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The Pobratim: A Slav Novel
The Pobratim: A Slav Novel
CHAPTER I
ST. JOHN'S EVE
There was quite a bustle at Budua, because Janko Markovic and Milos Bellacic had just come back from Cattaro that very morning, and – what was really surprising – they were both getting shaved.
Now, it has always been a most uncommon occurrence amongst us for a man to get shaved on a Friday.
Mind, I do not mean to say that I consider this operation as being in any way unlucky if performed on that day. We, of course, cut our hair during the new moon; but there is no special time for shaving. Cutting one's nails on a Saturday brings on illnesses, as we all know; and I, without being superstitious, can name you lots of people who fell ill simply out of disregard to the wisdom of their elders. Nay, I myself once suffered a dreadful toothache for having thoughtlessly pared my nails on the last Saturday of the year.
Shaving on Saturday, however, cannot be considered as harmful either to the body or to the soul. Still, as we all go to the barber's once a week, on Sunday morning, it has hitherto been regarded as part of our dominical duties.
There was, therefore, some particular reason that made these prominent citizens shave on a Friday; could the reason be another change in the Government?
Quite a little crowd had gathered, by ones and by twos, round the hairdresser's shop; some were standing, others sitting, some smoking, others eating dried melon seeds – all were gravely looking at the barber, who was holding Bellacic by the tip of his nose and was scraping his cheek with a razor which kept making a sharp, stridulous noise as it cut down the crisp, wiry stubble hair of almost a week's growth. Then the shaver left the nose, for, as a tuft of hair in a hollow spot under the cheek-bone was renitent to the steel blade, he poked his thumb in his customer's mouth, swelled out the sunken spot and cleaned it beautifully. He was a real artist, who took a pride in doing his work neatly. He then wiped the ends on his finger, cast the soap to the ground with a jerk and a snap, then he rubbed his hand on the head of an urchin standing by.
The barber, who was as inquisitive and as loquacious as all the Figaros of larger towns, had tried craftily and with many an ambage to get at the information we were all so anxious to know; but nothing seemed to induce our clients to speak.
"I suppose," said he, with a pleasant smile, "I'll soon have new customers to shave?"
"Yes? Who?" quoth Markovic.
"Why, your sons, Uros and Milenko."