The Pobratim: A Slav Novel

by P. Jones

"'The Lives of the Saints,' written by a holy monk of our order." Then, looking up at the old monk, "Which Life shall I read?" he asked.

"Begin with that of our patron saint, Prince George of Cappadocia. It is a holy legend, which we, of course, all know, for the peasant often sings it at his plough, the shepherds say it to one another whilst tending their sheep, and"—turning to Milenko—"I suppose you, too, have often recited it at the helm when keeping your watch on the stormy sea."

"Yes, and invoked his holy name in the hour of danger." Thereupon
Milenko crossed himself, and the others followed suit.

"It is one of our oldest legends; still, always a very pleasant one to hear, especially if it is well read. But, before you begin, Blagoslav, let me first set the sufferer's pillow straight and administer to his wants; then we shall listen to your reading without disturbing you."

The old man suited his actions to his words—felt Uros' pulse, gave him with a spoon some drops of cordial, and afterwards sat down.

"Now we are ready," said he to the young monk.

Blagoslav thereupon began as follows:—

PISMA SVETOGA JURJE.

THE SONG OF ST. GEORGE

All hail, O Bosnia! fairest of all lands,
Renowned throughout the world since many an age;
The springtide of the year renews thy bloom,
And with the spring St. George's Day is nigh.
He was the greatest glory of the Cross,
Who taught our fathers Christ's most holy creed.
Now God again has granted us His gifts—
The life-awakening dews, the greenwood shade,
The sun's bright rays which warm the fruitful meads,
And melt the snow that lingers still a while
Upon the high and hoary mountain-tops;
The flowers fair that grow amongst the grass,
The blood-red rose that sheds its fragrance far,
The tawny swallows, from the sunny South,
That twitter sweetly 'neath the thatchèd eaves,
Are all the gifts that God sends every year
To Bosnia. Still He grants a greater boon;
This is the gladsome day of great St. George.
For though our land can boast of valiant knights,
Of warlike princes, eke of holy men,
Still greater far than all was voyvod George
Who whilom was of Cappadocia Duke.
He killed the grisly dragon that of yore
Laid waste the land around Syrene's white walls,
And freed the country from a fearful scourge.
Far down a lake full many fathoms deep,
There dwelt this dragon dreadful to behold;
For from his round red eyes he shot forth flames,
And spouted from his snout a sooty smoke
That burnt and blasted all around the mere.
This dragon daily slew those daring knights,
Who, mounted all on prancing, warlike steeds
Had gone to try their strength against the beast;
For on his ghastly green and scaly skin
They bent and broke, or blunted, their best blades,
As striking on the dragon's horrid hide
Was worse than hitting at a coat of mail,
Or cleaving some hard, flinty rock in twain;
So, therefore, like an Eastern potentate,
He reigned and ruled the region round Syrene.
It was a terror-striking sight to see
The horrid beast rise out in snaky coils,
And rear his head with widely-gaping mouth,
As towards the town he hissed with such a din
That shook the strong and battlemented walls;
Thereon to satisfy his hungry maw.
The craven townsfolk, all appalled with fear,
Would—as a dainty morsel—send the beast
Some lovely maiden in the prime of youth.
If naught was offered to the famished beast,
He lifted up his huge and bat-like wings,
And flapping, leapt upon the town's white walls;
There, gripping 'twixt his sharp and cruel claws,
Whoever stood thereby within his reach,
He mauled and maimed, and gulped down men by scores,
Until the ground seemed all around to be
A marsh of mangled flesh and muddy gore,
With skulls half split and jagged, splintered bones.
When each and every man within the town
Had offered up his child unto the fiend,
And every mother wept from early morn,
And saw at night her child in dreadful dreams,
They told the King his turn had come at last
To offer up his daughter to the beast—
His cherished child, the apple of his eye,
The only heir of all his wide domains.
Oh! brother mine, hadst thou but seen just then
The hot and blinding tears rush from his eyes,
Whilst cruel grief convulsed his manly frame;
At such a woful sight you would have thought
It was some abject woman, not a King,
Who, crouching low, was sobbing on the ground.
He kissed his child and said: "My daughter dear,
Woe worth the day that thou art reft from me!
For now, alas! who is to wear my crown,
Who is to grace my throne when thou art gone?"
When last he ceased to weep, he bade the maids
To deck his daughter out in richest dress,
With costly Orient pearls and priceless gems,
E'en as she were to wed the mighty Czar;
And then he said: "My daughter, as thy suite,
Take thou with thee my dukes, my noblest peers,
