Review
In this story published in 1923 the central hero is the monk Brother Marko, the protagonist of other three tales. The story “In the Guest House” describes his position in the monastery. He is a peasant of limited intellect, given to expressive language quite inappropriate to his calling. He is profoundly confused by the complexities of the vocation thrust upon him by his relatives. He does, however, find himself a niche in the life of the monastery that suits his temperament. He is given charge of overseeing work on the monastery lands, of the animals and wines, and of attending to the needs of the travelers who stay in the monastery guest- house.
Although he is confused by the dogma of his religion, Marko finds that he is sometimes granted moments when he feels in perfect communion with his God. These moments occur most frequently when he is working on the land, digging or planting out cabbages. Marko’s faith is subjected to a severe test when a Turkish visitor is brought into the guest-house fatally ill. His companions leave him in Marko’s care, ostensibly to seek help, but they do not return. As he tends the sick man, Marko is overcome by a desire to save the soul of the dying infidel. His eagerness gives him a new eloquence and he surprises himself with the fluency with which he half remembers phrases this onslaught silently, but when at last he is about to die and incapable of speech Marko brings a crucifix for him to kiss. Summoning his last strength, the Turk spits at it. Marko is appalled he seizes the cross and rushes out into the summer night, his head throbbing with fury. But the monk has the image of a Christian God willing to accept all sinners, whatever this professed religion.
Fragment
translated by Joseph Schallert, Dereta, Belgrade, 2000
(...)
The Turk had fallen silent; his closed eyelids occasionally twitched. Brother Marko had leaned right over him. He was observing him closely but was unable to make out what he was thinking. His face was just as it always was - thin and oval, with pouting lips like a defiant boy's.
'Just say: Saviour be a help into us. Say it, Osmo,' whispered Brother Marko to him as softly and sweetly as he could. The Turk was silent. From him came only heavy breathing and the bobbing of his Adam's apple.
Thinking that perhaps he was unable to speak, Brother Marko took the little crucifix on the rosary which hung at his waist and brought it to the Turk's lips.
'Kiss it, Osmo, this is your Saviour and mine. Kiss it and He will forgive your sins and receive you into Him.'
The Turk's face moved almost imperceptibly, his eyelids began to tremble and he moved his lips as if he wanted to say something. Then he pursed his lips tightly and with a great effort - he spat. The spittle filtered down through his beard.
Swiftly Brother Marko pulled away the cross, leapt up, and ran outside growling.
That vast monotonous hum of a summer night. Only towards the end of summer are the stars so big and the sky so low. He gripped the fence with his hands, clenching his fingers. The blood rushed to his head from anger and would not quiet down but rather kept throbbing up again. He gazed though the dark tree trunks, far away into the depths of the sky where the stars were starting to appear and spoke as usual, to himself: 'There's not a brother who's worse than me, nor a Turk that's filthier than that Osmo. I try to baptise him, and he - oooohhh!'
He shook the fence in torment.
But gradually he calmed down. He began to lose himself in the quiet night, in the gaze of innumerable stars. He slowly forgot himself. Waves from him trebling body carried over onto everything around him and he felt as though he were sailing swiftly over an ocean in the dark. The sky above him rocked perceptibly. There were sounds all around. He clasped the railings tightly.
Everything was on this great moving ship of God's: the village and the fields, the monastery and the guest-house.
'I know that You do not forget anyone, not even stuttering Marko or that sinful Osmo Mameledija. If someone does spit on Your cross, it is only like a bad dream. There is still room for everyone on Your ship. Even for that crazy Kezmo, if he hadn't gone away...'
(...)