bared our heads and stood in silence.

“What is to be said at a moment like that? Nothing. Nur murmured: ‘Bind the fellow,’ but nobody would raise a hand to bind Loiko Zobar; not a soul would do it, and Nur knew this. So he turned and walked away. Danilo picked up the knife Radda had tossed away and stood staring at it for some time, his grey whiskers twitching; there were still traces of Radda’s blood on the blade, which was curved and sharp. Then Danilo went over to Zobar and plunged the knife into his back over the heart. After all, he was Radda’s father, was the old soldier Danilo.

“‘You’ve done it,’ said Loiko clearly, turning to Danilo, and then he went to join Radda.

“We stood looking at them. There lay Radda, pressing her hair to her breast with her hand, her wide-open eyes gazing up into the blue sky, while at her feet lay the brave Loiko Zobar. His curly hair had fallen over his face, hiding it from us.

“For some time we stood there lost in thought. Old Danilo’s whiskers were quivering and his thick brows were drawn. He looked up at the sky and said not a word, but hoary-haired Nur had thrown himself on the ground and his body was shaking with sobs.

“And there was good cause to cry, young falcon.

“The moral is, let nothing lure you off the path you have taken. Keep going straight ahead; then, perhaps, you will not come to a bad end.

“And that is the whole story, young falcon.”

Makar stopped talking, slipped his pipe into his tobacco pouch, and pulled his coat over his chest. A fine rain was falling and the wind was stronger. The waves broke with a dull angry rumble. One by one the horses came up to our dying fire, gazed at us with big intelligent eyes, then ranged themselves in a ring about us.

“Hi, hi!” Makar called to them affectionately, and when he had patted the neck of his favourite black, he turned to me and said: “Time to go to sleep.” He wrapped himself from head to foot in his Caucasian coat, stretched out on the ground and lay still, I had no desire to sleep. I sat there gazing into the darkness of the steppe, and before my eyes floated the image of Radda, so proud, so imperious, so lovely. She was pressing the hand with the hair in it to her breast, and from between the slender dark fingers oozed drops of blood that turned into fiery stars as they struck the ground.

And behind her floated the brave figure of Loiko Zobar. Locks of curly black hair covered his face, and from under the hair streamed big cold tears.

The rain increased and the sea sang a solemn dirge to these two handsome Gipsies – Loiko Zobar and Radda, daughter of the old soldier Danilo.

And the two of them whirled round and round, soundlessly, gracefully, in the darkness of the night, and try as he might the handsome Zobar could not overtake the proud Radda.

1892