Slovene original
Mož in oblakov vojsko je obojno
končala temna noč, kar svetla zarja
zlatí z rumenmi žarki glavo trojno
snežnikov kranjskih sivga poglavarja,
Bohinjsko jezero stoji pokojno,
sledu ni več vunanjega viharja;
al somov vojska pod vodó ne mine,
in drugih roparjov v dnu globočine.
Al jezero, ki na njega pokrajni
stojiš, ni, Črtomír! podoba tvoja? -
To noč je jenjal vojske šum vunajni,
potihnil ti vihar ni v prsih boja;
le hujši se je zbudil črv nekdajni,
ak prav uči me v revah skušnja moja,
bolj grize, bolj po novi krvi vpije,
požrešniši obupa so harpíje.
Na tleh ležé slovenstva stebri stari,
v domačih šegah vtrjene postave;
v deželi parski Tesel gospodari,
ječé pod težkim jarmam sini Slave,
le tujcam sreče svit se v Kranji žari,
ošabno nósjo tí pokonci gláve.
Al, de te jenja ta skeleti rana,
ne boš posnel Katóna Utikána!
Prenesla pričujoče ure teže
bi ne bila let poznih glava siva;
v mladosti vender trdniši so mreže,
ki v njih drži nas upa moč goljfiva;
kar, Črtomír! te na življenje veže,
se mi iz tvojih prejšnjih dni odkriva,
ko te vodila ni le stara vera
tje na osredek Bléškega jezéra.
Tje na otok z valovami obdani,
v današnjih dnevih božjo pot Marije;
v dnu zad stojé snežnikov velikani,
poljá, ki spred se sprósti, lepotije
ti kaže Bléški grad na levi strani,
na desni griček se za gričam skrije.
Dežela kranjska nima lepšga kraja,
ko je z okolšno ta, podoba raja.
Tam v časih Črtomíra na otoki
podoba bóginje je stala Žive,
ki so zročeni ji mladenčov stoki;
ki so ji, vé dekleta ljubeznive!
zročeni vaši smehi, vaši joki,
orožja, ki so nam nepremagljive. -
Tam bógnje vežo Staroslav in lepa
njegova hči odpira in zaklepa.
Hči Bogomila, lepa ko devica,
sloveča Hero je bila v Abidi,
nedolžnost vnema ji oči in lica,
lepote svoje sama le ne vidi,
priliznjena mladenčov govorica
je ne napihne, ji srca ne spridi.
Spolníla komej je šestnájsto leto;
srce mladó ni za noben'ga vneto.
Darí opravit bógnji po navadi
prinese Črtomíra lahka ladja,
od tega, kar raste pri njega gradi,
od čede, žita in novine sadja;
ko bliža z njimi se devici mladi,
zadene ga, ko se je nármanj nadja,
iz nje oči v srce ljubezni strela,
plamén nepogasljiv je v njemu vnela.
O blagor, blagor, Črtomír! ti vneta
je deklica od tvojega pogléda,
kak od zamáknjenja je vsa prevzeta,
kak gleda v tla, kak trese se beseda!
Ko zarija, ki jasen dan obeta,
zarumení podoba njena bleda,
in v tvoji roki roka nje ostane
zadŕžana ji od moči neznane.
Naj pevec drug vam srečo popisuje,
ki célo leto je cvetla obema:
kak Črtomír osredek obiskuje,
kak oča omladí med njima dvema,
ki ni, ko meni, mu veselje tuje,
ki srečna ga ljubezen v prsih vnema,
pijanost njino, ki tak hitro mine,
pregnana od ločitve bolečine.
Že, Črtomír! je treba se ločiti,
ne slišiš, kak glasnó trobenta poje?
Pripodil s sabo je Valjhun srditi
požigat božje veže divje roje;
povsod vzdigujejo se vere ščiti,
ki si prejel od matere jo svoje,
té vere, ki ji deklica ta služi,
ki zdaj te z njo ljubezen čista druži.
Kak težka, bridka ura je slovesa!
Stojé po licah jima kaplje vroče,
objeta sta, ko bi bila telesa
enga, spustiti žnabel žnabla noče;
si z levga oča, desnega očesa
jok briše, ki ga skriti ni mogoče,
ko vidi v táko žalost nju vtopljene,
in de tolažbe zanje ni nobene.
