Cozma RacoareBy M. SadoveanuHe was a terrible man, Cozma Racoare!When I say Cozma, I seem to see, do you know, I seem to see before me, a sinister-looking man riding upon a bay horse; two eyes like steel pierce through me; I see a moustache like twin sparrows. Fierce Rouman! He rode with a gun across his back, and with a knife an ell long, here, in his belt, on the left side. It was thus I always saw him. I am old, you know, nigh on a hundred, I have travelled much about the world, I have met various characters, and many people, but I tell you, a man like Cozma Racoare I have never seen! Yet he was not physically so terrible; he was a man of middle height, lean, with a brown face, a man like many another—ha! but all the same! only to have seen the eyes was to remember him. Terrible Rouman!There was grief and bitterness in the land at that time. Turks and Greeks were overrunningthe country on all sides, everywhere honest men were complaining—they were hard times! Cozma had no cares. To-day he was here, to-morrow one heard of him, who knows where! Every one fled before the storm, but he, good Lord, he never cared! They caught him and put him in chains. What need? He just shook himself, wrenched the bars with one hand, whistled to his horse, and there he was on the road again. Who did not know that Racoare had a charmed life? Ah, how many bullets were aimed at his breast! But in vain! It was said of him: only a silver bullet can slay him! Where do you see men like that nowadays? Those times are gone for ever.Have you heard of the Feciorul Romancei? He was a fire-eater too! He robbed the other side of Muntenia, Cozma robbed this, and one night—what a night!—they both met at Milcov, exchanged booty, and were back in their homes before dawn. Were the frontier guards on the watch? Did they catch them as they rode? Why! Racoare’s horse flew like a phantom, no bullet could touch him! What a road that is from here, across the mountains of Bacau, to the frontier! Eh! to do it, there and back in one night, you mark my words, that’s no joke! But that horse! That’s the truth of the matter, that horse of Racoare’s was not like any other horse. That’s clear.Voda-Calimbach had an Arabian mare, which his servants watched as the apple of his eye; she was due to foal. One night—it was in the seventh month—Cozma got into the stall, ripped open the mare and stole the foal. But that was not all he did! You understand the foal was wrapped in a caul. Racoare cut the caul, but he cut it in such a way as to split the foal’s nostrils. And look, the foal with the split nostrils grew up in the dark fed upon nut kernels; and when Cozma mounted it—well, that was a horse!Even the wind, therefore, could not out-distance Cozma. On one occasion—I was a volunteer then—Cozma woke to find himself within the walls of Probot, with volunteers inside and the Turks outside. The Turks were battering the walls with their guns. The volunteers decided to surrender the fortress. Cozma kept his own counsel. The next day Cozma was nowhere to be found. But from the walls, up to the forest of Probot, was a line of corpses! That had been Racoare’s road!That is how it always was! His were the woods and fields! He recognized no authority, he did not know what fear was, nor love—except on one occasion. Terrible Rouman! It seems to me I can see him now, riding upon his bay horse.At that time a Greek was managing the Vulturesht estate, and on this side, on our estate, within those ruined walls, there ruled such a minx of a Roumanian as I had never seen before. The Greek was pining for the Roumanian. And no wonder! The widow had eyebrows that met, and the eyes of the devil—Lord! Lord! such eyes would have tempted a saint. She had been married, against her will, to a Greek, to Dimitru Covas; the Greek died, and now the lady ruled alone over our estate.As I tell you, Nicola Zamfiridi, the Greek, was dying for the lady. What did that man not do, where did he not go, what soothsayers did he not visit, all in vain! The lady would not hear of it! She hated the Greek. And yet Nicola was not ill-favoured. He was a proud Greek, bronzed, with pointed moustache and curly beard. But still he did not please the widow!One day, Nicola sat pondering in his room while he smoked. What was to be done? He most certainly wanted to marry, and to take her for his wife; why would she not hear of it?A few days before he had gone with Ciocirlie, the gipsy, and had sung desperately outside the walls. Alas, the courtyard remained still as stone! What the devil was to be done?Boyar Nicola thought to himself: “You are not ugly, you are not stupid—what’s the reasonof it? Is she, perhaps, in love with some one else?” No. He watched for one whole night. Nobody entered, and nobody left the courtyard.The boyar was angry. He rose, picked up a whip and went out. The grooms were grooming the horses in the yard.“Is that horse supposed to be groomed?” he shouted, and slash! down came the whip on one of the grooms.Farther on the gardener was resting from the heat.“Is this how you look after the garden? Hey!” and swish! crack!What next? Was it any use losing one’s temper with the people? He went into the garden, and seated himself under a beautiful lime-tree. There, on the stone bench, he pondered again. His life was worthless if the woman he loved would not look at him! He watched the flight of the withered leaves in the still air; he heaved a sigh.“Vasile! Vasile!” called the boyar. His voice rang sadly in the melancholy garden.A sturdy old man came through the garden door, and went towards his master.“Vasile,” said the boyar, “what is to be done?”The old man eyed his master, then he, too, sighed and scratched his head.“What is to be done, Vasile?”“How should I know, master?”“You must find something. Many people have advised me, now you suggest something. I got nothing out of that old witch, and Ciocirlie was no good; cannot you propose something?”“H’m——”“Do not desert me, Vasile!”“H’m, master, I’ll tell you something if you will give me something.”“Take a ducat of mine, Vasilica—speak!”Vasile did not let himself be put off by the mention of one ducat. He scratched his head again.“If I knew you would give me two ducats, master, or even three, or many—you understand—that’s how it is! What will be, will be! I say go right off to Frasini, go into the courtyard, through the courtyard into the lady’s boudoir and steal her! That’s what I say!”“What are you talking about, good Vasile! Is it possible!”Vasile said no more. The boyar thought deeply, his hand on his forehead; then he said:“That’s what I must do, Vasile! I know what I have to do! Bravo you, good Vasile!”“If only I knew I was to get two ducats reward!” sighed Vasile, scratching his head.And that evening Boyar Nicola kept his word. He mounted his horse, took with him five companions from among the grooms, and started out to Frasini.The forest shuddered with the whisper of the breeze of the autumn night. The men rode silently. From time to time could be heard the trumpeting of the cock, coming they knew not whence. Beyond lay silence. At last the widow’s courtyard came into sight, black, like some heap of coal.Like ghosts Nicola and his companions approached the wall; in silence they dismounted; they threw rope-ladders over the top of the wall, climbed up and over to the other side. The horses remained tied to the trees.Suddenly they heard cries. Boyar Nicola was not afraid. He hurried to the door—the doors were not shut. He passed along the corridor.“Aha!” murmured the Greek. “Now I shall have the darling in my arms.”But suddenly a door was opened, and a bright sea of light illuminated the passage. Boyar Nicola was not frightened. He advanced towards the room. But he had scarcely gone two paces when there, on the threshold, stood the Sultana, with her hair undone, in a thin white petticoat and a white dressing-jacket. With frowning brows she stood in the doorway looking at the boyar.Nicola was beside himself. He would willingly have gone on his knees, and kissed her feet, so beautiful was she. But he knew if he knelt before her she would only mock him. He approached to embrace her.“Hold!” cried the Sultana. “I thoughtthere were thieves! Ha, ha! it is you, Boyar Nicola?”And suddenly, there in the light, she raised a shining scimitar in her right hand. Nicola felt a hard blow on the side of his head. He stood still. His grooms started to run, but one fell, yelling, and covered with blood. Just then a great noise was heard, and the lady’s servants came in.Nicola fled towards the exit followed by his four companions. Then on into the yard with scimitars flashing on their right and on their left. And once more they are on horseback fleeing towards Vulturesht.There he dismounted, feeling very bitter, and entered the garden once more, and once more sat on the stone bench, and hid his face in his hands.“Woe is me!” he murmured miserably. “How wretched is my life! What is to be done? What is to be done?”He sat there in the October night tortured by his thoughts. Only the breeze carrying the mist from the fields disturbed him.“Woe is me! How wretched is my life!” and he bent forward, his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. “What a terrible woman!” he murmured again as he mused. “What eyes she has! Oh, Blessed Virgin! Oh, Blessed Virgin! Do not abandon me, for my heart is breaking!”For some time he stayed there dreaming. After a while he rose and moved towards the house.“What a terrible woman, and what eyes!”In the house he once more called for Vasile.“Good Vasile, I am undone! A terrible woman, good Vasile—she has burnt my heart and turned it to ashes! What is to be done? Do not leave me! Look, you understand, you shall have two of my ducats.”“I know what you have been through, master. She is a proud lady, there is no denying it! If I knew you would give me five ducats, or even six—but there, it’s only an idea——”“Speak, Vasile, good man, I will give you—— What eyes! Woe is me!”“Then I understand, master,” says Vasile, “that you give me seven ducats, but you’ll have to give seven times seven if you get her here at your hand—don’t be afraid, master, it is not much—only seven times seven to have her here at your hand! I’ll bring Cozma Racoare to you! As sure as you put the ducats into the palm of my hand, so sure will he put the Sultana into your arms, that’s that.”Boyar Nicola was rather alarmed when he heard talk of Cozma Racoare, but afterwards he sighed and said:“Good!”Three days later Racoare came. Nicola was sitting on the stone bench in the garden under thelime-tree, smoking a pipe of fragrant tobacco. When he caught sight of the highwayman he sat gazing at him with startled eyes. Cozma came calmly along with his horse’s bridle in his left hand. He wore top boots up to his knees with long steel spurs. A long gun was slung across his back. On his head was a black sheepskin cap. He walked unconcernedly as usual with knitted brows; his horse followed him with bent head.Vasile, the boyar’s agent, came up to the stone seat, scratching his head, and whispered with a grin:“What do you say to this, master? Just take a look at him. He could bring you the devil himself!”Boyar Nicola could not take his eyes off Cozma. The highwayman stopped and said:“God be with you!”“I thank you,” replied Vasile. “God grant it!”The boyar remained persistently silent.“H’m!” murmured Vasile. “You have come to see us, friend Cozma?”“I have come,” responded Racoare.“On our business?”“Yes.”Cozma spoke slowly, frowning; wherever he might be no smile ever lit up his face.“Ah, yes, you have come,” said the boyar, as if awaking from sleep. “Vasile, go and tell them to prepare coffee, but bring wine at once.”“Let them make coffee for one,” said Cozma, “I never drink.”Vasile went off grinning, after a side-glance at his master.“Ah, you never drink!” said the boyar with an effort. “So, so, you have come on our business—how much? Ah, I am giving fifty ducats.”“Good!” said Racoare quietly.Vasile returned, smiling knowingly. The boyar was silent.“Eh,” said Vasile, scratching his head, “how are you getting on?”“Good Vasile, go and fetch the purse from under my pillow.”“No, there is no need to give me a purse,” said the highwayman, “I have no need of money.”“What?” murmured the boyar. “Ah, yes! You do not need? Why?”“The thing is to put the Sultana of Frasini into your arms—I hand you over the lady, and you hand me the money.”“Let’s be brief!” cried Vasile, passing his hand through his hair. “One party gives the lady, the other the money. What did I tell you? Cozma would fetch you the devil from hell. From henceforth the lady is yours.”Racoare turned round, strode to the bottom of the garden, fastened his horse to a tree, drew a cloak of serge from his saddle, spread it out and wrapped himself in it.“Well! Well!” groaned Boyar Nicola, breathing heavily. “What a terrible man! But I feel as though he had taken a load off my mind.”Vasile smiled but said nothing. Later, when he was by himself, he began to laugh and whisper: “Ha, ha! He who bears a charmed life is a lucky man!”The boyar started up as from sleep and looked fearfully at Vasile; then he shook his head and relapsed into thought.“Ah, yes!” he murmured, without understanding what he was talking about.When night had fallen Cozma Racoare tightened his horse’s girths and mounted. Then he said:“Boyar, wait for me in the glade at Vulturesht.”The gates were opened, the horse snorted and rushed forth like a dragon.The full moon shone through the veil of an autumnal mist, weaving webs of light, lighting up the silent hills and the dark woods. The rapid flight of the bay broke the deep silence. Racoare rode silently under the overhanging woods with their sparse foliage; he seemed like a phantom in the blue light.Then he reached Frasini. Every one was asleep, the doors were shut. Cozma knocked at the door: Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat!“Who is there?” cried a voice from within.“Open!” said Racoare.“Who are you?”“Open!” shouted Cozma.From within was heard a whispered:“Open!” “Do not open!” “Open, it is Cozma!”A light shone through a niche in the wall above the door, and lighted up Cozma’s face. Then a rustling sound became audible, the light was extinguished, and the bar across the door rattled.Cozma entered the empty courtyard, dismounted by the steps, and pushed open the door.“The door is open,” he murmured, “the lady is not nervous.”In the dark corridor his footsteps and his spurs echoed as in a church. A noise was heard in one of the rooms, and a bright light shone into the passage. The Sultana appeared in the doorway, dressed in white with her hair unplaited, with frowning brows and the scimitar in her right hand.“Who are you? What do you want?” she cried.“I have come to fetch you,” said Racoare shortly, “and take you to Boyar Nicola.”“Ah, you are not burglars?” said the lady, and raised her scimitar. “See here, you will meet the same fate as your Nicola!”Racoare took a step forward, calmly seized the scimitar, squeezed the lady’s fist, and the steel blade flew into a corner. The lady sprang quickly back, calling:“Gavril! Niculai! Toader! Help!”Voices were heard, and the servants crowded into the passage, and stood by the door. Racoare approached the lady, and tried to seize her. She avoided him, and caught up a knife from the table.“What are you doing, you boobies? Help! Seize him, bind him!”“Don’t talk nonsense—I see you are not frightened; I cannot do other than I am doing!” said Racoare.Then the servants murmured again:“How can we bind him? It is Racoare. He is here! Cozma Racoare, lady!”“Cowards!” cried the lady, and threw herself upon Cozma.The highwayman took her arm, pressed her hands together, tied them with a leather strap, and lifted her under his arm like a bundle.“Get out of the way!” he said then, and the people fell over each other as they scattered to either side.“What a pearl among women!” thought Cozma, while he strode along the corridor with the lady under his arm, “he has not bad taste, that Boyar Nicola! Proud woman!”The Sultana looked with eyes wide with horror at the servants who gave way on either hand in their terror. She felt herself held as in a vice. At last she raised her eyes to Racoare’s fierce face.The light from the room was reflected in the man’s steely eyes, and lit up his weather-beaten face.“Who are you?” she gasped.“I? Cozma Racoare.”The lady gave another glance at the servants huddled in the corners, and she said not another word. Now she understood.Outside, the highwayman mounted the bay, placed the lady in front of him, and set spurs to his horse. Once more the sound of the galloping horse broke the silence of the night.“What a pearl among women!” thought Racoare, and the horse sped along the road like a phantom.The lady turned her head, and studied Racoare by the light of the moon.“Why do you look at me like that, lady?” And the horse sped along under the overhanging woods.The black hair of the lady shone in great billows of light. The foliage glistened with hoar-frost, like silver-leaf. The lady looked at the highwayman and shuddered, she felt herself squeezed in his powerful arms, and her eyes burnt like two stars beneath the heavy knitted brows.“Why do you look at me like that, lady? Why do you shiver? Are you cold?”The galloping hooves thundered through the glades, the leaves glittered in their silver sheen, and the bay passed on like a phantom in the light.A shadow suddenly appeared in the distance.“What is that yonder?” questioned the lady.“Boyar Nicola awaits us there,” replied Racoare.The lady said no more. But Cozma felt her stiffen herself. The leather strap was snapped, and two white hands were lifted up. The highwayman had no time to stop her. Like lightning she seized the bridle in her right hand, and turned the horse on the spot, but her left arm she twined round Racoare’s neck. The highwayman felt the lady’s head resting against his breast, and a voice murmured softly:“Would you give me to another?”And the horse flew like a phantom through the blue light; the meadows rang with the sound of the galloping hooves, the silver leaves glistened, and tresses of black hair floated in the wind. But now shadows seemed to be pursuing them. The hills on the horizon seemed peopled with strange figures, which hurried through the light mist. But the black phantom sped on, and ever onwards, till it was lost in the far distance, in the gloom of the night.The WanderersBy M. SadoveanuA house stood isolated in the middle of a garden, separated from the main group about the market-place.It was an old house, its veranda was both high and broad and had big whitewashed pillars. The pointed roof was tiled and green with moss. In front of the veranda, and facing south, stood two beautiful round lime-trees throwing out their shade.One day in the month of August, the owners, Vladimir Savicky and Ana, his wife, were sitting in the veranda. Both were old, weather-beaten by the storms of many journeys and the misfortunes of life. The old man wore a long white beard and long white hair, which was parted down the middle and smooth on the top; he smoked a very long pipe, and his blue eyes gazed towards the plains which stretched away towards the sunset. The old woman, Ana, selected a nosegay of flowers from a basket. He was tall and vigorous still, she was slight with gentle movements. Forty years agothey left their ruined Poland, and settled in our country. They kept an adopted daughter, and had a son of thirty years of age, a bachelor, and a good craftsman. They had lived for thirty years here in the old house, busying themselves with market-gardening: for thirty years they had lived a sad, monotonous life in this place. They had been alone with their adopted child, with Magdalena; Roman, their boy, had been roaming through the world for the last ten years.Old Vladimir puffed away at his pipe as he stroked his beard; the warmth of the afternoon had made him lay aside his blue jacket. The old wife was choosing her flowers. A gentle breeze, laden with fragrance, came from the garden, from the trees heavy with fruit, and from the gay-coloured flowers. Shafts of light penetrated through the leafy limes, little patches of white light came from above, and played over the bright grass, green as the tree-frog. From time to time the quivering foliage sent a melodious rustle into the peaceful balcony.At intervals the soft notes of a song floated through the open window.Suddenly a resounding noise broke the stillness of the day. What was it? A carriage. The old man started, put down his pipe, and rose. The old woman put her head, wrapped in a white shawl, out over the railings. The rumbling vehicle, an ugly Jew upon the box, drew nearer, and pulled up outside the door of the old house. A strong, broad-shoulderedyoung man descended, a big bundle in his right hand, a case in his left.“Roman! Roman!” cried the old lady in a feeble voice. She tried to rise but fell softly back beside the flowers.“There, there, old lady, it is Roman,” murmured the old man gaily, as he went down the stairs.“Mr. Roman!” cried a gentle voice, and Magdalena’s fair head appeared at the window.Roman had let fall the bundle and thrown himself into his father’s arms.“Yes, old lady, it is Roman!” murmured Vladimir Savicky, with tears in his eyes. He embraced his son, and pressed him to his heart. “Yes, old lady, it is Roman!” That was all he could find to say.“Mother,” cried the young man, “I have not seen you for ten years.”The old mother cried silently, her son strained her to his breast, while the old man wandered round murmuring tearfully into his beard:“Yes, yes, old lady, it is our Roman.”As Roman Savicky straightened his strong frame and turned round, he saw a white face with blue eyes in the doorway. He stood transfixed with astonishment; the girl watched him, smiling shyly.“Ha! ha!” laughed old Savicky, “how now? Do you not know each other? Ah! Kiss eachother, you have known Magdalena ever since she was a child.”The young people approached each other in silence, the girl offered her cheek with eyelids lowered, and Roman kissed her.“I did not recognize her,” said Roman, “she has grown so big.”His mother laughed softly. “You, too, Roman, you have grown much bigger—and handsome.”“NaturallyourRoman is handsome,” said the old man, “our own Roman, old lady.”Again the mother kissed her son. Roman seated himself upon a chair in the veranda, the old man placed himself on his right, and the mother on the left; they watched him, feasting their eyes upon him.“My darling! my darling!” he said to the old woman, “it is long since I have seen you.”In the end they grew silent, looking intently at one another, smiling. The gentle rustle of the lime trees broke the heat and stillness of the August day.“Whence do you come, Roman?” questioned the old man suddenly.“From Warsaw,” said his son, raising his head.The old man opened wide his eyes, then he turned towards Ana.“Do you hear that, old lady, from Warsaw?”The old lady nodded her head, and said wonderingly:“From Warsaw!”“Yes,” said Roman, “I have journeyed throughout Poland, full of bitterness, and I have wandered among our exiled brothers in all parts of the world.”Profound misery rang in his powerful voice. The old people looked smilingly at him, lovingly, but without understanding him. All acute feeling for their country had long ago died away in their hearts. They sat looking happily into the blue eyes of their Roman, at his fair, smooth face, at his beautiful luxuriant hair.The young man began to speak. Gradually his voice rose, it rang powerfully, full of sorrow and bitterness. Where had he not been! He had been everywhere, and everywhere he had met exiled Poles, pining away among strangers, dying far from the land of their fathers. Everywhere the same longing, everywhere the same sorrow. Tyrants ruled over the old hearth, the cry of the oppressed rent the air, patriots lay in chains or trod the road to Siberia, crowds fled from the homes of their fathers, strangers swept like a flood into their places.“Roman, Roman!” said the old woman, bursting into tears, “how beautifully you talk.”“Beautifully talks our Roman, old lady,” said Vladimir Savicky sadly, “beautifully, but he brings us sad tidings.”And in the old man’s soul old longings and bitter memories began to stir. On the thresholdMagdalena stood dismayed and shuddered as she looked at Roman.Suddenly two old men entered by the door. One had thick, grizzled whiskers, the other a long beard in which shone silver threads.“Ah,” cried the old Savicky, “here comes Palchevici, here comes Rujancowsky. Our Roman has come! Here he is!”“We know,” said Rujancowsky gravely, “we have seen him.”“Yes, yes, we have seen him,” murmured Palchevici.They both approached and shook Roman warmly by the hand.“Good day and welcome to you! See, now all the Poles of this town are met together in one place,” said Rujancowsky.“What?” questioned Roman. “Only these few are left?”“The others have passed away,” said old Savicky sadly.“Yes, they have passed away,” murmured Palchevici, running his fingers through his big grey whiskers.They were all silent for a time.“Old lady,” said Vladimir Savicky, “go and fetch a bottle of wine and get something to eat too, perhaps Roman is hungry. But where are you? Where is Ana?” asked the old man, looking at Magdalena.“Do not worry, she has gone to get things ready,” replied the girl smilingly.“’Tis well! ’tis well!” Then turning towards the two Poles. “You do not know how Roman can talk. You should hear him. Roman, you must say it again.”The old wife came with wine and cold meat. She placed meat in front of her boy, and the wine before the older men. They all began to talk. But Roman’s voice sounded melancholy in the stillness of the summer day. Then they began to drink to Roman’s health, to the health of each one of them.“To Poland!” cried Roman excitedly, striking the table with his fist. And then he began to speak:“Do you realize how the downtrodden people begin to murmur and to agitate? Soon there will rise a mighty storm which will break down the prison walls, the note of liberty will ring through our native land! Ah, you do not know the anguish and the bitternessthere! Stranger-ridden and desolate! Since Kosciusko died there are exiles and desolation everywhere! Mother,” cried Roman, then turning towards the old woman, “give me the case from over there, I must sing something to you.”With these words his eyes darkened and he stared into space. The old people looked at him, much moved, their heads upon their breasts, notspeaking a word. Quiet reigned in the old house, and in the garden there was peace; a fiery sunset, crowned with clouds of flame, was merging into the green sea of the woods. Golden rays penetrated into the old veranda and shone on Roman’s hair.His mother handed him the case.“Well,” said the young man, “I will sing you something with my cither. I will sing of our grief.”Then, beneath his fingers, the strings began to murmur as though awaking from sleep. Roman bent forward and began, the old people sat motionless round him.Sad tones vibrated through the quiet of the old house, notes soft and sorrowful like some remote mournful cry, notes deep with the tremor of affliction; the melody rose sobbing through the clear sunset like the flight of some bird of passage.In the souls of the old people there rose like a storm the clamour of past sorrows. The song lamented the ruin of fair lands; they seemed to listen, as in a sad dream, to the bitter tears of those dying for their native land. They seemed to see Kosciusko, worn with the struggle, covered in blood, kneeling with a sword in hand.Finis Poloniæ! Poland is no more! Ruin everywhere, death all around; a cry of sorrow rose; the children were torn from their unhappy land to pine away and die on alien soil!The chords surged, full of grief, through theclear sunset. Then slowly, slowly, the melody died away as though tired with sorrow until the final chord finished softly, like a distant tremor, ending in deathlike silence.The listeners seemed turned to stone. Roman leant his head upon his hand, and his eyes, full of pain, turned towards the flaming sunset. His chin trembled; his mind was full of bitter memories. The old men sat as though stunned, like some wounded creatures, their heads upon their breasts; the old mother cried softly, sighing, her eyes upon her Roman. As the young man turned his eyes towards the door he saw two bright tears in Magdalena’s blue eyes; amid a deep silence his own eyes gazed into the girl’s while the last crimson rays faded away from the woods.The FledgelingBy I. Al. Bratescu-VoineshtiOne springtime a quail nearly dead with fatigue—she came from far-away Africa—dropped from her flight into a green corn-field on the edge of a plantation. After a few days of rest she began to collect twigs, dried leaves, straw, and bits of hay, and made herself a nest on a mound of earth, high up, so that the rain would not spoil it; then for seven days in succession she laid an egg, in all seven eggs, as small as sugar eggs, and she began to sit upon them.Have you seen how a hen sits on her eggs? Well, that is how the quail did, but instead of sitting in a coop, she sat out of doors, among the grain; it rained, it pelted with rain, but she never moved, and not a drop reached the eggs. After three weeks there hatched out some sweet little birds, not naked like the young of a sparrow, but covered with yellow fluff, like chickens, only smaller, like seven little balls of silk, and they began to scramble through the corn, looking for food. Sometimes the quail caught an ant, sometimes a grasshopper,which she broke into pieces for them, and with their little beaks they went pic! pic! pic! and ate it up immediately.They were pretty and prudent and obedient; they walked about near their mother, and when she called to them “pitpalac!” they ran quickly back to her. Once, in the month of June, when the peasants came to reap the corn, the eldest of the chicks did not run quickly at his mother’s call, and, alas, a boy caught him under his cap. He alone could tell the overwhelming fear he felt when he found himself clasped in the boy’s hand; his heart beat like the watch in my pocket. Luckily for him an old peasant begged him off.“Let him go, Marin, it’s a pity on him, he will die. Don’t you see he can hardly move, he is quite dazed.”When he found himself free, he fled full of fear to the quail to tell her what had befallen him. She drew him to her and comforted him, and said to him:“Do you see what will happen if you do not listen to me? When you are big you can do what you like, but while you are little you must follow my words or something worse may overtake you.”And thus they lived, contented and happy. The cutting of the corn and the stacking of the sheaves shook a mass of seeds on to the stubble which gave them food, and, although there was no water near, they did not suffer from thirst because in the earlymorning they drank the dew-drops on the blades of grass. By day, when it was very hot, they stayed in the shade of the plantation; in the afternoon, when the heat grew less, they all went out on to the stubble, but on the cold nights they would gather in a group under the protecting wings of the quail as under a tent. Gradually the fluff upon them had changed into down and feathers, and with their mother’s help they began to fly. The flying lesson took place in the early morning towards sunrise, when night was turning into day, and in the evening in the twilight, for during the daytime there was danger from the hawks which hovered above the stubble-field.Their mother sat upon the edge and asked them:“Are you ready?”“Yes,” they answered.“One, two, three!”And when she said “three,” whrrr! away they all flew from the side of the plantation, as far as the sentry-box on the high road, and back again. And their mother told them they were learning to fly in preparation for a long journey they would have to take when the summer was over.“We shall have to fly high up above the earth for days and nights, and we shall see below us great towns and rivers and the sea.”One afternoon towards the end of August, while the chicks were playing happily near their motherin the stubble, a carriage was heard approaching, and it stopped in the track by the edge of the plantation. They all raised their heads with eyes like black beads and listened. A voice could be heard calling: “Nero! to heel!”The chicks did not understand, but their mother knew it was a man out shooting, and she stood petrified with fear. The plantation was their refuge, but exactly from that direction came the sportsman. After a moment’s thought she ordered them to crouch down close to the earth, and on no consideration to move.“I must rise, you must stay motionless, he who flies is lost. Do you understand?”The chicks blinked their eyes to show they understood, and remained waiting in silence. They could hear the rustling of a dog moving through the stubble, and from time to time could be heard a man’s voice: “Where are you? To heel, Nero!”The rustling drew near—the dog saw them; he remained stationary, one paw in the air, his eyes fixed upon them.“Do not move,” whispered the quail to them, and she ran quickly farther away from them.The dog followed slowly after her. The sportsman hurried up. His foot was so near to them that they could see an ant crawling up the leg of his boot. Oh, how their hearts beat! A few seconds later the quail rose, and flew low along theground a few inches in front of the dog’s muzzle. It pursued her, and the sportsman followed, shouting: “To heel! to heel!” He could not shoot for fear of hurting the dog; the quail pretended to be wounded so well that the dog was determined to catch her at all cost, but when she thought she was out of range of the gun she quickly flew for shelter towards the plantation.During this time, the eldest fledgeling, instead of remaining motionless like his brothers, as their mother bade them, had taken to his wings; the sportsman heard the sound of his flight, turned and shot. He was some distance away. Only a single shot reached his wings. He did not fall, he managed to fly as far as the plantation, but there the movement of the wings caused the bone which had only been cracked at first to give way altogether, and the fledgeling fell with a broken wing.The sportsman, knowing the plantation was very thick, and seeing it was a question of a young bird only, decided it was not worth while to look for it among the trees. The other little birds did not move from the spot where the quail had left them.They listened in silence. From time to time they heard the report of a gun and the voice of the sportsman calling: “Bring it here!” After a time the carriage left the cart-track by the plantation and followed the sportsman; gradually the shots and the shouting became fainter and died away, andin the silence of the evening nothing could be heard but the song of the crickets; but when night had fallen and the moon had risen above Cornatzel, they clearly heard their mother’s voice calling to them from the end of the stubble: “Pitpalac! pitpalac!” They flew quickly towards her and found her. She counted them; one was missing.“Where is the eldest one?”“We do not know—he flew off.”Then the heart-broken quail began to call loudly, and yet more loudly, listening on every side. A faint voice from the plantation answered: “Piu! piu!” When she found him, when she saw the broken wing, she knew his fate was sealed, but she hid her own grief in order not to discourage him.From now on, sad days began for the poor fledgeling. He could scarcely move with his wing trailing behind him; with tearful eyes he watched his brothers learning to fly in the early morning and in the evening; at night when the others were asleep under his mother’s wings, he would ask her anxiously:“Mother, I shall get well, I shall be able to go with you, shan’t I? And you will show me, too, the big cities and rivers and the sea, won’t you?”“Yes,” answered the quail, forcing herself not to cry.In this way the summer passed. Peasants came with ploughs to plough up the stubble, the quail and her children removed to a neighbouring field ofmaize; after a time men came to gather in the maize. They cut the straw and hoed up the ground, then the quails retired to the rough grass by the edge of the plantation.The long, beautiful days gave place to short and gloomy ones, the weather began to grow foggy and the leaves of the plantation withered. In the evening, belated swallows could be seen flying low along the ground, sometimes other flocks of birds of passage passed and, in the stillness of the frosty nights, the cry of the cranes could be heard, all migrating in the same direction, towards the south.A bitter struggle took place in the heart of the poor quail. She would fain have torn herself in two, that one half might go with her strong children who began to suffer from the cold as the autumn advanced, and the other half remain with the injured chick which clung to her so desperately. One day, without any warning, the north-east wind blew a dangerous blast, and that decided her. Better that one of the fledgelings should die than that all of them should—and without looking back lest her resolution should weaken, she soared away with the strong little birds, while the wounded one called piteously:“Do not desert me! Do not desert me!”He tried to rise after them, but could not, and remained on the same spot following them with his eyes until they were lost to sight on the southern horizon.Three days later, the whole region was clothed in winter’s white, cold garb. The violent snowstorm was followed by a calm as clear as crystal, accompanied by a severe frost.On the edge of the plantation lay a young quail with a broken wing and stiff with cold. After a period of great suffering he had fallen into a pleasant state of semi-consciousness. Through his mind flashed fragments of things seen—the stubble-field, the leg of a boot with an ant crawling upon it, his mother’s warm wings. He turned over from one side to the other and lay dead with his little claws pressed together as though in an act of devotion.Popa TandaBy I. SlaviciGod have mercy on the soul of Schoolmaster Pintilie! He was a good man, and a well-known chorister. He was very fond of salad with vinegar. Whenever he was hoarse, he would drink the yolk of an egg with it; when he raised his voice, the windows rattled while he sang, “Oh, Lord, preserve Thy people.” He was schoolmaster in Butucani, a fine, large town containing men of position and sound sense, and given to almsgiving and hospitality. Now Schoolmaster Pintilie had only two children: a daughter married to Petrea Tzapu, and Trandafir, Father Trandafir, priest in Saraceni.God keep Father Trandafir! He was a good man, he had studied many books, and he sang even better than his dead father, God have mercy on his soul! He always spoke correctly and carefully as though he were reading out of a book. Father Trandafir was an industrious, careful man. He gathered from many sources, and made something out of nothing. He saved, he mended, he collected to get enough for himself and for others.Father Trandafir went through a great deal in his youth. One does not achieve big results in a minute or two. The poor man has to go without a great deal more than he ever gets. He worked harder with his brain than with a spade and fork. But what he did was not work thrown away. Young Trandafir became priest in his native town, in Butucani, a fine large town containing men of position and good sense, but Trandafir did not enjoy the almsgiving and hospitality.Father Trandafir would have been a wonderful man had not one thing spoilt him. He was too severe in his speech, too harsh in his judgments; he was too straightforward and outspoken. He never minded his words, but said right out what he had in his mind. It is not good to be a man like that. Men take offence if you speak too plainly to them, and it is best to live peaceably with the world. This was evident in Father Trandafir’s case. A man like him could not stay two years in Butucani. It was first one thing, then another; at one time he complained to the townspeople, the next time to the archdeacon. Now it is well known that priests must not make complaints to the archdeacon. The archdeacon understands presents much better than complaints. But that was what Father Trandafir would not comprehend.There is no doubt that Father Trandafir was in the right.But the thing is, right is the prerogative of themighty. The weak can only assert themselves gradually. The ant cannot overthrow the mountain. It can, though, change its position; but slowly, slowly, bit by bit. Perhaps the Father knew that this was so in the world; he had his own standard, though.