And likewise all the ladies of the land,
In sable garments clad to grace thy steps.
Still, let us hope some help may come at last,
And, meanwhile, pray the great god Alkoron.
In dire distress all earthly help is vain;
Alone, thy god may come to thy behest
And free thee from the dreadful dragon's claws."
The mother hugged her daughter to her heart,
The forlorn father blessed his weeping child,
Who then departed to her dismal doom;
And as she crossed the squares, the crowded streets,
The flutes and timbrels played a wailing dirge,
That might have melted e'en a heart of stone.
Behind her walked the lords of high degree,
Then all the noble ladies of the land,
All clad in widow's weeds and trailing veils.
It was, indeed, a grand and glorious sight
To witness all this pageantry of woe,
The stately show of grief, the pomp of tears.
The sun that shone upon the Princess's robes,
Now glittered brightly on the gold brocade;
Her eight rings sparkled all with costly gems,
For each alone was worth at least eight towns;
Her shining girdle, wrought of purest gold,
Was studded o'er with coral and turquoise;
Around her throat she wore a row of pearls,
Iridescent, all brought from far-off seas.
Upon her brow she bore the regal gem,
Which glittered in the sun with such a sheen
That every eye was dazzled by its light.
The maid, moreover, was of beauty rare,
Of tall and slender form, yet stately mien,
And graceful as the topmost bough that bends,
Or branchlet bowing 'neath the summer breeze;
Within her hand she held some lilies white,
The symbols of a young and modest maid.
She crossed with tearful eyes the crowded streets;
With grace she greeted every child she met,
And all—whose hearts were not as cold as clay—
Shed bitter tears at such a sight of woe,
And sighing, said: "Alas, her mother dear!"
At last when she had almost reached the lake,
The mighty dukes, her father's noble peers,
As well as every lady of her suite,
Appalled with fear, now bade her all farewell,
And hastened back to town before the beast
Arose from out the mere to seize his prey.
Now, God Almighty chose to show His love
Not only to the crowd that stood aghast,
But unto all the region round Syrene.
He, therefore, sent His servant, saintly George,
To turn them from their evil ways to Christ.
The Knight came to the mere just when the maid
Remained alone to weep upon her fate,
Forsaken as she seemed by God and man.
The Knight, who saw her from afar, sped on
With all due haste; then leaping from his steed,
He strode up by her side and asked her why
She stood there by the lake appalled, aghast.
For all reply the Princess only sobbed,
And with her hand she bade him quickly go.
"Can I afford no help?" then asked the Knight.
"Flee fast away, spur on your sprightly steed;
With all due haste, take shelter in the town;
Uprising from the waters of the lake,
The hungry dragon now doth take his meal;
So hie thee hence. Just see, the waters move;
Thou hast no time to tarry here to speak."
But George, undaunted by her words, replied:
"Fair maiden, dry your eyes and trust in me.
Or rather trust in God, who sent me here."
"What shall I do, fair Knight?" the maid replied.
"Forswear," he answered, "all thy gods of clay,
And bow with meekness to the name of Christ,
Whose Cross we bear to reach a better life;
For, with His mighty help, I hope to slay
The hellish beast that haunts this lonely land;
So, therefore, stand aside and let me fight."
Now, when the girl had heard these words of hope,
She hastened to reply unto the saint,
"If God doth grant thee superhuman might,
That wonders as the like thou canst achieve;
If thou hast strength enough to slay the fiend
And free me from this awful fate of mine,
I shall forsake my god, false Alkoron,
And bow with thee unto thine own true God,
Extolling Him as mightier of the two.
If thou wilt also show me how the sign
Of that most mystic Cross is made, Sir Knight,
I shall then cross myself both morn and eve.
Moreover, thou shalt have most costly gifts,
As well as all the gems I bear on me."
She had but hardly uttered these few words
When, lo! the waters blue began to heave,
And bubble up with foam, and then the beast
Upreared on high his dark and scaly head,
That looked just like some sharp and jagged cliff,
'Gainst which small shipwrecked smacks are dashed at night.
Then, rising from the lake, the horrid beast
Began to spout the water like a whale,
And bellow with a loud, appalling noise,
Just like the crocodiles that lurk unseen
Amongst the sedges growing by the Nile;
The roaring ended in a hollow moan,
As when the hot simoon begins to blow
In fitful blasts across the Libyan plain.
The Princess stood thereby and shook with fear;
She almost fainted at that dreadful sight.
St. George's warlike steed began to rear,