Bi spomnil njima zmage večno slavo,
ak bi, de jo doseči móč je, sodil;
al preveliko trumo je čez Dravo
po Kokri doli v Kranj Valjhun pripodil.
Se možu zdi, de gre le v smrt krvavo,
brez de bi vero, brate osvobodil. -
List pride, kak vasi in veže božje
goré; - čas, Črtomír! je vzet orožje.
In šel je boj bojvat brez upa zmage,
in skazal se je korenine prave,
kjer suče meč, na čeli smrtne srage
ležé sovražnikov trupla krváve
mrtvih, al izdihjočih duše drage;
vender ne meč, ne moč gradu trdnjave
bogov ne more rešit slavnih staršov,
in ne pred smrtjo ohranít tovaršov.
Premagan pri Bohinjskem sam jezéri
stoji naslonjen na svoj meč krvávi,
z očmi valov globoki brezen meri,
strašne mu misli rójijo po glavi,
življenje misli vzet si v slepi veri;
al nekaj mu predrzno rôko ustavi -
bila je lepa, Bogomila! tvoja
podoba, ki speljala ga je 'z boja.
Enkrat videt želi podobo milo,
pozdravit prejšnjega veselja mesto;
al srečno je prestala časov silo,
al njeno mu srce še bije zvésto,
al morebit pod hladno spi gomilo,
al premagávec mu je vzel nevesto,
al živa, al mŕtva je, zvedet móre,
ločiti préd se iz sveta ne móre.
Znan ribič privesla od une stráni,
opomni ga, kak sam sebe pozabi,
kako povsod ga išejo kristjani,
kak z vjetimi Valjhun srditi rabi,
prijazno delj mu tam ostati brani,
stopiti k sebi ga v čolnič povabi,
de ga pripelje v varniši zavetje;
vda Črtomír se v to, kar ribič svétje.
In brž veslata v konec ta jezéra,
kjer bistra vanjga pribobni Savica;
ker srečen veter nji roké podpéra,
čolnič leti, ko v zraki urna tica.
Se ribič po sovražnikih ozéra,
čoln vstavi, kjer je gosta senc temnica.
Ker se mu zdi, de lakota ga grudi,
junaku, kar je v torbici, ponudi.
Želi dat Črtomír mu povračilo,
al v vojski dnarji so bili razdani;
de Staroslav, se spomni, z Bogomilo
mu v skrivnem kraji tovor zláta hrani,
nju poiskati da mu naročilo,
in da mu prstan sámo njima znani,
de bo pri njima storil mu resnico; -
prinesti zláta reče četrtníco.
Po Bogomili prašat mu ukaže:
al gleda svetlo sonce, je še živa,
al so obvárvale jo mokre straže,
al pred sovražniki drugéj se skriva,
in kod narvárniši se pot pokaže,
tje, kjer zdaj draga deklica prebiva?
Pri slapi čakal jutro bo Savice,
vesele ali žalostne novice.
Slap drugo jutro mu grmi v ušesa;
junak premišlja, kak bolj spodej lena
voda razgraja, kak bregove stresa,
in kak pred njo se gôre ziblje stena,
kak skale podkopuje in drevesa,
kak do nebes leti nje jeze pena! -
Tak se zažene, se pozneje ustavi
mladenič, Črtomír pri sebi pravi.
Zbudi ga 'z misel teh mož govorica,
ki bližajo se z blagam obloženi,
spozna koj ribiča poštene lica;
neznan mož pride po stezi zeleni;
talar in štola, znamenja poklica,
povesta mu, de služi Nazareni.
Po meč bi desna se bila stegnila,
v ti priči se prikaže Bogomila.
ČRTOMÍR
»O, sem na sŕce moje, Bogomila!
Skrbí je konec, žalosti, nesreče,
se trese od veselja vsaka žila,
kar gledam spet v obličje ti cveteče,
naj brije zdaj okrog viharjov sila,
naj se nebo z oblaki preobleče,
ni meni mar, kar se godi na svéti,
ak smejo srečne te roké objeti.«
Iz njega rok izmakne se počasi,
in blizo se na prvi kamen vsede,
in v trdnem, ali vender milem glasi
mladenču vnetmu reče té besede:
»Ne združenja, ločitve zdaj so časi,
šel naj vsak sam bo skoz življenja zmede;
de b' enkrat se sklenile póti naji,
me tukaj vidiš zdaj v samotnem kraji.