“Even the devil cannot turn what is true and right into a lie!” This was his remark, and with this remark he got himself turned out of Butucani. That is to say, it was not only he who did it, it was the townspeople too. One word and a little something besides to promote a good understanding with the archdeacon, a visit to the bishop, and a word there from the archdeacon: things get done if one knows how to do them. The long and the short of it was that Father Trandafir was sent from Butucani to Saraceni—to promote a good understanding among the faithful. Priest in Saraceni! Who knows what that means to be priest in Saraceni? That is what befell Father Trandafir! Who would fain leap the ditch throws his bag over it first. Father Trandafir only had a wife and two children; his bag was empty. That was why he leaped so unwillingly from Butucani to Saraceni.In the “Dry Valley” there was a village which they called “Saraceni.” A village called “poor” in a “dry” valley; could any place have a more unpleasant name?The Dry Valley!“Valley” because the place was shut in betweenmountains; “dry,” because the stream, which had cut its way through the middle of the valley, was dry most of the year.This was how the valley lies.To the right stood a hill called “Rîpoasa.” On the left were three other hills, called “Fatza,” “Grofnitza,” and “Alunish.” Rîpoasa was rocky. Fatza was cultivated; the village stood on Grofnitza, while on Alunish lay the village graveyard among hazel and birch trees. Thus it lay to right and left, but the chief feature of the landscape stood at the bottom. Here rose the mountains—from there, came what did come.The other side, beyond Rîpoasa was the Rapitza Valley—a much deeper valley than the Dry Valley, and so called because the Rapitza flowed through it. The Rapitza was a treacherous river, especially in the spring, and the stream in the Dry Valley was a branch of the Rapitza. In the spring, when the snow melted on the mountains, the Rapitza got angry and poured part of her fury into the branch that flowed through the Dry Valley, and the latter ceased to be “dry.”In a few hours the inhabitants of Saraceni were rather too rich in water. This occurred nearly every year. When the crops in the valley appeared to be most favourable, the Dry Valley belied its name and washed away all that lay in its path.It would have been rather better if this invasion had lasted only a short time, but the water remainedin the valley, and in many places formed refuges for the frog family. And instead of corn, osiers and interlacing willows grew by the side of its pools.Was it any wonder that in consequence of this the people of Saraceni had become in time the most idle of men? He is a fool who sows where he cannot reap, or where he does not know whether he will be able to reap or not. The Fatza was a sandy spot; the corn grew a few inches high and the maize a yard; on Rîpoasa one could not grow blackberries even, for at the bottom the water spoilt the fruit. Where there is no hope of reward there is no incentive to work. Whoever works wants to earn, but the people of Saraceni had given up all thoughts of gain, and therefore no one felt inspired to work. Those who could afford it passed their time lying out of doors; those who could not, spent their day working in the neighbouring villages. When the winter came life was hard and bitter.But whoever has got used to the bad does not think of better things; the people of Saraceni appeared to think that things could not be better than they were. Fish in the water, birds in the air, moles in the ground, and the people of Saraceni in poverty!Saraceni? One can imagine what a village like Saraceni must have been; here a house, there a house—all alike. Hedges were superfluous, seeing there was nothing to enclose; the street was thewhole village. It would have been absurd to put a chimney on the house—the smoke found its way out through the roof. There would have been no sense in putting plaster on the walls either, as that dropped off in time. Some of the buildings were made of bits of wood knocked together, a roof of straw mixed with hay, an oven of clay, an old-fashioned veranda outside, a bed with four posts built into the ground, a door made out of three boards held together by two stakes placed crosswise—quickly made and well made—whoever was not pleased with it, let him make something he liked better.At the top of the village, that is to say on the highest point, was a sort of building which the Saracenese called the “church.” It was a heap of old tree trunks piled one on the top of the other in the form of walls. In the old days—when, one does not know—these kind of walls were open to the sky; later, one does not know when, the walls had been made to converge in one place, to support what was supposed to do duty for a tower. This—owing to the fact that the supports of the facade had perished through the buffeting of a very strong wind—had fallen towards the patient earth, dragging the entire structure after it. And there it had remained ever since, for the church counted for little in Saraceni; it was superfluous.Priest? They say there is no village without a priest. Probably whoever said this did not knowabout Saraceni. Saraceni was a village without a priest. That is to say, it was a village with a priest—only this priest was a priest without a village. Saraceni was unique in one way. There had never been a priest who stayed more than three days in Saraceni; he came one day, stayed the next, and left on the third. Many guilty priests passed through Saraceni; whoever had stayed there long would have expiated all his sins.Then Father Trandafir reached this penitential spot. He could not expect to do as the others had done, come one day, stay the next, and depart the third. He was too much out of favour with the archdeacon to imagine that he would send him to another village. He could not remain without a village: a priest without a village—a cart without a wheel, a yoke without oxen, a hat on the top of a wig. He began to think what he must do; he must take things as they were, and stay gladly in Saraceni. It was only a village in name, but no one could say he was a priest without a village. But really a more suitable priest for a more suitable village you could not have found. The poverty of the priest corresponded to the poverty in the homes of his parishioners. From the beginning Trandafir realized one thing: it was much nicer in Butucani than in Saraceni. There the people all had something, and you could always have some of it. In Saraceni all the latches were made of wood. Then the Father reflected: the priest did all thebusiness of the town, but the town took care of the priest’s purse. Before long the Father began to feel sure that the people who started by being charitable and hospitable were not born fools. “It is a wise thing when men meet together to comfort and cheer each other. Even our Redeemer began with almsgiving, and the wedding at Cana of Galilee.” Thus thought Father Trandafir; but in Saraceni there was neither almsgiving nor hospitality.“There is one thing,” said the Father to himself a little later on, “in a poor village there is no corn for the priest to gather. As long as the people of Saraceni are lazy, so long shall I be hungry!” And he began to think how he was going to make his parishioners industrious. The industrious man eats the stones, makes soup out of the stagnant water, and reaps corn where the hemlock used to grow. “Then”—concluded the priest—“when the cow has fodder she is no longer dry!”Thus he spoke, and he set to work to put it in practice. A man who has nothing to eat busies himself with other people’s affairs. He does no good that way! The blind man cannot aid the cripple; the hungry don’t improve their village; when the geese keep watch among the vegetables, little remains for the gardener: but Father Trandafir was obstinate; when he started, he went on—and he got there, or he died by the way.The first Sunday Father Trandafir preached before the people, who had assembled in considerablenumbers to see the new priest. There is nothing more agreeable to a man who desires the welfare of others than to see his words making an impression. A good thought multiplies itself, penetrating many hearts, and whoever possesses it and passes it on, if he values it, rejoices to see it gaining ground in the world. Father Trandafir felt happy that day. Never before had he been listened to with such attention as on this occasion. It seemed as though these people were listening to something which they knew but which they did not understand well. They drank in his words with such eagerness, it was as though they wanted to read his very soul the better to understand his teaching. That day he read the gospel of “The Prodigal Son.” Father Trandafir showed how God, in His unending love for man, had created him to be happy. Having placed man in the world, God wishes him to enjoy all the innocent pleasures of life, for only so will he learn to love life and live charitably with his neighbours. The man who, through his own fault or owing to other causes, only feels the bitterness and sorrow of this world cannot love life; and, not loving it, he despises in a sinful manner the great gift of God.What kind of people are the lazy people, the people who make no effort, who do not stretch out a hand to take this gift? They are sinners! They have no desires—only carnal appetites. Man has been given pure desires which he may gratify withthe fruit of his labours; longings are put into his heart that he may conquer the world while God Himself contemplates him with pleasure from on high. To work is the first duty of man; and he who does not work is a sinner.After this, the Father sketched in words which seemed to give life to his ideas the miserable existence of a man perishing from hunger, and he gave his faithful hearers the thoughts which had germinated in his own intelligent brain—how they must work in the spring and in the summer, in the autumn and in the winter.The people had listened; the Father’s words were written on their faces; going home they could only talk of what they had heard in church, and each one felt himself more of a man than before.Maybe there were many among them who only waited for Sunday to pass that they might begin their first day of work.“There has never been such a priest in Saraceni!” said Marcu Flori Cucu, as he parted from his neighbour, Mitru.“A priest that does honour to a village,” replied Mitru, as if he felt that his village was not exactly honoured.Other Sundays followed. Father Trandafir was ready with his sermon. The second Sunday he had no one to address. The weather was wet, and people stayed at home. Other Sundays the weather was fine; probably then the people did not rememberin time; they were loath to part from God’s blue sky. And so the Father only had in church some old woman or some aged man with failing sight and deaf ears. Sometimes there was only Cozonac, the bell-ringer. In this way he made no progress. Had he been a different kind of man he would have stopped here.But Father Trandafir was like the goat among cabbages in the garden. When you turn it out at the door, it comes in through the fence, when you mend the fence, it jumps over it, and does a lot more damage by destroying the top of the hedge.God keep him! Father Trandafir still remained a good man.“Wait!” he said. “If you will not come to me, I will go to you!”Then the priest went from door to door. He never ceased talking from the moment it was light. Whenever he came across anyone he gave him good advice. You met the priest in the fields; you found him on the hill; if you went down the valley you encountered the priest; the priest was in the woods. The priest was in church; the priest was at the death-bed; the priest was at the wedding; the priest was with your next-door neighbour—you had to fly the village if you wanted to escape the priest. And whenever he met you, he gave you wise counsel.During a whole year, Father Trandafir gave good advice. People listened gladly—they liked to stay and talk to the priest even if he did give themgood advice. All the same, the old saying holds good: men know what they ought to do, but they don’t do it. The Father was disappointed. After a certain time he ceased to give advice. There was not a man in the village upon whom he had not poured the whole weight of his learning: he had nothing more to say.“This will not do,” said the priest once more. “Advice does not pay. I must start something more severe.”He began to chaff.Wherever he found a man, Father Trandafir began to make him ridiculous, to make fun of him in every kind of way. If he passed a house that had not been re-roofed yesterday, he would say to the owner: “Oh, you are a clever man, you are! You have windows in the roof. You do love the light and the blessed sun!” If he found a woman in a dirty blouse: “Look at me! Since when have you taken to wearing stuff dresses?”If he met an unwashed child: “Listen, good wife, you must have a lot of plum jam if you can plaster your children with it!” And if he came across a man lying in the shade he would say to him, “Good luck with your work! Good luck with your work!” If the man got up, he would beg him not to stop work, for his children’s sake.He began like this, but he carried it altogether too far. It got to such a pitch that the people did their utmost to get out of the priest’s way. Hebecame a perfect pest. The worst thing about it was that the people nicknamed him “Popa Tanda” because he chaffed them so. And “Popa Tanda” he has remained ever since.To tell the truth, it was only in one way the people did not like the priest. Each one was ready to laugh at the others with the priest; no one was pleased, though, when the others laughed at him. That is human; every one is ready to saddle his neighbour’s mare. In that way, Father Trandafir pleased his parishioners, but he was not content himself. Before the year was out, every man in the village had become a tease; there was not a person left of whom to make fun, and in the end the wags began to laugh at themselves. That put an end to it. Only one thing remained to do: the village to make fun of the priest.Two whole years passed without Trandafir being able to stir up the people, even when he had passed from advising them to annoying them. They became either givers of advice or they were teasers: all day they stood in groups, some of them giving advice, others joking. It was a wonderful affair; the people recognized the right, despised the bad; but nothing altered them.“Eh! say now, didn’t Father Trandafir mind? Didn’t he get angry, very angry?”He did get wild. He began to abuse the people. As he had proceeded to advise them, and to chaff them, so now he proceeded to abuse them.Whenever he got hold of a man, he abused him. But he did not get far with this. At first the people allowed themselves to be insulted. Later on, they began to answer back, on the sly, as it were. Finally, thinking it was going too far, they began to abuse the priest.From now on, things got a little involved. Everything went criss-cross. The people began to tell the priest that if he did not leave off laughing at them, and insulting them, they would go to the bishop and get him removed from the village. That is what the priest deserved. The people had hit on the very thing! Throw him out of Saraceni! The priest began to curse in earnest. Off he went; the people got in to their carts to go to the archdeacon, and from the archdeacon to the bishop.In the Book of Wisdom, concerning the life of this world, there is a short sentence which says: our well-wishers are often our undoing and our evil-wishers are useful to us. Father Trandafir was not lucky in getting good out of his evil-wishers. The bishop was a good soul, worthy of being put in all the calendars all over the face of the earth. He took pity on the poor priest, said he was in the right, and scolded the people.And so Popa Tanda stayed in Saraceni.Misfortunes generally heap themselves upon mankind. One gives rise to another, or are they,perhaps, inseparable? Anyhow, they are always like light and shade, one alongside the other.By now Father Trandafir had three children. When he returned from the bishop, he found his wife in bed. There was a fourth little blessing in the house. A sick wife, three little children, a fourth at the breast, and a tumble-down house; the snow drifted through the walls, the stove smoked, the wind came through the roof, the granary was bare, his purse empty, and his heart heavy.Father Trandafir was not the man to find a way out of this embarrassing state of things. Had it been some one else in his situation, he could have helped him: he could not comfort himself. For a long time he stood in the dim light of the little lamp; every one around him slept. The sick woman was asleep. Now there is nothing more conducive to melancholy than the sight of people asleep. He loved those sleeping forms; he loved them and was responsible for their happiness; he lived for them, and their love made life precious to him. Thoughts crowded into his brain. His mind turned to the past and to the future; considering the state in which he found himself, the future could only appear depicted in the saddest colours. His children! His wife! What would become of them? His heart was heavy, and he could not find one consoling thought, one single loop-hole of escape; nowhere in the world was there anything to give him a gleam of hope.The next day was Sunday. The Father went to church with bowed head, to read Matins.Like the generality of mankind, Father Trandafir had never given much thought to what he was doing. He was a priest, and he was content with his lot. He liked to sing, to read the Gospel, to instruct the faithful, to comfort, and to give spiritual assistance to the erring. His thoughts did not go much beyond that. Had he been asked at any time whether he realized the sanctity, the inner meaning of his calling, maybe he would have laughed to himself at all those things which a man only grasps in moments of intense suffering. It is man’s nature when his mind comprehends a series of more or less deep thoughts, to measure the whole world by this standard, and not to believe what he does not understand. But man does not always think in this way. There are events during which his brain becomes inactive: in danger, when no escape seems possible; in moments of joy, when he knows not from what source his happiness is derived; at times when his train of thought seems to have lost all coherence. Then, when man has reached, in any way, the point where the possible becomes indistinguishable from the impossible, he ceases to reason, instinct asserts itself.Father Trandafir went into the church. How many times had he not entered that church! Just as a blacksmith might enter his forge. But this time he was seized with an incomprehensible fear, hetook a few steps forward and then hid his face in his hands and began to sob bitterly. Why did he cry? Before whom did he cry? His lips uttered these words only: “Almighty God, succour me!” Did he believe that this prayer, expressed with all the energy of despair, could bring him help? He believed nothing; he thought of nothing; he was in a state of exaltation.The Holy Scriptures teach us that just as the ploughman lives on the fruit of his toil, so does the spiritual pastor, who serves the altar, live by the result of his service at that altar. Father Trandafir always believed in the Holy Scriptures; he always worked only for the spiritual welfare of his people, and expected that they, in return, would furnish him with his daily bread. But the world is not always in agreement with what is written and commanded; only the priest agreed with it, the people did not. The Father got little from his office, anyhow not enough; this is to say, four pieces of ground near the village, a poll-tax on the population, and baptismal and burying fees.Taken altogether, it amounted to nothing, seeing that the earth produced scarcely anything, the poll-tax existed only in name, the new-born were baptized for nothing, and the dead were buried gratis by the priest.Near the church was a deserted house; a house in name only. The owner of the house could havekept cattle, but he had no beasts. By the side of the house there was room for a garden, but there was no garden because, as we have already said, there were no fences in Saraceni. Father Trandafir bought the whole place and lived in it. As the house belonged to the priest, nothing much was done to put it in order, and it was quite dilapidated, the walls had holes in them, there were rents in the roof. The Father only troubled himself about other people’s houses.The priest’s table was no better than the house. According to the old saying, man follows the ways of other men even when he wants to make them follow his own: the priest lived like the rest of the village. Happily he had his wife’s dowry, but often one does not try to get help from just the place where it is to be had. The season of Lent drew near.“It will not do!” said Father Trandafir. “This will not do!” And he began to do as the rest of the world does, to occupy himself first and foremost with the care of his own house.Directly the spring-time came, he hired a gipsy, and set him to work to plaster the house with clay. In a few days all four walls were firmly plastered. After that, the priest enjoyed sitting outside more than inside the house, because you could not see the walls of the house so well from within; a plastered house was a fine thing in Saraceni, especially when one could say to oneself, “That is mine!” There was one thing, though, which was not as it shouldbe. Every time the Father’s eyes fell upon the sides of the roof he went indoors—he felt he had seen enough. He did not want to see the defective roof, but every time he wanted to look at the walls he had to see the roof. That damned roof! It could no longer be left like that.Down in the valley where there are numerous pools, not only willows and osiers grew, but here and there were to be found sedges and rushes, cat’s-tail and a species of reed. “That is what I will do!” thought the priest. He engaged a man, and sent him out to cut sedges and rushes and cat’s-tail and reeds. One Saturday the house was surrounded by bundles tied with osiers; and the following Saturday the roof was mended and edged on the top with bundles of reeds over which were stretched two strips of wood fastened with cross pieces. The work was good, and not dear. People passed by the priest’s house nodding their heads and saying, “The priest is one of the devil’s own men.” Now the priest could stay happily outside.But this happiness did not last long. There was still one thing that was not quite right. The priest felt that he was too much in the open. There was no other house in the village like his, and it would have been better a little separated from the village. The Father hardly liked to say “At my place,” when “my place” was “in the village.” There must be a fence, and a gate for the people to enter by, when they came to see the priest; it mightbe a fence in name only, and the gate only a hurdle, but it must be an understood thing that before anyone could enter the priest’s house he must cross the priest’s yard. Once more the priest hired a man and sent him to cut briars and stakes. He fixed the stakes into the ground, and placed the briars between them, and there was the fence, ready made. In front of the house, in the direction of the church, about half an acre of ground was enclosed: the gate was formed by four poles fastened by two others placed crosswise. The priest’s wife especially rejoiced at being thus shut in, and the priest rejoiced when he saw his wife’s pleasure. There was not a day on which either the priest or his wife did not say to the children: “Listen! you are not to go outside the yard; play quietly at home.”Once a man starts, he never gets to the end. One desire gives rise to another. Now the priest’s wife got an idea in her head.“Do you know, Father,” she said one morning, “I think it would be a good plan to make a few beds for vegetables by the side of the fence.”“Vegetable-beds?”“Yes; we can sow onions, carrots, haricot beans, potatoes, and cabbages.”The Father was astonished. To him that seemed quite beyond their powers. Vegetable-beds in Saraceni!For a few days his head was full of vegetable-beds, of potatoes, cabbages, and haricot beans; anda few days after that, the ground was already dug up and the beds were ready. Not a day passed on which the priest and his wife did not go about ten times to the beds to see if the seeds were growing. Great was the joy one day. The priest had risen very early.“Wife, get up!”“What’s the matter?”“They have sprouted.”The priest and his wife and all the children spent the whole day squatting by the beds. The more seeds they saw appear above the ground, the happier they were.And again the villagers passed by the priest’s house and looked through the thorns at the priest’s vegetable-beds, and they said once more, “The priest is one of the devil’s own men!”“Listen, wife,” said the priest. “Wouldn’t it be a good plan to sow maize along the fence and round the beds?”“Indeed it would! I like fresh maize!”“So do I, especially when it’s roasted on the embers!”Here was a new task! The priest surrounded himself with maize. He laughed with pleasure when he thought how pretty it would be when the maize grew up all round and shut out the briars on the fence which had begun to offend his eyes. But there is the old proverb, “Much wants more.” At the back of the house was another strip of ground,about four times the size of the bit they had cultivated. The priest could not get it out of his head. Why should this land lie fallow? Couldn’t he plant maize at the back of the house too? In the fields opposite, men were ploughing and sowing, the ground was untouched still in the village because it was the village.Marcu Flori Cucu, the priest’s neighbour, had a plough; it was rather dilapidated, but it was a plough, and Mitru Catamush, Marcu’s neighbour, had two feeble oxen and a foundered horse. The priest, Marcu, Mitru, the oxen and the horse, worked all one day from morn till eve. The ground was ploughed up and sown with maize. From thenceforward, the priest was happier when he was at the back of the house.It was a wonderful and beautiful bit of work—what furrows! And here and there among the furrows a blade of maize peeped out. In spite of this, the priest scratched himself once or twice, and then fairly often, behind the ear. It seemed as though something still weighed upon his mind. It was a difficult matter, which he hardly dare take in hand: the glebe lands. Up to now, they had been neglected; at present, he did not know what to do with them. He would have liked to work them himself. He would have liked to see his own men sowing them; he would have liked to take his wife there in the autumn. It was very tempting. He talked a great deal to his wifeabout the matter. They would need horses, a cart, a plough, a labourer, stables—they would want a quantity of things. Moreover, the priest did not understand agriculture.However, the vegetable-beds were growing green, the maize was springing up. The priest made up his mind; he took the residue of his wife’s dowry and set to work. Marcu’s plough was good enough to start with. The priest bought one horse from Mitru; a man in the Rapitza Valley had another one; Stan Schiopu had a cart with three wheels. The priest bought it as he got a wheel from Mitru, to make up for the horse being foundered.Cozonac, the bell-ringer, engaged himself as labourer to the priest, for his house was only a stone’s throw away. The priest drove four posts into the ground at one end of the house, two long ones and two short, and he made three sides of plaited osiers and a roof of rushes, and there was the stable all ready.During these days, Father Trandafir had aged by about ten years; but he grew young again when he placed his wife and children in the cart, whipped up the horses, and drove off to see their ploughed land.The villagers saw him, and shook their heads, and said once more: “The priest is the devil’s own man.”The priest’s wife had her own feminine worries. She had a beautiful Icon which had been given toher by the son of the priest at Vezura. At present the Icon was lying at the bottom of a box wrapped up in paper. For a long time she had wished to place it between the windows, to put flowers and sweet basil round it, and look at it often; because this Icon represented the Holy Virgin, and the priest’s daughter was called Mary. But the walls were dirty and the Icon had no case. There was another thing that annoyed the priest’s wife: one window was filled in with a pig’s bladder, and in the other were three broken panes mended with paper. The house was rather dark.Easter drew near. There were only five days to Holy Week. If the priest wanted to spend Easter with his wife, he had still three important things to get: whitewash for the walls, windows for the house, and a case for the Icon of the most Blessed Virgin—all objects that could be found only in a town.To the market, then!The priest had horses and a cart. He was vexed about the osier baskets for the maize; only the backs and sides of them still remained. He was ashamed that a priest like himself should have to go to the market without any maize-baskets. He could not borrow any, seeing he was at Saraceni, where even the priest had no proper maize-baskets.They say “Necessity is the best teacher.” The Father sent Cozonac down the valley to fetch osiers, planted two stakes in the ground with thinner sticksset between them about a hand’s breadth apart, and then the priest and his wife and children, and Cozonac too, began to plait the osiers in. Before long the baskets were ready. The work was not very remarkable, but for all that they were the best baskets in Saraceni, and so good that Cozonac could not refrain from saying, “The priest is one of the devil’s own men!”To the market-place and from the market-place home the Father went proudly with his baskets; other people had some, but he found people could buy worse baskets than those he had made himself.“What is the priest making?”“Baskets for the maize.”“But he has got some.”“He is making them for those who have not got any.”After Easter, Cozonac began to clear the pools of osiers which the priest wove into baskets. The longer the work continued, the better was it done; the last basket was always the best.Marcu Flori Cucu was a sensible man. He liked to stay and talk to the priest. Cozonac cleared the osiers, the priest plaited them, while Marcu lay upon his stomach with his head in his hands and idly watched.“This osier is a little too long,” said the priest, measuring the osier with his eye. “Here, Marcu! Give me the hatchet to make it shorter.”The hatchet was at Marcu’s feet. Marcu raisedthe upper part of his body, supported himself on his elbows, stretched out his legs, and began feeling about for the hatchet, trying to draw it up by his feet.“Make haste!” said the priest, and gave him a cut with the osier.Marcu jumped up and assured the priest that he was much more nimble than he thought. In the end, this assurance was of great use to him. By Whitsuntide the priest had a cart-load of baskets ready to take to the market, and Marcu knew very well that if the priest sold the baskets he would have a cheerful holiday.The priest had had help for some weeks, and the help had always brought a reward to the man who had given it.Just before Whitsuntide the rain began, and seemed as though it would never cease.“I do not know what I shall do,” said the priest. “It seems as though I must leave the market until after Whitsuntide. I do not like going in the rain. If it does not stop raining by Thursday, I just shall not go.”Marcu scratched himself behind his ears and said nothing. He could see that it did not suit the priest to get soaked.“Here,” he said a little later, ceasing to plait, “couldn’t we weave an awning? There are reeds and rushes and osiers in the valley.”“Perhaps you are right,” replied the priest.“It could be made the same way as we are making these.”Through helping him, Marcu had learnt to make better baskets than the priest. The awning did Marcu great credit, the priest did not get wet and came back from the market with a full purse.This time Whit-Sunday was fine. The priest’s wife had a new gown, the three eldest children had dolls bought in the town; the tiny one, Mary, had a straw hat with two pink flowers, the walls were white both inside and out, the windows were whole, the house was light, and the Icon of the Holy Virgin could be seen very well placed high up between the windows, decorated with flowers grown along the edge of the vegetable-beds. The priest had brought white flour, meat, butter, and even sugar, from the town. The priest loved his wife, but it was not his way to kiss her at odd times. But, this morning, the first thing he did was to embrace her. His wife began to cry—I don’t know why—when Father Trandafir entered the church he felt inclined to cry; he had seen people in front of the Icon and there were tears in his eyes when he went up to the altar. The people say he had never sung more beautifully than he did that day. The saying remained: “To sing like the priest at Whitsuntide!”The parishioners went to see the priest; they passed through the gate before they crossed the door-step; they wiped their boots, put their hatson their sticks, leaned their sticks against the wall, smoothed their moustaches and their beards, and stepped inside. When they came out of the house again, they took a look round, nodded their heads, and said nothing.The years come, the years go; the world moves on, and man is sometimes at peace with the world, and sometimes at odds with it. The high road passed through the town, passed by the Dry Valley and ran farther on to the Rapitza Valley. Where the roads met, at the conjunction of the two valleys, there was a mill on the Rapitza. Near Rapitza was a cross; close to the cross was a fountain, and by the fountain were eight fine sycamores. This spot was called “The Cross of Saraceni.” From here to Saraceni was only about an hour by road. In spite of this, whenever he came from the town, the man of Saraceni pulled up here to water his horse, and waited a while, hoping that some wayfarer might come and ask: “What village is that where one sees that beautiful church with white walls and the glittering tower?” And when he is asked, he strokes his moustache, and looking proudly towards the place replies: “Up there on the Grofnitza? That’s our village—Saraceni; but you ought to hear the bells—what bells that tower contains! One can hear them a three hours’ journey away!”Where the road divided there stood a sign-post with two arms; on one arm was written, “To theRapitza Valley,” and on the other one, “Towards the Dry Valley.” There was no road anywhere round about like the one that ran through the Dry Valley towards Saraceni.It was as smooth as a table, and as solid as a cherry-stone. One could see the Saracenese had constructed it lovingly. To right and left, at intervals of ten to fifteen paces, were some shady nut-trees which were a pleasure to look at. The river-bed lay on the right; the road ran along its bank, but higher up, so that the water could not disturb it. The Saracenese had to destroy rock in their progress, but that they did cheerfully, for out of the rock they built the road.From here on, the Saracene felt at home, and drove at a foot’s pace. But he was not bored for a second. At every step almost he met an acquaintance with whom he exchanged words, “Where do you come from?” and “Where are you going?” One man had a cart full of lime, another a load of apples; then came a man carrying a trellis-work, and another with a wheelbarrow, a stave, or some other article made of wood.From time to time, along the side of the road, one found the stone-masons at work, their trowels ringing from daybreak till sunset. This road was not a dreary one!There were lime-kilns where the road ran along the valley. In one place there was a whole village. Some men were loading up lime, othersunloading stone and wood; the masons were shaping the stones, the men at the kilns were throwing wood on to the fires; the foremen were making noise enough for five.From this point one could see the village well. The gardens were full of trees; only between the bushes or beyond the trees did one catch a glimpse here and there of a bit of the walls or the roofs of the houses. The priest’s house was just up by the church; one could only see five windows and a red roof with two chimney stacks. Opposite the church stood the school. The house, of which one could only see a piece of wall with two windows and a roof, belonged to Marcu Flori Cucu.The big building visible lower down was the Town Hall. If the houses had lain less closely together the village would have looked very beautiful, but, as it was, one only caught a glimpse and must imagine the rest.Every one had changed; Father Trandafir only had remained the same: fresh, gay, and busy. If his grey hair and grizzled beard had not betrayed his age, we might have thought that the little children with whom he played in the evening, on the seat in front of the house, were his own. One of them, whom he had lifted up to kiss, stole his hat from off his head and ran away with it. Mariuca opened the window and called out:“My little Trandafir, don’t leave grandfather bareheaded.”Then she flew from the window to catch Ileana, who had stolen her grandmother’s bonnet and adorned herself with it, and was now proudly showing herself to her grandfather. The old grandfather laughed heartily, he loved a joke. From close by came Father Costa, and caught first Ileana and then Mariuca, kissed them, and then seated himself by his father-in-law’s side. Marcu, neighbour and old friend, Mariuca’s father-in-law, and attached to the house, saw the group and came to join in the conversation.“Old man, take your hat; you must not sit there bare-headed,” said the grandmother, handing his hat through the window.One of the villagers, in passing, wished him “Good night,” and added to himself, “May the Lord preserve him for many years, for he is one of God’s own men.”
