Abidagaleftthetown,heagainsentforthenotablesandtoldthemthathewas
going away to another place for the winter, but that his eye would still be on
them.Allwouldberesponsibleforeverything.Ifitwerefoundthatanypartof
theworkhadbeendamaged,ifasinglestickweremissingfromthescaffolding,
hewouldfinethe
wholetown.Whentheyventuredtosaythatdamagemightbecausedbyfloods,
herepliedcoldlyandwithouthesitationthatthiswastheirdistrictandtheriver
toowastheirsaswellaswhateverdamageitmightcause.
Allthewinterthetownsmenguardedthematerialandwatchedtheconstruction
worksliketheeyesintheirhead.AndwhenwiththespringAbidagaonceagain
appeared, with Tosun Effendi, there came with them Dalmatian stonemasons,
whomthepeoplecalled'Latinmasters'.Atfirsttherewereaboutthirtyofthem,
led by a certain Mastro Antonio, a Christian from Ulcinj. He was a tall,
handsomemanofkeeneye,boldglanceandhookednose,withfairhairfalling
to his shoulders and dressed like a noble in the western manner. His assistant
wasanegro,arealnegro,ayoungandmerrymanwhomthewholetownandall
theworkmensoonnicknamed'theArab'.
If in the previous year, judging from the mass of scaffolding, it seemed as if
Abidaga had intended to build the bridge of wood, it now seemed to everyone
thathewantedtobuildanewStambulhereontheDrina.Thenbeganthehauling
of stone from the quarries which had already been opened up in the hills near
Banja,anhour'swalkfromthetown.
NextyearamostunusualspringbrokeneartheVišegradferry.Besidesallthat
whichsprangupandfloweredeveryyearatthattime,therearoseoutoftheearth
a whole settlement of huts; new roads made their appearance and new
approachestothewater'sedge.Countlessoxcartsandpackhorsesswarmedonall
sides. The men from Mejdan and Okolište saw how every day, like a sort of
harvest, there grew there by the river a restless swarm of men, beasts and
buildingmaterialofeverykind.
On the steep banks worked the master stonemasons. The whole area took on a
sort of yellowish colour from the stone-dust. And a little farther along, on the
sandy plain, local workers were slaking lime and moving, ragged and pale,
throughthewhitesmokewhichrosehighfromthekilns.Theroadsweretornto
piecesbytheoverloadedcarts.Theferryworkedallday,takingfromonebank
to the other building material, overseers and workmen. Wading in the spring
watersuptotheirwaists,specialworkmendroveinpilesandstakesandputin
positiongabionsfilledwithclay,intendedtobreakthecurrent.
All this was watched by those who up till then had lived peacefully in their
scatteredhousesontheslopesneartheDrinaferry.Anditwouldhavebeenwell
for them had they been able only to watch, but the work soon became so
extensiveanditsimpetusso
great that it drew into the whirlpool everything alive or dead, not only in the
town but also from great distances away. With the second year the number of
workershadgrowntosuchanextentthattheyequalledallthemaleinhabitants
of the town. All carts, all horses and oxen worked only for the bridge.
Everything that could creep or roll was taken and pressed into service,
sometimespaidbutsometimesbyforce.Therewasmoremoneythanbefore,but
high prices and shortages increased more rapidly than the money flowed in, so
that when it reached men's hands it was already half eaten away. Even worse
thantheriseinpricesandtheshortageswastheunrest,disorderandinsecurity
which now enveloped the town as a consequence of the incursion of so many
workmen from the outer world. Despite all Abidaga's severity, there were
frequent clashes among the workers, and many thefts from the gardens and
went into their own yards, for the gaze of the countless workers, local and
foreign,mightcomefromanywhereandtheTurksofthetownkeptthepractices
of Islam very strictly, the more so since they were all recently converted and
there was scarcely one of them who did not remember either a father or a
grandfather who was a Christian or a recently converted Turk. Because of this
the older persons who followed the law of Islam were openly indignant and
turned their backs on this chaotic mass of workers, draft animals, wood, earth
and stone which grew ever larger and more complicated on both sides of the
ferry and which, in the underpinning operations, broke into their streets, their
courtyardsandtheirgardens.
AtfirsttheyhadallbeenproudofthegreatbequestwhichtheVezirwastoerect
intheirdistrict.Thentheyhadnotrealized,astheynowsawwiththeirowneyes,
that these glorious buildings involved so much disorder and unrest, effort and
expense. It was a fine thing, they thought, to belong to the pure ruling faith; it wasafinethingtohaveasacountrymantheVezirinStambul,andstillfinerto
imaginethestrong,costlybridgeacrosstheriver,butwhatwashappeningnow
innowayresembledthis.Theirtownhadbeenturnedintoahell,adevil'sdance
ofincomprehensibleworks,ofsmoke,dust,shoutsandtumult.Theyearspassed,
theworkextendedandgrewgreater,buttherewasnoendorthoughtofendtobe
seen.Itlookedlikeanythingyoulike,butnotabridge.