Povedat moram ti, de sem kristjana,
malikov zapustila vero krivo,
de je bežala ta, k' ob sonci slana,
de dal krstit je oča glavo sivo,
soseska je Marije službi vdana
v dnu jezera utopila bógnjo Živo.
Kako prišla k resnice sem poglédi,
moj Črtomír! v besedah kratkih zvédi:
Večkrat v otoka sem samotnem kraji,
ko te je ladja nesla preč od mene,
si mislila, al bo ljubezen naji
prešla, ko val, ki veter ga zažene,
al hrepenečih src željé narslaji
ogásil vse bo zemlje hlad zelene,
al mesta ni nikjer, ni zvezde mile,
kjer bi ljubjóče srca se sklenile.
Te misli, ko odšel si v hude boje,
miru mi niso dale več siroti.
V nevarnosti življenje védet tvoje,
zaprte vse do tebe videt póti,
ni védlo kam se djati sŕce moje,
tolažbe nisem najdla v taki zmoti.
Obupala sem skorej tákrat reva;
kak sem želela v noči ti svit dneva!
En dan sem prašat šla po vojske sreči,
al skozi se še ni sklenila z vami;
učil ljudi je mož bogaboječi,
duhovni mož, ki zdaj ga vidiš z nami:
kako nas vstvaril vse je Bog narveči,
kak greh prišel na svet je po Adámi,
kak se je božji sin zato učlovečil,
de bi otel naróde in osrečil.
De pravi Bog se kliče Bog ljubezni,
de ljubi vse ljudi, svoje otroke,
de zemlja, kjer vijó viharji jezni,
je skušnje kraj, de so naš dom visoke
nebesa, de trpljenje in bolezni
z veseljam vred so dar njegove rôke,
de čudno k sebi vód' otroke ljube,
de ne želi nobenega pogube.
De ustvaril je ljudi vse za nebesa,
kjer glorja njega sije brez oblaka,
oko ni vidlo, slišale ušesa
veselja, ki izvoljene tam čaka,
de spróstenim bo vseh težav telesa
se srečnim izpolnila volja vsaka,
de bodo tamkej božji sklepi mili
té, ki se tukaj ljubijo, sklenili.
Ko šla domú sem z družbo najno v glavi,
me mož, ki je ta uk učil, doide;
prijazno v svoji šegi me pozdravi,
pove, de préd je štet bil med druide,
de preobrnil se je k veri pravi,
de v naše kraje oznanvat jo pride;
ker so vasi bile mu krog neznane,
z menoj iti želi, ker noč postane.
Doma očetu, meni razodeva,
kar prerokváli nékdaj so preroki,
kak, kar grešila sta Adám in Eva,
na križi operó krvi potoki,
popiše nama strah sódnega dneva,
vse čudeže, ki vere so poroki;
kar védet treba je, zloži po vrsti,
ker sva mu vse verjela, naju kŕsti.
Al ena skrb me je morila vedno,
de tí med njimi si, ki Bog jih čŕti;
večkrat sem v sanjah vidla glavo čedno,
bledó ležati na mrtvaškem prti;
sem trepetala zate uro sledno;
de bi nebes ne zgrešil v bridki smrti.
Mož božji mi bolnó srce ozdravi,
ker, de zamóre vse molitev, pravi.
Kolikokratov sem od tod v samoti
klečala, klícala pomoč Marije:
'Zavreči v jezi ga, moj Bog! ne hôti,
ker v zmoti žali te, ne 'z hudobije,
ne daj v oblast sovražni ga togoti,
pred njo naj milost tvoja ga zakrije!'
In čudno te je tisto noč ohranil,
ko ni noben tovarš se smrti ubranil.
Iz spanja svojga, Črtomír! se zbudi,
slovo daj svoji strašni, dolgi zmoti,
po potih se noči temne ne trudi,
ne stavi v bran delj božji se dobroti,
in njene milosti dni ne zamúdi,
de sklenete se enkrat najni póti,
ljubezen brez ločitve de zazóri
po smrti nama tam v nebeškem dvóri.«
ČRTOMÍR
»Kak bom povrnil, Bogomila draga!
ljubezen, skrb, kar si trpela zame?