Cozma RacoareBy M. SadoveanuHe was a terrible man, Cozma Racoare!When I say Cozma, I seem to see, do you know, I seem to see before me, a sinister-looking man riding upon a bay horse; two eyes like steel pierce through me; I see a moustache like twin sparrows. Fierce Rouman! He rode with a gun across his back, and with a knife an ell long, here, in his belt, on the left side. It was thus I always saw him. I am old, you know, nigh on a hundred, I have travelled much about the world, I have met various characters, and many people, but I tell you, a man like Cozma Racoare I have never seen! Yet he was not physically so terrible; he was a man of middle height, lean, with a brown face, a man like many another—ha! but all the same! only to have seen the eyes was to remember him. Terrible Rouman!There was grief and bitterness in the land at that time. Turks and Greeks were overrunningthe country on all sides, everywhere honest men were complaining—they were hard times! Cozma had no cares. To-day he was here, to-morrow one heard of him, who knows where! Every one fled before the storm, but he, good Lord, he never cared! They caught him and put him in chains. What need? He just shook himself, wrenched the bars with one hand, whistled to his horse, and there he was on the road again. Who did not know that Racoare had a charmed life? Ah, how many bullets were aimed at his breast! But in vain! It was said of him: only a silver bullet can slay him! Where do you see men like that nowadays? Those times are gone for ever.Have you heard of the Feciorul Romancei? He was a fire-eater too! He robbed the other side of Muntenia, Cozma robbed this, and one night—what a night!—they both met at Milcov, exchanged booty, and were back in their homes before dawn. Were the frontier guards on the watch? Did they catch them as they rode? Why! Racoare’s horse flew like a phantom, no bullet could touch him! What a road that is from here, across the mountains of Bacau, to the frontier! Eh! to do it, there and back in one night, you mark my words, that’s no joke! But that horse! That’s the truth of the matter, that horse of Racoare’s was not like any other horse. That’s clear.Voda-Calimbach had an Arabian mare, which his servants watched as the apple of his eye; she was due to foal. One night—it was in the seventh month—Cozma got into the stall, ripped open the mare and stole the foal. But that was not all he did! You understand the foal was wrapped in a caul. Racoare cut the caul, but he cut it in such a way as to split the foal’s nostrils. And look, the foal with the split nostrils grew up in the dark fed upon nut kernels; and when Cozma mounted it—well, that was a horse!Even the wind, therefore, could not out-distance Cozma. On one occasion—I was a volunteer then—Cozma woke to find himself within the walls of Probot, with volunteers inside and the Turks outside. The Turks were battering the walls with their guns. The volunteers decided to surrender the fortress. Cozma kept his own counsel. The next day Cozma was nowhere to be found. But from the walls, up to the forest of Probot, was a line of corpses! That had been Racoare’s road!That is how it always was! His were the woods and fields! He recognized no authority, he did not know what fear was, nor love—except on one occasion. Terrible Rouman! It seems to me I can see him now, riding upon his bay horse.At that time a Greek was managing the Vulturesht estate, and on this side, on our estate, within those ruined walls, there ruled such a minx of a Roumanian as I had never seen before. The Greek was pining for the Roumanian. And no wonder! The widow had eyebrows that met, and the eyes of the devil—Lord! Lord! such eyes would have tempted a saint. She had been married, against her will, to a Greek, to Dimitru Covas; the Greek died, and now the lady ruled alone over our estate.As I tell you, Nicola Zamfiridi, the Greek, was dying for the lady. What did that man not do, where did he not go, what soothsayers did he not visit, all in vain! The lady would not hear of it! She hated the Greek. And yet Nicola was not ill-favoured. He was a proud Greek, bronzed, with pointed moustache and curly beard. But still he did not please the widow!One day, Nicola sat pondering in his room while he smoked. What was to be done? He most certainly wanted to marry, and to take her for his wife; why would she not hear of it?A few days before he had gone with Ciocirlie, the gipsy, and had sung desperately outside the walls. Alas, the courtyard remained still as stone! What the devil was to be done?Boyar Nicola thought to himself: “You are not ugly, you are not stupid—what’s the reasonof it? Is she, perhaps, in love with some one else?” No. He watched for one whole night. Nobody entered, and nobody left the courtyard.The boyar was angry. He rose, picked up a whip and went out. The grooms were grooming the horses in the yard.“Is that horse supposed to be groomed?” he shouted, and slash! down came the whip on one of the grooms.Farther on the gardener was resting from the heat.“Is this how you look after the garden? Hey!” and swish! crack!What next? Was it any use losing one’s temper with the people? He went into the garden, and seated himself under a beautiful lime-tree. There, on the stone bench, he pondered again. His life was worthless if the woman he loved would not look at him! He watched the flight of the withered leaves in the still air; he heaved a sigh.“Vasile! Vasile!” called the boyar. His voice rang sadly in the melancholy garden.A sturdy old man came through the garden door, and went towards his master.“Vasile,” said the boyar, “what is to be done?”The old man eyed his master, then he, too, sighed and scratched his head.“What is to be done, Vasile?”“How should I know, master?”“You must find something. Many people have advised me, now you suggest something. I got nothing out of that old witch, and Ciocirlie was no good; cannot you propose something?”“H’m——”“Do not desert me, Vasile!”“H’m, master, I’ll tell you something if you will give me something.”“Take a ducat of mine, Vasilica—speak!”Vasile did not let himself be put off by the mention of one ducat. He scratched his head again.“If I knew you would give me two ducats, master, or even three, or many—you understand—that’s how it is! What will be, will be! I say go right off to Frasini, go into the courtyard, through the courtyard into the lady’s boudoir and steal her! That’s what I say!”“What are you talking about, good Vasile! Is it possible!”Vasile said no more. The boyar thought deeply, his hand on his forehead; then he said:“That’s what I must do, Vasile! I know what I have to do! Bravo you, good Vasile!”“If only I knew I was to get two ducats reward!” sighed Vasile, scratching his head.And that evening Boyar Nicola kept his word. He mounted his horse, took with him five companions from among the grooms, and started out to Frasini.The forest shuddered with the whisper of the breeze of the autumn night. The men rode silently. From time to time could be heard the trumpeting of the cock, coming they knew not whence. Beyond lay silence. At last the widow’s courtyard came into sight, black, like some heap of coal.Like ghosts Nicola and his companions approached the wall; in silence they dismounted; they threw rope-ladders over the top of the wall, climbed up and over to the other side. The horses remained tied to the trees.Suddenly they heard cries. Boyar Nicola was not afraid. He hurried to the door—the doors were not shut. He passed along the corridor.“Aha!” murmured the Greek. “Now I shall have the darling in my arms.”But suddenly a door was opened, and a bright sea of light illuminated the passage. Boyar Nicola was not frightened. He advanced towards the room. But he had scarcely gone two paces when there, on the threshold, stood the Sultana, with her hair undone, in a thin white petticoat and a white dressing-jacket. With frowning brows she stood in the doorway looking at the boyar.Nicola was beside himself. He would willingly have gone on his knees, and kissed her feet, so beautiful was she. But he knew if he knelt before her she would only mock him. He approached to embrace her.“Hold!” cried the Sultana. “I thoughtthere were thieves! Ha, ha! it is you, Boyar Nicola?”And suddenly, there in the light, she raised a shining scimitar in her right hand. Nicola felt a hard blow on the side of his head. He stood still. His grooms started to run, but one fell, yelling, and covered with blood. Just then a great noise was heard, and the lady’s servants came in.Nicola fled towards the exit followed by his four companions. Then on into the yard with scimitars flashing on their right and on their left. And once more they are on horseback fleeing towards Vulturesht.There he dismounted, feeling very bitter, and entered the garden once more, and once more sat on the stone bench, and hid his face in his hands.“Woe is me!” he murmured miserably. “How wretched is my life! What is to be done? What is to be done?”He sat there in the October night tortured by his thoughts. Only the breeze carrying the mist from the fields disturbed him.“Woe is me! How wretched is my life!” and he bent forward, his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. “What a terrible woman!” he murmured again as he mused. “What eyes she has! Oh, Blessed Virgin! Oh, Blessed Virgin! Do not abandon me, for my heart is breaking!”For some time he stayed there dreaming. After a while he rose and moved towards the house.“What a terrible woman, and what eyes!”In the house he once more called for Vasile.“Good Vasile, I am undone! A terrible woman, good Vasile—she has burnt my heart and turned it to ashes! What is to be done? Do not leave me! Look, you understand, you shall have two of my ducats.”“I know what you have been through, master. She is a proud lady, there is no denying it! If I knew you would give me five ducats, or even six—but there, it’s only an idea——”“Speak, Vasile, good man, I will give you—— What eyes! Woe is me!”“Then I understand, master,” says Vasile, “that you give me seven ducats, but you’ll have to give seven times seven if you get her here at your hand—don’t be afraid, master, it is not much—only seven times seven to have her here at your hand! I’ll bring Cozma Racoare to you! As sure as you put the ducats into the palm of my hand, so sure will he put the Sultana into your arms, that’s that.”Boyar Nicola was rather alarmed when he heard talk of Cozma Racoare, but afterwards he sighed and said:“Good!”Three days later Racoare came. Nicola was sitting on the stone bench in the garden under thelime-tree, smoking a pipe of fragrant tobacco. When he caught sight of the highwayman he sat gazing at him with startled eyes. Cozma came calmly along with his horse’s bridle in his left hand. He wore top boots up to his knees with long steel spurs. A long gun was slung across his back. On his head was a black sheepskin cap. He walked unconcernedly as usual with knitted brows; his horse followed him with bent head.Vasile, the boyar’s agent, came up to the stone seat, scratching his head, and whispered with a grin:“What do you say to this, master? Just take a look at him. He could bring you the devil himself!”Boyar Nicola could not take his eyes off Cozma. The highwayman stopped and said:“God be with you!”“I thank you,” replied Vasile. “God grant it!”The boyar remained persistently silent.“H’m!” murmured Vasile. “You have come to see us, friend Cozma?”“I have come,” responded Racoare.“On our business?”“Yes.”Cozma spoke slowly, frowning; wherever he might be no smile ever lit up his face.“Ah, yes, you have come,” said the boyar, as if awaking from sleep. “Vasile, go and tell them to prepare coffee, but bring wine at once.”“Let them make coffee for one,” said Cozma, “I never drink.”Vasile went off grinning, after a side-glance at his master.“Ah, you never drink!” said the boyar with an effort. “So, so, you have come on our business—how much? Ah, I am giving fifty ducats.”“Good!” said Racoare quietly.Vasile returned, smiling knowingly. The boyar was silent.“Eh,” said Vasile, scratching his head, “how are you getting on?”“Good Vasile, go and fetch the purse from under my pillow.”“No, there is no need to give me a purse,” said the highwayman, “I have no need of money.”“What?” murmured the boyar. “Ah, yes! You do not need? Why?”“The thing is to put the Sultana of Frasini into your arms—I hand you over the lady, and you hand me the money.”“Let’s be brief!” cried Vasile, passing his hand through his hair. “One party gives the lady, the other the money. What did I tell you? Cozma would fetch you the devil from hell. From henceforth the lady is yours.”Racoare turned round, strode to the bottom of the garden, fastened his horse to a tree, drew a cloak of serge from his saddle, spread it out and wrapped himself in it.“Well! Well!” groaned Boyar Nicola, breathing heavily. “What a terrible man! But I feel as though he had taken a load off my mind.”Vasile smiled but said nothing. Later, when he was by himself, he began to laugh and whisper: “Ha, ha! He who bears a charmed life is a lucky man!”The boyar started up as from sleep and looked fearfully at Vasile; then he shook his head and relapsed into thought.“Ah, yes!” he murmured, without understanding what he was talking about.When night had fallen Cozma Racoare tightened his horse’s girths and mounted. Then he said:“Boyar, wait for me in the glade at Vulturesht.”The gates were opened, the horse snorted and rushed forth like a dragon.The full moon shone through the veil of an autumnal mist, weaving webs of light, lighting up the silent hills and the dark woods. The rapid flight of the bay broke the deep silence. Racoare rode silently under the overhanging woods with their sparse foliage; he seemed like a phantom in the blue light.Then he reached Frasini. Every one was asleep, the doors were shut. Cozma knocked at the door: Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat!“Who is there?” cried a voice from within.“Open!” said Racoare.“Who are you?”“Open!” shouted Cozma.From within was heard a whispered:“Open!” “Do not open!” “Open, it is Cozma!”A light shone through a niche in the wall above the door, and lighted up Cozma’s face. Then a rustling sound became audible, the light was extinguished, and the bar across the door rattled.Cozma entered the empty courtyard, dismounted by the steps, and pushed open the door.“The door is open,” he murmured, “the lady is not nervous.”In the dark corridor his footsteps and his spurs echoed as in a church. A noise was heard in one of the rooms, and a bright light shone into the passage. The Sultana appeared in the doorway, dressed in white with her hair unplaited, with frowning brows and the scimitar in her right hand.“Who are you? What do you want?” she cried.“I have come to fetch you,” said Racoare shortly, “and take you to Boyar Nicola.”“Ah, you are not burglars?” said the lady, and raised her scimitar. “See here, you will meet the same fate as your Nicola!”Racoare took a step forward, calmly seized the scimitar, squeezed the lady’s fist, and the steel blade flew into a corner. The lady sprang quickly back, calling:“Gavril! Niculai! Toader! Help!”Voices were heard, and the servants crowded into the passage, and stood by the door. Racoare approached the lady, and tried to seize her. She avoided him, and caught up a knife from the table.“What are you doing, you boobies? Help! Seize him, bind him!”“Don’t talk nonsense—I see you are not frightened; I cannot do other than I am doing!” said Racoare.Then the servants murmured again:“How can we bind him? It is Racoare. He is here! Cozma Racoare, lady!”“Cowards!” cried the lady, and threw herself upon Cozma.The highwayman took her arm, pressed her hands together, tied them with a leather strap, and lifted her under his arm like a bundle.“Get out of the way!” he said then, and the people fell over each other as they scattered to either side.“What a pearl among women!” thought Cozma, while he strode along the corridor with the lady under his arm, “he has not bad taste, that Boyar Nicola! Proud woman!”The Sultana looked with eyes wide with horror at the servants who gave way on either hand in their terror. She felt herself held as in a vice. At last she raised her eyes to Racoare’s fierce face.The light from the room was reflected in the man’s steely eyes, and lit up his weather-beaten face.“Who are you?” she gasped.“I? Cozma Racoare.”The lady gave another glance at the servants huddled in the corners, and she said not another word. Now she understood.Outside, the highwayman mounted the bay, placed the lady in front of him, and set spurs to his horse. Once more the sound of the galloping horse broke the silence of the night.“What a pearl among women!” thought Racoare, and the horse sped along the road like a phantom.The lady turned her head, and studied Racoare by the light of the moon.“Why do you look at me like that, lady?” And the horse sped along under the overhanging woods.The black hair of the lady shone in great billows of light. The foliage glistened with hoar-frost, like silver-leaf. The lady looked at the highwayman and shuddered, she felt herself squeezed in his powerful arms, and her eyes burnt like two stars beneath the heavy knitted brows.“Why do you look at me like that, lady? Why do you shiver? Are you cold?”The galloping hooves thundered through the glades, the leaves glittered in their silver sheen, and the bay passed on like a phantom in the light.A shadow suddenly appeared in the distance.“What is that yonder?” questioned the lady.“Boyar Nicola awaits us there,” replied Racoare.The lady said no more. But Cozma felt her stiffen herself. The leather strap was snapped, and two white hands were lifted up. The highwayman had no time to stop her. Like lightning she seized the bridle in her right hand, and turned the horse on the spot, but her left arm she twined round Racoare’s neck. The highwayman felt the lady’s head resting against his breast, and a voice murmured softly:“Would you give me to another?”And the horse flew like a phantom through the blue light; the meadows rang with the sound of the galloping hooves, the silver leaves glistened, and tresses of black hair floated in the wind. But now shadows seemed to be pursuing them. The hills on the horizon seemed peopled with strange figures, which hurried through the light mist. But the black phantom sped on, and ever onwards, till it was lost in the far distance, in the gloom of the night.
Cozma Racoare
By M. SadoveanuHe was a terrible man, Cozma Racoare!When I say Cozma, I seem to see, do you know, I seem to see before me, a sinister-looking man riding upon a bay horse; two eyes like steel pierce through me; I see a moustache like twin sparrows. Fierce Rouman! He rode with a gun across his back, and with a knife an ell long, here, in his belt, on the left side. It was thus I always saw him. I am old, you know, nigh on a hundred, I have travelled much about the world, I have met various characters, and many people, but I tell you, a man like Cozma Racoare I have never seen! Yet he was not physically so terrible; he was a man of middle height, lean, with a brown face, a man like many another—ha! but all the same! only to have seen the eyes was to remember him. Terrible Rouman!There was grief and bitterness in the land at that time. Turks and Greeks were overrunningthe country on all sides, everywhere honest men were complaining—they were hard times! Cozma had no cares. To-day he was here, to-morrow one heard of him, who knows where! Every one fled before the storm, but he, good Lord, he never cared! They caught him and put him in chains. What need? He just shook himself, wrenched the bars with one hand, whistled to his horse, and there he was on the road again. Who did not know that Racoare had a charmed life? Ah, how many bullets were aimed at his breast! But in vain! It was said of him: only a silver bullet can slay him! Where do you see men like that nowadays? Those times are gone for ever.Have you heard of the Feciorul Romancei? He was a fire-eater too! He robbed the other side of Muntenia, Cozma robbed this, and one night—what a night!—they both met at Milcov, exchanged booty, and were back in their homes before dawn. Were the frontier guards on the watch? Did they catch them as they rode? Why! Racoare’s horse flew like a phantom, no bullet could touch him! What a road that is from here, across the mountains of Bacau, to the frontier! Eh! to do it, there and back in one night, you mark my words, that’s no joke! But that horse! That’s the truth of the matter, that horse of Racoare’s was not like any other horse. That’s clear.Voda-Calimbach had an Arabian mare, which his servants watched as the apple of his eye; she was due to foal. One night—it was in the seventh month—Cozma got into the stall, ripped open the mare and stole the foal. But that was not all he did! You understand the foal was wrapped in a caul. Racoare cut the caul, but he cut it in such a way as to split the foal’s nostrils. And look, the foal with the split nostrils grew up in the dark fed upon nut kernels; and when Cozma mounted it—well, that was a horse!Even the wind, therefore, could not out-distance Cozma. On one occasion—I was a volunteer then—Cozma woke to find himself within the walls of Probot, with volunteers inside and the Turks outside. The Turks were battering the walls with their guns. The volunteers decided to surrender the fortress. Cozma kept his own counsel. The next day Cozma was nowhere to be found. But from the walls, up to the forest of Probot, was a line of corpses! That had been Racoare’s road!That is how it always was! His were the woods and fields! He recognized no authority, he did not know what fear was, nor love—except on one occasion. Terrible Rouman! It seems to me I can see him now, riding upon his bay horse.At that time a Greek was managing the Vulturesht estate, and on this side, on our estate, within those ruined walls, there ruled such a minx of a Roumanian as I had never seen before. The Greek was pining for the Roumanian. And no wonder! The widow had eyebrows that met, and the eyes of the devil—Lord! Lord! such eyes would have tempted a saint. She had been married, against her will, to a Greek, to Dimitru Covas; the Greek died, and now the lady ruled alone over our estate.As I tell you, Nicola Zamfiridi, the Greek, was dying for the lady. What did that man not do, where did he not go, what soothsayers did he not visit, all in vain! The lady would not hear of it! She hated the Greek. And yet Nicola was not ill-favoured. He was a proud Greek, bronzed, with pointed moustache and curly beard. But still he did not please the widow!One day, Nicola sat pondering in his room while he smoked. What was to be done? He most certainly wanted to marry, and to take her for his wife; why would she not hear of it?A few days before he had gone with Ciocirlie, the gipsy, and had sung desperately outside the walls. Alas, the courtyard remained still as stone! What the devil was to be done?Boyar Nicola thought to himself: “You are not ugly, you are not stupid—what’s the reasonof it? Is she, perhaps, in love with some one else?” No. He watched for one whole night. Nobody entered, and nobody left the courtyard.The boyar was angry. He rose, picked up a whip and went out. The grooms were grooming the horses in the yard.“Is that horse supposed to be groomed?” he shouted, and slash! down came the whip on one of the grooms.Farther on the gardener was resting from the heat.“Is this how you look after the garden? Hey!” and swish! crack!What next? Was it any use losing one’s temper with the people? He went into the garden, and seated himself under a beautiful lime-tree. There, on the stone bench, he pondered again. His life was worthless if the woman he loved would not look at him! He watched the flight of the withered leaves in the still air; he heaved a sigh.“Vasile! Vasile!” called the boyar. His voice rang sadly in the melancholy garden.A sturdy old man came through the garden door, and went towards his master.“Vasile,” said the boyar, “what is to be done?”The old man eyed his master, then he, too, sighed and scratched his head.“What is to be done, Vasile?”“How should I know, master?”“You must find something. Many people have advised me, now you suggest something. I got nothing out of that old witch, and Ciocirlie was no good; cannot you propose something?”“H’m——”“Do not desert me, Vasile!”“H’m, master, I’ll tell you something if you will give me something.”“Take a ducat of mine, Vasilica—speak!”Vasile did not let himself be put off by the mention of one ducat. He scratched his head again.“If I knew you would give me two ducats, master, or even three, or many—you understand—that’s how it is! What will be, will be! I say go right off to Frasini, go into the courtyard, through the courtyard into the lady’s boudoir and steal her! That’s what I say!”“What are you talking about, good Vasile! Is it possible!”Vasile said no more. The boyar thought deeply, his hand on his forehead; then he said:“That’s what I must do, Vasile! I know what I have to do! Bravo you, good Vasile!”“If only I knew I was to get two ducats reward!” sighed Vasile, scratching his head.And that evening Boyar Nicola kept his word. He mounted his horse, took with him five companions from among the grooms, and started out to Frasini.The forest shuddered with the whisper of the breeze of the autumn night. The men rode silently. From time to time could be heard the trumpeting of the cock, coming they knew not whence. Beyond lay silence. At last the widow’s courtyard came into sight, black, like some heap of coal.Like ghosts Nicola and his companions approached the wall; in silence they dismounted; they threw rope-ladders over the top of the wall, climbed up and over to the other side. The horses remained tied to the trees.Suddenly they heard cries. Boyar Nicola was not afraid. He hurried to the door—the doors were not shut. He passed along the corridor.“Aha!” murmured the Greek. “Now I shall have the darling in my arms.”But suddenly a door was opened, and a bright sea of light illuminated the passage. Boyar Nicola was not frightened. He advanced towards the room. But he had scarcely gone two paces when there, on the threshold, stood the Sultana, with her hair undone, in a thin white petticoat and a white dressing-jacket. With frowning brows she stood in the doorway looking at the boyar.Nicola was beside himself. He would willingly have gone on his knees, and kissed her feet, so beautiful was she. But he knew if he knelt before her she would only mock him. He approached to embrace her.“Hold!” cried the Sultana. “I thoughtthere were thieves! Ha, ha! it is you, Boyar Nicola?”And suddenly, there in the light, she raised a shining scimitar in her right hand. Nicola felt a hard blow on the side of his head. He stood still. His grooms started to run, but one fell, yelling, and covered with blood. Just then a great noise was heard, and the lady’s servants came in.Nicola fled towards the exit followed by his four companions. Then on into the yard with scimitars flashing on their right and on their left. And once more they are on horseback fleeing towards Vulturesht.There he dismounted, feeling very bitter, and entered the garden once more, and once more sat on the stone bench, and hid his face in his hands.“Woe is me!” he murmured miserably. “How wretched is my life! What is to be done? What is to be done?”He sat there in the October night tortured by his thoughts. Only the breeze carrying the mist from the fields disturbed him.“Woe is me! How wretched is my life!” and he bent forward, his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. “What a terrible woman!” he murmured again as he mused. “What eyes she has! Oh, Blessed Virgin! Oh, Blessed Virgin! Do not abandon me, for my heart is breaking!”For some time he stayed there dreaming. After a while he rose and moved towards the house.“What a terrible woman, and what eyes!”In the house he once more called for Vasile.“Good Vasile, I am undone! A terrible woman, good Vasile—she has burnt my heart and turned it to ashes! What is to be done? Do not leave me! Look, you understand, you shall have two of my ducats.”“I know what you have been through, master. She is a proud lady, there is no denying it! If I knew you would give me five ducats, or even six—but there, it’s only an idea——”“Speak, Vasile, good man, I will give you—— What eyes! Woe is me!”“Then I understand, master,” says Vasile, “that you give me seven ducats, but you’ll have to give seven times seven if you get her here at your hand—don’t be afraid, master, it is not much—only seven times seven to have her here at your hand! I’ll bring Cozma Racoare to you! As sure as you put the ducats into the palm of my hand, so sure will he put the Sultana into your arms, that’s that.”Boyar Nicola was rather alarmed when he heard talk of Cozma Racoare, but afterwards he sighed and said:“Good!”Three days later Racoare came. Nicola was sitting on the stone bench in the garden under thelime-tree, smoking a pipe of fragrant tobacco. When he caught sight of the highwayman he sat gazing at him with startled eyes. Cozma came calmly along with his horse’s bridle in his left hand. He wore top boots up to his knees with long steel spurs. A long gun was slung across his back. On his head was a black sheepskin cap. He walked unconcernedly as usual with knitted brows; his horse followed him with bent head.Vasile, the boyar’s agent, came up to the stone seat, scratching his head, and whispered with a grin:“What do you say to this, master? Just take a look at him. He could bring you the devil himself!”Boyar Nicola could not take his eyes off Cozma. The highwayman stopped and said:“God be with you!”“I thank you,” replied Vasile. “God grant it!”The boyar remained persistently silent.“H’m!” murmured Vasile. “You have come to see us, friend Cozma?”“I have come,” responded Racoare.“On our business?”“Yes.”Cozma spoke slowly, frowning; wherever he might be no smile ever lit up his face.“Ah, yes, you have come,” said the boyar, as if awaking from sleep. “Vasile, go and tell them to prepare coffee, but bring wine at once.”“Let them make coffee for one,” said Cozma, “I never drink.”Vasile went off grinning, after a side-glance at his master.“Ah, you never drink!” said the boyar with an effort. “So, so, you have come on our business—how much? Ah, I am giving fifty ducats.”“Good!” said Racoare quietly.Vasile returned, smiling knowingly. The boyar was silent.“Eh,” said Vasile, scratching his head, “how are you getting on?”“Good Vasile, go and fetch the purse from under my pillow.”“No, there is no need to give me a purse,” said the highwayman, “I have no need of money.”“What?” murmured the boyar. “Ah, yes! You do not need? Why?”“The thing is to put the Sultana of Frasini into your arms—I hand you over the lady, and you hand me the money.”“Let’s be brief!” cried Vasile, passing his hand through his hair. “One party gives the lady, the other the money. What did I tell you? Cozma would fetch you the devil from hell. From henceforth the lady is yours.”Racoare turned round, strode to the bottom of the garden, fastened his horse to a tree, drew a cloak of serge from his saddle, spread it out and wrapped himself in it.“Well! Well!” groaned Boyar Nicola, breathing heavily. “What a terrible man! But I feel as though he had taken a load off my mind.”Vasile smiled but said nothing. Later, when he was by himself, he began to laugh and whisper: “Ha, ha! He who bears a charmed life is a lucky man!”The boyar started up as from sleep and looked fearfully at Vasile; then he shook his head and relapsed into thought.“Ah, yes!” he murmured, without understanding what he was talking about.When night had fallen Cozma Racoare tightened his horse’s girths and mounted. Then he said:“Boyar, wait for me in the glade at Vulturesht.”The gates were opened, the horse snorted and rushed forth like a dragon.The full moon shone through the veil of an autumnal mist, weaving webs of light, lighting up the silent hills and the dark woods. The rapid flight of the bay broke the deep silence. Racoare rode silently under the overhanging woods with their sparse foliage; he seemed like a phantom in the blue light.Then he reached Frasini. Every one was asleep, the doors were shut. Cozma knocked at the door: Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat!“Who is there?” cried a voice from within.“Open!” said Racoare.“Who are you?”“Open!” shouted Cozma.From within was heard a whispered:“Open!” “Do not open!” “Open, it is Cozma!”A light shone through a niche in the wall above the door, and lighted up Cozma’s face. Then a rustling sound became audible, the light was extinguished, and the bar across the door rattled.Cozma entered the empty courtyard, dismounted by the steps, and pushed open the door.“The door is open,” he murmured, “the lady is not nervous.”In the dark corridor his footsteps and his spurs echoed as in a church. A noise was heard in one of the rooms, and a bright light shone into the passage. The Sultana appeared in the doorway, dressed in white with her hair unplaited, with frowning brows and the scimitar in her right hand.“Who are you? What do you want?” she cried.“I have come to fetch you,” said Racoare shortly, “and take you to Boyar Nicola.”“Ah, you are not burglars?” said the lady, and raised her scimitar. “See here, you will meet the same fate as your Nicola!”Racoare took a step forward, calmly seized the scimitar, squeezed the lady’s fist, and the steel blade flew into a corner. The lady sprang quickly back, calling:“Gavril! Niculai! Toader! Help!”Voices were heard, and the servants crowded into the passage, and stood by the door. Racoare approached the lady, and tried to seize her. She avoided him, and caught up a knife from the table.“What are you doing, you boobies? Help! Seize him, bind him!”“Don’t talk nonsense—I see you are not frightened; I cannot do other than I am doing!” said Racoare.Then the servants murmured again:“How can we bind him? It is Racoare. He is here! Cozma Racoare, lady!”“Cowards!” cried the lady, and threw herself upon Cozma.The highwayman took her arm, pressed her hands together, tied them with a leather strap, and lifted her under his arm like a bundle.“Get out of the way!” he said then, and the people fell over each other as they scattered to either side.“What a pearl among women!” thought Cozma, while he strode along the corridor with the lady under his arm, “he has not bad taste, that Boyar Nicola! Proud woman!”The Sultana looked with eyes wide with horror at the servants who gave way on either hand in their terror. She felt herself held as in a vice. At last she raised her eyes to Racoare’s fierce face.The light from the room was reflected in the man’s steely eyes, and lit up his weather-beaten face.“Who are you?” she gasped.“I? Cozma Racoare.”The lady gave another glance at the servants huddled in the corners, and she said not another word. Now she understood.Outside, the highwayman mounted the bay, placed the lady in front of him, and set spurs to his horse. Once more the sound of the galloping horse broke the silence of the night.“What a pearl among women!” thought Racoare, and the horse sped along the road like a phantom.The lady turned her head, and studied Racoare by the light of the moon.“Why do you look at me like that, lady?” And the horse sped along under the overhanging woods.The black hair of the lady shone in great billows of light. The foliage glistened with hoar-frost, like silver-leaf. The lady looked at the highwayman and shuddered, she felt herself squeezed in his powerful arms, and her eyes burnt like two stars beneath the heavy knitted brows.“Why do you look at me like that, lady? Why do you shiver? Are you cold?”The galloping hooves thundered through the glades, the leaves glittered in their silver sheen, and the bay passed on like a phantom in the light.A shadow suddenly appeared in the distance.“What is that yonder?” questioned the lady.“Boyar Nicola awaits us there,” replied Racoare.The lady said no more. But Cozma felt her stiffen herself. The leather strap was snapped, and two white hands were lifted up. The highwayman had no time to stop her. Like lightning she seized the bridle in her right hand, and turned the horse on the spot, but her left arm she twined round Racoare’s neck. The highwayman felt the lady’s head resting against his breast, and a voice murmured softly:“Would you give me to another?”And the horse flew like a phantom through the blue light; the meadows rang with the sound of the galloping hooves, the silver leaves glistened, and tresses of black hair floated in the wind. But now shadows seemed to be pursuing them. The hills on the horizon seemed peopled with strange figures, which hurried through the light mist. But the black phantom sped on, and ever onwards, till it was lost in the far distance, in the gloom of the night.
