Despite the great love my father bore me, our farewells were not long. In all probability, the Russians would be within sight of the castle the very next day, so there was no time to lose.

  I hastily put on a riding habit in which I had often accompanied my brothers when they went hunting. They saddled up the safest horse in the stables for me to ride; my father slipped his own pistols, masterpieces of the Tula armaments workshop, into my saddle holsters, embraced me and gave orders for us to depart.

  During the night and the next day we travelled twenty leagues, following the banks of one of those nameless rivers that flow into the Vistula. This first stage, taken twice as fast as usual, had brought us beyond the reach of the Russians.

  In the last rays of the sunset, we had seen the snowy peaks of the Carpathian Mountains glittering before us.

  Towards the end of the next day’s journey, we reached their base; finally, on the morning of the third day, we started to make our way through one of their gorges.

  Our Carpathian Mountains are not at all like the civilized mountains of your western countries. Nature at her most exotic and grandiose here reveals herself in her fullest majesty. Their stormy peaks are lost in the clouds and covered with eternal snows; their immense pine forests lean over the polished mirror of lakes as big as seas; and these lakes have never borne the ripple of even the smallest wherry, nor has a fisherman’s net ever disturbed their crystal, deep as the azure sky; only rarely is a human voice heard there, uttering some Moldavian song answered by the cries of wild beasts; the song and the cries awaken a solitary echo, amazed that any kind of noise should teach it of its own existence. For many a mile you travel on beneath the dark vaults of the woods, which open onto those unexpected marvels which solitude reveals at every step, and which lead our minds from astonishment to wonder. Here, danger is ever-present, composed of a thousand different dangers; but you do not have time to feel afraid, so sublime are these dangers. Sometimes they are waterfalls, improvised by the melting ice, that come cascading down from rock to rock, and suddenly overwhelm the narrow path you are following, the path traced by the passage of the wild animal and the huntsman in hot pursuit of it; sometimes there are trees whose strength time has sapped, and that come away from the soil and crash down with a terrible din like an earthquake; sometimes, indeed, there are hurricanes which enshroud you in clouds in the midst of which you see the lightning flickering, stretching itself out and writhing like a serpent of fire.

  Then, after those alpine forests, after those primitive forests, just as you have crossed through gigantic mountains, just as you have passed through limitless woods, you reach endless steppes, a veritable sea with its own waves and tempests, arid and uneven savannas where your gaze loses itself in a limitless horizon; then it is no longer terror which seizes your soul, it is sadness which floods into you; it is a vast and profound melancholy for which there is no relief, since the country looks exactly the same however far your gaze extends. You go up and down the same slopes time and time again, seeking in vain for any trace of a path; when you see how lost you are, and how isolated in the midst of these desert wastes, you think that you must be all alone in nature’s vastness, and your melancholy turns into desolation. And indeed, any advance you make seems futile, leading nowhere; you will come across neither village, nor castle, nor cottage – not a single trace of any human habitation. From time to time, like an extra source of melancholy in this gloomy landscape, a little lake without any reeds or bushes, lying asleep at the bottom of a ravine like another Dead Sea, maybe bars your way with its green waters, above which a few aquatic birds rise at your approach, uttering prolonged and discordant cries. Then you make a detour: you climb the hill that lies ahead of you, you descend into another valley, you climb another hill, and so it goes on until you have come to the end of the mountain range, which gradually levels out.

  But once you have come to the end of this range, if you take a sharp turn south, then the landscape again becomes grandiose, and you spot another range of even higher mountains, more picturesque in shape and more varied in aspect: this new range is crowned with waving forests, and watered by streams: together with shade and water, life is reborn in the landscape; you can hear the bell of a hermitage; you can see a caravan wending its way along a mountain slope. Finally, by the last rays of the sun, you can make out, like a flock of white birds leaning against one another, the houses of some villages that seem to have huddled together to protect themselves from some night attack – for, together with life, danger too has returned, and it is no longer, as it was in the first mountains you crossed, bands of bears and wolves that you need to fear, but hordes of Moldavian brigands that you may need to fight off.

  Meanwhile, we were getting nearer. Ten days’ journey had passed by without incident. We had already come within view of Mount Pion, which stands head and shoulders above this entire family of giants: on its southern slopes stands the convent of Sahastru, whither I was bound. Another three days, and we were there.

  It was the end of July; it had been a scorching hot day, and it was with a pleasure beyond compare that, around four o’clock, we began to breathe in the first fresh evening breezes. We had passed the ruined towers of Niantzo. We made our way down into a plain that was just starting to become visible through the gaps in the mountains. From where we were, we could already trace the course of the Bistrica, its banks dotted with gleaming red affrines* and great white-flowered campanulas. We skirted a precipice at the bottom of which flowed the river, which here was no more than a mountain torrent. Our mounts hardly had a space wide enough to walk two abreast.

  Our guide was leading the way, leaning out sideways on his horse’s back, singing a Morlach song, with monotonous modulations, whose words I followed with intense interest.

  The singer was also the poet. As for his song, I would need to be one of those men of the mountains to sing it to you in all its wild sadness and all its sombre simplicity.