V veselji skorej mi srce omaga,
ki v njemu tvoja ga ljubezen vname,
dokler krvi ne vteče zadnja sraga,
in groba temna noč me ne objame,
ti sužno moje bo življenje celo,
ti gospoduj čez vero, misli, delo.
Kako bi mogel tebi kaj odreči,
storiti tega ne, kar boš želela!
Al zmisli ran, ki jih Valjhuna meči
so stórili, in pšic njegovih strela,
kaj videli krvi smo v Kranji teči,
kristjanov tvojih vse preudari dela,
in mi povej, al ni črt nárbolj jezni
njih Bog, ki kličeš ga Boga ljubezni?«
DUHOVNI
»Po celi zemlji vsem ljudem mir bodi!
tako so peli angelcov glasovi
v višavah pri Mesijesa prihódi;
de smo očeta enega sinovi,
ljudje vsi bratje, bratje vsi naródi,
de ljúbit' mórmo se, prav' uk njegovi.
Valjhun ravna po svoji slepi glavi,
po božji volji ne, duhovni pravi.«
ČRTOMIR
»Ljubezni vere, in miru in sprave,
ne branim se je vere Bogomile,
vem, de malike, in njih službo glave
služabnikov njih so na svet rodile,
v njih le spoštvál očetov sem postave;
al zdaj ovrgle so jih vojske sile.
Ak sklene me s teboj krst, Bogomila!
kdaj bo zakóna zveza me sklenila?«
BOGOMILA
»Odločeni so roži kratki dnóvi,
ki pride nanjo pomladanska slana,
al v cvetji jo zapadejo snegovi!
tak mladi deklici, ki zgodnja rana
srce ji gloda, vsmŕti mir njegovi,
le kratka pot je skoz življenje dana;
al je za majhen čas se združit vredno,
de bi ločitve spet se bala vedno?
De bi od smrti rešil te nesrečne,
in tamkej mili Bog v nebeškem raji
z menoj te, dragi! sklenil čase večne,
pustila vnémar sem željé narslaji,
pustila vnémar dni na sveti srečne,
sem odpovedala se zvezi naji; -
je uslišana bila molitev moja. -
Ne smem postati jaz nevesta tvoja.
Bogú sem večno čistost obljubila,
in Jezusu, in materi Mariji;
kar doživela let bom še števila
v željá bridkosti, v upa rajskem siji,
nobena me ne bo premogla sila,
bila de svojemu, svetá Mesiji,
nebeškemu bi ženinu nezvesta,
nikdár ne morem tvoja bit nevesta!« -
Duhovni reče med besede take:
»Zakóna sreče ta uživát ne more,
kdor dela mojim, tvojim je enake
predrznil v časa se seját razore,
druid sem z zmoto jaz slepil rojake,
ak bi ne bil dajal tvoj meč podpore,
kdaj vgásnila bila bi kriva vera,
bi vdova ne bila žen marsiktéra!
Tvoj pot je v Oglej, de položil nate
roké bo patriarh, ak duh te žene,
ko si pogubljal jih, oteti brate,
duhovnega te storil bo, ko mene.
V deželah jutra čakajo bogate
te žetve, ne zamúdi je nobene,
le hitro v Oglej, tje do patriarha,
de posvetí te mašnika, duš varha.«
ČRTOMIR
»Prav praviš, de ne smem jaz upat sreče,
ki vedno je in bo sovražna meni:
dosegel oča zmage ni sloveče,
končal življenje v vojski je zgubljeni,
odšla je mati komej sponam ječe,
že davno jo pokriva grob zeleni.
Osrečit hoče me ljubezen sladka,
al, kak sladkost bila je njena kratka!
V deželi koj trobente glas zapoje,
od Bogomile drage mene loči,
junaško bíli smo z Valjhunam boje,
vesele zmage dan nam ne napoči,
pomóril meč je vse tovarše moje,
beg je moj up, gojzd je moj dom pričjoči.
Nespametna bila bi z mano zveza,
ki me preganja vedno sreče jeza.«
BOGOMILA
»Ljubezni prave ne pozna, kdor méni,
de ugásniti jo more sreče jeza;
gorela v čistem, v večnem bo plaméni
zdaj, in ko mi odpade trupla peza;
v zakoni vender brani sad mi njeni
vživáti z Bogam trdniši zaveza.