And prance and tremble; then it tried to flee;
But curbing it with might, and wheeling round,
The Knight with clashing strokes attacked the beast.
His sabre, striking on that scaly skin,
Struck forth a shower of sparks that glittered bright
Like ocean spray tossed by the wind at night,
Or glowing iron 'neath the smithy's sledge,
Or when the kindling steel is struck 'gainst flint.
The monster lifted then its leathern wings
And, bat-like, tried to fly. It only looked
Like some old hen alighting from its perch;
With flutt'ring wings outspread it floundered down,
And was about to fall upon the Knight
And crush him 'neath its huge and massy weight;
Or grasp him with its sharp and cruel claws,
Just as an eagle pounces on a lamb.
But George, invoking Mary to his help,
Bent down and wheeled aside; then with one stroke
He plunged his sword within the dragon's side,
Just near the heart, beneath the massy wings.
A flood of dark red blood at once gushed out,
Which forthwith tinged the water with this gore.
The monster yelled aloud with such a din
That shook the white and battlemented walls
Then, writhing like a trodden newt or worm
It wallowed in the dust and seemed to die.
But still, before the dragon passed away,
The Knight undid his long and silken scarf,
And bound it round the monster's scaly neck;
He handed then the scarf unto the maid,
Who now drove on the dragon like a lamb.
They both went through the gate within the town,
Between the gaping crowd that stood aside
To let them pass, amazed at such a sight;
And thus they crossed the streets and crowded squares,
Until they reached the lofty palace gate.
There 'neath the pillared portal stood the King,
Who stared astounded at the sight he saw.
The saintly Knight alighted from his steed,
And bowing low, he said in accents clear:
"Believe in God the Father, mighty King,
Believe in God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost;
Forsake for aye thy lying gods of clay,
And Sire, let all Syrene with bended knee,
Confess the Lord and make the mystic sign
Of Jesus Christ, who died upon the Cross.
If thou provoke the anger of the Lord,
Far greater scourges might then hap to thee."
The King, who saw his own dear child alive,
Shed tears of joy and clasped her to his heart,
And gladly then—and without more ado—
There in the midst of all the gathered crowd,
With all his Court, he made the mystic sign
That scares the foe of man in darkest hell;
Then bowing down confessed the name of Christ.
Thereon the saint unsheathed the mighty sword,
And with a blow struck off the scaly head.
The dragon, that till then had scourged the town,
Lay wriggling low amidst the throes of death,
And wallowed in a pool of dark red blood,
Emitting a most foul and loathsome smell.
Still, at the ghastly sight all stared well pleased,
Nay, some threw stones and hit the dying beast,
For 'gainst a fallen foe; the vile are brave.
And during all this time the kind old King
Had tried to show the gratitude he felt;
He led the saint within his palace halls,
For there he hoped to grant him many a boon.
"Thou art, indeed," said he, "most brave and true,
Endowed by God with superhuman might,
And as a token of my heartfelt thanks
Accept this chain of gold, for 'tis the meed
Of daring deeds, the like of which thou didst.
This diamond ring till now adorned my hand;
I give it thee. Besides, my gallant Knight,
One half of all my land will now be thine;
Nor even then can I requite thy worth,
Except by granting thee my only child,
My darling daughter, as thy loving bride."
The saint, however, thanked for all these gifts,
And bowing low, he said unto the King:
"Thy gratitude to God alone is due,
For I am but a tool within His hand;
'Tis He who sent me here to kill the beast,
That hell had sent to waste and scourge your land.
Without His help, a man is but a reed,
A blade of grass that bends beneath the breeze,
A midge that ne'er outlives a single night;
To thy distress He lent a listening ear,
And freed thee from that foul and fiendish beast.
Then dash thy foolish gods of stone and brass,
Build shrines and temples, praise His holy name.
Still, for thy gifts accept my heartfelt thanks;
My task, howe'er, is that to go and preach
The name of Jesus Christ from town to town.
To Persia straightway I must wend my way
And there declare the love of God to man."
Thereon he took his leave and went away
To preach in distant lands a better life;
Converting men of high and low degree.
To Alexandra, who then reigned in Rome,
He bore the tidings of Christ's holy name;
And God e'er granted to this voyvod saint
The might of working strange and wond'rous deeds.
At last he met a saintly martyr's death,
And shed his precious blood for Jesus Christ.
To Thee, St. George, we now devoutly pray,
To be our intercessor with the Lord,
That He vouchsafe His mercy to us all.