  Here are the words:

  In the marshes of Stavila,

  Many warriors shed their blood.

  You see that body near the wood?

  That’s no son of proud Illyria,

  That’s a brigand filled with ire

  Who lied to Mary: hateful liar!

  And massacred with sword and fire.

  A bullet through the brigand’s heart

  Did sweep like a great hurricane,

  His throat was slit by a yataghan

  But for three days, O mystery!

  Beneath the sad and lonely pine tree,

  His warm blood drenched the black and thirsty

  Soil, and darkened Ovigan.

  His blue eyes now no more will gleam.

  Let’s all take flight; and woe on him

  Who walks the marshes near to him.

  He is a vampire! The wild wolf

  Flees that dread corpse to save himself.

  The vulture too, with silent stealth

  Has flown to the mountain bare and grim.

  Suddenly, a firearm rang out and a bullet whistled past. The song came to an abrupt end, and the guide, mortally wounded, fell into the depths of the precipice, while his horse came to a halt all aquiver, stretching out his intelligent head towards the depths of the abyss into which his master had disappeared.

  At the same time, a great cry went up, and we saw some thirty bandits emerging from the mountain slopes; we were surrounded on all sides.

  Everyone grabbed their weapons, and, although they had been taken by surprise, my companions – old soldiers who were used to being shot at – did not allow themselves to be intimidated, but returned the fire.

  I myself, setting an example to them, seized a pistol and, sensing the disadvantage of our position, shouted, “Forward!” and spurred on my horse, which started to gallop off towards the plain.

  But our assailants were hardy mountain dwellers, able to leap from rock to rock like veritable demons of the abyss, firing at us as they did so, and maintaining on our flank the position they had established.

  In any case, our manoeuvre had been foreseen. At a spot where the path broadened out, and the mountain formed a plateau, there was a young man waiting for us at the head of ten or so men on horseback; when they saw us, they spurred on their horses to a gallop, and came charging straight up at us, while those pursuing us came pouring down from the slopes of the mountain and, having cut off our retreat, hemmed us in on all sides.

  The situation was serious, but, having been accustomed to scenes of war ever since my childhood, I was able to look it full in the face without missing a single detail.

  All these men, dressed in sheepskins, were wearing huge round hats crowned with real flowers, like those worn by Hungarians. Each of them was holding a long Turkish rifle that they waved in the air after they had taken a shot, uttering savage cries; on their belts they wore curved sabres and a brace of pistols.

  As for their chief, he was a young man of twenty-two at most, with a pale complexion, slanting black eyes and hair that fell in curls on his shoulders. His costume was comprised of the Moldavian robe, fur-lined and tied at the waist by a scarf with gold and silk bands. A curved sabre was gleaming in his hand, and four pistols glittered in his belt. Throughout the combat, he uttered raucous, inarticulate cries that seemed not to belong to any human language, and which nonetheless expressed his wishes, since his cries were obeyed by his men – they would lie flat on their faces to avoid our soldiers’ shots and then rise to fire in their turn, hitting those who were still standing, finishing off the wounded and eventually turning the combat into a massacre.

  I had watched as two thirds of my defenders fell one after the other. Four were still standing, gathered closely around me, refusing to beg for mercy – as they were certain they would not be shown any – and with just one idea in their heads: how to sell their lives as dearly as possible.

  Then the young chief uttered a cry more expressive than the others, and pointed with his sabre tip towards us. Doubtless he was giving orders to surround our group with a circle of weapons and shoot us all together, since the long Moldavian muskets were all being lowered simultaneously. I realized our final hour had come. I lifted my eyes and my hands to heaven, saying one last prayer and awaiting death.

  Just then, I saw – not just coming down from the mountain but rushing down, leaping from rock to rock – a young man, who came to a halt and stood upright on a stone overlooking the whole scene, like a statue on a pedestal. Holding out his hand over the battlefield, he uttered but a single word:

  “Enough!”

  At the sound of this voice, everyone looked up and seemed to obey this new master. Just one bandit took aim with his rifle and fired.

  One of our men cried out; the bullet had broken his left arm.

  He immediately turned round to charge at the man who had wounded him; but before his horse had galloped four paces, there was a flash of lightning over our heads, and the disobedient bandit crashed to the ground, his skull shattered by a bullet.

  All these varying emotions had brought me to the end of my tether, and I fainted.

  When I came back to my senses, I was lying on the grass, with my head on a man’s knees: all I could see of him was his white hand covered with rings supporting me around the waist, while in front of me, standing erect with his arms folded and his sabre under one of his arms, was the young Moldavian who had led the attack against us.

  “Kostaki,” said the man who was holding me; he was speaking in French, with a tone of authority. “Kostaki, this very minute you will call off your men and leave me to take care of this young woman.”

  “My brother, my brother,” replied the man to whom these words were addressed and who seemed barely able to master his emotions, “my brother, beware lest you exhaust my patience. I leave the castle to you – leave the forest to me! In the castle you are the master, but here I am all-powerful. Here, a word from me would be enough to force you to obey me.”