Odkrila se bo tebi unstran groba
ljubezni moje čistost in zvestoba.
De bodo znani božji jim obéti,
jih oznanvat pojdi v slovenske mesta;
kar dni odločenih mi bo na svéti,
Bogú in tebi bom ostala zvesta,
v nebesih čákala bom pri očeti
čez majhen čas deviška te nevesta,
dokler žalujejo po teb' otete
krdela, prideš k meni v mesta svete.«
Izmed oblakov sonce zdaj zasije,
in mavrica na bledo Bogomilo
lepote svoje čisti svit izlije,
nebeški zor obda obličje milo;
jok, ki v oči mu sili, komej skrije,
de ni nebo nad njim se odklenilo,
de je na sveti, komej si verjame,
tak Črtomíra ta pogled prevzame.
Ko je minul, kar misli, de bo v sili
zlatá mu treba, si od mož ga vzame;
dar ribču da, njim, ki so ga nosili.
»Kar Staroslav zlatá še hrani zame,
daj ga sirotam,« reče Bogomili,
se bliža ji, presrčno jo objame,
molče poda desnico ji k slovesi,
solzé stojijo v vsakem mu očesi.
»O čakaj, mi dopolni prošnjo eno!
préd ko se lóčva,« Bogomila pravi,
»de mi v skrbeh ne bo srce utopljeno,
de lóžej se bridkosti v bran postavi,
préd, ko greš v Oglej čez goró zeleno,
se pričo mene odpovej zmotnjavi,
dokler te posveti krst, se zamúdi,
vodá je blizo, in duhovni tudi.«
Molče v to prošnjo Črtomír dovoli,
z duhovnim bliža slapu se Savice,
molitve svete mašnik, on z njim moli,
v imeni kŕsti ga svete Trojice.
So na kolenah, kar jih je okoli,
se od veselja svet' obraz device,
ki je bila podpora vere krive,
je opravljála službo bógnje Žive.
Razlagajo, ko pride v Akvilejo,
mu svete pisma proste zmote vsake;
postane mašnik, v prsih umrjejo
nekdanji upi; med svoje rojake
Slovence gre, in dálej čez njih mejo,
do smrti tam preganja zmot oblake. -
Domú je Bogomila šla k očeti,
nič več se nista videla na sveti.
THY-REALITY English translation
The dark night has ended both armies — the army of men and the army of clouds. As bright dawn gilds with yellow rays the threefold head of the grey lord of Carniola's snowy peaks, Lake Bohinj lies calm. No outward trace of the storm remains; yet beneath the water the host of catfish and other predators in the depths has not disappeared.
And is not the lake on whose shore you stand, Črtomir, an image of yourself? The outward noise of war ceased this night, but the storm of battle has not grown quiet in your breast. An older worm has awakened more fiercely; if my experience in misfortune teaches me rightly, the harpies of despair bite harder and thirst ever more greedily for new blood.
The old pillars of Slovene life lie on the ground, the laws rooted in native customs. The Bavarian Tassilo rules the land; the sons of Slava groan beneath a heavy yoke, while in Carniola fortune seems to shine only on foreigners, who carry their heads proudly. Yet to end this gnawing wound, do not imitate Cato of Utica.
A grey head burdened with many years could not have borne the weight of these hours. In youth, however, the nets in which deceitful hope holds us are stronger. What still binds you to life, Črtomir, is revealed to me by your earlier days, when it was not only the old faith that led you to the island in the middle of Lake Bled.
There, on the island surrounded by waves — now a pilgrimage place of Mary — giant snowy mountains stand in the distance. Open fields lie before you; Bled Castle shows its beauty on the left, while hill after hill disappears on the right. Carniola has no fairer place: with its surroundings it is an image of paradise.
In Črtomir's time an image of the goddess Živa stood upon the island. To her were entrusted the sighs of young men; to her, dear maidens, your laughter and your tears — weapons against which men are powerless. Staroslav and his beautiful daughter opened and closed the goddess's sanctuary there.
His daughter Bogomila, as beautiful as the celebrated Hero of Abydos, had innocence glowing in her eyes and cheeks. She alone was unaware of her own beauty; the flattering speech of young men neither made her vain nor corrupted her heart. She had barely completed her sixteenth year, and her young heart burned for no one.
