Pran of Albania/Chapter 15

Pran spun and wove, and her heart sang with joy. What more could life give than this? Safety for those she loved, and then—to go to Nush at the wedding time.

Dil shared her happiness, helped her with all her work. “No bride shall have more cloth and spun wool than you, nor more pairs of well-knit wool socks, brave with your tribal pattern,” she told Pran. And Dil herself had her own sense of content, for there was rumor that a fine young man from Shoshi wished her in marriage, though as yet betrothal payment to Ndrek had not been made. Thought Dil, “Lul grows more helpful to Lukja every day, and in two years or more I can go to my own house with a good conscience.” Thinking these things she worked all the harder on Pran’s wedding clothes.

Notz and the twins lent strong arms to Ndrek. The herds increased, and things went well. The Thethi household prospered.

Lukja’s face shone. She said, “My heart is glad to see my girl wed so. Better a woman’s life than half a ​life. I shall rejoice indeed seeing Ndrek’s grandchildren, blood of his blood.” She got out her own wedding ornaments and showed them all to Pran. “See this—and this.” She shook out the chains of silver coins and medals, the colored beads against the evil eye, the fine-wrought filigree of silver wires. “These shall be yours. You will be gayly dressed. No bride more splendid than my girl shall be.”

One day when Pran and Lukja were alone Pran broke her silence about Nush and told how she had met and seen him, how she had taken her vow for love of him only. She even told about the meeting with him in the spring. Lukja had heard about Pran’s council speech, heard with astonishment and yet with pride.

Now she said, “If all our women felt so we might make headway against the feud and all the sorrow it brings us, being women. But ancient custom holds us—is too strong. Always we say, ‘Asht adet,’ it is custom. Custom is slow to change. And then, not knowing we ourselves do the thing, we say, ‘Asht eghel,’ it is Fate; and there we end.”

“I sometimes think,” said Pran, “Fate is ourselves. At any rate, I took mine in my hands and changed it—for myself and so for Nush.”

Lukja went on. “Ndrek need not know everything ​we know. Men live a different life from women and understand only that life. He thinks you were in love, perhaps, but knows not how it came to pass or that it was Prendnush. Better to keep all this between ourselves.”

“Ndrek is satisfied,” said Pran, “seeing my happiness. And then, besides, Prenk’s brothers have given a generous price to him for me. After I took the vow I thought of that, and how Ndrek, in need of flocks and gold after the war, had lost some wealth through me.”

Lukja threw back her head. “His heart regretted more that you had turned your back on living out a woman’s life,” she said. “He felt your own unhappiness and never spoke to me of loss of his.”

Ndrek suspected that the women knew things he did not know. But he never asked. Instead, his blue eyes flashing with humor, he made sport of Pran, saying, “Look at the shamefaced bride. She deems that woman never felt before the love that she will feel for her own man.”

One night they sat around the hearth, and Nik and Gjon played “Chicken’s Leg” with string. Notz sat with Lul beside him, one arm around her. And the two girls and Lukja sat together knitting on colored socks and shputa for the bride.

​Ndrek teased Pran. “What makes you think that women love their husbands? Mothers love sons and sisters love their brothers; but wives?—Wife’s love is something else. Have you not heard the poem about the three women—mother, sister, and wife—and how the man asked each one in turn how long she would make mourning for his death? I had it years back from a man in Skodra. I’ll say it for you. It is called ‘The Love of Women.’ Listen, and hear what sort of love it is wives give their husbands.”

“Say it, Tata,” said Pran laughingly. “I shall not greatly heed. But glory to your mouth, Ndrek. Begin.”

Ndrek kneeled and, clearing his throat, he recited in a dramatic voice the poem, “The Love of Women.”

Ndrek burst into a great laugh at the last line. “Hear,” he said, “hear how the wife makes mourning only until she has got her another husband. The other women mourn forever, but she———!” He sent a big puff of smoke into the air. “So wives are. Are you then otherwise, Pran, Daughter-of-Ndrek?”

​Pran reddened, laughing. “Wait and see, Ndrek. Perhaps a daughter of yours has a stronger heart than other women have, is more endowed with power of loving from your own self who loved herself enough to let her be ‘morgeshe’ without opposing force or question even.”

“I did foolishly,” admitted Ndrek, half serious now, “but a man can but follow the counsels of his own heart. So I did follow mine.”

“For that,” said Pran, beaming at him across the hearth, “for that I’ll give you grandsons in plenty who shall sing your praise at hearths as yet unkindled.”

“Rakia! And we drink the bride’s good health!” called Ndrek, smiling upon the whole group as though he were a grandfather already.

Lukja brought out the tiny glass and the white liquor in a fat-bellied bottle. She poured the glass full and gave it ceremoniously to Ndrek.

“May Christ have praise!” said Ndrek, raising the glass, “and may the beards of Prendnush’s sons be long and white ere they, as yet not entered into life, shall leave it!” He took a sip, then passed the glass to Notz, who sipped in his turn. The glass went round the hearth, the women drinking last, as custom was.

​Pran, sipping, thought of Nush and those dear words of his: “Each time I took the little glass and gave praise to our Lord I gave that praise to Him as thanks for you—who should be mine one day!” Her heart flowed over with her happiness.

The summer sped. Harvest was gathered in. The leaves began to fall. Monday was day for weddings. When her Monday came Pran sat sideways on Ndrek’s horse, in brand-new clothing, decked out with colored scarves and hanging beads and medals, over her face the scarf that hides the bride.