By M. Sadoveanu
He was a terrible man, Cozma Racoare!
When I say Cozma, I seem to see, do you know, I seem to see before me, a sinister-looking man riding upon a bay horse; two eyes like steel pierce through me; I see a moustache like twin sparrows. Fierce Rouman! He rode with a gun across his back, and with a knife an ell long, here, in his belt, on the left side. It was thus I always saw him. I am old, you know, nigh on a hundred, I have travelled much about the world, I have met various characters, and many people, but I tell you, a man like Cozma Racoare I have never seen! Yet he was not physically so terrible; he was a man of middle height, lean, with a brown face, a man like many another—ha! but all the same! only to have seen the eyes was to remember him. Terrible Rouman!
There was grief and bitterness in the land at that time. Turks and Greeks were overrunningthe country on all sides, everywhere honest men were complaining—they were hard times! Cozma had no cares. To-day he was here, to-morrow one heard of him, who knows where! Every one fled before the storm, but he, good Lord, he never cared! They caught him and put him in chains. What need? He just shook himself, wrenched the bars with one hand, whistled to his horse, and there he was on the road again. Who did not know that Racoare had a charmed life? Ah, how many bullets were aimed at his breast! But in vain! It was said of him: only a silver bullet can slay him! Where do you see men like that nowadays? Those times are gone for ever.
Have you heard of the Feciorul Romancei? He was a fire-eater too! He robbed the other side of Muntenia, Cozma robbed this, and one night—what a night!—they both met at Milcov, exchanged booty, and were back in their homes before dawn. Were the frontier guards on the watch? Did they catch them as they rode? Why! Racoare’s horse flew like a phantom, no bullet could touch him! What a road that is from here, across the mountains of Bacau, to the frontier! Eh! to do it, there and back in one night, you mark my words, that’s no joke! But that horse! That’s the truth of the matter, that horse of Racoare’s was not like any other horse. That’s clear.
Voda-Calimbach had an Arabian mare, which his servants watched as the apple of his eye; she was due to foal. One night—it was in the seventh month—Cozma got into the stall, ripped open the mare and stole the foal. But that was not all he did! You understand the foal was wrapped in a caul. Racoare cut the caul, but he cut it in such a way as to split the foal’s nostrils. And look, the foal with the split nostrils grew up in the dark fed upon nut kernels; and when Cozma mounted it—well, that was a horse!
Even the wind, therefore, could not out-distance Cozma. On one occasion—I was a volunteer then—Cozma woke to find himself within the walls of Probot, with volunteers inside and the Turks outside. The Turks were battering the walls with their guns. The volunteers decided to surrender the fortress. Cozma kept his own counsel. The next day Cozma was nowhere to be found. But from the walls, up to the forest of Probot, was a line of corpses! That had been Racoare’s road!
That is how it always was! His were the woods and fields! He recognized no authority, he did not know what fear was, nor love—except on one occasion. Terrible Rouman! It seems to me I can see him now, riding upon his bay horse.
At that time a Greek was managing the Vulturesht estate, and on this side, on our estate, within those ruined walls, there ruled such a minx of a Roumanian as I had never seen before. The Greek was pining for the Roumanian. And no wonder! The widow had eyebrows that met, and the eyes of the devil—Lord! Lord! such eyes would have tempted a saint. She had been married, against her will, to a Greek, to Dimitru Covas; the Greek died, and now the lady ruled alone over our estate.
As I tell you, Nicola Zamfiridi, the Greek, was dying for the lady. What did that man not do, where did he not go, what soothsayers did he not visit, all in vain! The lady would not hear of it! She hated the Greek. And yet Nicola was not ill-favoured. He was a proud Greek, bronzed, with pointed moustache and curly beard. But still he did not please the widow!
One day, Nicola sat pondering in his room while he smoked. What was to be done? He most certainly wanted to marry, and to take her for his wife; why would she not hear of it?
A few days before he had gone with Ciocirlie, the gipsy, and had sung desperately outside the walls. Alas, the courtyard remained still as stone! What the devil was to be done?
Boyar Nicola thought to himself: “You are not ugly, you are not stupid—what’s the reasonof it? Is she, perhaps, in love with some one else?” No. He watched for one whole night. Nobody entered, and nobody left the courtyard.
The boyar was angry. He rose, picked up a whip and went out. The grooms were grooming the horses in the yard.
“Is that horse supposed to be groomed?” he shouted, and slash! down came the whip on one of the grooms.
Farther on the gardener was resting from the heat.
“Is this how you look after the garden? Hey!” and swish! crack!
What next? Was it any use losing one’s temper with the people? He went into the garden, and seated himself under a beautiful lime-tree. There, on the stone bench, he pondered again. His life was worthless if the woman he loved would not look at him! He watched the flight of the withered leaves in the still air; he heaved a sigh.
“Vasile! Vasile!” called the boyar. His voice rang sadly in the melancholy garden.
A sturdy old man came through the garden door, and went towards his master.
“Vasile,” said the boyar, “what is to be done?”
The old man eyed his master, then he, too, sighed and scratched his head.
“What is to be done, Vasile?”
“How should I know, master?”
“You must find something. Many people have advised me, now you suggest something. I got nothing out of that old witch, and Ciocirlie was no good; cannot you propose something?”
“H’m——”
“Do not desert me, Vasile!”
“H’m, master, I’ll tell you something if you will give me something.”
“Take a ducat of mine, Vasilica—speak!”
Vasile did not let himself be put off by the mention of one ducat. He scratched his head again.
“If I knew you would give me two ducats, master, or even three, or many—you understand—that’s how it is! What will be, will be! I say go right off to Frasini, go into the courtyard, through the courtyard into the lady’s boudoir and steal her! That’s what I say!”
“What are you talking about, good Vasile! Is it possible!”
Vasile said no more. The boyar thought deeply, his hand on his forehead; then he said:
“That’s what I must do, Vasile! I know what I have to do! Bravo you, good Vasile!”
“If only I knew I was to get two ducats reward!” sighed Vasile, scratching his head.
And that evening Boyar Nicola kept his word. He mounted his horse, took with him five companions from among the grooms, and started out to Frasini.
The forest shuddered with the whisper of the breeze of the autumn night. The men rode silently. From time to time could be heard the trumpeting of the cock, coming they knew not whence. Beyond lay silence. At last the widow’s courtyard came into sight, black, like some heap of coal.
Like ghosts Nicola and his companions approached the wall; in silence they dismounted; they threw rope-ladders over the top of the wall, climbed up and over to the other side. The horses remained tied to the trees.
Suddenly they heard cries. Boyar Nicola was not afraid. He hurried to the door—the doors were not shut. He passed along the corridor.
“Aha!” murmured the Greek. “Now I shall have the darling in my arms.”
But suddenly a door was opened, and a bright sea of light illuminated the passage. Boyar Nicola was not frightened. He advanced towards the room. But he had scarcely gone two paces when there, on the threshold, stood the Sultana, with her hair undone, in a thin white petticoat and a white dressing-jacket. With frowning brows she stood in the doorway looking at the boyar.
Nicola was beside himself. He would willingly have gone on his knees, and kissed her feet, so beautiful was she. But he knew if he knelt before her she would only mock him. He approached to embrace her.
“Hold!” cried the Sultana. “I thoughtthere were thieves! Ha, ha! it is you, Boyar Nicola?”
And suddenly, there in the light, she raised a shining scimitar in her right hand. Nicola felt a hard blow on the side of his head. He stood still. His grooms started to run, but one fell, yelling, and covered with blood. Just then a great noise was heard, and the lady’s servants came in.
Nicola fled towards the exit followed by his four companions. Then on into the yard with scimitars flashing on their right and on their left. And once more they are on horseback fleeing towards Vulturesht.
There he dismounted, feeling very bitter, and entered the garden once more, and once more sat on the stone bench, and hid his face in his hands.
“Woe is me!” he murmured miserably. “How wretched is my life! What is to be done? What is to be done?”
He sat there in the October night tortured by his thoughts. Only the breeze carrying the mist from the fields disturbed him.
“Woe is me! How wretched is my life!” and he bent forward, his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. “What a terrible woman!” he murmured again as he mused. “What eyes she has! Oh, Blessed Virgin! Oh, Blessed Virgin! Do not abandon me, for my heart is breaking!”
For some time he stayed there dreaming. After a while he rose and moved towards the house.
“What a terrible woman, and what eyes!”
In the house he once more called for Vasile.
“Good Vasile, I am undone! A terrible woman, good Vasile—she has burnt my heart and turned it to ashes! What is to be done? Do not leave me! Look, you understand, you shall have two of my ducats.”
“I know what you have been through, master. She is a proud lady, there is no denying it! If I knew you would give me five ducats, or even six—but there, it’s only an idea——”
“Speak, Vasile, good man, I will give you—— What eyes! Woe is me!”
“Then I understand, master,” says Vasile, “that you give me seven ducats, but you’ll have to give seven times seven if you get her here at your hand—don’t be afraid, master, it is not much—only seven times seven to have her here at your hand! I’ll bring Cozma Racoare to you! As sure as you put the ducats into the palm of my hand, so sure will he put the Sultana into your arms, that’s that.”
Boyar Nicola was rather alarmed when he heard talk of Cozma Racoare, but afterwards he sighed and said:
“Good!”
Three days later Racoare came. Nicola was sitting on the stone bench in the garden under thelime-tree, smoking a pipe of fragrant tobacco. When he caught sight of the highwayman he sat gazing at him with startled eyes. Cozma came calmly along with his horse’s bridle in his left hand. He wore top boots up to his knees with long steel spurs. A long gun was slung across his back. On his head was a black sheepskin cap. He walked unconcernedly as usual with knitted brows; his horse followed him with bent head.
Vasile, the boyar’s agent, came up to the stone seat, scratching his head, and whispered with a grin:
“What do you say to this, master? Just take a look at him. He could bring you the devil himself!”
Boyar Nicola could not take his eyes off Cozma. The highwayman stopped and said:
“God be with you!”
“I thank you,” replied Vasile. “God grant it!”
The boyar remained persistently silent.
“H’m!” murmured Vasile. “You have come to see us, friend Cozma?”
“I have come,” responded Racoare.
“On our business?”
“Yes.”
Cozma spoke slowly, frowning; wherever he might be no smile ever lit up his face.
“Ah, yes, you have come,” said the boyar, as if awaking from sleep. “Vasile, go and tell them to prepare coffee, but bring wine at once.”
“Let them make coffee for one,” said Cozma, “I never drink.”
Vasile went off grinning, after a side-glance at his master.
“Ah, you never drink!” said the boyar with an effort. “So, so, you have come on our business—how much? Ah, I am giving fifty ducats.”
“Good!” said Racoare quietly.
Vasile returned, smiling knowingly. The boyar was silent.
“Eh,” said Vasile, scratching his head, “how are you getting on?”
“Good Vasile, go and fetch the purse from under my pillow.”
“No, there is no need to give me a purse,” said the highwayman, “I have no need of money.”
“What?” murmured the boyar. “Ah, yes! You do not need? Why?”
“The thing is to put the Sultana of Frasini into your arms—I hand you over the lady, and you hand me the money.”
“Let’s be brief!” cried Vasile, passing his hand through his hair. “One party gives the lady, the other the money. What did I tell you? Cozma would fetch you the devil from hell. From henceforth the lady is yours.”
Racoare turned round, strode to the bottom of the garden, fastened his horse to a tree, drew a cloak of serge from his saddle, spread it out and wrapped himself in it.
“Well! Well!” groaned Boyar Nicola, breathing heavily. “What a terrible man! But I feel as though he had taken a load off my mind.”
Vasile smiled but said nothing. Later, when he was by himself, he began to laugh and whisper: “Ha, ha! He who bears a charmed life is a lucky man!”
The boyar started up as from sleep and looked fearfully at Vasile; then he shook his head and relapsed into thought.
“Ah, yes!” he murmured, without understanding what he was talking about.
When night had fallen Cozma Racoare tightened his horse’s girths and mounted. Then he said:
“Boyar, wait for me in the glade at Vulturesht.”
The gates were opened, the horse snorted and rushed forth like a dragon.
The full moon shone through the veil of an autumnal mist, weaving webs of light, lighting up the silent hills and the dark woods. The rapid flight of the bay broke the deep silence. Racoare rode silently under the overhanging woods with their sparse foliage; he seemed like a phantom in the blue light.
Then he reached Frasini. Every one was asleep, the doors were shut. Cozma knocked at the door: Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat!
“Who is there?” cried a voice from within.
“Open!” said Racoare.
“Who are you?”
“Open!” shouted Cozma.
From within was heard a whispered:
“Open!” “Do not open!” “Open, it is Cozma!”
A light shone through a niche in the wall above the door, and lighted up Cozma’s face. Then a rustling sound became audible, the light was extinguished, and the bar across the door rattled.
Cozma entered the empty courtyard, dismounted by the steps, and pushed open the door.
“The door is open,” he murmured, “the lady is not nervous.”
In the dark corridor his footsteps and his spurs echoed as in a church. A noise was heard in one of the rooms, and a bright light shone into the passage. The Sultana appeared in the doorway, dressed in white with her hair unplaited, with frowning brows and the scimitar in her right hand.
“Who are you? What do you want?” she cried.
“I have come to fetch you,” said Racoare shortly, “and take you to Boyar Nicola.”
“Ah, you are not burglars?” said the lady, and raised her scimitar. “See here, you will meet the same fate as your Nicola!”
Racoare took a step forward, calmly seized the scimitar, squeezed the lady’s fist, and the steel blade flew into a corner. The lady sprang quickly back, calling:
“Gavril! Niculai! Toader! Help!”
Voices were heard, and the servants crowded into the passage, and stood by the door. Racoare approached the lady, and tried to seize her. She avoided him, and caught up a knife from the table.
“What are you doing, you boobies? Help! Seize him, bind him!”
“Don’t talk nonsense—I see you are not frightened; I cannot do other than I am doing!” said Racoare.
Then the servants murmured again:
“How can we bind him? It is Racoare. He is here! Cozma Racoare, lady!”
“Cowards!” cried the lady, and threw herself upon Cozma.
The highwayman took her arm, pressed her hands together, tied them with a leather strap, and lifted her under his arm like a bundle.
“Get out of the way!” he said then, and the people fell over each other as they scattered to either side.
“What a pearl among women!” thought Cozma, while he strode along the corridor with the lady under his arm, “he has not bad taste, that Boyar Nicola! Proud woman!”
The Sultana looked with eyes wide with horror at the servants who gave way on either hand in their terror. She felt herself held as in a vice. At last she raised her eyes to Racoare’s fierce face.The light from the room was reflected in the man’s steely eyes, and lit up his weather-beaten face.
“Who are you?” she gasped.
“I? Cozma Racoare.”
The lady gave another glance at the servants huddled in the corners, and she said not another word. Now she understood.
Outside, the highwayman mounted the bay, placed the lady in front of him, and set spurs to his horse. Once more the sound of the galloping horse broke the silence of the night.
“What a pearl among women!” thought Racoare, and the horse sped along the road like a phantom.
The lady turned her head, and studied Racoare by the light of the moon.
“Why do you look at me like that, lady?” And the horse sped along under the overhanging woods.
The black hair of the lady shone in great billows of light. The foliage glistened with hoar-frost, like silver-leaf. The lady looked at the highwayman and shuddered, she felt herself squeezed in his powerful arms, and her eyes burnt like two stars beneath the heavy knitted brows.
“Why do you look at me like that, lady? Why do you shiver? Are you cold?”
The galloping hooves thundered through the glades, the leaves glittered in their silver sheen, and the bay passed on like a phantom in the light.
A shadow suddenly appeared in the distance.
“What is that yonder?” questioned the lady.
“Boyar Nicola awaits us there,” replied Racoare.
The lady said no more. But Cozma felt her stiffen herself. The leather strap was snapped, and two white hands were lifted up. The highwayman had no time to stop her. Like lightning she seized the bridle in her right hand, and turned the horse on the spot, but her left arm she twined round Racoare’s neck. The highwayman felt the lady’s head resting against his breast, and a voice murmured softly:
“Would you give me to another?”
And the horse flew like a phantom through the blue light; the meadows rang with the sound of the galloping hooves, the silver leaves glistened, and tresses of black hair floated in the wind. But now shadows seemed to be pursuing them. The hills on the horizon seemed peopled with strange figures, which hurried through the light mist. But the black phantom sped on, and ever onwards, till it was lost in the far distance, in the gloom of the night.
The WanderersBy M. SadoveanuA house stood isolated in the middle of a garden, separated from the main group about the market-place.It was an old house, its veranda was both high and broad and had big whitewashed pillars. The pointed roof was tiled and green with moss. In front of the veranda, and facing south, stood two beautiful round lime-trees throwing out their shade.One day in the month of August, the owners, Vladimir Savicky and Ana, his wife, were sitting in the veranda. Both were old, weather-beaten by the storms of many journeys and the misfortunes of life. The old man wore a long white beard and long white hair, which was parted down the middle and smooth on the top; he smoked a very long pipe, and his blue eyes gazed towards the plains which stretched away towards the sunset. The old woman, Ana, selected a nosegay of flowers from a basket. He was tall and vigorous still, she was slight with gentle movements. Forty years agothey left their ruined Poland, and settled in our country. They kept an adopted daughter, and had a son of thirty years of age, a bachelor, and a good craftsman. They had lived for thirty years here in the old house, busying themselves with market-gardening: for thirty years they had lived a sad, monotonous life in this place. They had been alone with their adopted child, with Magdalena; Roman, their boy, had been roaming through the world for the last ten years.Old Vladimir puffed away at his pipe as he stroked his beard; the warmth of the afternoon had made him lay aside his blue jacket. The old wife was choosing her flowers. A gentle breeze, laden with fragrance, came from the garden, from the trees heavy with fruit, and from the gay-coloured flowers. Shafts of light penetrated through the leafy limes, little patches of white light came from above, and played over the bright grass, green as the tree-frog. From time to time the quivering foliage sent a melodious rustle into the peaceful balcony.At intervals the soft notes of a song floated through the open window.Suddenly a resounding noise broke the stillness of the day. What was it? A carriage. The old man started, put down his pipe, and rose. The old woman put her head, wrapped in a white shawl, out over the railings. The rumbling vehicle, an ugly Jew upon the box, drew nearer, and pulled up outside the door of the old house. A strong, broad-shoulderedyoung man descended, a big bundle in his right hand, a case in his left.“Roman! Roman!” cried the old lady in a feeble voice. She tried to rise but fell softly back beside the flowers.“There, there, old lady, it is Roman,” murmured the old man gaily, as he went down the stairs.“Mr. Roman!” cried a gentle voice, and Magdalena’s fair head appeared at the window.Roman had let fall the bundle and thrown himself into his father’s arms.“Yes, old lady, it is Roman!” murmured Vladimir Savicky, with tears in his eyes. He embraced his son, and pressed him to his heart. “Yes, old lady, it is Roman!” That was all he could find to say.“Mother,” cried the young man, “I have not seen you for ten years.”The old mother cried silently, her son strained her to his breast, while the old man wandered round murmuring tearfully into his beard:“Yes, yes, old lady, it is our Roman.”As Roman Savicky straightened his strong frame and turned round, he saw a white face with blue eyes in the doorway. He stood transfixed with astonishment; the girl watched him, smiling shyly.“Ha! ha!” laughed old Savicky, “how now? Do you not know each other? Ah! Kiss eachother, you have known Magdalena ever since she was a child.”The young people approached each other in silence, the girl offered her cheek with eyelids lowered, and Roman kissed her.“I did not recognize her,” said Roman, “she has grown so big.”His mother laughed softly. “You, too, Roman, you have grown much bigger—and handsome.”“NaturallyourRoman is handsome,” said the old man, “our own Roman, old lady.”Again the mother kissed her son. Roman seated himself upon a chair in the veranda, the old man placed himself on his right, and the mother on the left; they watched him, feasting their eyes upon him.“My darling! my darling!” he said to the old woman, “it is long since I have seen you.”In the end they grew silent, looking intently at one another, smiling. The gentle rustle of the lime trees broke the heat and stillness of the August day.“Whence do you come, Roman?” questioned the old man suddenly.“From Warsaw,” said his son, raising his head.The old man opened wide his eyes, then he turned towards Ana.“Do you hear that, old lady, from Warsaw?”The old lady nodded her head, and said wonderingly:“From Warsaw!”“Yes,” said Roman, “I have journeyed throughout Poland, full of bitterness, and I have wandered among our exiled brothers in all parts of the world.”Profound misery rang in his powerful voice. The old people looked smilingly at him, lovingly, but without understanding him. All acute feeling for their country had long ago died away in their hearts. They sat looking happily into the blue eyes of their Roman, at his fair, smooth face, at his beautiful luxuriant hair.The young man began to speak. Gradually his voice rose, it rang powerfully, full of sorrow and bitterness. Where had he not been! He had been everywhere, and everywhere he had met exiled Poles, pining away among strangers, dying far from the land of their fathers. Everywhere the same longing, everywhere the same sorrow. Tyrants ruled over the old hearth, the cry of the oppressed rent the air, patriots lay in chains or trod the road to Siberia, crowds fled from the homes of their fathers, strangers swept like a flood into their places.“Roman, Roman!” said the old woman, bursting into tears, “how beautifully you talk.”“Beautifully talks our Roman, old lady,” said Vladimir Savicky sadly, “beautifully, but he brings us sad tidings.”And in the old man’s soul old longings and bitter memories began to stir. On the thresholdMagdalena stood dismayed and shuddered as she looked at Roman.Suddenly two old men entered by the door. One had thick, grizzled whiskers, the other a long beard in which shone silver threads.“Ah,” cried the old Savicky, “here comes Palchevici, here comes Rujancowsky. Our Roman has come! Here he is!”“We know,” said Rujancowsky gravely, “we have seen him.”“Yes, yes, we have seen him,” murmured Palchevici.They both approached and shook Roman warmly by the hand.“Good day and welcome to you! See, now all the Poles of this town are met together in one place,” said Rujancowsky.“What?” questioned Roman. “Only these few are left?”“The others have passed away,” said old Savicky sadly.“Yes, they have passed away,” murmured Palchevici, running his fingers through his big grey whiskers.They were all silent for a time.“Old lady,” said Vladimir Savicky, “go and fetch a bottle of wine and get something to eat too, perhaps Roman is hungry. But where are you? Where is Ana?” asked the old man, looking at Magdalena.“Do not worry, she has gone to get things ready,” replied the girl smilingly.“’Tis well! ’tis well!” Then turning towards the two Poles. “You do not know how Roman can talk. You should hear him. Roman, you must say it again.”The old wife came with wine and cold meat. She placed meat in front of her boy, and the wine before the older men. They all began to talk. But Roman’s voice sounded melancholy in the stillness of the summer day. Then they began to drink to Roman’s health, to the health of each one of them.“To Poland!” cried Roman excitedly, striking the table with his fist. And then he began to speak:“Do you realize how the downtrodden people begin to murmur and to agitate? Soon there will rise a mighty storm which will break down the prison walls, the note of liberty will ring through our native land! Ah, you do not know the anguish and the bitternessthere! Stranger-ridden and desolate! Since Kosciusko died there are exiles and desolation everywhere! Mother,” cried Roman, then turning towards the old woman, “give me the case from over there, I must sing something to you.”With these words his eyes darkened and he stared into space. The old people looked at him, much moved, their heads upon their breasts, notspeaking a word. Quiet reigned in the old house, and in the garden there was peace; a fiery sunset, crowned with clouds of flame, was merging into the green sea of the woods. Golden rays penetrated into the old veranda and shone on Roman’s hair.His mother handed him the case.“Well,” said the young man, “I will sing you something with my cither. I will sing of our grief.”Then, beneath his fingers, the strings began to murmur as though awaking from sleep. Roman bent forward and began, the old people sat motionless round him.Sad tones vibrated through the quiet of the old house, notes soft and sorrowful like some remote mournful cry, notes deep with the tremor of affliction; the melody rose sobbing through the clear sunset like the flight of some bird of passage.In the souls of the old people there rose like a storm the clamour of past sorrows. The song lamented the ruin of fair lands; they seemed to listen, as in a sad dream, to the bitter tears of those dying for their native land. They seemed to see Kosciusko, worn with the struggle, covered in blood, kneeling with a sword in hand.Finis Poloniæ! Poland is no more! Ruin everywhere, death all around; a cry of sorrow rose; the children were torn from their unhappy land to pine away and die on alien soil!The chords surged, full of grief, through theclear sunset. Then slowly, slowly, the melody died away as though tired with sorrow until the final chord finished softly, like a distant tremor, ending in deathlike silence.The listeners seemed turned to stone. Roman leant his head upon his hand, and his eyes, full of pain, turned towards the flaming sunset. His chin trembled; his mind was full of bitter memories. The old men sat as though stunned, like some wounded creatures, their heads upon their breasts; the old mother cried softly, sighing, her eyes upon her Roman. As the young man turned his eyes towards the door he saw two bright tears in Magdalena’s blue eyes; amid a deep silence his own eyes gazed into the girl’s while the last crimson rays faded away from the woods.
The Wanderers
By M. SadoveanuA house stood isolated in the middle of a garden, separated from the main group about the market-place.It was an old house, its veranda was both high and broad and had big whitewashed pillars. The pointed roof was tiled and green with moss. In front of the veranda, and facing south, stood two beautiful round lime-trees throwing out their shade.One day in the month of August, the owners, Vladimir Savicky and Ana, his wife, were sitting in the veranda. Both were old, weather-beaten by the storms of many journeys and the misfortunes of life. The old man wore a long white beard and long white hair, which was parted down the middle and smooth on the top; he smoked a very long pipe, and his blue eyes gazed towards the plains which stretched away towards the sunset. The old woman, Ana, selected a nosegay of flowers from a basket. He was tall and vigorous still, she was slight with gentle movements. Forty years agothey left their ruined Poland, and settled in our country. They kept an adopted daughter, and had a son of thirty years of age, a bachelor, and a good craftsman. They had lived for thirty years here in the old house, busying themselves with market-gardening: for thirty years they had lived a sad, monotonous life in this place. They had been alone with their adopted child, with Magdalena; Roman, their boy, had been roaming through the world for the last ten years.Old Vladimir puffed away at his pipe as he stroked his beard; the warmth of the afternoon had made him lay aside his blue jacket. The old wife was choosing her flowers. A gentle breeze, laden with fragrance, came from the garden, from the trees heavy with fruit, and from the gay-coloured flowers. Shafts of light penetrated through the leafy limes, little patches of white light came from above, and played over the bright grass, green as the tree-frog. From time to time the quivering foliage sent a melodious rustle into the peaceful balcony.At intervals the soft notes of a song floated through the open window.Suddenly a resounding noise broke the stillness of the day. What was it? A carriage. The old man started, put down his pipe, and rose. The old woman put her head, wrapped in a white shawl, out over the railings. The rumbling vehicle, an ugly Jew upon the box, drew nearer, and pulled up outside the door of the old house. A strong, broad-shoulderedyoung man descended, a big bundle in his right hand, a case in his left.“Roman! Roman!” cried the old lady in a feeble voice. She tried to rise but fell softly back beside the flowers.“There, there, old lady, it is Roman,” murmured the old man gaily, as he went down the stairs.“Mr. Roman!” cried a gentle voice, and Magdalena’s fair head appeared at the window.Roman had let fall the bundle and thrown himself into his father’s arms.“Yes, old lady, it is Roman!” murmured Vladimir Savicky, with tears in his eyes. He embraced his son, and pressed him to his heart. “Yes, old lady, it is Roman!” That was all he could find to say.“Mother,” cried the young man, “I have not seen you for ten years.”The old mother cried silently, her son strained her to his breast, while the old man wandered round murmuring tearfully into his beard:“Yes, yes, old lady, it is our Roman.”As Roman Savicky straightened his strong frame and turned round, he saw a white face with blue eyes in the doorway. He stood transfixed with astonishment; the girl watched him, smiling shyly.“Ha! ha!” laughed old Savicky, “how now? Do you not know each other? Ah! Kiss eachother, you have known Magdalena ever since she was a child.”The young people approached each other in silence, the girl offered her cheek with eyelids lowered, and Roman kissed her.“I did not recognize her,” said Roman, “she has grown so big.”His mother laughed softly. “You, too, Roman, you have grown much bigger—and handsome.”“NaturallyourRoman is handsome,” said the old man, “our own Roman, old lady.”Again the mother kissed her son. Roman seated himself upon a chair in the veranda, the old man placed himself on his right, and the mother on the left; they watched him, feasting their eyes upon him.“My darling! my darling!” he said to the old woman, “it is long since I have seen you.”In the end they grew silent, looking intently at one another, smiling. The gentle rustle of the lime trees broke the heat and stillness of the August day.“Whence do you come, Roman?” questioned the old man suddenly.“From Warsaw,” said his son, raising his head.The old man opened wide his eyes, then he turned towards Ana.“Do you hear that, old lady, from Warsaw?”The old lady nodded her head, and said wonderingly:“From Warsaw!”“Yes,” said Roman, “I have journeyed throughout Poland, full of bitterness, and I have wandered among our exiled brothers in all parts of the world.”Profound misery rang in his powerful voice. The old people looked smilingly at him, lovingly, but without understanding him. All acute feeling for their country had long ago died away in their hearts. They sat looking happily into the blue eyes of their Roman, at his fair, smooth face, at his beautiful luxuriant hair.The young man began to speak. Gradually his voice rose, it rang powerfully, full of sorrow and bitterness. Where had he not been! He had been everywhere, and everywhere he had met exiled Poles, pining away among strangers, dying far from the land of their fathers. Everywhere the same longing, everywhere the same sorrow. Tyrants ruled over the old hearth, the cry of the oppressed rent the air, patriots lay in chains or trod the road to Siberia, crowds fled from the homes of their fathers, strangers swept like a flood into their places.“Roman, Roman!” said the old woman, bursting into tears, “how beautifully you talk.”“Beautifully talks our Roman, old lady,” said Vladimir Savicky sadly, “beautifully, but he brings us sad tidings.”And in the old man’s soul old longings and bitter memories began to stir. On the thresholdMagdalena stood dismayed and shuddered as she looked at Roman.Suddenly two old men entered by the door. One had thick, grizzled whiskers, the other a long beard in which shone silver threads.“Ah,” cried the old Savicky, “here comes Palchevici, here comes Rujancowsky. Our Roman has come! Here he is!”“We know,” said Rujancowsky gravely, “we have seen him.”“Yes, yes, we have seen him,” murmured Palchevici.They both approached and shook Roman warmly by the hand.“Good day and welcome to you! See, now all the Poles of this town are met together in one place,” said Rujancowsky.“What?” questioned Roman. “Only these few are left?”“The others have passed away,” said old Savicky sadly.“Yes, they have passed away,” murmured Palchevici, running his fingers through his big grey whiskers.They were all silent for a time.“Old lady,” said Vladimir Savicky, “go and fetch a bottle of wine and get something to eat too, perhaps Roman is hungry. But where are you? Where is Ana?” asked the old man, looking at Magdalena.“Do not worry, she has gone to get things ready,” replied the girl smilingly.“’Tis well! ’tis well!” Then turning towards the two Poles. “You do not know how Roman can talk. You should hear him. Roman, you must say it again.”The old wife came with wine and cold meat. She placed meat in front of her boy, and the wine before the older men. They all began to talk. But Roman’s voice sounded melancholy in the stillness of the summer day. Then they began to drink to Roman’s health, to the health of each one of them.“To Poland!” cried Roman excitedly, striking the table with his fist. And then he began to speak:“Do you realize how the downtrodden people begin to murmur and to agitate? Soon there will rise a mighty storm which will break down the prison walls, the note of liberty will ring through our native land! Ah, you do not know the anguish and the bitternessthere! Stranger-ridden and desolate! Since Kosciusko died there are exiles and desolation everywhere! Mother,” cried Roman, then turning towards the old woman, “give me the case from over there, I must sing something to you.”With these words his eyes darkened and he stared into space. The old people looked at him, much moved, their heads upon their breasts, notspeaking a word. Quiet reigned in the old house, and in the garden there was peace; a fiery sunset, crowned with clouds of flame, was merging into the green sea of the woods. Golden rays penetrated into the old veranda and shone on Roman’s hair.His mother handed him the case.“Well,” said the young man, “I will sing you something with my cither. I will sing of our grief.”Then, beneath his fingers, the strings began to murmur as though awaking from sleep. Roman bent forward and began, the old people sat motionless round him.Sad tones vibrated through the quiet of the old house, notes soft and sorrowful like some remote mournful cry, notes deep with the tremor of affliction; the melody rose sobbing through the clear sunset like the flight of some bird of passage.In the souls of the old people there rose like a storm the clamour of past sorrows. The song lamented the ruin of fair lands; they seemed to listen, as in a sad dream, to the bitter tears of those dying for their native land. They seemed to see Kosciusko, worn with the struggle, covered in blood, kneeling with a sword in hand.Finis Poloniæ! Poland is no more! Ruin everywhere, death all around; a cry of sorrow rose; the children were torn from their unhappy land to pine away and die on alien soil!The chords surged, full of grief, through theclear sunset. Then slowly, slowly, the melody died away as though tired with sorrow until the final chord finished softly, like a distant tremor, ending in deathlike silence.The listeners seemed turned to stone. Roman leant his head upon his hand, and his eyes, full of pain, turned towards the flaming sunset. His chin trembled; his mind was full of bitter memories. The old men sat as though stunned, like some wounded creatures, their heads upon their breasts; the old mother cried softly, sighing, her eyes upon her Roman. As the young man turned his eyes towards the door he saw two bright tears in Magdalena’s blue eyes; amid a deep silence his own eyes gazed into the girl’s while the last crimson rays faded away from the woods.