As custom required, Črtomir's light boat brought gifts to the goddess: what grew on his lands, from livestock, grain, and the year's fruit. As he approached the young maiden with them, when he least expected it, a bolt of love flew from her eyes into his heart and kindled there an inextinguishable flame.
O joy, Črtomir! The girl too is set aflame by your gaze. How completely she is seized by rapture, how she looks at the ground, how her speech trembles! Like dawn promising a clear day, colour rises into her pale face, and her hand remains in yours, held there by an unknown power.
Let another poet describe the happiness that blossomed for them through a whole year: how Črtomir visited the island, how the father grew young again between the two lovers, unlike me, to whom joy is alien, and how their happy love filled him too with delight — the intoxication of the pair that passed so quickly, driven away by the pain of separation.
Now, Črtomir, you must depart. Do you not hear the trumpet sounding loudly? Furious Valjhun has brought savage bands to burn the sanctuaries. Everywhere the shields of the faith inherited from your mother are being raised — the faith served by this girl, whom pure love now joins to you.
How heavy and bitter is the hour of farewell! Hot drops stand upon their cheeks. They cling together as though they were one body; lip does not wish to leave lip. Each wipes the other's tears, which cannot be hidden, seeing them sunk in such sorrow and knowing that there is no consolation for them.
He might remind them of eternal glory in victory, if he believed victory possible. But Valjhun has led too great a force across the Drava and down the Kokra into Carniola. The man believes he goes only to a bloody death, without freeing either faith or brothers. Then a letter comes: villages and sanctuaries are burning. It is time, Črtomir, to take up arms.
He goes to battle without hope of victory and proves himself worthy of his roots. Wherever his sword turns, with the sweat of death upon his brow, the bloody bodies of enemies lie dead or breathe out their dear souls. Yet neither sword nor the power of a fortified castle can save the gods of his glorious ancestors or preserve his companions from death.
Defeated, alone beside Lake Bohinj, he stands leaning on his bloody sword and measures with his eyes the deep abyss of the waves. Terrible thoughts swarm through his mind; in blind conviction he means to take his own life. But something stops the reckless hand — your beautiful image, Bogomila, the image that had once led him away from battle.
He wishes to see that beloved face once more, to greet the place of former happiness. Has she safely endured the violence of the times? Does her heart still beat faithfully for him? Does she perhaps sleep beneath a cold mound? Has the victor taken his bride? He must learn whether she is living or dead; before that he cannot leave this world.
A fisherman he knows rows over from the other side. He warns Črtomir how he has forgotten himself, how Christians search for him everywhere, and how harshly Valjhun treats prisoners. Kindly he forbids him to remain there longer and invites him into the boat, to bring him to safer shelter. Črtomir accepts the fisherman's advice.
They quickly row toward the end of the lake where the clear Savica thunders into it. A favourable wind supports their arms, and the little boat flies like a swift bird through the air. The fisherman watches for enemies and stops the boat where thick shadow offers darkness. Thinking hunger torments the hero, he offers him what is in his bag.
Črtomir wishes to repay him, but his money has been distributed during the war. He remembers that Staroslav and Bogomila are keeping a store of his gold in a secret place. He tells the fisherman to find them, gives him a ring known only to them as proof, and asks him to bring back a quarter of the gold.
He orders him also to ask about Bogomila: does she still look upon the bright sun, is she still alive, did the waters protect her, or is she hiding elsewhere from the enemy? What is the safest path to the place where the beloved girl now lives? At the Savica waterfall he will wait until morning for joyful or sorrowful news.
The next morning the waterfall roars in his ears. The hero reflects on how the water, gentler farther below, rages here and shakes the banks, how the mountain wall seems to tremble before it, how it undermines rocks and trees, and how the foam of its fury flies toward the heavens. So too, the young man tells himself, a man may rush forward violently and later come to rest.
The voices of men approaching with burdens wake him from these thoughts. He immediately recognizes the fisherman's honest face. An unknown man comes along the green path; cassock and stole, signs of his office, tell Črtomir that he serves the Nazarene. His right hand would have reached for his sword — at that moment Bogomila appears.