  “Kostaki, I am the elder of us; and that means I am master everywhere! In the forest as in the castle, here just as much as there. Oh, I am of the blood of the Brankovans every bit as much as you – the royal blood which is used to commanding – and I command.”

  “Indeed, Gregoriska, you command your valets, oh yes – but you do not command my soldiers.”

  “Your soldiers are brigands, Kostaki… brigands whom I will hang from the battlements of our towers if they do not obey me this minute.”

  “Very well! Try and command them, then.”

  Then I felt the man who was supporting me pull away his knee and gently lay my head on a stone. I anxiously followed him with my eyes, and realized it was the same young man who had, as it were, fallen out of the sky into the midst of the battle, and of whom I had caught only a glimpse, since I had fainted just as he was speaking.

  He was a young man of twenty-four, tall in stature, with big blue eyes in which extraordinary resolve and firmness were evident. His long blond hair, typical of the Slav race, fell onto his shoulders like that of the Archangel Michael, framing fresh young cheeks; his lips were curled in a disdainful smile, showing two rows of pearl-white teeth; his gaze was that of the eagle when he outstares the lightning. He was wearing a kind of black velvet tunic; a little bonnet like Raphael’s, decorated with the plume of an eagle’s wing sat on his head; he had tight-fitting breeches and embroidered boots. His waist was girded with a sword belt from which there hung a hunting knife; slung across his shoulders was a small two-bore rifle, the accuracy of which one of the bandits had experienced for himself.

  He held forth his hand, and this outstretched hand seemed to command even his brother. He uttered a few words in the Moldavian tongue. These words appeared to make a great impression on the bandits.

  Then, in the same language, the younger chief spoke in his turn, and I guessed that his words were a mixture of threats and curses.

  But to this long and heated speech, the elder of the two brothers replied with a single word.

  The bandits all bowed.

  “Very well! So be it, Gregoriska,” said Kostaki, falling back into French. “This woman won’t go to the cave, but she’ll still be mine. She’s a real beauty, in my view; I won her and I want her.”

  And as he spoke, he flung himself on me and swept me up into his arms.

  “This woman will be taken to the castle and handed over to my mother, and I will not leave her until then,” replied my protector.

  “My horse!” shouted Kostaki in Moldavian.

  Ten bandits made haste to obey him, and brought to their master the horse he had requested.

  Gregoriska looked around him, seized the bridle of a riderless horse and leapt onto it without touching the stirrups.

  Kostaki leapt into his saddle almost as agilely as his brother, even though he was still holding me in his arms, and galloped off.

  Gregoriska’s horse seemed to be urged on equally swiftly, and caught up with Kostaki’s horse, head to head and flank to flank.

  It was a curious sight, these two horsemen speeding along side by side, sombre and silent, not losing sight of each other for a single instant even though they did not seem to be looking at each other, abandoning themselves to their horses, whose desperate career swept them along through woods and rocks and over precipices.

  My head was flung back, and I could thus see Gregoriska’s handsome eyes fixed on mine. Kostaki noticed and lifted up my head, and soon I could see only his dark eyes devouring me. I shut my eyes, but in vain; even through my eyelids, I continued to see that stabbing gaze which penetrated deep into my bosom and pierced my heart. Then a strange hallucination took hold of me: it seemed to me that I was the Lenore in Bürger’s ballad,* being swept away by the phantom horse and its phantom rider, and when I realized we were stopping, I opened my eyes in terror, so convinced I was that I would see nothing around me but broken crosses and open tombs.

  What I did see was hardly any more cheerful: it was the inner courtyard of a Moldavian castle built in the fourteenth century.

  13

  The Brankovan Castle

  Then Kostaki let me slip from his arms down to the ground and almost immediately dismounted next to me; but, however swift his movement, he had already been anticipated by Gregoriska.

  As Gregoriska had said, in the castle he was indeed the master.

  On seeing the two young men arriving together with this strange woman they had brought home, the servants came running up; but although they were equally attentive to the needs of both Kostaki and Gregoriska, I sensed that the greatest regard and the deepest respect went to the latter.

  Two women came up; Gregoriska gave them an order in Moldavian, and with a wave of his hand signalled to me that I should follow them.

  There was so much respect in the glance that accompanied this signal that I did not hesitate. Five minutes later, I was in a room that, however bare and uninhabitable it would have appeared to the least fastidious of men, was obviously the finest room in the castle.

  It was a big square room, with a kind of divan in green serge – serving as a seat in the daytime and as a bed at night. There were also five or six great oaken armchairs, a huge chest and, in one of the corners of this room, a dais similar to a magnificent great stall in a cathedral.

  Of any curtains at the windows, or around the bed, there was of course no sign.

  You came up into this room by way of a staircase, where there stood in niches, larger than life, three statues of the Brankovans.

  After a short while the luggage was brought up to this room, my trunks included. The women offered me their services. But, while repairing the disorder that recent events had inflicted on my dress, I kept on my riding habit, a costume more in harmony with that of my hosts than any other garments that I might have adopted.