By M. Sadoveanu
A house stood isolated in the middle of a garden, separated from the main group about the market-place.
It was an old house, its veranda was both high and broad and had big whitewashed pillars. The pointed roof was tiled and green with moss. In front of the veranda, and facing south, stood two beautiful round lime-trees throwing out their shade.
One day in the month of August, the owners, Vladimir Savicky and Ana, his wife, were sitting in the veranda. Both were old, weather-beaten by the storms of many journeys and the misfortunes of life. The old man wore a long white beard and long white hair, which was parted down the middle and smooth on the top; he smoked a very long pipe, and his blue eyes gazed towards the plains which stretched away towards the sunset. The old woman, Ana, selected a nosegay of flowers from a basket. He was tall and vigorous still, she was slight with gentle movements. Forty years agothey left their ruined Poland, and settled in our country. They kept an adopted daughter, and had a son of thirty years of age, a bachelor, and a good craftsman. They had lived for thirty years here in the old house, busying themselves with market-gardening: for thirty years they had lived a sad, monotonous life in this place. They had been alone with their adopted child, with Magdalena; Roman, their boy, had been roaming through the world for the last ten years.
Old Vladimir puffed away at his pipe as he stroked his beard; the warmth of the afternoon had made him lay aside his blue jacket. The old wife was choosing her flowers. A gentle breeze, laden with fragrance, came from the garden, from the trees heavy with fruit, and from the gay-coloured flowers. Shafts of light penetrated through the leafy limes, little patches of white light came from above, and played over the bright grass, green as the tree-frog. From time to time the quivering foliage sent a melodious rustle into the peaceful balcony.
At intervals the soft notes of a song floated through the open window.
Suddenly a resounding noise broke the stillness of the day. What was it? A carriage. The old man started, put down his pipe, and rose. The old woman put her head, wrapped in a white shawl, out over the railings. The rumbling vehicle, an ugly Jew upon the box, drew nearer, and pulled up outside the door of the old house. A strong, broad-shoulderedyoung man descended, a big bundle in his right hand, a case in his left.
“Roman! Roman!” cried the old lady in a feeble voice. She tried to rise but fell softly back beside the flowers.
“There, there, old lady, it is Roman,” murmured the old man gaily, as he went down the stairs.
“Mr. Roman!” cried a gentle voice, and Magdalena’s fair head appeared at the window.
Roman had let fall the bundle and thrown himself into his father’s arms.
“Yes, old lady, it is Roman!” murmured Vladimir Savicky, with tears in his eyes. He embraced his son, and pressed him to his heart. “Yes, old lady, it is Roman!” That was all he could find to say.
“Mother,” cried the young man, “I have not seen you for ten years.”
The old mother cried silently, her son strained her to his breast, while the old man wandered round murmuring tearfully into his beard:
“Yes, yes, old lady, it is our Roman.”
As Roman Savicky straightened his strong frame and turned round, he saw a white face with blue eyes in the doorway. He stood transfixed with astonishment; the girl watched him, smiling shyly.
“Ha! ha!” laughed old Savicky, “how now? Do you not know each other? Ah! Kiss eachother, you have known Magdalena ever since she was a child.”
The young people approached each other in silence, the girl offered her cheek with eyelids lowered, and Roman kissed her.
“I did not recognize her,” said Roman, “she has grown so big.”
His mother laughed softly. “You, too, Roman, you have grown much bigger—and handsome.”
“NaturallyourRoman is handsome,” said the old man, “our own Roman, old lady.”
Again the mother kissed her son. Roman seated himself upon a chair in the veranda, the old man placed himself on his right, and the mother on the left; they watched him, feasting their eyes upon him.
“My darling! my darling!” he said to the old woman, “it is long since I have seen you.”
In the end they grew silent, looking intently at one another, smiling. The gentle rustle of the lime trees broke the heat and stillness of the August day.
“Whence do you come, Roman?” questioned the old man suddenly.
“From Warsaw,” said his son, raising his head.
The old man opened wide his eyes, then he turned towards Ana.
“Do you hear that, old lady, from Warsaw?”
The old lady nodded her head, and said wonderingly:
“From Warsaw!”
“Yes,” said Roman, “I have journeyed throughout Poland, full of bitterness, and I have wandered among our exiled brothers in all parts of the world.”
Profound misery rang in his powerful voice. The old people looked smilingly at him, lovingly, but without understanding him. All acute feeling for their country had long ago died away in their hearts. They sat looking happily into the blue eyes of their Roman, at his fair, smooth face, at his beautiful luxuriant hair.
The young man began to speak. Gradually his voice rose, it rang powerfully, full of sorrow and bitterness. Where had he not been! He had been everywhere, and everywhere he had met exiled Poles, pining away among strangers, dying far from the land of their fathers. Everywhere the same longing, everywhere the same sorrow. Tyrants ruled over the old hearth, the cry of the oppressed rent the air, patriots lay in chains or trod the road to Siberia, crowds fled from the homes of their fathers, strangers swept like a flood into their places.
“Roman, Roman!” said the old woman, bursting into tears, “how beautifully you talk.”
“Beautifully talks our Roman, old lady,” said Vladimir Savicky sadly, “beautifully, but he brings us sad tidings.”
And in the old man’s soul old longings and bitter memories began to stir. On the thresholdMagdalena stood dismayed and shuddered as she looked at Roman.
Suddenly two old men entered by the door. One had thick, grizzled whiskers, the other a long beard in which shone silver threads.
“Ah,” cried the old Savicky, “here comes Palchevici, here comes Rujancowsky. Our Roman has come! Here he is!”
“We know,” said Rujancowsky gravely, “we have seen him.”
“Yes, yes, we have seen him,” murmured Palchevici.
They both approached and shook Roman warmly by the hand.
“Good day and welcome to you! See, now all the Poles of this town are met together in one place,” said Rujancowsky.
“What?” questioned Roman. “Only these few are left?”
“The others have passed away,” said old Savicky sadly.
“Yes, they have passed away,” murmured Palchevici, running his fingers through his big grey whiskers.
They were all silent for a time.
“Old lady,” said Vladimir Savicky, “go and fetch a bottle of wine and get something to eat too, perhaps Roman is hungry. But where are you? Where is Ana?” asked the old man, looking at Magdalena.
“Do not worry, she has gone to get things ready,” replied the girl smilingly.
“’Tis well! ’tis well!” Then turning towards the two Poles. “You do not know how Roman can talk. You should hear him. Roman, you must say it again.”
The old wife came with wine and cold meat. She placed meat in front of her boy, and the wine before the older men. They all began to talk. But Roman’s voice sounded melancholy in the stillness of the summer day. Then they began to drink to Roman’s health, to the health of each one of them.
“To Poland!” cried Roman excitedly, striking the table with his fist. And then he began to speak:
“Do you realize how the downtrodden people begin to murmur and to agitate? Soon there will rise a mighty storm which will break down the prison walls, the note of liberty will ring through our native land! Ah, you do not know the anguish and the bitternessthere! Stranger-ridden and desolate! Since Kosciusko died there are exiles and desolation everywhere! Mother,” cried Roman, then turning towards the old woman, “give me the case from over there, I must sing something to you.”
With these words his eyes darkened and he stared into space. The old people looked at him, much moved, their heads upon their breasts, notspeaking a word. Quiet reigned in the old house, and in the garden there was peace; a fiery sunset, crowned with clouds of flame, was merging into the green sea of the woods. Golden rays penetrated into the old veranda and shone on Roman’s hair.
His mother handed him the case.
“Well,” said the young man, “I will sing you something with my cither. I will sing of our grief.”
Then, beneath his fingers, the strings began to murmur as though awaking from sleep. Roman bent forward and began, the old people sat motionless round him.
Sad tones vibrated through the quiet of the old house, notes soft and sorrowful like some remote mournful cry, notes deep with the tremor of affliction; the melody rose sobbing through the clear sunset like the flight of some bird of passage.
In the souls of the old people there rose like a storm the clamour of past sorrows. The song lamented the ruin of fair lands; they seemed to listen, as in a sad dream, to the bitter tears of those dying for their native land. They seemed to see Kosciusko, worn with the struggle, covered in blood, kneeling with a sword in hand.
Finis Poloniæ! Poland is no more! Ruin everywhere, death all around; a cry of sorrow rose; the children were torn from their unhappy land to pine away and die on alien soil!
The chords surged, full of grief, through theclear sunset. Then slowly, slowly, the melody died away as though tired with sorrow until the final chord finished softly, like a distant tremor, ending in deathlike silence.
The listeners seemed turned to stone. Roman leant his head upon his hand, and his eyes, full of pain, turned towards the flaming sunset. His chin trembled; his mind was full of bitter memories. The old men sat as though stunned, like some wounded creatures, their heads upon their breasts; the old mother cried softly, sighing, her eyes upon her Roman. As the young man turned his eyes towards the door he saw two bright tears in Magdalena’s blue eyes; amid a deep silence his own eyes gazed into the girl’s while the last crimson rays faded away from the woods.
The FledgelingBy I. Al. Bratescu-VoineshtiOne springtime a quail nearly dead with fatigue—she came from far-away Africa—dropped from her flight into a green corn-field on the edge of a plantation. After a few days of rest she began to collect twigs, dried leaves, straw, and bits of hay, and made herself a nest on a mound of earth, high up, so that the rain would not spoil it; then for seven days in succession she laid an egg, in all seven eggs, as small as sugar eggs, and she began to sit upon them.Have you seen how a hen sits on her eggs? Well, that is how the quail did, but instead of sitting in a coop, she sat out of doors, among the grain; it rained, it pelted with rain, but she never moved, and not a drop reached the eggs. After three weeks there hatched out some sweet little birds, not naked like the young of a sparrow, but covered with yellow fluff, like chickens, only smaller, like seven little balls of silk, and they began to scramble through the corn, looking for food. Sometimes the quail caught an ant, sometimes a grasshopper,which she broke into pieces for them, and with their little beaks they went pic! pic! pic! and ate it up immediately.They were pretty and prudent and obedient; they walked about near their mother, and when she called to them “pitpalac!” they ran quickly back to her. Once, in the month of June, when the peasants came to reap the corn, the eldest of the chicks did not run quickly at his mother’s call, and, alas, a boy caught him under his cap. He alone could tell the overwhelming fear he felt when he found himself clasped in the boy’s hand; his heart beat like the watch in my pocket. Luckily for him an old peasant begged him off.“Let him go, Marin, it’s a pity on him, he will die. Don’t you see he can hardly move, he is quite dazed.”When he found himself free, he fled full of fear to the quail to tell her what had befallen him. She drew him to her and comforted him, and said to him:“Do you see what will happen if you do not listen to me? When you are big you can do what you like, but while you are little you must follow my words or something worse may overtake you.”And thus they lived, contented and happy. The cutting of the corn and the stacking of the sheaves shook a mass of seeds on to the stubble which gave them food, and, although there was no water near, they did not suffer from thirst because in the earlymorning they drank the dew-drops on the blades of grass. By day, when it was very hot, they stayed in the shade of the plantation; in the afternoon, when the heat grew less, they all went out on to the stubble, but on the cold nights they would gather in a group under the protecting wings of the quail as under a tent. Gradually the fluff upon them had changed into down and feathers, and with their mother’s help they began to fly. The flying lesson took place in the early morning towards sunrise, when night was turning into day, and in the evening in the twilight, for during the daytime there was danger from the hawks which hovered above the stubble-field.Their mother sat upon the edge and asked them:“Are you ready?”“Yes,” they answered.“One, two, three!”And when she said “three,” whrrr! away they all flew from the side of the plantation, as far as the sentry-box on the high road, and back again. And their mother told them they were learning to fly in preparation for a long journey they would have to take when the summer was over.“We shall have to fly high up above the earth for days and nights, and we shall see below us great towns and rivers and the sea.”One afternoon towards the end of August, while the chicks were playing happily near their motherin the stubble, a carriage was heard approaching, and it stopped in the track by the edge of the plantation. They all raised their heads with eyes like black beads and listened. A voice could be heard calling: “Nero! to heel!”The chicks did not understand, but their mother knew it was a man out shooting, and she stood petrified with fear. The plantation was their refuge, but exactly from that direction came the sportsman. After a moment’s thought she ordered them to crouch down close to the earth, and on no consideration to move.“I must rise, you must stay motionless, he who flies is lost. Do you understand?”The chicks blinked their eyes to show they understood, and remained waiting in silence. They could hear the rustling of a dog moving through the stubble, and from time to time could be heard a man’s voice: “Where are you? To heel, Nero!”The rustling drew near—the dog saw them; he remained stationary, one paw in the air, his eyes fixed upon them.“Do not move,” whispered the quail to them, and she ran quickly farther away from them.The dog followed slowly after her. The sportsman hurried up. His foot was so near to them that they could see an ant crawling up the leg of his boot. Oh, how their hearts beat! A few seconds later the quail rose, and flew low along theground a few inches in front of the dog’s muzzle. It pursued her, and the sportsman followed, shouting: “To heel! to heel!” He could not shoot for fear of hurting the dog; the quail pretended to be wounded so well that the dog was determined to catch her at all cost, but when she thought she was out of range of the gun she quickly flew for shelter towards the plantation.During this time, the eldest fledgeling, instead of remaining motionless like his brothers, as their mother bade them, had taken to his wings; the sportsman heard the sound of his flight, turned and shot. He was some distance away. Only a single shot reached his wings. He did not fall, he managed to fly as far as the plantation, but there the movement of the wings caused the bone which had only been cracked at first to give way altogether, and the fledgeling fell with a broken wing.The sportsman, knowing the plantation was very thick, and seeing it was a question of a young bird only, decided it was not worth while to look for it among the trees. The other little birds did not move from the spot where the quail had left them.They listened in silence. From time to time they heard the report of a gun and the voice of the sportsman calling: “Bring it here!” After a time the carriage left the cart-track by the plantation and followed the sportsman; gradually the shots and the shouting became fainter and died away, andin the silence of the evening nothing could be heard but the song of the crickets; but when night had fallen and the moon had risen above Cornatzel, they clearly heard their mother’s voice calling to them from the end of the stubble: “Pitpalac! pitpalac!” They flew quickly towards her and found her. She counted them; one was missing.“Where is the eldest one?”“We do not know—he flew off.”Then the heart-broken quail began to call loudly, and yet more loudly, listening on every side. A faint voice from the plantation answered: “Piu! piu!” When she found him, when she saw the broken wing, she knew his fate was sealed, but she hid her own grief in order not to discourage him.From now on, sad days began for the poor fledgeling. He could scarcely move with his wing trailing behind him; with tearful eyes he watched his brothers learning to fly in the early morning and in the evening; at night when the others were asleep under his mother’s wings, he would ask her anxiously:“Mother, I shall get well, I shall be able to go with you, shan’t I? And you will show me, too, the big cities and rivers and the sea, won’t you?”“Yes,” answered the quail, forcing herself not to cry.In this way the summer passed. Peasants came with ploughs to plough up the stubble, the quail and her children removed to a neighbouring field ofmaize; after a time men came to gather in the maize. They cut the straw and hoed up the ground, then the quails retired to the rough grass by the edge of the plantation.The long, beautiful days gave place to short and gloomy ones, the weather began to grow foggy and the leaves of the plantation withered. In the evening, belated swallows could be seen flying low along the ground, sometimes other flocks of birds of passage passed and, in the stillness of the frosty nights, the cry of the cranes could be heard, all migrating in the same direction, towards the south.A bitter struggle took place in the heart of the poor quail. She would fain have torn herself in two, that one half might go with her strong children who began to suffer from the cold as the autumn advanced, and the other half remain with the injured chick which clung to her so desperately. One day, without any warning, the north-east wind blew a dangerous blast, and that decided her. Better that one of the fledgelings should die than that all of them should—and without looking back lest her resolution should weaken, she soared away with the strong little birds, while the wounded one called piteously:“Do not desert me! Do not desert me!”He tried to rise after them, but could not, and remained on the same spot following them with his eyes until they were lost to sight on the southern horizon.Three days later, the whole region was clothed in winter’s white, cold garb. The violent snowstorm was followed by a calm as clear as crystal, accompanied by a severe frost.On the edge of the plantation lay a young quail with a broken wing and stiff with cold. After a period of great suffering he had fallen into a pleasant state of semi-consciousness. Through his mind flashed fragments of things seen—the stubble-field, the leg of a boot with an ant crawling upon it, his mother’s warm wings. He turned over from one side to the other and lay dead with his little claws pressed together as though in an act of devotion.
The Fledgeling
By I. Al. Bratescu-VoineshtiOne springtime a quail nearly dead with fatigue—she came from far-away Africa—dropped from her flight into a green corn-field on the edge of a plantation. After a few days of rest she began to collect twigs, dried leaves, straw, and bits of hay, and made herself a nest on a mound of earth, high up, so that the rain would not spoil it; then for seven days in succession she laid an egg, in all seven eggs, as small as sugar eggs, and she began to sit upon them.Have you seen how a hen sits on her eggs? Well, that is how the quail did, but instead of sitting in a coop, she sat out of doors, among the grain; it rained, it pelted with rain, but she never moved, and not a drop reached the eggs. After three weeks there hatched out some sweet little birds, not naked like the young of a sparrow, but covered with yellow fluff, like chickens, only smaller, like seven little balls of silk, and they began to scramble through the corn, looking for food. Sometimes the quail caught an ant, sometimes a grasshopper,which she broke into pieces for them, and with their little beaks they went pic! pic! pic! and ate it up immediately.They were pretty and prudent and obedient; they walked about near their mother, and when she called to them “pitpalac!” they ran quickly back to her. Once, in the month of June, when the peasants came to reap the corn, the eldest of the chicks did not run quickly at his mother’s call, and, alas, a boy caught him under his cap. He alone could tell the overwhelming fear he felt when he found himself clasped in the boy’s hand; his heart beat like the watch in my pocket. Luckily for him an old peasant begged him off.“Let him go, Marin, it’s a pity on him, he will die. Don’t you see he can hardly move, he is quite dazed.”When he found himself free, he fled full of fear to the quail to tell her what had befallen him. She drew him to her and comforted him, and said to him:“Do you see what will happen if you do not listen to me? When you are big you can do what you like, but while you are little you must follow my words or something worse may overtake you.”And thus they lived, contented and happy. The cutting of the corn and the stacking of the sheaves shook a mass of seeds on to the stubble which gave them food, and, although there was no water near, they did not suffer from thirst because in the earlymorning they drank the dew-drops on the blades of grass. By day, when it was very hot, they stayed in the shade of the plantation; in the afternoon, when the heat grew less, they all went out on to the stubble, but on the cold nights they would gather in a group under the protecting wings of the quail as under a tent. Gradually the fluff upon them had changed into down and feathers, and with their mother’s help they began to fly. The flying lesson took place in the early morning towards sunrise, when night was turning into day, and in the evening in the twilight, for during the daytime there was danger from the hawks which hovered above the stubble-field.Their mother sat upon the edge and asked them:“Are you ready?”“Yes,” they answered.“One, two, three!”And when she said “three,” whrrr! away they all flew from the side of the plantation, as far as the sentry-box on the high road, and back again. And their mother told them they were learning to fly in preparation for a long journey they would have to take when the summer was over.“We shall have to fly high up above the earth for days and nights, and we shall see below us great towns and rivers and the sea.”One afternoon towards the end of August, while the chicks were playing happily near their motherin the stubble, a carriage was heard approaching, and it stopped in the track by the edge of the plantation. They all raised their heads with eyes like black beads and listened. A voice could be heard calling: “Nero! to heel!”The chicks did not understand, but their mother knew it was a man out shooting, and she stood petrified with fear. The plantation was their refuge, but exactly from that direction came the sportsman. After a moment’s thought she ordered them to crouch down close to the earth, and on no consideration to move.“I must rise, you must stay motionless, he who flies is lost. Do you understand?”The chicks blinked their eyes to show they understood, and remained waiting in silence. They could hear the rustling of a dog moving through the stubble, and from time to time could be heard a man’s voice: “Where are you? To heel, Nero!”The rustling drew near—the dog saw them; he remained stationary, one paw in the air, his eyes fixed upon them.“Do not move,” whispered the quail to them, and she ran quickly farther away from them.The dog followed slowly after her. The sportsman hurried up. His foot was so near to them that they could see an ant crawling up the leg of his boot. Oh, how their hearts beat! A few seconds later the quail rose, and flew low along theground a few inches in front of the dog’s muzzle. It pursued her, and the sportsman followed, shouting: “To heel! to heel!” He could not shoot for fear of hurting the dog; the quail pretended to be wounded so well that the dog was determined to catch her at all cost, but when she thought she was out of range of the gun she quickly flew for shelter towards the plantation.During this time, the eldest fledgeling, instead of remaining motionless like his brothers, as their mother bade them, had taken to his wings; the sportsman heard the sound of his flight, turned and shot. He was some distance away. Only a single shot reached his wings. He did not fall, he managed to fly as far as the plantation, but there the movement of the wings caused the bone which had only been cracked at first to give way altogether, and the fledgeling fell with a broken wing.The sportsman, knowing the plantation was very thick, and seeing it was a question of a young bird only, decided it was not worth while to look for it among the trees. The other little birds did not move from the spot where the quail had left them.They listened in silence. From time to time they heard the report of a gun and the voice of the sportsman calling: “Bring it here!” After a time the carriage left the cart-track by the plantation and followed the sportsman; gradually the shots and the shouting became fainter and died away, andin the silence of the evening nothing could be heard but the song of the crickets; but when night had fallen and the moon had risen above Cornatzel, they clearly heard their mother’s voice calling to them from the end of the stubble: “Pitpalac! pitpalac!” They flew quickly towards her and found her. She counted them; one was missing.“Where is the eldest one?”“We do not know—he flew off.”Then the heart-broken quail began to call loudly, and yet more loudly, listening on every side. A faint voice from the plantation answered: “Piu! piu!” When she found him, when she saw the broken wing, she knew his fate was sealed, but she hid her own grief in order not to discourage him.From now on, sad days began for the poor fledgeling. He could scarcely move with his wing trailing behind him; with tearful eyes he watched his brothers learning to fly in the early morning and in the evening; at night when the others were asleep under his mother’s wings, he would ask her anxiously:“Mother, I shall get well, I shall be able to go with you, shan’t I? And you will show me, too, the big cities and rivers and the sea, won’t you?”“Yes,” answered the quail, forcing herself not to cry.In this way the summer passed. Peasants came with ploughs to plough up the stubble, the quail and her children removed to a neighbouring field ofmaize; after a time men came to gather in the maize. They cut the straw and hoed up the ground, then the quails retired to the rough grass by the edge of the plantation.The long, beautiful days gave place to short and gloomy ones, the weather began to grow foggy and the leaves of the plantation withered. In the evening, belated swallows could be seen flying low along the ground, sometimes other flocks of birds of passage passed and, in the stillness of the frosty nights, the cry of the cranes could be heard, all migrating in the same direction, towards the south.A bitter struggle took place in the heart of the poor quail. She would fain have torn herself in two, that one half might go with her strong children who began to suffer from the cold as the autumn advanced, and the other half remain with the injured chick which clung to her so desperately. One day, without any warning, the north-east wind blew a dangerous blast, and that decided her. Better that one of the fledgelings should die than that all of them should—and without looking back lest her resolution should weaken, she soared away with the strong little birds, while the wounded one called piteously:“Do not desert me! Do not desert me!”He tried to rise after them, but could not, and remained on the same spot following them with his eyes until they were lost to sight on the southern horizon.Three days later, the whole region was clothed in winter’s white, cold garb. The violent snowstorm was followed by a calm as clear as crystal, accompanied by a severe frost.On the edge of the plantation lay a young quail with a broken wing and stiff with cold. After a period of great suffering he had fallen into a pleasant state of semi-consciousness. Through his mind flashed fragments of things seen—the stubble-field, the leg of a boot with an ant crawling upon it, his mother’s warm wings. He turned over from one side to the other and lay dead with his little claws pressed together as though in an act of devotion.
By I. Al. Bratescu-Voineshti
One springtime a quail nearly dead with fatigue—she came from far-away Africa—dropped from her flight into a green corn-field on the edge of a plantation. After a few days of rest she began to collect twigs, dried leaves, straw, and bits of hay, and made herself a nest on a mound of earth, high up, so that the rain would not spoil it; then for seven days in succession she laid an egg, in all seven eggs, as small as sugar eggs, and she began to sit upon them.
Have you seen how a hen sits on her eggs? Well, that is how the quail did, but instead of sitting in a coop, she sat out of doors, among the grain; it rained, it pelted with rain, but she never moved, and not a drop reached the eggs. After three weeks there hatched out some sweet little birds, not naked like the young of a sparrow, but covered with yellow fluff, like chickens, only smaller, like seven little balls of silk, and they began to scramble through the corn, looking for food. Sometimes the quail caught an ant, sometimes a grasshopper,which she broke into pieces for them, and with their little beaks they went pic! pic! pic! and ate it up immediately.
They were pretty and prudent and obedient; they walked about near their mother, and when she called to them “pitpalac!” they ran quickly back to her. Once, in the month of June, when the peasants came to reap the corn, the eldest of the chicks did not run quickly at his mother’s call, and, alas, a boy caught him under his cap. He alone could tell the overwhelming fear he felt when he found himself clasped in the boy’s hand; his heart beat like the watch in my pocket. Luckily for him an old peasant begged him off.
“Let him go, Marin, it’s a pity on him, he will die. Don’t you see he can hardly move, he is quite dazed.”
When he found himself free, he fled full of fear to the quail to tell her what had befallen him. She drew him to her and comforted him, and said to him:
“Do you see what will happen if you do not listen to me? When you are big you can do what you like, but while you are little you must follow my words or something worse may overtake you.”
And thus they lived, contented and happy. The cutting of the corn and the stacking of the sheaves shook a mass of seeds on to the stubble which gave them food, and, although there was no water near, they did not suffer from thirst because in the earlymorning they drank the dew-drops on the blades of grass. By day, when it was very hot, they stayed in the shade of the plantation; in the afternoon, when the heat grew less, they all went out on to the stubble, but on the cold nights they would gather in a group under the protecting wings of the quail as under a tent. Gradually the fluff upon them had changed into down and feathers, and with their mother’s help they began to fly. The flying lesson took place in the early morning towards sunrise, when night was turning into day, and in the evening in the twilight, for during the daytime there was danger from the hawks which hovered above the stubble-field.
Their mother sat upon the edge and asked them:
“Are you ready?”
“Yes,” they answered.
“One, two, three!”
And when she said “three,” whrrr! away they all flew from the side of the plantation, as far as the sentry-box on the high road, and back again. And their mother told them they were learning to fly in preparation for a long journey they would have to take when the summer was over.
“We shall have to fly high up above the earth for days and nights, and we shall see below us great towns and rivers and the sea.”
One afternoon towards the end of August, while the chicks were playing happily near their motherin the stubble, a carriage was heard approaching, and it stopped in the track by the edge of the plantation. They all raised their heads with eyes like black beads and listened. A voice could be heard calling: “Nero! to heel!”
The chicks did not understand, but their mother knew it was a man out shooting, and she stood petrified with fear. The plantation was their refuge, but exactly from that direction came the sportsman. After a moment’s thought she ordered them to crouch down close to the earth, and on no consideration to move.
“I must rise, you must stay motionless, he who flies is lost. Do you understand?”
The chicks blinked their eyes to show they understood, and remained waiting in silence. They could hear the rustling of a dog moving through the stubble, and from time to time could be heard a man’s voice: “Where are you? To heel, Nero!”
The rustling drew near—the dog saw them; he remained stationary, one paw in the air, his eyes fixed upon them.
“Do not move,” whispered the quail to them, and she ran quickly farther away from them.
The dog followed slowly after her. The sportsman hurried up. His foot was so near to them that they could see an ant crawling up the leg of his boot. Oh, how their hearts beat! A few seconds later the quail rose, and flew low along theground a few inches in front of the dog’s muzzle. It pursued her, and the sportsman followed, shouting: “To heel! to heel!” He could not shoot for fear of hurting the dog; the quail pretended to be wounded so well that the dog was determined to catch her at all cost, but when she thought she was out of range of the gun she quickly flew for shelter towards the plantation.
During this time, the eldest fledgeling, instead of remaining motionless like his brothers, as their mother bade them, had taken to his wings; the sportsman heard the sound of his flight, turned and shot. He was some distance away. Only a single shot reached his wings. He did not fall, he managed to fly as far as the plantation, but there the movement of the wings caused the bone which had only been cracked at first to give way altogether, and the fledgeling fell with a broken wing.
The sportsman, knowing the plantation was very thick, and seeing it was a question of a young bird only, decided it was not worth while to look for it among the trees. The other little birds did not move from the spot where the quail had left them.
They listened in silence. From time to time they heard the report of a gun and the voice of the sportsman calling: “Bring it here!” After a time the carriage left the cart-track by the plantation and followed the sportsman; gradually the shots and the shouting became fainter and died away, andin the silence of the evening nothing could be heard but the song of the crickets; but when night had fallen and the moon had risen above Cornatzel, they clearly heard their mother’s voice calling to them from the end of the stubble: “Pitpalac! pitpalac!” They flew quickly towards her and found her. She counted them; one was missing.
“Where is the eldest one?”
“We do not know—he flew off.”
Then the heart-broken quail began to call loudly, and yet more loudly, listening on every side. A faint voice from the plantation answered: “Piu! piu!” When she found him, when she saw the broken wing, she knew his fate was sealed, but she hid her own grief in order not to discourage him.
From now on, sad days began for the poor fledgeling. He could scarcely move with his wing trailing behind him; with tearful eyes he watched his brothers learning to fly in the early morning and in the evening; at night when the others were asleep under his mother’s wings, he would ask her anxiously:
“Mother, I shall get well, I shall be able to go with you, shan’t I? And you will show me, too, the big cities and rivers and the sea, won’t you?”
“Yes,” answered the quail, forcing herself not to cry.
In this way the summer passed. Peasants came with ploughs to plough up the stubble, the quail and her children removed to a neighbouring field ofmaize; after a time men came to gather in the maize. They cut the straw and hoed up the ground, then the quails retired to the rough grass by the edge of the plantation.
The long, beautiful days gave place to short and gloomy ones, the weather began to grow foggy and the leaves of the plantation withered. In the evening, belated swallows could be seen flying low along the ground, sometimes other flocks of birds of passage passed and, in the stillness of the frosty nights, the cry of the cranes could be heard, all migrating in the same direction, towards the south.