Ndrek led the horse by the bridle. The wedding party followed amid glad shots of rifle fire and mountain singing.

All had been done as custom said must be done. Pran had stood weeping difficult tears for three days in a corner of the house. When on the wedding day Ndrek had dragged her out roughly, as was demanded of him who gave the bride, she had made outcry and clutched the frame of the door, holding herself back in mock resistance.

Now she sat, head drooped, so as to seem in sorrow leaving her father’s house and her girl’s life. She knew she must sit so with head bowed down until she and the rest should meet with Nush’s party at the halfway mark between the houses. She would sit so, unmoving; ​neglect no particle of all that should be done; so that no touch of ill luck or any evil omen could affect this glad journey to her husband’s home and so bring down disaster on herself and Nush. She carried little iron tongs, a bag of corn: symbols of the new home and plenty in the new life. She thought, “I shall be led three times around his house, and when I step over the threshold it must be with my right foot first, not stumbling, either.” Lukja had warned her not to stumble. That presaged evil. She would go warily. She knew too that a little baby boy would be laid in her arms to carry inside with her—token that she would bear a man-child without fail. Boys, after all, were best. At least, men thought so, and to-day she herself suspected they were right.

Then three times round the hearth—yes, all should be done exactly as it must be done, omitting nothing. Together she and Nush would kneel before the Friar in the church. And then would come another standing in the corner with downcast modest eyes, not daring to look up while others sang wedding chants around her and women sat attending her, the bride. The men would all feast royally without and drink in rakia luck to the new home.

As she rode, head bent, she thought of each ceremony with fresh joyfulness. Life seemed to offer ​her a golden door into a paradise. “But don’t forget,” Lukja had cautioned her, “there will be wood and water to be brought always.”

“Of course,” she had answered proudly, “I will see to that.”

Work? What did work matter? Living was working, but much more than that. And there would be Nush always. Always? Yes, the bessa gave time to make some sort of peace; time to adjust the blood debt that still stood. Since Nush was marrying and one man had been killed on either side, the Friar had turned his influence to make a settlement, compound the feud through payment and end it all forever. The truce would cool men’s blood. Nush would be safe. Pran felt strong faith in that. That too was “eghel.”

How slowly her horse went! She heard gay talk about her, rifle shots. She must not speak. To speak would mean that she would turn into a sharp-tongued scold after her marriage. She rode in silence, happy with her thoughts.

At last they reached the halfway spot. Here the runners of the bridegroom—thirty fine young men—would meet the bride. Pran knew they always raced to see who would be first to reach her.

Though her eyes could not look, her ears were strained to catch the shouts and cries, the hurrying ​footsteps, of those who sped to meet and take her to her lover, Nush, who waited at the house.

Now she could hear them. Shots rang and voices called. Pran’s heart beat fast, a glad tattoo, a fluttering of joy. The racing feet of those who came made an ecstatic beating in her ears that matched that of her heart. They came for her—to lead her to her Nush. God speed them! God lend wings to all their feet!

One reached and touched her, took her horse’s bridle. Now she might raise her head in gladness, greeting the new life. Under her veil she raised her eyes. Soon she would be with Nush.

The horse lurched along the rough trail while Pran’s mind went back to that night long ago when all unwittingly she, as a girl, had bathed his mother’s feet. The night of her betrothal that had been! She thought then of the entrance of the traitor into the peaceful group and how she had heard all the talk of the impending war, then and thereafter; till the war had come, the bessa with it. The bessa that had saved her Nush from death and her own life from sorrow! How good God was! How all things turned to good, blessing from seeming evil at the last!

She could feel the warm autumn sunshine and the soft breeze that blew, could even feel the blueness of ​the sky and the stark beauty of the mountain rocks. Longing made the way seem long to her, although shouts and songs and rifle shots beguiled the time.

At last a thundering volley shattered the clear air. They had reached the house.

Nush waited. Pran’s eyes found him through her veil. With one hand she touched the bear’s-tooth necklace that lay half hidden under her wedding ornaments. Nush saw. Their love was plighted over.

Now, though Pran went with a proud quietness through all the ceremonies, and though she stood and heard the wedding chant, yet she did not heed, did not hear. Under her downcast lids her eyes held now the image of Nush, Prendnush, the son of Prenk, her man. That image filled her heart. Tall, straight, he was, in his tight white wool clothing seamed with black glistening braid, and his supple waist was wound with the brilliant folds of his girdle and belted with cartridges. Under his white jacket he had on a sleeveless one of red cloth worked with gold. His fine shoulders were hidden by the long bunched fringes of his black xhurdi, the garment that men wore in mourning for the great ancient hero Skanderbeg. On his head, wrapped with the snowy cloths that framed his fine-cut features, was the round white mountain cap the tribesmen wore. And slung across ​his back his rifle was, that sign of manhood and a man’s bravery.

“A son of Lek Dukagjin he is,” thought Pran, “a son of the mountains, and as strong as they.” What had the song said? “Brave men hand in hand . . .” The words came back. It was she and Nush now who would stand hand in hand, “me dorë me dorë”—stand side by side always, setting themselves against all evil—against the feud itself—and even war, stand on the side of peace and fair and gracious living.

Outside a shout was raised, “Rrnoft! Rrnoft!” Pran’s heart answered the cry, “Rrnoft!”