ČRTOMIR
“O Bogomila, come to my heart! Care, sorrow, and misfortune are ended. Every vein trembles with joy because I see your blooming face again. Let storms rage around us now, let the sky clothe itself in clouds; I care nothing for what happens in the world if these happy arms may embrace you.”
She slowly slips from his arms, sits upon the nearest stone, and in a firm yet gentle voice speaks these words to the ardent young man: “This is not a time for union but for parting. Each of us must walk alone through the confusion of life. That our paths may one day join again is why you see me here now in this lonely place.
I must tell you that I am a Christian. I have abandoned what I now call the false worship of idols; it vanished like frost before the sun. My grey-haired father has allowed himself to be baptized. Our community has devoted itself to Mary's service, and the image of the goddess Živa has been drowned in the depths of the lake. How I came to see what I call the truth, my Črtomir, hear in a few words.
Often in the lonely places of the island, when your boat had carried you away from me, I wondered whether our love would pass like a wave driven by the wind; whether the cold green earth would extinguish the sweetest desires of longing hearts; whether there was nowhere, no gentle star, under which loving hearts could be joined.
When you went into the cruel fighting, these thoughts gave poor me no peace. Knowing your life was in danger, seeing every road to you closed, my heart did not know where to turn, and in such confusion I found no comfort. I almost despaired then; how I longed for the light of day in your night!
One day I went to ask about the fortune of the war, whether the struggle with you had ended. A devout man was teaching the people — the priest whom you now see with us — how the greatest God created us all, how sin entered the world through Adam, and how the Son of God became human so that he might save peoples and make them blessed.
He taught that the true God is called the God of love, that he loves all people as his children; that earth, where angry storms rage, is a place of trial and that our true home is the high heavens; that suffering and sickness, together with joy, are gifts of his hand; that by strange paths of love he leads his children to himself and desires the ruin of no one.
He taught that God created all human beings for heaven, where his glory shines without cloud; that eye has not seen and ear has not heard the joy awaiting the chosen; that, freed from every burden of the body, the blessed will see every good desire fulfilled; and that there God's merciful decrees will unite those who love one another here.
As I went home with thoughts of the two of us in my mind, the man who had taught this doctrine caught up with me. He greeted me kindly in his manner and told me that he had once been counted among the druids, that he had turned to the true faith and had come to our lands to proclaim it. Because the villages around him were unknown, he asked to go with me as night was falling.
At home he revealed to my father and me what the prophets had once foretold: how streams of blood upon the cross would wash away what Adam and Eve had sinned, the terror of the Day of Judgment, and all the wonders that serve as pledges of the faith. He explained in order everything one must know, and because we believed him, he baptized us.
But one anxiety tormented me constantly: that you were among those whom God rejects. Often in dreams I saw your noble head lying pale upon a funeral cloth; every moment I trembled for you, fearing you would miss heaven in a bitter death. The holy man healed my aching heart by telling me that prayer can overcome all.
How many times I have knelt here alone and called upon Mary for help: ‘My God, do not reject him in anger, for he offends you in error, not from wickedness. Do not give him into the enemy's cruel power; let your mercy shelter him from it!’ And wonderfully you were preserved that night when not one of your companions escaped death.
Awake from your sleep, Črtomir! Say farewell to your terrible, long error. Do not wander farther along the paths of dark night, do not resist God's goodness any longer, and do not let the day of his grace pass you by, so that our paths may one day come together and a love without parting may dawn for us after death in the heavenly court.”
ČRTOMIR
“How can I repay you, dear Bogomila, for the love, the care, and all you have suffered for me? My heart almost fails from the joy your love kindles in it. Until the last drop of blood runs out of me and the dark night of the grave embraces me, my whole life will be your servant; rule over my faith, my thoughts, and my deeds.
How could I refuse you anything or fail to do what you desire? But remember the wounds made by Valjhun's swords and by the flight of his arrows. Consider how much blood we have seen flow in Carniola and all the deeds of your Christians, and tell me whether their God, whom you call the God of love, is not the most hateful of demons.”
THE PRIEST
“Peace be to all people throughout the earth! So the voices of angels sang in the heights at the coming of the Messiah: that we are sons of one Father, that all people are brothers, all nations brothers, and that his teaching commands us to love one another. Valjhun acts according to his own blind will, not according to the will of God,” the priest says.