So thought the recently converted Turks of the town and, in private among
themselves, avowed that they were fed up to the teeth with lordship and pride
andfuturegloryandhadhadmorethanenoughofthebridgeandtheVezir.They
onlyprayedAllahtodeliverthemfromthisdisasterandrestoretothemandtheir
homestheirformerpeaceandthequietnessoftheirhumblelivesbesidetheold-
fashionedferryontheriver.
AllthisaffectedtheTurks,butevenmoreitaffectedtheChristian rayah of the
whole Višegrad district, with this difference, that no one asked their opinion aboutanything,norweretheyevenabletoexpresstheirindignation.Itwasnow
the third year since the people had been on forced labour for the new bridge,
they themselves and all their horses and oxen. And that too not only for the
local rayah but also all those from the nearby districts. Everywhere Abidaga's guardsandhorsemenseizedthe rayah fromthevillagesandeventhetownsand
drove them away to work on the bridge. Usually they surprised them while
sleeping and pinioned them like chickens. Through all Bosnia, traveller told
traveller not to go to the Drina, for whoever went there was seized, without
questionofwhoorwhathewasorwherehewasgoing,andwasforcedtowork
foratleastafewdays.Theyoung
meninthevillagestriedtorunawayintothe
forests,buttheguardstookhostagesfromtheirhouses,oftenwomen,inplaceof
thosewhofled.
This was the third autumn that the people had been forced to labour on the
bridgeandinnowaycoulditbeseenthattheworkwasprogressingorthatthe
endoftheirmisfortunewasinsight.Autumnwasalreadyinfullspate;theroads
werebreakingupfromtherains,theDrinawasrisingandtroubled,andthebare
stubble full of slow-winged ravens. But Abidaga did not halt the work. Under
thewanNovembersunthepeasantsdraggedwoodandstone,wadedwithbare
feet or in sandals of freshly slaughtered hide along the muddy roads, sweating
withstrainorchilledbythewind,foldingaroundthemselvescloaksfullofnew
holes and old patches, and knotting up the ragged ends of their single shirts of
coarselinen,blackenedbyrain,mudandsmoke,whichtheydarednotwashlest
theyfalltopiecesinthewater.OverallofthemhoveredAbidaga'sgreenstaff,
forAbidagavisitedboththequarriesatBanjaandtheworksaroundthebridge
severaltimeseachday.Hewasfilledwithrageandfuryagainstthewholeworld
because the days were growing shorter and the work had not progressed as
quickly as he wished. In a heavy surcoat of Russian fur and high boots, he
climbed, with red congested face, over the scaffolding of such piers as already
arose from the waters, visited forges, barracks and workers' huts and swore at
everyonehecameacross,overseersandcontractorsalike.
'The days are short. Always shorter. You sons of bitches, you are eating your
breadfornothing!'
He burst out in fury, as if they were to blame because it dawned late and
darkenedearly.Beforetwilight,thatrelentlessandimplacableVisegradtwilight,
whenthesteephillsseemedtocloseinoverthetownandeachnightfellquickly,
asheavyanddeafasthelast,Abidaga'sfuryrosetoitsheight;andhavingnoone
leftonwhomtoventhiswrath,heturneditonhimselfandcouldnotsleepfor thinkingofsomuchworknotbeingdoneandsomanypeoplemalingeringand
wastingtime.Hegroundhisteeth.Hesummonedtheoverseersandworkedout
how,fromthenon,itwouldbepossibletomakebetteruseofthedaylightand
exploittheworkersmoreeffectively.
The people were sleeping in their huts and stables, resting and restoring their
forces.Butalldidnotsleep;theytooknewhowtokeepvigil,totheirownprofit
andintheirownmanner.Inadryandspaciousstableafirewasburning,ormore
exactly had been burning, for now only a few embers glowing in the half-lit
space remained. The whole stable was filled with smoke and the heavy, sour
smell of wet clothes and sandals and the exhalations of about thirteen human
bodies. They were all pressed men, peasants from the neighbourhood.
Christian rayah. All were muddy and wet through, exhausted and careworn.
They resented this unpaid and pointless forced labour while up there in the
villages their fields awaited the autumn ploughing in vain. The greater number
were still awake. They were drying their gaiters by the fire, plaiting sandals or
only gazing at the embers. Amongst them was a certain Montenegrin, no one
knewfromwhere,whomtheguardshadseizedontheroadandhadpressedfor
labour for several days, though he kept telling them and proving to them how
wearisomeandhardthisworkwasforhimandhowhishonourcouldnotendure
thisworkforslaves.
Mostofthewakefulpeasants,especiallytheyoungerones,gatheredaroundhim.
