The Bridge on the Drina by Ivo Andrić Read Free Book Online Page B

people had been forced to labour on the bridge and in no way could it be seen that the work was progressing or that the end of their misfortune was in sight. Autumn was already in full spate; the roads were breaking up from the rains, the Drina was rising and troubled, and the bare stubble full of slow-winged ravens. But Abidaga did not halt the work. Under the wan November sun the peasants dragged wood and stone, waded with bare feet or in sandals of freshly slaughtered hide along the muddy roads, sweating with strain or chilled by the wind, folding around themselves cloaks full of new holes and old patches, and knotting up the ragged ends of their single shirts of coarse linen, blackened by rain, mud and smoke, which they dared not wash lest they fall to pieces in the water. Over all of them hovered Abidaga's green staff, for Abidaga visited both the quarries at Banja and the works around the bridge several times each day. He was filled with rage and fury against the whole world 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 everyone he came across, overseers and contractors alike.
    'The days are short. Always shorter. You sons of bitches, you are eating your bread for nothing!'
    He burst out in fury, as if they were to blame because it dawned late and darkened early. Before twilight, that relentless and implacable Visegrad twilight, when the steep hills seemed to close in over the town and each night fell quickly, as heavy and deaf as the last, Abidaga's fury rose to its height; and having no one left on whom to vent his wrath, he turned it on himself and could not sleep for thinking of so much work not being done and so many people malingering and wasting time. He ground his teeth. He summoned the overseers and worked out how, from then on, it would be possible to make better use of the daylight and exploit the workers more effectively.
    The people were sleeping in their huts and stables, resting and restoring their forces. But all did not sleep; they too knew how to keep vigil, to their own profit and in their own manner. In a dry and spacious stable a fire was burning, or more 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 knew from where, whom the guards had seized on the road and had pressed for labour for several days, though he kept telling them and proving to them how wearisome and hard this work was for him and how his honour could not endure this work for slaves.
    Most of the wakeful peasants, especially the younger ones, gathered around him. 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. One of the peasants went outside and mounted guard before the stable lest some Turk should chance to come along. All looked at the Montenegrin as if they saw him for the first time and at the  gusle  which seemed to disappear in his huge hands. He bent over, the  gusle  in his lap, and pressed its head under his chin, greased the string with resin and breathed heavily on the bow; everything was moist and slack. While he occupied