An Anthology of Croatian Literature

Antun Gustav Matos (1873-1914)

Antun Gustav Matoš (1873–1914) A Bohemian, pan-European, esthete, feuilletonist, critic, musician, poet, and short-story writer, Matoš crammed an enormous amount into his relatively short life. On the run from the Austrian authorities for having deserted the army, he lived long years outside Croatia, cultivating friendships and contacts in Belgrade, Geneva, and Paris, but always staying closely in touch with the Croatian literary and cultural scene. He believed strongly in “art for art’s sake,” and focused his attention principally on the style of a work, be it his own or another’s. The following excerpt is the conclusion of his short story “Nekad bilo—sad se spominjalo” from the collection Novo iverje (1900, New Chips). The story was translated as “A Time to Remember” by Eugene E. Pantzer and can be found in its entirety in his monograph Antun Gustav Matoš (Boston: Twayne Publishers, 1981): 91–126. 106 An Anthology of Croatian Literature A Time to Remember (Excerpt) VI God gives us what we can bear. Recovering at home, I was returned to Hrastovac for convalescence. For the first time I realized what it meant to suffer and come back; for the first time I was pained by “Cannot” and “Never,” especially that terrifyingly ominous “Never!” I still felt weak on my feet. In the garden I watched gorgeous admiral butterflies suck the honeysweet Salzburg pears that covered the ground. I experienced tapping woodpeckers, singing crickets, the soft, silent travel of clouds. Everything felt new, unfamiliar . I had left the garden young and healthy; I found it now old and sick, like myself. Dry foliage rustled along the well-kept paths. Smiljka had become a function of my delirium and fever; I thought of her now as dead. As I recovered, my old forays became my fountain of youth. As though I were on an island: the pole-fence around the courtyard became coastal rocks, the church a harbor, its towers, lighthouses. The poultry became happy Phaeacians, peasant carts on the dusty highway, ships on a stormy sea. Oh, what balm can spill into a soft young soul at the sound of Zagreb bells through a library window, as the wind brings up and takes back the mournful, happy, and lachrymose tintinnabulations… By now the barber had taken a wife. By day or night one heard Frau von Golubić singing: “Das ist die Liebe, die ganz allein…” [“That is the love which alone…”]. From that, schoolmaster Jelić judged the Gnädige Frau to be a Hungarian who, during her great travels, had done little with her hands. She called at the rectory, but uncle said he must forgo rice after seeing her powdery, whitened face. I could not look at her, either. Especially at those eyes which drooped like pants without buttons. It’s all as may be now, but rumor says that the barber enjoyed a few brief golden weeks and then went mad. Returning from Velika Gorica, where he had entered a lion’s cage on a wager, he heard strange sounds coming from the bridal chamber. The lower half of the window was covered, so he climbed out on a plum tree where he was seen by the serving girl, Barica. When the Gnädige Frau led the new postal clerk forth from the chamber to strains of her theme song, she found her husband beneath the tree, dead of a broken neck. The villagers did not all credit Barica’s version. The lord of Čučnik told me that the sinister barber had wagered with the postman: at midnight he would take a shot at an iron Christ Crucified at the crossing. Unfortunately, the bullet ricocheted and hit him in the throat. The day of the funeral was marked by high wind, and Šimek the bell ringer asserted that the barber had turned into a spirit and had been seen Antun Gustav Matoš 107 riding a cloud in the direction of Okić. Today, Gnädige Frau Golubić operates the postoffice and no longer sings “Das ist die Liebe...” One night before autumn, in between the holy days of St. Pulcheria and St. Hyacinth, an untimely bell aroused us from sleep. Many frightened people clustered around the church. Fire! There were shouts, particularly those of angry women who sounded as if their tresses were aflame. Cattle lowed and roamed around the churchyard. My uncle came running, looking pale and clothed only in...