From the deep pocket of his cloak the Montenegrin drew out a gusle, a tiny primitive fiddle, clumsy and as small as the palm of a man's hand, and a short
bow.Oneofthepeasantswentoutsideandmountedguardbeforethestablelest
some Turk should chance to come along. All looked at the Montenegrin as if
theysawhimforthefirsttimeandatthe gusle whichseemedtodisappearinhis
huge hands. He bent over, the gusle in his lap, and pressed its head under his chin,greasedthestringwithresinandbreathedheavilyonthebow;everything
was moist and slack. While he occupied himself with these petty tasks, calmly
and self-confidently as if he were alone in the world, they all looked at him
without a movement. At last the first notes wailed out, sharp and uneven. The
excitementrose.TheMontenegrinfoundthekeyandbegantosingthroughhis
noseandaccompanyhimselfwiththe gusle. Everyone was intent, awaiting the
wonderful tale. Then, suddenly, after he had more or less attuned his voice to
the gusle, theMontenegrinthrewbackhisheadproudlyandviolentlysothathis
Adam'sapplestoodoutinhisscrawnyneckandhissharpprofilewasoutlinedin
thefirelight,andsanginastrangledandconstrainedvoice:A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-and thenallatonceinaclearandringingtone:
'TheSerbianTsarStefan
DrankwineinfertilePrizren,
Byhimsattheoldpatriarchs.
Fourofthem,theoldpatriarchs;
Nextthemwereninebishops
Andascoreofthree-tailedVezirs
AndtheranksofSerbiannobles.
WinewasservedbyMichaelthecup-bearer
AndonthebreastofhissisterKandosia
Shonethelightofpreciousstones....'
Thepeasantspressedcloserandcloseraroundthesingerbutwithoutmakingthe
slightestnoise;theirverybreathingcouldbeheard.Theyhalfclosedtheireyes,
carried away with wonder. Thrills ran up and down their spines, their backs
straightened up, their breasts expanded, their eyes shone, their fingers opened
and shut and their jaw muscles tightened. The Montenegrin developed his
melody more and more rapidly, even more beautiful and bolder, while the wet
andsleeplessworkmen,carriedawayandinsensibletoallelse,followedthetale
asifitweretheirownmorebeautifulandmoregloriousdestiny.
Among the countless peasants pressed for hard labour was a certain Radisav
from Unište, a small village quite close to the town. He was a smallish man,
dark-faced,withrestlesseyes,alittlebent,andwalkedquickly,spreadingouthis
legs and moving his head and shoulders from left to right, right to left, as if
sowing wheat. He was not as poor as he appeared to be, nor as simple as he
madehimselfout.HisfamilywereknownastheHeraci;theyhadgoodlandand
there were many males in the house, but almost the whole village had been
convertedtoIslamoverthepastfortyyearssothattheywerelonelyandisolated.
Thissmall,bowedRadisavhadbeenscurryingaboutfromonestabletothenext
these autumn nights 'sowing' revolt and had insinuated himself among the
peasantslikeaneel,whisperingandcounsellingwithoneonlyatatime.What
hesaidwasroughlythis:
'Brother,wehavehadenoughofth
is.Wemustdefendourselves.
Youcanseeforyourselfthatthisbuildingworkwillbethedeathofallofus;it willeatusallup.Evenourchildrenwillhavetodoforcedlabouronthebridge,
ifthereareanyofusleft.Forusthisworkmeansexterminationandnothingless.
Abridgeisnogoodtothepoorandtothe rayah, butonlyfortheTurks;wecan
neitherraisearmiesnorcarryontrade.Forustheferryismorethanenough.So
afewofushaveagreedamongourselvestogobynight,atthedarkesthour,and
breakdownandspoilasmuchaspossibleofwhathasbeendone,andtospread
therumourthatitisa vila, afairy,whoisdestroyingtheworksatthebridgeand
whodoesnotwantanybridgeovertheDrina.Weshallseeifthiswillbeofany
help.Wehavenootherwayandsomethingmustbedone.'
Therewere,asalways,somewhowerefaintheartedandunreliable,whothought
this to be a sterile idea; since the cunning and powerful Turks would not be
turned away from their intention they would have to do forced labour even
longer since God so willed. They should not make bad worse. But there were
also those who felt that anything was better than to go on slaving and to wait
untileventhelastragofclothingfellfromamanandthelastounceofstrength
bewastedbytheheavylabourandAbidaga'sshortcommons;andthattheymust
followanyonewhowaswillingtogotoextremes.Thesewereforthemostpart
youngmen,buttherewerealsoseriousmarriedmen,withfamilies,whoagreed,
thoughwithoutenthusiasmorfire,andwhosaidworriedly:
'Come and let's break it down; may his blood eat him up before he eats us up.
Andifthatdoesnothelp....'
Andatthatpointtheywavedtheirhandsindesperateresolution.
So in these first autumn days the rumour began to spread, first among the
workersandtheninthetownitself,thatthe vila ofthewatershadintervenedin
theworkonthebridge,thatshedestroyedandpulleddownovernightwhathad
been built by day and that the whole scheme would come to nothing. At the
same time, inexplicable damage began to appear over night in the revetments
andeveninthemasonryitself.Thetoolswhichthemasonshaduptillthenleft