A bitter struggle took place in the heart of the poor quail. She would fain have torn herself in two, that one half might go with her strong children who began to suffer from the cold as the autumn advanced, and the other half remain with the injured chick which clung to her so desperately. One day, without any warning, the north-east wind blew a dangerous blast, and that decided her. Better that one of the fledgelings should die than that all of them should—and without looking back lest her resolution should weaken, she soared away with the strong little birds, while the wounded one called piteously:
“Do not desert me! Do not desert me!”
He tried to rise after them, but could not, and remained on the same spot following them with his eyes until they were lost to sight on the southern horizon.
Three days later, the whole region was clothed in winter’s white, cold garb. The violent snowstorm was followed by a calm as clear as crystal, accompanied by a severe frost.
On the edge of the plantation lay a young quail with a broken wing and stiff with cold. After a period of great suffering he had fallen into a pleasant state of semi-consciousness. Through his mind flashed fragments of things seen—the stubble-field, the leg of a boot with an ant crawling upon it, his mother’s warm wings. He turned over from one side to the other and lay dead with his little claws pressed together as though in an act of devotion.
Popa TandaBy I. SlaviciGod have mercy on the soul of Schoolmaster Pintilie! He was a good man, and a well-known chorister. He was very fond of salad with vinegar. Whenever he was hoarse, he would drink the yolk of an egg with it; when he raised his voice, the windows rattled while he sang, “Oh, Lord, preserve Thy people.” He was schoolmaster in Butucani, a fine, large town containing men of position and sound sense, and given to almsgiving and hospitality. Now Schoolmaster Pintilie had only two children: a daughter married to Petrea Tzapu, and Trandafir, Father Trandafir, priest in Saraceni.God keep Father Trandafir! He was a good man, he had studied many books, and he sang even better than his dead father, God have mercy on his soul! He always spoke correctly and carefully as though he were reading out of a book. Father Trandafir was an industrious, careful man. He gathered from many sources, and made something out of nothing. He saved, he mended, he collected to get enough for himself and for others.Father Trandafir went through a great deal in his youth. One does not achieve big results in a minute or two. The poor man has to go without a great deal more than he ever gets. He worked harder with his brain than with a spade and fork. But what he did was not work thrown away. Young Trandafir became priest in his native town, in Butucani, a fine large town containing men of position and good sense, but Trandafir did not enjoy the almsgiving and hospitality.Father Trandafir would have been a wonderful man had not one thing spoilt him. He was too severe in his speech, too harsh in his judgments; he was too straightforward and outspoken. He never minded his words, but said right out what he had in his mind. It is not good to be a man like that. Men take offence if you speak too plainly to them, and it is best to live peaceably with the world. This was evident in Father Trandafir’s case. A man like him could not stay two years in Butucani. It was first one thing, then another; at one time he complained to the townspeople, the next time to the archdeacon. Now it is well known that priests must not make complaints to the archdeacon. The archdeacon understands presents much better than complaints. But that was what Father Trandafir would not comprehend.There is no doubt that Father Trandafir was in the right.But the thing is, right is the prerogative of themighty. The weak can only assert themselves gradually. The ant cannot overthrow the mountain. It can, though, change its position; but slowly, slowly, bit by bit. Perhaps the Father knew that this was so in the world; he had his own standard, though.“Even the devil cannot turn what is true and right into a lie!” This was his remark, and with this remark he got himself turned out of Butucani. That is to say, it was not only he who did it, it was the townspeople too. One word and a little something besides to promote a good understanding with the archdeacon, a visit to the bishop, and a word there from the archdeacon: things get done if one knows how to do them. The long and the short of it was that Father Trandafir was sent from Butucani to Saraceni—to promote a good understanding among the faithful. Priest in Saraceni! Who knows what that means to be priest in Saraceni? That is what befell Father Trandafir! Who would fain leap the ditch throws his bag over it first. Father Trandafir only had a wife and two children; his bag was empty. That was why he leaped so unwillingly from Butucani to Saraceni.In the “Dry Valley” there was a village which they called “Saraceni.” A village called “poor” in a “dry” valley; could any place have a more unpleasant name?The Dry Valley!“Valley” because the place was shut in betweenmountains; “dry,” because the stream, which had cut its way through the middle of the valley, was dry most of the year.This was how the valley lies.To the right stood a hill called “Rîpoasa.” On the left were three other hills, called “Fatza,” “Grofnitza,” and “Alunish.” Rîpoasa was rocky. Fatza was cultivated; the village stood on Grofnitza, while on Alunish lay the village graveyard among hazel and birch trees. Thus it lay to right and left, but the chief feature of the landscape stood at the bottom. Here rose the mountains—from there, came what did come.The other side, beyond Rîpoasa was the Rapitza Valley—a much deeper valley than the Dry Valley, and so called because the Rapitza flowed through it. The Rapitza was a treacherous river, especially in the spring, and the stream in the Dry Valley was a branch of the Rapitza. In the spring, when the snow melted on the mountains, the Rapitza got angry and poured part of her fury into the branch that flowed through the Dry Valley, and the latter ceased to be “dry.”In a few hours the inhabitants of Saraceni were rather too rich in water. This occurred nearly every year. When the crops in the valley appeared to be most favourable, the Dry Valley belied its name and washed away all that lay in its path.It would have been rather better if this invasion had lasted only a short time, but the water remainedin the valley, and in many places formed refuges for the frog family. And instead of corn, osiers and interlacing willows grew by the side of its pools.Was it any wonder that in consequence of this the people of Saraceni had become in time the most idle of men? He is a fool who sows where he cannot reap, or where he does not know whether he will be able to reap or not. The Fatza was a sandy spot; the corn grew a few inches high and the maize a yard; on Rîpoasa one could not grow blackberries even, for at the bottom the water spoilt the fruit. Where there is no hope of reward there is no incentive to work. Whoever works wants to earn, but the people of Saraceni had given up all thoughts of gain, and therefore no one felt inspired to work. Those who could afford it passed their time lying out of doors; those who could not, spent their day working in the neighbouring villages. When the winter came life was hard and bitter.But whoever has got used to the bad does not think of better things; the people of Saraceni appeared to think that things could not be better than they were. Fish in the water, birds in the air, moles in the ground, and the people of Saraceni in poverty!Saraceni? One can imagine what a village like Saraceni must have been; here a house, there a house—all alike. Hedges were superfluous, seeing there was nothing to enclose; the street was thewhole village. It would have been absurd to put a chimney on the house—the smoke found its way out through the roof. There would have been no sense in putting plaster on the walls either, as that dropped off in time. Some of the buildings were made of bits of wood knocked together, a roof of straw mixed with hay, an oven of clay, an old-fashioned veranda outside, a bed with four posts built into the ground, a door made out of three boards held together by two stakes placed crosswise—quickly made and well made—whoever was not pleased with it, let him make something he liked better.At the top of the village, that is to say on the highest point, was a sort of building which the Saracenese called the “church.” It was a heap of old tree trunks piled one on the top of the other in the form of walls. In the old days—when, one does not know—these kind of walls were open to the sky; later, one does not know when, the walls had been made to converge in one place, to support what was supposed to do duty for a tower. This—owing to the fact that the supports of the facade had perished through the buffeting of a very strong wind—had fallen towards the patient earth, dragging the entire structure after it. And there it had remained ever since, for the church counted for little in Saraceni; it was superfluous.Priest? They say there is no village without a priest. Probably whoever said this did not knowabout Saraceni. Saraceni was a village without a priest. That is to say, it was a village with a priest—only this priest was a priest without a village. Saraceni was unique in one way. There had never been a priest who stayed more than three days in Saraceni; he came one day, stayed the next, and left on the third. Many guilty priests passed through Saraceni; whoever had stayed there long would have expiated all his sins.Then Father Trandafir reached this penitential spot. He could not expect to do as the others had done, come one day, stay the next, and depart the third. He was too much out of favour with the archdeacon to imagine that he would send him to another village. He could not remain without a village: a priest without a village—a cart without a wheel, a yoke without oxen, a hat on the top of a wig. He began to think what he must do; he must take things as they were, and stay gladly in Saraceni. It was only a village in name, but no one could say he was a priest without a village. But really a more suitable priest for a more suitable village you could not have found. The poverty of the priest corresponded to the poverty in the homes of his parishioners. From the beginning Trandafir realized one thing: it was much nicer in Butucani than in Saraceni. There the people all had something, and you could always have some of it. In Saraceni all the latches were made of wood. Then the Father reflected: the priest did all thebusiness of the town, but the town took care of the priest’s purse. Before long the Father began to feel sure that the people who started by being charitable and hospitable were not born fools. “It is a wise thing when men meet together to comfort and cheer each other. Even our Redeemer began with almsgiving, and the wedding at Cana of Galilee.” Thus thought Father Trandafir; but in Saraceni there was neither almsgiving nor hospitality.“There is one thing,” said the Father to himself a little later on, “in a poor village there is no corn for the priest to gather. As long as the people of Saraceni are lazy, so long shall I be hungry!” And he began to think how he was going to make his parishioners industrious. The industrious man eats the stones, makes soup out of the stagnant water, and reaps corn where the hemlock used to grow. “Then”—concluded the priest—“when the cow has fodder she is no longer dry!”Thus he spoke, and he set to work to put it in practice. A man who has nothing to eat busies himself with other people’s affairs. He does no good that way! The blind man cannot aid the cripple; the hungry don’t improve their village; when the geese keep watch among the vegetables, little remains for the gardener: but Father Trandafir was obstinate; when he started, he went on—and he got there, or he died by the way.The first Sunday Father Trandafir preached before the people, who had assembled in considerablenumbers to see the new priest. There is nothing more agreeable to a man who desires the welfare of others than to see his words making an impression. A good thought multiplies itself, penetrating many hearts, and whoever possesses it and passes it on, if he values it, rejoices to see it gaining ground in the world. Father Trandafir felt happy that day. Never before had he been listened to with such attention as on this occasion. It seemed as though these people were listening to something which they knew but which they did not understand well. They drank in his words with such eagerness, it was as though they wanted to read his very soul the better to understand his teaching. That day he read the gospel of “The Prodigal Son.” Father Trandafir showed how God, in His unending love for man, had created him to be happy. Having placed man in the world, God wishes him to enjoy all the innocent pleasures of life, for only so will he learn to love life and live charitably with his neighbours. The man who, through his own fault or owing to other causes, only feels the bitterness and sorrow of this world cannot love life; and, not loving it, he despises in a sinful manner the great gift of God.What kind of people are the lazy people, the people who make no effort, who do not stretch out a hand to take this gift? They are sinners! They have no desires—only carnal appetites. Man has been given pure desires which he may gratify withthe fruit of his labours; longings are put into his heart that he may conquer the world while God Himself contemplates him with pleasure from on high. To work is the first duty of man; and he who does not work is a sinner.After this, the Father sketched in words which seemed to give life to his ideas the miserable existence of a man perishing from hunger, and he gave his faithful hearers the thoughts which had germinated in his own intelligent brain—how they must work in the spring and in the summer, in the autumn and in the winter.The people had listened; the Father’s words were written on their faces; going home they could only talk of what they had heard in church, and each one felt himself more of a man than before.Maybe there were many among them who only waited for Sunday to pass that they might begin their first day of work.“There has never been such a priest in Saraceni!” said Marcu Flori Cucu, as he parted from his neighbour, Mitru.“A priest that does honour to a village,” replied Mitru, as if he felt that his village was not exactly honoured.Other Sundays followed. Father Trandafir was ready with his sermon. The second Sunday he had no one to address. The weather was wet, and people stayed at home. Other Sundays the weather was fine; probably then the people did not rememberin time; they were loath to part from God’s blue sky. And so the Father only had in church some old woman or some aged man with failing sight and deaf ears. Sometimes there was only Cozonac, the bell-ringer. In this way he made no progress. Had he been a different kind of man he would have stopped here.But Father Trandafir was like the goat among cabbages in the garden. When you turn it out at the door, it comes in through the fence, when you mend the fence, it jumps over it, and does a lot more damage by destroying the top of the hedge.God keep him! Father Trandafir still remained a good man.“Wait!” he said. “If you will not come to me, I will go to you!”Then the priest went from door to door. He never ceased talking from the moment it was light. Whenever he came across anyone he gave him good advice. You met the priest in the fields; you found him on the hill; if you went down the valley you encountered the priest; the priest was in the woods. The priest was in church; the priest was at the death-bed; the priest was at the wedding; the priest was with your next-door neighbour—you had to fly the village if you wanted to escape the priest. And whenever he met you, he gave you wise counsel.During a whole year, Father Trandafir gave good advice. People listened gladly—they liked to stay and talk to the priest even if he did give themgood advice. All the same, the old saying holds good: men know what they ought to do, but they don’t do it. The Father was disappointed. After a certain time he ceased to give advice. There was not a man in the village upon whom he had not poured the whole weight of his learning: he had nothing more to say.“This will not do,” said the priest once more. “Advice does not pay. I must start something more severe.”He began to chaff.Wherever he found a man, Father Trandafir began to make him ridiculous, to make fun of him in every kind of way. If he passed a house that had not been re-roofed yesterday, he would say to the owner: “Oh, you are a clever man, you are! You have windows in the roof. You do love the light and the blessed sun!” If he found a woman in a dirty blouse: “Look at me! Since when have you taken to wearing stuff dresses?”If he met an unwashed child: “Listen, good wife, you must have a lot of plum jam if you can plaster your children with it!” And if he came across a man lying in the shade he would say to him, “Good luck with your work! Good luck with your work!” If the man got up, he would beg him not to stop work, for his children’s sake.He began like this, but he carried it altogether too far. It got to such a pitch that the people did their utmost to get out of the priest’s way. Hebecame a perfect pest. The worst thing about it was that the people nicknamed him “Popa Tanda” because he chaffed them so. And “Popa Tanda” he has remained ever since.To tell the truth, it was only in one way the people did not like the priest. Each one was ready to laugh at the others with the priest; no one was pleased, though, when the others laughed at him. That is human; every one is ready to saddle his neighbour’s mare. In that way, Father Trandafir pleased his parishioners, but he was not content himself. Before the year was out, every man in the village had become a tease; there was not a person left of whom to make fun, and in the end the wags began to laugh at themselves. That put an end to it. Only one thing remained to do: the village to make fun of the priest.Two whole years passed without Trandafir being able to stir up the people, even when he had passed from advising them to annoying them. They became either givers of advice or they were teasers: all day they stood in groups, some of them giving advice, others joking. It was a wonderful affair; the people recognized the right, despised the bad; but nothing altered them.“Eh! say now, didn’t Father Trandafir mind? Didn’t he get angry, very angry?”He did get wild. He began to abuse the people. As he had proceeded to advise them, and to chaff them, so now he proceeded to abuse them.Whenever he got hold of a man, he abused him. But he did not get far with this. At first the people allowed themselves to be insulted. Later on, they began to answer back, on the sly, as it were. Finally, thinking it was going too far, they began to abuse the priest.From now on, things got a little involved. Everything went criss-cross. The people began to tell the priest that if he did not leave off laughing at them, and insulting them, they would go to the bishop and get him removed from the village. That is what the priest deserved. The people had hit on the very thing! Throw him out of Saraceni! The priest began to curse in earnest. Off he went; the people got in to their carts to go to the archdeacon, and from the archdeacon to the bishop.In the Book of Wisdom, concerning the life of this world, there is a short sentence which says: our well-wishers are often our undoing and our evil-wishers are useful to us. Father Trandafir was not lucky in getting good out of his evil-wishers. The bishop was a good soul, worthy of being put in all the calendars all over the face of the earth. He took pity on the poor priest, said he was in the right, and scolded the people.And so Popa Tanda stayed in Saraceni.Misfortunes generally heap themselves upon mankind. One gives rise to another, or are they,perhaps, inseparable? Anyhow, they are always like light and shade, one alongside the other.By now Father Trandafir had three children. When he returned from the bishop, he found his wife in bed. There was a fourth little blessing in the house. A sick wife, three little children, a fourth at the breast, and a tumble-down house; the snow drifted through the walls, the stove smoked, the wind came through the roof, the granary was bare, his purse empty, and his heart heavy.Father Trandafir was not the man to find a way out of this embarrassing state of things. Had it been some one else in his situation, he could have helped him: he could not comfort himself. For a long time he stood in the dim light of the little lamp; every one around him slept. The sick woman was asleep. Now there is nothing more conducive to melancholy than the sight of people asleep. He loved those sleeping forms; he loved them and was responsible for their happiness; he lived for them, and their love made life precious to him. Thoughts crowded into his brain. His mind turned to the past and to the future; considering the state in which he found himself, the future could only appear depicted in the saddest colours. His children! His wife! What would become of them? His heart was heavy, and he could not find one consoling thought, one single loop-hole of escape; nowhere in the world was there anything to give him a gleam of hope.The next day was Sunday. The Father went to church with bowed head, to read Matins.Like the generality of mankind, Father Trandafir had never given much thought to what he was doing. He was a priest, and he was content with his lot. He liked to sing, to read the Gospel, to instruct the faithful, to comfort, and to give spiritual assistance to the erring. His thoughts did not go much beyond that. Had he been asked at any time whether he realized the sanctity, the inner meaning of his calling, maybe he would have laughed to himself at all those things which a man only grasps in moments of intense suffering. It is man’s nature when his mind comprehends a series of more or less deep thoughts, to measure the whole world by this standard, and not to believe what he does not understand. But man does not always think in this way. There are events during which his brain becomes inactive: in danger, when no escape seems possible; in moments of joy, when he knows not from what source his happiness is derived; at times when his train of thought seems to have lost all coherence. Then, when man has reached, in any way, the point where the possible becomes indistinguishable from the impossible, he ceases to reason, instinct asserts itself.Father Trandafir went into the church. How many times had he not entered that church! Just as a blacksmith might enter his forge. But this time he was seized with an incomprehensible fear, hetook a few steps forward and then hid his face in his hands and began to sob bitterly. Why did he cry? Before whom did he cry? His lips uttered these words only: “Almighty God, succour me!” Did he believe that this prayer, expressed with all the energy of despair, could bring him help? He believed nothing; he thought of nothing; he was in a state of exaltation.The Holy Scriptures teach us that just as the ploughman lives on the fruit of his toil, so does the spiritual pastor, who serves the altar, live by the result of his service at that altar. Father Trandafir always believed in the Holy Scriptures; he always worked only for the spiritual welfare of his people, and expected that they, in return, would furnish him with his daily bread. But the world is not always in agreement with what is written and commanded; only the priest agreed with it, the people did not. The Father got little from his office, anyhow not enough; this is to say, four pieces of ground near the village, a poll-tax on the population, and baptismal and burying fees.Taken altogether, it amounted to nothing, seeing that the earth produced scarcely anything, the poll-tax existed only in name, the new-born were baptized for nothing, and the dead were buried gratis by the priest.Near the church was a deserted house; a house in name only. The owner of the house could havekept cattle, but he had no beasts. By the side of the house there was room for a garden, but there was no garden because, as we have already said, there were no fences in Saraceni. Father Trandafir bought the whole place and lived in it. As the house belonged to the priest, nothing much was done to put it in order, and it was quite dilapidated, the walls had holes in them, there were rents in the roof. The Father only troubled himself about other people’s houses.The priest’s table was no better than the house. According to the old saying, man follows the ways of other men even when he wants to make them follow his own: the priest lived like the rest of the village. Happily he had his wife’s dowry, but often one does not try to get help from just the place where it is to be had. The season of Lent drew near.“It will not do!” said Father Trandafir. “This will not do!” And he began to do as the rest of the world does, to occupy himself first and foremost with the care of his own house.Directly the spring-time came, he hired a gipsy, and set him to work to plaster the house with clay. In a few days all four walls were firmly plastered. After that, the priest enjoyed sitting outside more than inside the house, because you could not see the walls of the house so well from within; a plastered house was a fine thing in Saraceni, especially when one could say to oneself, “That is mine!” There was one thing, though, which was not as it shouldbe. Every time the Father’s eyes fell upon the sides of the roof he went indoors—he felt he had seen enough. He did not want to see the defective roof, but every time he wanted to look at the walls he had to see the roof. That damned roof! It could no longer be left like that.Down in the valley where there are numerous pools, not only willows and osiers grew, but here and there were to be found sedges and rushes, cat’s-tail and a species of reed. “That is what I will do!” thought the priest. He engaged a man, and sent him out to cut sedges and rushes and cat’s-tail and reeds. One Saturday the house was surrounded by bundles tied with osiers; and the following Saturday the roof was mended and edged on the top with bundles of reeds over which were stretched two strips of wood fastened with cross pieces. The work was good, and not dear. People passed by the priest’s house nodding their heads and saying, “The priest is one of the devil’s own men.” Now the priest could stay happily outside.But this happiness did not last long. There was still one thing that was not quite right. The priest felt that he was too much in the open. There was no other house in the village like his, and it would have been better a little separated from the village. The Father hardly liked to say “At my place,” when “my place” was “in the village.” There must be a fence, and a gate for the people to enter by, when they came to see the priest; it mightbe a fence in name only, and the gate only a hurdle, but it must be an understood thing that before anyone could enter the priest’s house he must cross the priest’s yard. Once more the priest hired a man and sent him to cut briars and stakes. He fixed the stakes into the ground, and placed the briars between them, and there was the fence, ready made. In front of the house, in the direction of the church, about half an acre of ground was enclosed: the gate was formed by four poles fastened by two others placed crosswise. The priest’s wife especially rejoiced at being thus shut in, and the priest rejoiced when he saw his wife’s pleasure. There was not a day on which either the priest or his wife did not say to the children: “Listen! you are not to go outside the yard; play quietly at home.”Once a man starts, he never gets to the end. One desire gives rise to another. Now the priest’s wife got an idea in her head.“Do you know, Father,” she said one morning, “I think it would be a good plan to make a few beds for vegetables by the side of the fence.”“Vegetable-beds?”“Yes; we can sow onions, carrots, haricot beans, potatoes, and cabbages.”The Father was astonished. To him that seemed quite beyond their powers. Vegetable-beds in Saraceni!For a few days his head was full of vegetable-beds, of potatoes, cabbages, and haricot beans; anda few days after that, the ground was already dug up and the beds were ready. Not a day passed on which the priest and his wife did not go about ten times to the beds to see if the seeds were growing. Great was the joy one day. The priest had risen very early.“Wife, get up!”“What’s the matter?”“They have sprouted.”The priest and his wife and all the children spent the whole day squatting by the beds. The more seeds they saw appear above the ground, the happier they were.And again the villagers passed by the priest’s house and looked through the thorns at the priest’s vegetable-beds, and they said once more, “The priest is one of the devil’s own men!”“Listen, wife,” said the priest. “Wouldn’t it be a good plan to sow maize along the fence and round the beds?”“Indeed it would! I like fresh maize!”“So do I, especially when it’s roasted on the embers!”Here was a new task! The priest surrounded himself with maize. He laughed with pleasure when he thought how pretty it would be when the maize grew up all round and shut out the briars on the fence which had begun to offend his eyes. But there is the old proverb, “Much wants more.” At the back of the house was another strip of ground,about four times the size of the bit they had cultivated. The priest could not get it out of his head. Why should this land lie fallow? Couldn’t he plant maize at the back of the house too? In the fields opposite, men were ploughing and sowing, the ground was untouched still in the village because it was the village.Marcu Flori Cucu, the priest’s neighbour, had a plough; it was rather dilapidated, but it was a plough, and Mitru Catamush, Marcu’s neighbour, had two feeble oxen and a foundered horse. The priest, Marcu, Mitru, the oxen and the horse, worked all one day from morn till eve. The ground was ploughed up and sown with maize. From thenceforward, the priest was happier when he was at the back of the house.It was a wonderful and beautiful bit of work—what furrows! And here and there among the furrows a blade of maize peeped out. In spite of this, the priest scratched himself once or twice, and then fairly often, behind the ear. It seemed as though something still weighed upon his mind. It was a difficult matter, which he hardly dare take in hand: the glebe lands. Up to now, they had been neglected; at present, he did not know what to do with them. He would have liked to work them himself. He would have liked to see his own men sowing them; he would have liked to take his wife there in the autumn. It was very tempting. He talked a great deal to his wifeabout the matter. They would need horses, a cart, a plough, a labourer, stables—they would want a quantity of things. Moreover, the priest did not understand agriculture.However, the vegetable-beds were growing green, the maize was springing up. The priest made up his mind; he took the residue of his wife’s dowry and set to work. Marcu’s plough was good enough to start with. The priest bought one horse from Mitru; a man in the Rapitza Valley had another one; Stan Schiopu had a cart with three wheels. The priest bought it as he got a wheel from Mitru, to make up for the horse being foundered.Cozonac, the bell-ringer, engaged himself as labourer to the priest, for his house was only a stone’s throw away. The priest drove four posts into the ground at one end of the house, two long ones and two short, and he made three sides of plaited osiers and a roof of rushes, and there was the stable all ready.During these days, Father Trandafir had aged by about ten years; but he grew young again when he placed his wife and children in the cart, whipped up the horses, and drove off to see their ploughed land.The villagers saw him, and shook their heads, and said once more: “The priest is the devil’s own man.”The priest’s wife had her own feminine worries. She had a beautiful Icon which had been given toher by the son of the priest at Vezura. At present the Icon was lying at the bottom of a box wrapped up in paper. For a long time she had wished to place it between the windows, to put flowers and sweet basil round it, and look at it often; because this Icon represented the Holy Virgin, and the priest’s daughter was called Mary. But the walls were dirty and the Icon had no case. There was another thing that annoyed the priest’s wife: one window was filled in with a pig’s bladder, and in the other were three broken panes mended with paper. The house was rather dark.Easter drew near. There were only five days to Holy Week. If the priest wanted to spend Easter with his wife, he had still three important things to get: whitewash for the walls, windows for the house, and a case for the Icon of the most Blessed Virgin—all objects that could be found only in a town.To the market, then!The priest had horses and a cart. He was vexed about the osier baskets for the maize; only the backs and sides of them still remained. He was ashamed that a priest like himself should have to go to the market without any maize-baskets. He could not borrow any, seeing he was at Saraceni, where even the priest had no proper maize-baskets.They say “Necessity is the best teacher.” The Father sent Cozonac down the valley to fetch osiers, planted two stakes in the ground with thinner sticksset between them about a hand’s breadth apart, and then the priest and his wife and children, and Cozonac too, began to plait the osiers in. Before long the baskets were ready. The work was not very remarkable, but for all that they were the best baskets in Saraceni, and so good that Cozonac could not refrain from saying, “The priest is one of the devil’s own men!”To the market-place and from the market-place home the Father went proudly with his baskets; other people had some, but he found people could buy worse baskets than those he had made himself.“What is the priest making?”“Baskets for the maize.”“But he has got some.”“He is making them for those who have not got any.”After Easter, Cozonac began to clear the pools of osiers which the priest wove into baskets. The longer the work continued, the better was it done; the last basket was always the best.Marcu Flori Cucu was a sensible man. He liked to stay and talk to the priest. Cozonac cleared the osiers, the priest plaited them, while Marcu lay upon his stomach with his head in his hands and idly watched.“This osier is a little too long,” said the priest, measuring the osier with his eye. “Here, Marcu! Give me the hatchet to make it shorter.”The hatchet was at Marcu’s feet. Marcu raisedthe upper part of his body, supported himself on his elbows, stretched out his legs, and began feeling about for the hatchet, trying to draw it up by his feet.“Make haste!” said the priest, and gave him a cut with the osier.Marcu jumped up and assured the priest that he was much more nimble than he thought. In the end, this assurance was of great use to him. By Whitsuntide the priest had a cart-load of baskets ready to take to the market, and Marcu knew very well that if the priest sold the baskets he would have a cheerful holiday.The priest had had help for some weeks, and the help had always brought a reward to the man who had given it.Just before Whitsuntide the rain began, and seemed as though it would never cease.“I do not know what I shall do,” said the priest. “It seems as though I must leave the market until after Whitsuntide. I do not like going in the rain. If it does not stop raining by Thursday, I just shall not go.”Marcu scratched himself behind his ears and said nothing. He could see that it did not suit the priest to get soaked.“Here,” he said a little later, ceasing to plait, “couldn’t we weave an awning? There are reeds and rushes and osiers in the valley.”“Perhaps you are right,” replied the priest.“It could be made the same way as we are making these.”Through helping him, Marcu had learnt to make better baskets than the priest. The awning did Marcu great credit, the priest did not get wet and came back from the market with a full purse.This time Whit-Sunday was fine. The priest’s wife had a new gown, the three eldest children had dolls bought in the town; the tiny one, Mary, had a straw hat with two pink flowers, the walls were white both inside and out, the windows were whole, the house was light, and the Icon of the Holy Virgin could be seen very well placed high up between the windows, decorated with flowers grown along the edge of the vegetable-beds. The priest had brought white flour, meat, butter, and even sugar, from the town. The priest loved his wife, but it was not his way to kiss her at odd times. But, this morning, the first thing he did was to embrace her. His wife began to cry—I don’t know why—when Father Trandafir entered the church he felt inclined to cry; he had seen people in front of the Icon and there were tears in his eyes when he went up to the altar. The people say he had never sung more beautifully than he did that day. The saying remained: “To sing like the priest at Whitsuntide!”The parishioners went to see the priest; they passed through the gate before they crossed the door-step; they wiped their boots, put their hatson their sticks, leaned their sticks against the wall, smoothed their moustaches and their beards, and stepped inside. When they came out of the house again, they took a look round, nodded their heads, and said nothing.The years come, the years go; the world moves on, and man is sometimes at peace with the world, and sometimes at odds with it. The high road passed through the town, passed by the Dry Valley and ran farther on to the Rapitza Valley. Where the roads met, at the conjunction of the two valleys, there was a mill on the Rapitza. Near Rapitza was a cross; close to the cross was a fountain, and by the fountain were eight fine sycamores. This spot was called “The Cross of Saraceni.” From here to Saraceni was only about an hour by road. In spite of this, whenever he came from the town, the man of Saraceni pulled up here to water his horse, and waited a while, hoping that some wayfarer might come and ask: “What village is that where one sees that beautiful church with white walls and the glittering tower?” And when he is asked, he strokes his moustache, and looking proudly towards the place replies: “Up there on the Grofnitza? That’s our village—Saraceni; but you ought to hear the bells—what bells that tower contains! One can hear them a three hours’ journey away!”Where the road divided there stood a sign-post with two arms; on one arm was written, “To theRapitza Valley,” and on the other one, “Towards the Dry Valley.” There was no road anywhere round about like the one that ran through the Dry Valley towards Saraceni.It was as smooth as a table, and as solid as a cherry-stone. One could see the Saracenese had constructed it lovingly. To right and left, at intervals of ten to fifteen paces, were some shady nut-trees which were a pleasure to look at. The river-bed lay on the right; the road ran along its bank, but higher up, so that the water could not disturb it. The Saracenese had to destroy rock in their progress, but that they did cheerfully, for out of the rock they built the road.From here on, the Saracene felt at home, and drove at a foot’s pace. But he was not bored for a second. At every step almost he met an acquaintance with whom he exchanged words, “Where do you come from?” and “Where are you going?” One man had a cart full of lime, another a load of apples; then came a man carrying a trellis-work, and another with a wheelbarrow, a stave, or some other article made of wood.From time to time, along the side of the road, one found the stone-masons at work, their trowels ringing from daybreak till sunset. This road was not a dreary one!There were lime-kilns where the road ran along the valley. In one place there was a whole village. Some men were loading up lime, othersunloading stone and wood; the masons were shaping the stones, the men at the kilns were throwing wood on to the fires; the foremen were making noise enough for five.From this point one could see the village well. The gardens were full of trees; only between the bushes or beyond the trees did one catch a glimpse here and there of a bit of the walls or the roofs of the houses. The priest’s house was just up by the church; one could only see five windows and a red roof with two chimney stacks. Opposite the church stood the school. The house, of which one could only see a piece of wall with two windows and a roof, belonged to Marcu Flori Cucu.The big building visible lower down was the Town Hall. If the houses had lain less closely together the village would have looked very beautiful, but, as it was, one only caught a glimpse and must imagine the rest.Every one had changed; Father Trandafir only had remained the same: fresh, gay, and busy. If his grey hair and grizzled beard had not betrayed his age, we might have thought that the little children with whom he played in the evening, on the seat in front of the house, were his own. One of them, whom he had lifted up to kiss, stole his hat from off his head and ran away with it. Mariuca opened the window and called out:“My little Trandafir, don’t leave grandfather bareheaded.”Then she flew from the window to catch Ileana, who had stolen her grandmother’s bonnet and adorned herself with it, and was now proudly showing herself to her grandfather. The old grandfather laughed heartily, he loved a joke. From close by came Father Costa, and caught first Ileana and then Mariuca, kissed them, and then seated himself by his father-in-law’s side. Marcu, neighbour and old friend, Mariuca’s father-in-law, and attached to the house, saw the group and came to join in the conversation.“Old man, take your hat; you must not sit there bare-headed,” said the grandmother, handing his hat through the window.One of the villagers, in passing, wished him “Good night,” and added to himself, “May the Lord preserve him for many years, for he is one of God’s own men.”