ČRTOMIR
“I do not oppose Bogomila's faith of love, peace, and reconciliation. I know that human minds and the service of their priests brought idols and their worship into the world; in them I honoured only the laws of my fathers. But now the force of war has overthrown them. If baptism joins me with you, Bogomila, when will the bond of marriage join me to you?”
BOGOMILA
“Short days are appointed for the rose upon which spring frost falls, or which snow overtakes while it is in bloom. So too for a young girl whose heart is gnawed by an early wound and can find peace only in death, the path through life is short. Is it worth joining for so brief a time only to fear separation again forever?
That you might be saved from an unhappy death and that the merciful God might unite you with me for eternal ages in the paradise of heaven, I set aside the sweetest desires, set aside happy days on earth, and renounced our union. My prayer was heard. I cannot become your bride.
I have promised God everlasting chastity, and promised it to Jesus and to Mother Mary. Whatever years I may still live, amid the bitterness of longing and the brightness of hope for paradise, no power will make me unfaithful to the holy Messiah, my heavenly bridegroom. I can never be your bride.”
The priest then speaks: “The happiness of marriage cannot be enjoyed by one who has dared to sow deeds like mine and yours into the furrows of time. I, as a druid, once misled my people by error; if your sword had not given support to that same error, the false faith would have died out long ago and many a woman would not have become a widow.
Your road is to Aquileia, where the patriarch will lay hands upon you if the Spirit moves you. Since you once destroyed your brothers, he will make you a priest, as he made me, so that you may save them. Rich harvests await you in the lands of the East; miss none of them. Go quickly to Aquileia, to the patriarch, that he may consecrate you a priest and guardian of souls.”
ČRTOMIR
“You speak rightly: I must not hope for happiness, which always has been and always will be hostile to me. My father achieved no glorious victory and ended his life in a lost war. My mother had barely escaped the chains of captivity; long ago the green grave covered her. Sweet love tries to make me happy — but how brief its sweetness has been!
Almost at once the trumpet sounded through the land and tore me from dear Bogomila. We fought Valjhun bravely, but no joyful day of victory dawned. The sword killed all my comrades; flight is my hope and the forest my present home. Union with me would be foolish, for the anger of fortune pursues me always.”
BOGOMILA
“One does not know true love who thinks the anger of fortune can extinguish it. It will burn in a pure, eternal flame now and when the weight of the body falls from me. Yet a stronger covenant with God forbids me to enjoy its fruit in marriage. Beyond the grave the purity and faithfulness of my love will be revealed to you.
Go into Slovene towns to proclaim God's promises so that they may become known. For whatever days are allotted me on earth, I shall remain faithful to God and to you. In heaven, beside the Father, I shall wait a short while as your virgin bride, until, after the flocks you have saved mourn you, you come to me in the holy places.”
Now the sun shines from among the clouds, and a rainbow pours the pure radiance of its beauty upon pale Bogomila; a heavenly glow surrounds her gentle face. Črtomir barely hides the tears rising into his eyes. He can scarcely believe that heaven has not opened above him and that she is still upon the earth — so completely does the sight overcome him.
When the time has passed for which he thinks he may need the gold, he takes it from the men. He gives a gift to the fisherman and to those who carried it. “Whatever gold Staroslav still keeps for me, give it to orphans,” he tells Bogomila. He comes close to her, embraces her warmly, and silently gives her his right hand in farewell; tears stand in both his eyes.
“Wait — grant me one request before we part,” Bogomila says, “so that my heart will not drown in anxiety and may more easily withstand sorrow. Before you go across the green mountain to Aquileia, renounce your error here before me. Delay only until baptism consecrates you; water is near, and so is the priest.”
Silently Črtomir agrees. With the priest he approaches the Savica waterfall. The priest prays sacred prayers and Črtomir prays with him; in the name of the Holy Trinity the priest baptizes him. All around are on their knees, and the maiden's face shines with joy — she who had once supported the old faith and performed the service of the goddess Živa.
When he reaches Aquileia, the sacred writings, freed from every error, are explained to him. He becomes a priest; his former hopes die within his breast. He goes among his own people, the Slovenes, and then beyond their borders, and until death he drives away the clouds of error. Bogomila went home to her father. They never saw one another again in this world.