Popa Tanda
By I. SlaviciGod have mercy on the soul of Schoolmaster Pintilie! He was a good man, and a well-known chorister. He was very fond of salad with vinegar. Whenever he was hoarse, he would drink the yolk of an egg with it; when he raised his voice, the windows rattled while he sang, “Oh, Lord, preserve Thy people.” He was schoolmaster in Butucani, a fine, large town containing men of position and sound sense, and given to almsgiving and hospitality. Now Schoolmaster Pintilie had only two children: a daughter married to Petrea Tzapu, and Trandafir, Father Trandafir, priest in Saraceni.God keep Father Trandafir! He was a good man, he had studied many books, and he sang even better than his dead father, God have mercy on his soul! He always spoke correctly and carefully as though he were reading out of a book. Father Trandafir was an industrious, careful man. He gathered from many sources, and made something out of nothing. He saved, he mended, he collected to get enough for himself and for others.Father Trandafir went through a great deal in his youth. One does not achieve big results in a minute or two. The poor man has to go without a great deal more than he ever gets. He worked harder with his brain than with a spade and fork. But what he did was not work thrown away. Young Trandafir became priest in his native town, in Butucani, a fine large town containing men of position and good sense, but Trandafir did not enjoy the almsgiving and hospitality.Father Trandafir would have been a wonderful man had not one thing spoilt him. He was too severe in his speech, too harsh in his judgments; he was too straightforward and outspoken. He never minded his words, but said right out what he had in his mind. It is not good to be a man like that. Men take offence if you speak too plainly to them, and it is best to live peaceably with the world. This was evident in Father Trandafir’s case. A man like him could not stay two years in Butucani. It was first one thing, then another; at one time he complained to the townspeople, the next time to the archdeacon. Now it is well known that priests must not make complaints to the archdeacon. The archdeacon understands presents much better than complaints. But that was what Father Trandafir would not comprehend.There is no doubt that Father Trandafir was in the right.But the thing is, right is the prerogative of themighty. The weak can only assert themselves gradually. The ant cannot overthrow the mountain. It can, though, change its position; but slowly, slowly, bit by bit. Perhaps the Father knew that this was so in the world; he had his own standard, though.“Even the devil cannot turn what is true and right into a lie!” This was his remark, and with this remark he got himself turned out of Butucani. That is to say, it was not only he who did it, it was the townspeople too. One word and a little something besides to promote a good understanding with the archdeacon, a visit to the bishop, and a word there from the archdeacon: things get done if one knows how to do them. The long and the short of it was that Father Trandafir was sent from Butucani to Saraceni—to promote a good understanding among the faithful. Priest in Saraceni! Who knows what that means to be priest in Saraceni? That is what befell Father Trandafir! Who would fain leap the ditch throws his bag over it first. Father Trandafir only had a wife and two children; his bag was empty. That was why he leaped so unwillingly from Butucani to Saraceni.In the “Dry Valley” there was a village which they called “Saraceni.” A village called “poor” in a “dry” valley; could any place have a more unpleasant name?The Dry Valley!“Valley” because the place was shut in betweenmountains; “dry,” because the stream, which had cut its way through the middle of the valley, was dry most of the year.This was how the valley lies.To the right stood a hill called “Rîpoasa.” On the left were three other hills, called “Fatza,” “Grofnitza,” and “Alunish.” Rîpoasa was rocky. Fatza was cultivated; the village stood on Grofnitza, while on Alunish lay the village graveyard among hazel and birch trees. Thus it lay to right and left, but the chief feature of the landscape stood at the bottom. Here rose the mountains—from there, came what did come.The other side, beyond Rîpoasa was the Rapitza Valley—a much deeper valley than the Dry Valley, and so called because the Rapitza flowed through it. The Rapitza was a treacherous river, especially in the spring, and the stream in the Dry Valley was a branch of the Rapitza. In the spring, when the snow melted on the mountains, the Rapitza got angry and poured part of her fury into the branch that flowed through the Dry Valley, and the latter ceased to be “dry.”In a few hours the inhabitants of Saraceni were rather too rich in water. This occurred nearly every year. When the crops in the valley appeared to be most favourable, the Dry Valley belied its name and washed away all that lay in its path.It would have been rather better if this invasion had lasted only a short time, but the water remainedin the valley, and in many places formed refuges for the frog family. And instead of corn, osiers and interlacing willows grew by the side of its pools.Was it any wonder that in consequence of this the people of Saraceni had become in time the most idle of men? He is a fool who sows where he cannot reap, or where he does not know whether he will be able to reap or not. The Fatza was a sandy spot; the corn grew a few inches high and the maize a yard; on Rîpoasa one could not grow blackberries even, for at the bottom the water spoilt the fruit. Where there is no hope of reward there is no incentive to work. Whoever works wants to earn, but the people of Saraceni had given up all thoughts of gain, and therefore no one felt inspired to work. Those who could afford it passed their time lying out of doors; those who could not, spent their day working in the neighbouring villages. When the winter came life was hard and bitter.But whoever has got used to the bad does not think of better things; the people of Saraceni appeared to think that things could not be better than they were. Fish in the water, birds in the air, moles in the ground, and the people of Saraceni in poverty!Saraceni? One can imagine what a village like Saraceni must have been; here a house, there a house—all alike. Hedges were superfluous, seeing there was nothing to enclose; the street was thewhole village. It would have been absurd to put a chimney on the house—the smoke found its way out through the roof. There would have been no sense in putting plaster on the walls either, as that dropped off in time. Some of the buildings were made of bits of wood knocked together, a roof of straw mixed with hay, an oven of clay, an old-fashioned veranda outside, a bed with four posts built into the ground, a door made out of three boards held together by two stakes placed crosswise—quickly made and well made—whoever was not pleased with it, let him make something he liked better.At the top of the village, that is to say on the highest point, was a sort of building which the Saracenese called the “church.” It was a heap of old tree trunks piled one on the top of the other in the form of walls. In the old days—when, one does not know—these kind of walls were open to the sky; later, one does not know when, the walls had been made to converge in one place, to support what was supposed to do duty for a tower. This—owing to the fact that the supports of the facade had perished through the buffeting of a very strong wind—had fallen towards the patient earth, dragging the entire structure after it. And there it had remained ever since, for the church counted for little in Saraceni; it was superfluous.Priest? They say there is no village without a priest. Probably whoever said this did not knowabout Saraceni. Saraceni was a village without a priest. That is to say, it was a village with a priest—only this priest was a priest without a village. Saraceni was unique in one way. There had never been a priest who stayed more than three days in Saraceni; he came one day, stayed the next, and left on the third. Many guilty priests passed through Saraceni; whoever had stayed there long would have expiated all his sins.Then Father Trandafir reached this penitential spot. He could not expect to do as the others had done, come one day, stay the next, and depart the third. He was too much out of favour with the archdeacon to imagine that he would send him to another village. He could not remain without a village: a priest without a village—a cart without a wheel, a yoke without oxen, a hat on the top of a wig. He began to think what he must do; he must take things as they were, and stay gladly in Saraceni. It was only a village in name, but no one could say he was a priest without a village. But really a more suitable priest for a more suitable village you could not have found. The poverty of the priest corresponded to the poverty in the homes of his parishioners. From the beginning Trandafir realized one thing: it was much nicer in Butucani than in Saraceni. There the people all had something, and you could always have some of it. In Saraceni all the latches were made of wood. Then the Father reflected: the priest did all thebusiness of the town, but the town took care of the priest’s purse. Before long the Father began to feel sure that the people who started by being charitable and hospitable were not born fools. “It is a wise thing when men meet together to comfort and cheer each other. Even our Redeemer began with almsgiving, and the wedding at Cana of Galilee.” Thus thought Father Trandafir; but in Saraceni there was neither almsgiving nor hospitality.“There is one thing,” said the Father to himself a little later on, “in a poor village there is no corn for the priest to gather. As long as the people of Saraceni are lazy, so long shall I be hungry!” And he began to think how he was going to make his parishioners industrious. The industrious man eats the stones, makes soup out of the stagnant water, and reaps corn where the hemlock used to grow. “Then”—concluded the priest—“when the cow has fodder she is no longer dry!”Thus he spoke, and he set to work to put it in practice. A man who has nothing to eat busies himself with other people’s affairs. He does no good that way! The blind man cannot aid the cripple; the hungry don’t improve their village; when the geese keep watch among the vegetables, little remains for the gardener: but Father Trandafir was obstinate; when he started, he went on—and he got there, or he died by the way.The first Sunday Father Trandafir preached before the people, who had assembled in considerablenumbers to see the new priest. There is nothing more agreeable to a man who desires the welfare of others than to see his words making an impression. A good thought multiplies itself, penetrating many hearts, and whoever possesses it and passes it on, if he values it, rejoices to see it gaining ground in the world. Father Trandafir felt happy that day. Never before had he been listened to with such attention as on this occasion. It seemed as though these people were listening to something which they knew but which they did not understand well. They drank in his words with such eagerness, it was as though they wanted to read his very soul the better to understand his teaching. That day he read the gospel of “The Prodigal Son.” Father Trandafir showed how God, in His unending love for man, had created him to be happy. Having placed man in the world, God wishes him to enjoy all the innocent pleasures of life, for only so will he learn to love life and live charitably with his neighbours. The man who, through his own fault or owing to other causes, only feels the bitterness and sorrow of this world cannot love life; and, not loving it, he despises in a sinful manner the great gift of God.What kind of people are the lazy people, the people who make no effort, who do not stretch out a hand to take this gift? They are sinners! They have no desires—only carnal appetites. Man has been given pure desires which he may gratify withthe fruit of his labours; longings are put into his heart that he may conquer the world while God Himself contemplates him with pleasure from on high. To work is the first duty of man; and he who does not work is a sinner.After this, the Father sketched in words which seemed to give life to his ideas the miserable existence of a man perishing from hunger, and he gave his faithful hearers the thoughts which had germinated in his own intelligent brain—how they must work in the spring and in the summer, in the autumn and in the winter.The people had listened; the Father’s words were written on their faces; going home they could only talk of what they had heard in church, and each one felt himself more of a man than before.Maybe there were many among them who only waited for Sunday to pass that they might begin their first day of work.“There has never been such a priest in Saraceni!” said Marcu Flori Cucu, as he parted from his neighbour, Mitru.“A priest that does honour to a village,” replied Mitru, as if he felt that his village was not exactly honoured.Other Sundays followed. Father Trandafir was ready with his sermon. The second Sunday he had no one to address. The weather was wet, and people stayed at home. Other Sundays the weather was fine; probably then the people did not rememberin time; they were loath to part from God’s blue sky. And so the Father only had in church some old woman or some aged man with failing sight and deaf ears. Sometimes there was only Cozonac, the bell-ringer. In this way he made no progress. Had he been a different kind of man he would have stopped here.But Father Trandafir was like the goat among cabbages in the garden. When you turn it out at the door, it comes in through the fence, when you mend the fence, it jumps over it, and does a lot more damage by destroying the top of the hedge.God keep him! Father Trandafir still remained a good man.“Wait!” he said. “If you will not come to me, I will go to you!”Then the priest went from door to door. He never ceased talking from the moment it was light. Whenever he came across anyone he gave him good advice. You met the priest in the fields; you found him on the hill; if you went down the valley you encountered the priest; the priest was in the woods. The priest was in church; the priest was at the death-bed; the priest was at the wedding; the priest was with your next-door neighbour—you had to fly the village if you wanted to escape the priest. And whenever he met you, he gave you wise counsel.During a whole year, Father Trandafir gave good advice. People listened gladly—they liked to stay and talk to the priest even if he did give themgood advice. All the same, the old saying holds good: men know what they ought to do, but they don’t do it. The Father was disappointed. After a certain time he ceased to give advice. There was not a man in the village upon whom he had not poured the whole weight of his learning: he had nothing more to say.“This will not do,” said the priest once more. “Advice does not pay. I must start something more severe.”He began to chaff.Wherever he found a man, Father Trandafir began to make him ridiculous, to make fun of him in every kind of way. If he passed a house that had not been re-roofed yesterday, he would say to the owner: “Oh, you are a clever man, you are! You have windows in the roof. You do love the light and the blessed sun!” If he found a woman in a dirty blouse: “Look at me! Since when have you taken to wearing stuff dresses?”If he met an unwashed child: “Listen, good wife, you must have a lot of plum jam if you can plaster your children with it!” And if he came across a man lying in the shade he would say to him, “Good luck with your work! Good luck with your work!” If the man got up, he would beg him not to stop work, for his children’s sake.He began like this, but he carried it altogether too far. It got to such a pitch that the people did their utmost to get out of the priest’s way. Hebecame a perfect pest. The worst thing about it was that the people nicknamed him “Popa Tanda” because he chaffed them so. And “Popa Tanda” he has remained ever since.To tell the truth, it was only in one way the people did not like the priest. Each one was ready to laugh at the others with the priest; no one was pleased, though, when the others laughed at him. That is human; every one is ready to saddle his neighbour’s mare. In that way, Father Trandafir pleased his parishioners, but he was not content himself. Before the year was out, every man in the village had become a tease; there was not a person left of whom to make fun, and in the end the wags began to laugh at themselves. That put an end to it. Only one thing remained to do: the village to make fun of the priest.Two whole years passed without Trandafir being able to stir up the people, even when he had passed from advising them to annoying them. They became either givers of advice or they were teasers: all day they stood in groups, some of them giving advice, others joking. It was a wonderful affair; the people recognized the right, despised the bad; but nothing altered them.“Eh! say now, didn’t Father Trandafir mind? Didn’t he get angry, very angry?”He did get wild. He began to abuse the people. As he had proceeded to advise them, and to chaff them, so now he proceeded to abuse them.Whenever he got hold of a man, he abused him. But he did not get far with this. At first the people allowed themselves to be insulted. Later on, they began to answer back, on the sly, as it were. Finally, thinking it was going too far, they began to abuse the priest.From now on, things got a little involved. Everything went criss-cross. The people began to tell the priest that if he did not leave off laughing at them, and insulting them, they would go to the bishop and get him removed from the village. That is what the priest deserved. The people had hit on the very thing! Throw him out of Saraceni! The priest began to curse in earnest. Off he went; the people got in to their carts to go to the archdeacon, and from the archdeacon to the bishop.In the Book of Wisdom, concerning the life of this world, there is a short sentence which says: our well-wishers are often our undoing and our evil-wishers are useful to us. Father Trandafir was not lucky in getting good out of his evil-wishers. The bishop was a good soul, worthy of being put in all the calendars all over the face of the earth. He took pity on the poor priest, said he was in the right, and scolded the people.And so Popa Tanda stayed in Saraceni.Misfortunes generally heap themselves upon mankind. One gives rise to another, or are they,perhaps, inseparable? Anyhow, they are always like light and shade, one alongside the other.By now Father Trandafir had three children. When he returned from the bishop, he found his wife in bed. There was a fourth little blessing in the house. A sick wife, three little children, a fourth at the breast, and a tumble-down house; the snow drifted through the walls, the stove smoked, the wind came through the roof, the granary was bare, his purse empty, and his heart heavy.Father Trandafir was not the man to find a way out of this embarrassing state of things. Had it been some one else in his situation, he could have helped him: he could not comfort himself. For a long time he stood in the dim light of the little lamp; every one around him slept. The sick woman was asleep. Now there is nothing more conducive to melancholy than the sight of people asleep. He loved those sleeping forms; he loved them and was responsible for their happiness; he lived for them, and their love made life precious to him. Thoughts crowded into his brain. His mind turned to the past and to the future; considering the state in which he found himself, the future could only appear depicted in the saddest colours. His children! His wife! What would become of them? His heart was heavy, and he could not find one consoling thought, one single loop-hole of escape; nowhere in the world was there anything to give him a gleam of hope.The next day was Sunday. The Father went to church with bowed head, to read Matins.Like the generality of mankind, Father Trandafir had never given much thought to what he was doing. He was a priest, and he was content with his lot. He liked to sing, to read the Gospel, to instruct the faithful, to comfort, and to give spiritual assistance to the erring. His thoughts did not go much beyond that. Had he been asked at any time whether he realized the sanctity, the inner meaning of his calling, maybe he would have laughed to himself at all those things which a man only grasps in moments of intense suffering. It is man’s nature when his mind comprehends a series of more or less deep thoughts, to measure the whole world by this standard, and not to believe what he does not understand. But man does not always think in this way. There are events during which his brain becomes inactive: in danger, when no escape seems possible; in moments of joy, when he knows not from what source his happiness is derived; at times when his train of thought seems to have lost all coherence. Then, when man has reached, in any way, the point where the possible becomes indistinguishable from the impossible, he ceases to reason, instinct asserts itself.Father Trandafir went into the church. How many times had he not entered that church! Just as a blacksmith might enter his forge. But this time he was seized with an incomprehensible fear, hetook a few steps forward and then hid his face in his hands and began to sob bitterly. Why did he cry? Before whom did he cry? His lips uttered these words only: “Almighty God, succour me!” Did he believe that this prayer, expressed with all the energy of despair, could bring him help? He believed nothing; he thought of nothing; he was in a state of exaltation.The Holy Scriptures teach us that just as the ploughman lives on the fruit of his toil, so does the spiritual pastor, who serves the altar, live by the result of his service at that altar. Father Trandafir always believed in the Holy Scriptures; he always worked only for the spiritual welfare of his people, and expected that they, in return, would furnish him with his daily bread. But the world is not always in agreement with what is written and commanded; only the priest agreed with it, the people did not. The Father got little from his office, anyhow not enough; this is to say, four pieces of ground near the village, a poll-tax on the population, and baptismal and burying fees.Taken altogether, it amounted to nothing, seeing that the earth produced scarcely anything, the poll-tax existed only in name, the new-born were baptized for nothing, and the dead were buried gratis by the priest.Near the church was a deserted house; a house in name only. The owner of the house could havekept cattle, but he had no beasts. By the side of the house there was room for a garden, but there was no garden because, as we have already said, there were no fences in Saraceni. Father Trandafir bought the whole place and lived in it. As the house belonged to the priest, nothing much was done to put it in order, and it was quite dilapidated, the walls had holes in them, there were rents in the roof. The Father only troubled himself about other people’s houses.The priest’s table was no better than the house. According to the old saying, man follows the ways of other men even when he wants to make them follow his own: the priest lived like the rest of the village. Happily he had his wife’s dowry, but often one does not try to get help from just the place where it is to be had. The season of Lent drew near.“It will not do!” said Father Trandafir. “This will not do!” And he began to do as the rest of the world does, to occupy himself first and foremost with the care of his own house.Directly the spring-time came, he hired a gipsy, and set him to work to plaster the house with clay. In a few days all four walls were firmly plastered. After that, the priest enjoyed sitting outside more than inside the house, because you could not see the walls of the house so well from within; a plastered house was a fine thing in Saraceni, especially when one could say to oneself, “That is mine!” There was one thing, though, which was not as it shouldbe. Every time the Father’s eyes fell upon the sides of the roof he went indoors—he felt he had seen enough. He did not want to see the defective roof, but every time he wanted to look at the walls he had to see the roof. That damned roof! It could no longer be left like that.Down in the valley where there are numerous pools, not only willows and osiers grew, but here and there were to be found sedges and rushes, cat’s-tail and a species of reed. “That is what I will do!” thought the priest. He engaged a man, and sent him out to cut sedges and rushes and cat’s-tail and reeds. One Saturday the house was surrounded by bundles tied with osiers; and the following Saturday the roof was mended and edged on the top with bundles of reeds over which were stretched two strips of wood fastened with cross pieces. The work was good, and not dear. People passed by the priest’s house nodding their heads and saying, “The priest is one of the devil’s own men.” Now the priest could stay happily outside.But this happiness did not last long. There was still one thing that was not quite right. The priest felt that he was too much in the open. There was no other house in the village like his, and it would have been better a little separated from the village. The Father hardly liked to say “At my place,” when “my place” was “in the village.” There must be a fence, and a gate for the people to enter by, when they came to see the priest; it mightbe a fence in name only, and the gate only a hurdle, but it must be an understood thing that before anyone could enter the priest’s house he must cross the priest’s yard. Once more the priest hired a man and sent him to cut briars and stakes. He fixed the stakes into the ground, and placed the briars between them, and there was the fence, ready made. In front of the house, in the direction of the church, about half an acre of ground was enclosed: the gate was formed by four poles fastened by two others placed crosswise. The priest’s wife especially rejoiced at being thus shut in, and the priest rejoiced when he saw his wife’s pleasure. There was not a day on which either the priest or his wife did not say to the children: “Listen! you are not to go outside the yard; play quietly at home.”Once a man starts, he never gets to the end. One desire gives rise to another. Now the priest’s wife got an idea in her head.“Do you know, Father,” she said one morning, “I think it would be a good plan to make a few beds for vegetables by the side of the fence.”“Vegetable-beds?”“Yes; we can sow onions, carrots, haricot beans, potatoes, and cabbages.”The Father was astonished. To him that seemed quite beyond their powers. Vegetable-beds in Saraceni!For a few days his head was full of vegetable-beds, of potatoes, cabbages, and haricot beans; anda few days after that, the ground was already dug up and the beds were ready. Not a day passed on which the priest and his wife did not go about ten times to the beds to see if the seeds were growing. Great was the joy one day. The priest had risen very early.“Wife, get up!”“What’s the matter?”“They have sprouted.”The priest and his wife and all the children spent the whole day squatting by the beds. The more seeds they saw appear above the ground, the happier they were.And again the villagers passed by the priest’s house and looked through the thorns at the priest’s vegetable-beds, and they said once more, “The priest is one of the devil’s own men!”“Listen, wife,” said the priest. “Wouldn’t it be a good plan to sow maize along the fence and round the beds?”“Indeed it would! I like fresh maize!”“So do I, especially when it’s roasted on the embers!”Here was a new task! The priest surrounded himself with maize. He laughed with pleasure when he thought how pretty it would be when the maize grew up all round and shut out the briars on the fence which had begun to offend his eyes. But there is the old proverb, “Much wants more.” At the back of the house was another strip of ground,about four times the size of the bit they had cultivated. The priest could not get it out of his head. Why should this land lie fallow? Couldn’t he plant maize at the back of the house too? In the fields opposite, men were ploughing and sowing, the ground was untouched still in the village because it was the village.Marcu Flori Cucu, the priest’s neighbour, had a plough; it was rather dilapidated, but it was a plough, and Mitru Catamush, Marcu’s neighbour, had two feeble oxen and a foundered horse. The priest, Marcu, Mitru, the oxen and the horse, worked all one day from morn till eve. The ground was ploughed up and sown with maize. From thenceforward, the priest was happier when he was at the back of the house.It was a wonderful and beautiful bit of work—what furrows! And here and there among the furrows a blade of maize peeped out. In spite of this, the priest scratched himself once or twice, and then fairly often, behind the ear. It seemed as though something still weighed upon his mind. It was a difficult matter, which he hardly dare take in hand: the glebe lands. Up to now, they had been neglected; at present, he did not know what to do with them. He would have liked to work them himself. He would have liked to see his own men sowing them; he would have liked to take his wife there in the autumn. It was very tempting. He talked a great deal to his wifeabout the matter. They would need horses, a cart, a plough, a labourer, stables—they would want a quantity of things. Moreover, the priest did not understand agriculture.However, the vegetable-beds were growing green, the maize was springing up. The priest made up his mind; he took the residue of his wife’s dowry and set to work. Marcu’s plough was good enough to start with. The priest bought one horse from Mitru; a man in the Rapitza Valley had another one; Stan Schiopu had a cart with three wheels. The priest bought it as he got a wheel from Mitru, to make up for the horse being foundered.Cozonac, the bell-ringer, engaged himself as labourer to the priest, for his house was only a stone’s throw away. The priest drove four posts into the ground at one end of the house, two long ones and two short, and he made three sides of plaited osiers and a roof of rushes, and there was the stable all ready.During these days, Father Trandafir had aged by about ten years; but he grew young again when he placed his wife and children in the cart, whipped up the horses, and drove off to see their ploughed land.The villagers saw him, and shook their heads, and said once more: “The priest is the devil’s own man.”The priest’s wife had her own feminine worries. She had a beautiful Icon which had been given toher by the son of the priest at Vezura. At present the Icon was lying at the bottom of a box wrapped up in paper. For a long time she had wished to place it between the windows, to put flowers and sweet basil round it, and look at it often; because this Icon represented the Holy Virgin, and the priest’s daughter was called Mary. But the walls were dirty and the Icon had no case. There was another thing that annoyed the priest’s wife: one window was filled in with a pig’s bladder, and in the other were three broken panes mended with paper. The house was rather dark.Easter drew near. There were only five days to Holy Week. If the priest wanted to spend Easter with his wife, he had still three important things to get: whitewash for the walls, windows for the house, and a case for the Icon of the most Blessed Virgin—all objects that could be found only in a town.To the market, then!The priest had horses and a cart. He was vexed about the osier baskets for the maize; only the backs and sides of them still remained. He was ashamed that a priest like himself should have to go to the market without any maize-baskets. He could not borrow any, seeing he was at Saraceni, where even the priest had no proper maize-baskets.They say “Necessity is the best teacher.” The Father sent Cozonac down the valley to fetch osiers, planted two stakes in the ground with thinner sticksset between them about a hand’s breadth apart, and then the priest and his wife and children, and Cozonac too, began to plait the osiers in. Before long the baskets were ready. The work was not very remarkable, but for all that they were the best baskets in Saraceni, and so good that Cozonac could not refrain from saying, “The priest is one of the devil’s own men!”To the market-place and from the market-place home the Father went proudly with his baskets; other people had some, but he found people could buy worse baskets than those he had made himself.“What is the priest making?”“Baskets for the maize.”“But he has got some.”“He is making them for those who have not got any.”After Easter, Cozonac began to clear the pools of osiers which the priest wove into baskets. The longer the work continued, the better was it done; the last basket was always the best.Marcu Flori Cucu was a sensible man. He liked to stay and talk to the priest. Cozonac cleared the osiers, the priest plaited them, while Marcu lay upon his stomach with his head in his hands and idly watched.“This osier is a little too long,” said the priest, measuring the osier with his eye. “Here, Marcu! Give me the hatchet to make it shorter.”The hatchet was at Marcu’s feet. Marcu raisedthe upper part of his body, supported himself on his elbows, stretched out his legs, and began feeling about for the hatchet, trying to draw it up by his feet.“Make haste!” said the priest, and gave him a cut with the osier.Marcu jumped up and assured the priest that he was much more nimble than he thought. In the end, this assurance was of great use to him. By Whitsuntide the priest had a cart-load of baskets ready to take to the market, and Marcu knew very well that if the priest sold the baskets he would have a cheerful holiday.The priest had had help for some weeks, and the help had always brought a reward to the man who had given it.Just before Whitsuntide the rain began, and seemed as though it would never cease.“I do not know what I shall do,” said the priest. “It seems as though I must leave the market until after Whitsuntide. I do not like going in the rain. If it does not stop raining by Thursday, I just shall not go.”Marcu scratched himself behind his ears and said nothing. He could see that it did not suit the priest to get soaked.“Here,” he said a little later, ceasing to plait, “couldn’t we weave an awning? There are reeds and rushes and osiers in the valley.”“Perhaps you are right,” replied the priest.“It could be made the same way as we are making these.”Through helping him, Marcu had learnt to make better baskets than the priest. The awning did Marcu great credit, the priest did not get wet and came back from the market with a full purse.This time Whit-Sunday was fine. The priest’s wife had a new gown, the three eldest children had dolls bought in the town; the tiny one, Mary, had a straw hat with two pink flowers, the walls were white both inside and out, the windows were whole, the house was light, and the Icon of the Holy Virgin could be seen very well placed high up between the windows, decorated with flowers grown along the edge of the vegetable-beds. The priest had brought white flour, meat, butter, and even sugar, from the town. The priest loved his wife, but it was not his way to kiss her at odd times. But, this morning, the first thing he did was to embrace her. His wife began to cry—I don’t know why—when Father Trandafir entered the church he felt inclined to cry; he had seen people in front of the Icon and there were tears in his eyes when he went up to the altar. The people say he had never sung more beautifully than he did that day. The saying remained: “To sing like the priest at Whitsuntide!”The parishioners went to see the priest; they passed through the gate before they crossed the door-step; they wiped their boots, put their hatson their sticks, leaned their sticks against the wall, smoothed their moustaches and their beards, and stepped inside. When they came out of the house again, they took a look round, nodded their heads, and said nothing.The years come, the years go; the world moves on, and man is sometimes at peace with the world, and sometimes at odds with it. The high road passed through the town, passed by the Dry Valley and ran farther on to the Rapitza Valley. Where the roads met, at the conjunction of the two valleys, there was a mill on the Rapitza. Near Rapitza was a cross; close to the cross was a fountain, and by the fountain were eight fine sycamores. This spot was called “The Cross of Saraceni.” From here to Saraceni was only about an hour by road. In spite of this, whenever he came from the town, the man of Saraceni pulled up here to water his horse, and waited a while, hoping that some wayfarer might come and ask: “What village is that where one sees that beautiful church with white walls and the glittering tower?” And when he is asked, he strokes his moustache, and looking proudly towards the place replies: “Up there on the Grofnitza? That’s our village—Saraceni; but you ought to hear the bells—what bells that tower contains! One can hear them a three hours’ journey away!”Where the road divided there stood a sign-post with two arms; on one arm was written, “To theRapitza Valley,” and on the other one, “Towards the Dry Valley.” There was no road anywhere round about like the one that ran through the Dry Valley towards Saraceni.It was as smooth as a table, and as solid as a cherry-stone. One could see the Saracenese had constructed it lovingly. To right and left, at intervals of ten to fifteen paces, were some shady nut-trees which were a pleasure to look at. The river-bed lay on the right; the road ran along its bank, but higher up, so that the water could not disturb it. The Saracenese had to destroy rock in their progress, but that they did cheerfully, for out of the rock they built the road.From here on, the Saracene felt at home, and drove at a foot’s pace. But he was not bored for a second. At every step almost he met an acquaintance with whom he exchanged words, “Where do you come from?” and “Where are you going?” One man had a cart full of lime, another a load of apples; then came a man carrying a trellis-work, and another with a wheelbarrow, a stave, or some other article made of wood.From time to time, along the side of the road, one found the stone-masons at work, their trowels ringing from daybreak till sunset. This road was not a dreary one!There were lime-kilns where the road ran along the valley. In one place there was a whole village. Some men were loading up lime, othersunloading stone and wood; the masons were shaping the stones, the men at the kilns were throwing wood on to the fires; the foremen were making noise enough for five.From this point one could see the village well. The gardens were full of trees; only between the bushes or beyond the trees did one catch a glimpse here and there of a bit of the walls or the roofs of the houses. The priest’s house was just up by the church; one could only see five windows and a red roof with two chimney stacks. Opposite the church stood the school. The house, of which one could only see a piece of wall with two windows and a roof, belonged to Marcu Flori Cucu.The big building visible lower down was the Town Hall. If the houses had lain less closely together the village would have looked very beautiful, but, as it was, one only caught a glimpse and must imagine the rest.Every one had changed; Father Trandafir only had remained the same: fresh, gay, and busy. If his grey hair and grizzled beard had not betrayed his age, we might have thought that the little children with whom he played in the evening, on the seat in front of the house, were his own. One of them, whom he had lifted up to kiss, stole his hat from off his head and ran away with it. Mariuca opened the window and called out:“My little Trandafir, don’t leave grandfather bareheaded.”Then she flew from the window to catch Ileana, who had stolen her grandmother’s bonnet and adorned herself with it, and was now proudly showing herself to her grandfather. The old grandfather laughed heartily, he loved a joke. From close by came Father Costa, and caught first Ileana and then Mariuca, kissed them, and then seated himself by his father-in-law’s side. Marcu, neighbour and old friend, Mariuca’s father-in-law, and attached to the house, saw the group and came to join in the conversation.“Old man, take your hat; you must not sit there bare-headed,” said the grandmother, handing his hat through the window.One of the villagers, in passing, wished him “Good night,” and added to himself, “May the Lord preserve him for many years, for he is one of God’s own men.”
By I. Slavici
God have mercy on the soul of Schoolmaster Pintilie! He was a good man, and a well-known chorister. He was very fond of salad with vinegar. Whenever he was hoarse, he would drink the yolk of an egg with it; when he raised his voice, the windows rattled while he sang, “Oh, Lord, preserve Thy people.” He was schoolmaster in Butucani, a fine, large town containing men of position and sound sense, and given to almsgiving and hospitality. Now Schoolmaster Pintilie had only two children: a daughter married to Petrea Tzapu, and Trandafir, Father Trandafir, priest in Saraceni.
God keep Father Trandafir! He was a good man, he had studied many books, and he sang even better than his dead father, God have mercy on his soul! He always spoke correctly and carefully as though he were reading out of a book. Father Trandafir was an industrious, careful man. He gathered from many sources, and made something out of nothing. He saved, he mended, he collected to get enough for himself and for others.
Father Trandafir went through a great deal in his youth. One does not achieve big results in a minute or two. The poor man has to go without a great deal more than he ever gets. He worked harder with his brain than with a spade and fork. But what he did was not work thrown away. Young Trandafir became priest in his native town, in Butucani, a fine large town containing men of position and good sense, but Trandafir did not enjoy the almsgiving and hospitality.
Father Trandafir would have been a wonderful man had not one thing spoilt him. He was too severe in his speech, too harsh in his judgments; he was too straightforward and outspoken. He never minded his words, but said right out what he had in his mind. It is not good to be a man like that. Men take offence if you speak too plainly to them, and it is best to live peaceably with the world. This was evident in Father Trandafir’s case. A man like him could not stay two years in Butucani. It was first one thing, then another; at one time he complained to the townspeople, the next time to the archdeacon. Now it is well known that priests must not make complaints to the archdeacon. The archdeacon understands presents much better than complaints. But that was what Father Trandafir would not comprehend.
There is no doubt that Father Trandafir was in the right.
But the thing is, right is the prerogative of themighty. The weak can only assert themselves gradually. The ant cannot overthrow the mountain. It can, though, change its position; but slowly, slowly, bit by bit. Perhaps the Father knew that this was so in the world; he had his own standard, though.
“Even the devil cannot turn what is true and right into a lie!” This was his remark, and with this remark he got himself turned out of Butucani. That is to say, it was not only he who did it, it was the townspeople too. One word and a little something besides to promote a good understanding with the archdeacon, a visit to the bishop, and a word there from the archdeacon: things get done if one knows how to do them. The long and the short of it was that Father Trandafir was sent from Butucani to Saraceni—to promote a good understanding among the faithful. Priest in Saraceni! Who knows what that means to be priest in Saraceni? That is what befell Father Trandafir! Who would fain leap the ditch throws his bag over it first. Father Trandafir only had a wife and two children; his bag was empty. That was why he leaped so unwillingly from Butucani to Saraceni.
In the “Dry Valley” there was a village which they called “Saraceni.” A village called “poor” in a “dry” valley; could any place have a more unpleasant name?
The Dry Valley!
“Valley” because the place was shut in betweenmountains; “dry,” because the stream, which had cut its way through the middle of the valley, was dry most of the year.
This was how the valley lies.
To the right stood a hill called “Rîpoasa.” On the left were three other hills, called “Fatza,” “Grofnitza,” and “Alunish.” Rîpoasa was rocky. Fatza was cultivated; the village stood on Grofnitza, while on Alunish lay the village graveyard among hazel and birch trees. Thus it lay to right and left, but the chief feature of the landscape stood at the bottom. Here rose the mountains—from there, came what did come.
The other side, beyond Rîpoasa was the Rapitza Valley—a much deeper valley than the Dry Valley, and so called because the Rapitza flowed through it. The Rapitza was a treacherous river, especially in the spring, and the stream in the Dry Valley was a branch of the Rapitza. In the spring, when the snow melted on the mountains, the Rapitza got angry and poured part of her fury into the branch that flowed through the Dry Valley, and the latter ceased to be “dry.”
In a few hours the inhabitants of Saraceni were rather too rich in water. This occurred nearly every year. When the crops in the valley appeared to be most favourable, the Dry Valley belied its name and washed away all that lay in its path.
It would have been rather better if this invasion had lasted only a short time, but the water remainedin the valley, and in many places formed refuges for the frog family. And instead of corn, osiers and interlacing willows grew by the side of its pools.
Was it any wonder that in consequence of this the people of Saraceni had become in time the most idle of men? He is a fool who sows where he cannot reap, or where he does not know whether he will be able to reap or not. The Fatza was a sandy spot; the corn grew a few inches high and the maize a yard; on Rîpoasa one could not grow blackberries even, for at the bottom the water spoilt the fruit. Where there is no hope of reward there is no incentive to work. Whoever works wants to earn, but the people of Saraceni had given up all thoughts of gain, and therefore no one felt inspired to work. Those who could afford it passed their time lying out of doors; those who could not, spent their day working in the neighbouring villages. When the winter came life was hard and bitter.
But whoever has got used to the bad does not think of better things; the people of Saraceni appeared to think that things could not be better than they were. Fish in the water, birds in the air, moles in the ground, and the people of Saraceni in poverty!
Saraceni? One can imagine what a village like Saraceni must have been; here a house, there a house—all alike. Hedges were superfluous, seeing there was nothing to enclose; the street was thewhole village. It would have been absurd to put a chimney on the house—the smoke found its way out through the roof. There would have been no sense in putting plaster on the walls either, as that dropped off in time. Some of the buildings were made of bits of wood knocked together, a roof of straw mixed with hay, an oven of clay, an old-fashioned veranda outside, a bed with four posts built into the ground, a door made out of three boards held together by two stakes placed crosswise—quickly made and well made—whoever was not pleased with it, let him make something he liked better.
At the top of the village, that is to say on the highest point, was a sort of building which the Saracenese called the “church.” It was a heap of old tree trunks piled one on the top of the other in the form of walls. In the old days—when, one does not know—these kind of walls were open to the sky; later, one does not know when, the walls had been made to converge in one place, to support what was supposed to do duty for a tower. This—owing to the fact that the supports of the facade had perished through the buffeting of a very strong wind—had fallen towards the patient earth, dragging the entire structure after it. And there it had remained ever since, for the church counted for little in Saraceni; it was superfluous.
Priest? They say there is no village without a priest. Probably whoever said this did not knowabout Saraceni. Saraceni was a village without a priest. That is to say, it was a village with a priest—only this priest was a priest without a village. Saraceni was unique in one way. There had never been a priest who stayed more than three days in Saraceni; he came one day, stayed the next, and left on the third. Many guilty priests passed through Saraceni; whoever had stayed there long would have expiated all his sins.
Then Father Trandafir reached this penitential spot. He could not expect to do as the others had done, come one day, stay the next, and depart the third. He was too much out of favour with the archdeacon to imagine that he would send him to another village. He could not remain without a village: a priest without a village—a cart without a wheel, a yoke without oxen, a hat on the top of a wig. He began to think what he must do; he must take things as they were, and stay gladly in Saraceni. It was only a village in name, but no one could say he was a priest without a village. But really a more suitable priest for a more suitable village you could not have found. The poverty of the priest corresponded to the poverty in the homes of his parishioners. From the beginning Trandafir realized one thing: it was much nicer in Butucani than in Saraceni. There the people all had something, and you could always have some of it. In Saraceni all the latches were made of wood. Then the Father reflected: the priest did all thebusiness of the town, but the town took care of the priest’s purse. Before long the Father began to feel sure that the people who started by being charitable and hospitable were not born fools. “It is a wise thing when men meet together to comfort and cheer each other. Even our Redeemer began with almsgiving, and the wedding at Cana of Galilee.” Thus thought Father Trandafir; but in Saraceni there was neither almsgiving nor hospitality.
“There is one thing,” said the Father to himself a little later on, “in a poor village there is no corn for the priest to gather. As long as the people of Saraceni are lazy, so long shall I be hungry!” And he began to think how he was going to make his parishioners industrious. The industrious man eats the stones, makes soup out of the stagnant water, and reaps corn where the hemlock used to grow. “Then”—concluded the priest—“when the cow has fodder she is no longer dry!”
Thus he spoke, and he set to work to put it in practice. A man who has nothing to eat busies himself with other people’s affairs. He does no good that way! The blind man cannot aid the cripple; the hungry don’t improve their village; when the geese keep watch among the vegetables, little remains for the gardener: but Father Trandafir was obstinate; when he started, he went on—and he got there, or he died by the way.
The first Sunday Father Trandafir preached before the people, who had assembled in considerablenumbers to see the new priest. There is nothing more agreeable to a man who desires the welfare of others than to see his words making an impression. A good thought multiplies itself, penetrating many hearts, and whoever possesses it and passes it on, if he values it, rejoices to see it gaining ground in the world. Father Trandafir felt happy that day. Never before had he been listened to with such attention as on this occasion. It seemed as though these people were listening to something which they knew but which they did not understand well. They drank in his words with such eagerness, it was as though they wanted to read his very soul the better to understand his teaching. That day he read the gospel of “The Prodigal Son.” Father Trandafir showed how God, in His unending love for man, had created him to be happy. Having placed man in the world, God wishes him to enjoy all the innocent pleasures of life, for only so will he learn to love life and live charitably with his neighbours. The man who, through his own fault or owing to other causes, only feels the bitterness and sorrow of this world cannot love life; and, not loving it, he despises in a sinful manner the great gift of God.
What kind of people are the lazy people, the people who make no effort, who do not stretch out a hand to take this gift? They are sinners! They have no desires—only carnal appetites. Man has been given pure desires which he may gratify withthe fruit of his labours; longings are put into his heart that he may conquer the world while God Himself contemplates him with pleasure from on high. To work is the first duty of man; and he who does not work is a sinner.
After this, the Father sketched in words which seemed to give life to his ideas the miserable existence of a man perishing from hunger, and he gave his faithful hearers the thoughts which had germinated in his own intelligent brain—how they must work in the spring and in the summer, in the autumn and in the winter.
The people had listened; the Father’s words were written on their faces; going home they could only talk of what they had heard in church, and each one felt himself more of a man than before.
Maybe there were many among them who only waited for Sunday to pass that they might begin their first day of work.
“There has never been such a priest in Saraceni!” said Marcu Flori Cucu, as he parted from his neighbour, Mitru.
“A priest that does honour to a village,” replied Mitru, as if he felt that his village was not exactly honoured.
Other Sundays followed. Father Trandafir was ready with his sermon. The second Sunday he had no one to address. The weather was wet, and people stayed at home. Other Sundays the weather was fine; probably then the people did not rememberin time; they were loath to part from God’s blue sky. And so the Father only had in church some old woman or some aged man with failing sight and deaf ears. Sometimes there was only Cozonac, the bell-ringer. In this way he made no progress. Had he been a different kind of man he would have stopped here.
But Father Trandafir was like the goat among cabbages in the garden. When you turn it out at the door, it comes in through the fence, when you mend the fence, it jumps over it, and does a lot more damage by destroying the top of the hedge.
God keep him! Father Trandafir still remained a good man.
“Wait!” he said. “If you will not come to me, I will go to you!”
Then the priest went from door to door. He never ceased talking from the moment it was light. Whenever he came across anyone he gave him good advice. You met the priest in the fields; you found him on the hill; if you went down the valley you encountered the priest; the priest was in the woods. The priest was in church; the priest was at the death-bed; the priest was at the wedding; the priest was with your next-door neighbour—you had to fly the village if you wanted to escape the priest. And whenever he met you, he gave you wise counsel.
During a whole year, Father Trandafir gave good advice. People listened gladly—they liked to stay and talk to the priest even if he did give themgood advice. All the same, the old saying holds good: men know what they ought to do, but they don’t do it. The Father was disappointed. After a certain time he ceased to give advice. There was not a man in the village upon whom he had not poured the whole weight of his learning: he had nothing more to say.
“This will not do,” said the priest once more. “Advice does not pay. I must start something more severe.”
He began to chaff.
Wherever he found a man, Father Trandafir began to make him ridiculous, to make fun of him in every kind of way. If he passed a house that had not been re-roofed yesterday, he would say to the owner: “Oh, you are a clever man, you are! You have windows in the roof. You do love the light and the blessed sun!” If he found a woman in a dirty blouse: “Look at me! Since when have you taken to wearing stuff dresses?”
If he met an unwashed child: “Listen, good wife, you must have a lot of plum jam if you can plaster your children with it!” And if he came across a man lying in the shade he would say to him, “Good luck with your work! Good luck with your work!” If the man got up, he would beg him not to stop work, for his children’s sake.
He began like this, but he carried it altogether too far. It got to such a pitch that the people did their utmost to get out of the priest’s way. Hebecame a perfect pest. The worst thing about it was that the people nicknamed him “Popa Tanda” because he chaffed them so. And “Popa Tanda” he has remained ever since.
To tell the truth, it was only in one way the people did not like the priest. Each one was ready to laugh at the others with the priest; no one was pleased, though, when the others laughed at him. That is human; every one is ready to saddle his neighbour’s mare. In that way, Father Trandafir pleased his parishioners, but he was not content himself. Before the year was out, every man in the village had become a tease; there was not a person left of whom to make fun, and in the end the wags began to laugh at themselves. That put an end to it. Only one thing remained to do: the village to make fun of the priest.
Two whole years passed without Trandafir being able to stir up the people, even when he had passed from advising them to annoying them. They became either givers of advice or they were teasers: all day they stood in groups, some of them giving advice, others joking. It was a wonderful affair; the people recognized the right, despised the bad; but nothing altered them.
“Eh! say now, didn’t Father Trandafir mind? Didn’t he get angry, very angry?”
He did get wild. He began to abuse the people. As he had proceeded to advise them, and to chaff them, so now he proceeded to abuse them.Whenever he got hold of a man, he abused him. But he did not get far with this. At first the people allowed themselves to be insulted. Later on, they began to answer back, on the sly, as it were. Finally, thinking it was going too far, they began to abuse the priest.
From now on, things got a little involved. Everything went criss-cross. The people began to tell the priest that if he did not leave off laughing at them, and insulting them, they would go to the bishop and get him removed from the village. That is what the priest deserved. The people had hit on the very thing! Throw him out of Saraceni! The priest began to curse in earnest. Off he went; the people got in to their carts to go to the archdeacon, and from the archdeacon to the bishop.
In the Book of Wisdom, concerning the life of this world, there is a short sentence which says: our well-wishers are often our undoing and our evil-wishers are useful to us. Father Trandafir was not lucky in getting good out of his evil-wishers. The bishop was a good soul, worthy of being put in all the calendars all over the face of the earth. He took pity on the poor priest, said he was in the right, and scolded the people.
And so Popa Tanda stayed in Saraceni.
Misfortunes generally heap themselves upon mankind. One gives rise to another, or are they,perhaps, inseparable? Anyhow, they are always like light and shade, one alongside the other.
By now Father Trandafir had three children. When he returned from the bishop, he found his wife in bed. There was a fourth little blessing in the house. A sick wife, three little children, a fourth at the breast, and a tumble-down house; the snow drifted through the walls, the stove smoked, the wind came through the roof, the granary was bare, his purse empty, and his heart heavy.
Father Trandafir was not the man to find a way out of this embarrassing state of things. Had it been some one else in his situation, he could have helped him: he could not comfort himself. For a long time he stood in the dim light of the little lamp; every one around him slept. The sick woman was asleep. Now there is nothing more conducive to melancholy than the sight of people asleep. He loved those sleeping forms; he loved them and was responsible for their happiness; he lived for them, and their love made life precious to him. Thoughts crowded into his brain. His mind turned to the past and to the future; considering the state in which he found himself, the future could only appear depicted in the saddest colours. His children! His wife! What would become of them? His heart was heavy, and he could not find one consoling thought, one single loop-hole of escape; nowhere in the world was there anything to give him a gleam of hope.
The next day was Sunday. The Father went to church with bowed head, to read Matins.
Like the generality of mankind, Father Trandafir had never given much thought to what he was doing. He was a priest, and he was content with his lot. He liked to sing, to read the Gospel, to instruct the faithful, to comfort, and to give spiritual assistance to the erring. His thoughts did not go much beyond that. Had he been asked at any time whether he realized the sanctity, the inner meaning of his calling, maybe he would have laughed to himself at all those things which a man only grasps in moments of intense suffering. It is man’s nature when his mind comprehends a series of more or less deep thoughts, to measure the whole world by this standard, and not to believe what he does not understand. But man does not always think in this way. There are events during which his brain becomes inactive: in danger, when no escape seems possible; in moments of joy, when he knows not from what source his happiness is derived; at times when his train of thought seems to have lost all coherence. Then, when man has reached, in any way, the point where the possible becomes indistinguishable from the impossible, he ceases to reason, instinct asserts itself.
Father Trandafir went into the church. How many times had he not entered that church! Just as a blacksmith might enter his forge. But this time he was seized with an incomprehensible fear, hetook a few steps forward and then hid his face in his hands and began to sob bitterly. Why did he cry? Before whom did he cry? His lips uttered these words only: “Almighty God, succour me!” Did he believe that this prayer, expressed with all the energy of despair, could bring him help? He believed nothing; he thought of nothing; he was in a state of exaltation.
The Holy Scriptures teach us that just as the ploughman lives on the fruit of his toil, so does the spiritual pastor, who serves the altar, live by the result of his service at that altar. Father Trandafir always believed in the Holy Scriptures; he always worked only for the spiritual welfare of his people, and expected that they, in return, would furnish him with his daily bread. But the world is not always in agreement with what is written and commanded; only the priest agreed with it, the people did not. The Father got little from his office, anyhow not enough; this is to say, four pieces of ground near the village, a poll-tax on the population, and baptismal and burying fees.
Taken altogether, it amounted to nothing, seeing that the earth produced scarcely anything, the poll-tax existed only in name, the new-born were baptized for nothing, and the dead were buried gratis by the priest.
Near the church was a deserted house; a house in name only. The owner of the house could havekept cattle, but he had no beasts. By the side of the house there was room for a garden, but there was no garden because, as we have already said, there were no fences in Saraceni. Father Trandafir bought the whole place and lived in it. As the house belonged to the priest, nothing much was done to put it in order, and it was quite dilapidated, the walls had holes in them, there were rents in the roof. The Father only troubled himself about other people’s houses.
The priest’s table was no better than the house. According to the old saying, man follows the ways of other men even when he wants to make them follow his own: the priest lived like the rest of the village. Happily he had his wife’s dowry, but often one does not try to get help from just the place where it is to be had. The season of Lent drew near.
“It will not do!” said Father Trandafir. “This will not do!” And he began to do as the rest of the world does, to occupy himself first and foremost with the care of his own house.
Directly the spring-time came, he hired a gipsy, and set him to work to plaster the house with clay. In a few days all four walls were firmly plastered. After that, the priest enjoyed sitting outside more than inside the house, because you could not see the walls of the house so well from within; a plastered house was a fine thing in Saraceni, especially when one could say to oneself, “That is mine!” There was one thing, though, which was not as it shouldbe. Every time the Father’s eyes fell upon the sides of the roof he went indoors—he felt he had seen enough. He did not want to see the defective roof, but every time he wanted to look at the walls he had to see the roof. That damned roof! It could no longer be left like that.
Down in the valley where there are numerous pools, not only willows and osiers grew, but here and there were to be found sedges and rushes, cat’s-tail and a species of reed. “That is what I will do!” thought the priest. He engaged a man, and sent him out to cut sedges and rushes and cat’s-tail and reeds. One Saturday the house was surrounded by bundles tied with osiers; and the following Saturday the roof was mended and edged on the top with bundles of reeds over which were stretched two strips of wood fastened with cross pieces. The work was good, and not dear. People passed by the priest’s house nodding their heads and saying, “The priest is one of the devil’s own men.” Now the priest could stay happily outside.
But this happiness did not last long. There was still one thing that was not quite right. The priest felt that he was too much in the open. There was no other house in the village like his, and it would have been better a little separated from the village. The Father hardly liked to say “At my place,” when “my place” was “in the village.” There must be a fence, and a gate for the people to enter by, when they came to see the priest; it mightbe a fence in name only, and the gate only a hurdle, but it must be an understood thing that before anyone could enter the priest’s house he must cross the priest’s yard. Once more the priest hired a man and sent him to cut briars and stakes. He fixed the stakes into the ground, and placed the briars between them, and there was the fence, ready made. In front of the house, in the direction of the church, about half an acre of ground was enclosed: the gate was formed by four poles fastened by two others placed crosswise. The priest’s wife especially rejoiced at being thus shut in, and the priest rejoiced when he saw his wife’s pleasure. There was not a day on which either the priest or his wife did not say to the children: “Listen! you are not to go outside the yard; play quietly at home.”
Once a man starts, he never gets to the end. One desire gives rise to another. Now the priest’s wife got an idea in her head.
“Do you know, Father,” she said one morning, “I think it would be a good plan to make a few beds for vegetables by the side of the fence.”
“Vegetable-beds?”
“Yes; we can sow onions, carrots, haricot beans, potatoes, and cabbages.”
The Father was astonished. To him that seemed quite beyond their powers. Vegetable-beds in Saraceni!
For a few days his head was full of vegetable-beds, of potatoes, cabbages, and haricot beans; anda few days after that, the ground was already dug up and the beds were ready. Not a day passed on which the priest and his wife did not go about ten times to the beds to see if the seeds were growing. Great was the joy one day. The priest had risen very early.
“Wife, get up!”
“What’s the matter?”
“They have sprouted.”
The priest and his wife and all the children spent the whole day squatting by the beds. The more seeds they saw appear above the ground, the happier they were.
And again the villagers passed by the priest’s house and looked through the thorns at the priest’s vegetable-beds, and they said once more, “The priest is one of the devil’s own men!”
“Listen, wife,” said the priest. “Wouldn’t it be a good plan to sow maize along the fence and round the beds?”
“Indeed it would! I like fresh maize!”
“So do I, especially when it’s roasted on the embers!”
Here was a new task! The priest surrounded himself with maize. He laughed with pleasure when he thought how pretty it would be when the maize grew up all round and shut out the briars on the fence which had begun to offend his eyes. But there is the old proverb, “Much wants more.” At the back of the house was another strip of ground,about four times the size of the bit they had cultivated. The priest could not get it out of his head. Why should this land lie fallow? Couldn’t he plant maize at the back of the house too? In the fields opposite, men were ploughing and sowing, the ground was untouched still in the village because it was the village.
Marcu Flori Cucu, the priest’s neighbour, had a plough; it was rather dilapidated, but it was a plough, and Mitru Catamush, Marcu’s neighbour, had two feeble oxen and a foundered horse. The priest, Marcu, Mitru, the oxen and the horse, worked all one day from morn till eve. The ground was ploughed up and sown with maize. From thenceforward, the priest was happier when he was at the back of the house.
It was a wonderful and beautiful bit of work—what furrows! And here and there among the furrows a blade of maize peeped out. In spite of this, the priest scratched himself once or twice, and then fairly often, behind the ear. It seemed as though something still weighed upon his mind. It was a difficult matter, which he hardly dare take in hand: the glebe lands. Up to now, they had been neglected; at present, he did not know what to do with them. He would have liked to work them himself. He would have liked to see his own men sowing them; he would have liked to take his wife there in the autumn. It was very tempting. He talked a great deal to his wifeabout the matter. They would need horses, a cart, a plough, a labourer, stables—they would want a quantity of things. Moreover, the priest did not understand agriculture.
However, the vegetable-beds were growing green, the maize was springing up. The priest made up his mind; he took the residue of his wife’s dowry and set to work. Marcu’s plough was good enough to start with. The priest bought one horse from Mitru; a man in the Rapitza Valley had another one; Stan Schiopu had a cart with three wheels. The priest bought it as he got a wheel from Mitru, to make up for the horse being foundered.
Cozonac, the bell-ringer, engaged himself as labourer to the priest, for his house was only a stone’s throw away. The priest drove four posts into the ground at one end of the house, two long ones and two short, and he made three sides of plaited osiers and a roof of rushes, and there was the stable all ready.
During these days, Father Trandafir had aged by about ten years; but he grew young again when he placed his wife and children in the cart, whipped up the horses, and drove off to see their ploughed land.
The villagers saw him, and shook their heads, and said once more: “The priest is the devil’s own man.”
The priest’s wife had her own feminine worries. She had a beautiful Icon which had been given toher by the son of the priest at Vezura. At present the Icon was lying at the bottom of a box wrapped up in paper. For a long time she had wished to place it between the windows, to put flowers and sweet basil round it, and look at it often; because this Icon represented the Holy Virgin, and the priest’s daughter was called Mary. But the walls were dirty and the Icon had no case. There was another thing that annoyed the priest’s wife: one window was filled in with a pig’s bladder, and in the other were three broken panes mended with paper. The house was rather dark.
Easter drew near. There were only five days to Holy Week. If the priest wanted to spend Easter with his wife, he had still three important things to get: whitewash for the walls, windows for the house, and a case for the Icon of the most Blessed Virgin—all objects that could be found only in a town.
To the market, then!
The priest had horses and a cart. He was vexed about the osier baskets for the maize; only the backs and sides of them still remained. He was ashamed that a priest like himself should have to go to the market without any maize-baskets. He could not borrow any, seeing he was at Saraceni, where even the priest had no proper maize-baskets.
They say “Necessity is the best teacher.” The Father sent Cozonac down the valley to fetch osiers, planted two stakes in the ground with thinner sticksset between them about a hand’s breadth apart, and then the priest and his wife and children, and Cozonac too, began to plait the osiers in. Before long the baskets were ready. The work was not very remarkable, but for all that they were the best baskets in Saraceni, and so good that Cozonac could not refrain from saying, “The priest is one of the devil’s own men!”
To the market-place and from the market-place home the Father went proudly with his baskets; other people had some, but he found people could buy worse baskets than those he had made himself.
“What is the priest making?”
“Baskets for the maize.”
“But he has got some.”
“He is making them for those who have not got any.”
After Easter, Cozonac began to clear the pools of osiers which the priest wove into baskets. The longer the work continued, the better was it done; the last basket was always the best.
Marcu Flori Cucu was a sensible man. He liked to stay and talk to the priest. Cozonac cleared the osiers, the priest plaited them, while Marcu lay upon his stomach with his head in his hands and idly watched.
“This osier is a little too long,” said the priest, measuring the osier with his eye. “Here, Marcu! Give me the hatchet to make it shorter.”
The hatchet was at Marcu’s feet. Marcu raisedthe upper part of his body, supported himself on his elbows, stretched out his legs, and began feeling about for the hatchet, trying to draw it up by his feet.
“Make haste!” said the priest, and gave him a cut with the osier.
Marcu jumped up and assured the priest that he was much more nimble than he thought. In the end, this assurance was of great use to him. By Whitsuntide the priest had a cart-load of baskets ready to take to the market, and Marcu knew very well that if the priest sold the baskets he would have a cheerful holiday.
The priest had had help for some weeks, and the help had always brought a reward to the man who had given it.
Just before Whitsuntide the rain began, and seemed as though it would never cease.
“I do not know what I shall do,” said the priest. “It seems as though I must leave the market until after Whitsuntide. I do not like going in the rain. If it does not stop raining by Thursday, I just shall not go.”
Marcu scratched himself behind his ears and said nothing. He could see that it did not suit the priest to get soaked.
“Here,” he said a little later, ceasing to plait, “couldn’t we weave an awning? There are reeds and rushes and osiers in the valley.”
“Perhaps you are right,” replied the priest.“It could be made the same way as we are making these.”
Through helping him, Marcu had learnt to make better baskets than the priest. The awning did Marcu great credit, the priest did not get wet and came back from the market with a full purse.
This time Whit-Sunday was fine. The priest’s wife had a new gown, the three eldest children had dolls bought in the town; the tiny one, Mary, had a straw hat with two pink flowers, the walls were white both inside and out, the windows were whole, the house was light, and the Icon of the Holy Virgin could be seen very well placed high up between the windows, decorated with flowers grown along the edge of the vegetable-beds. The priest had brought white flour, meat, butter, and even sugar, from the town. The priest loved his wife, but it was not his way to kiss her at odd times. But, this morning, the first thing he did was to embrace her. His wife began to cry—I don’t know why—when Father Trandafir entered the church he felt inclined to cry; he had seen people in front of the Icon and there were tears in his eyes when he went up to the altar. The people say he had never sung more beautifully than he did that day. The saying remained: “To sing like the priest at Whitsuntide!”
The parishioners went to see the priest; they passed through the gate before they crossed the door-step; they wiped their boots, put their hatson their sticks, leaned their sticks against the wall, smoothed their moustaches and their beards, and stepped inside. When they came out of the house again, they took a look round, nodded their heads, and said nothing.
The years come, the years go; the world moves on, and man is sometimes at peace with the world, and sometimes at odds with it. The high road passed through the town, passed by the Dry Valley and ran farther on to the Rapitza Valley. Where the roads met, at the conjunction of the two valleys, there was a mill on the Rapitza. Near Rapitza was a cross; close to the cross was a fountain, and by the fountain were eight fine sycamores. This spot was called “The Cross of Saraceni.” From here to Saraceni was only about an hour by road. In spite of this, whenever he came from the town, the man of Saraceni pulled up here to water his horse, and waited a while, hoping that some wayfarer might come and ask: “What village is that where one sees that beautiful church with white walls and the glittering tower?” And when he is asked, he strokes his moustache, and looking proudly towards the place replies: “Up there on the Grofnitza? That’s our village—Saraceni; but you ought to hear the bells—what bells that tower contains! One can hear them a three hours’ journey away!”
Where the road divided there stood a sign-post with two arms; on one arm was written, “To theRapitza Valley,” and on the other one, “Towards the Dry Valley.” There was no road anywhere round about like the one that ran through the Dry Valley towards Saraceni.
It was as smooth as a table, and as solid as a cherry-stone. One could see the Saracenese had constructed it lovingly. To right and left, at intervals of ten to fifteen paces, were some shady nut-trees which were a pleasure to look at. The river-bed lay on the right; the road ran along its bank, but higher up, so that the water could not disturb it. The Saracenese had to destroy rock in their progress, but that they did cheerfully, for out of the rock they built the road.
From here on, the Saracene felt at home, and drove at a foot’s pace. But he was not bored for a second. At every step almost he met an acquaintance with whom he exchanged words, “Where do you come from?” and “Where are you going?” One man had a cart full of lime, another a load of apples; then came a man carrying a trellis-work, and another with a wheelbarrow, a stave, or some other article made of wood.
From time to time, along the side of the road, one found the stone-masons at work, their trowels ringing from daybreak till sunset. This road was not a dreary one!
There were lime-kilns where the road ran along the valley. In one place there was a whole village. Some men were loading up lime, othersunloading stone and wood; the masons were shaping the stones, the men at the kilns were throwing wood on to the fires; the foremen were making noise enough for five.
From this point one could see the village well. The gardens were full of trees; only between the bushes or beyond the trees did one catch a glimpse here and there of a bit of the walls or the roofs of the houses. The priest’s house was just up by the church; one could only see five windows and a red roof with two chimney stacks. Opposite the church stood the school. The house, of which one could only see a piece of wall with two windows and a roof, belonged to Marcu Flori Cucu.
The big building visible lower down was the Town Hall. If the houses had lain less closely together the village would have looked very beautiful, but, as it was, one only caught a glimpse and must imagine the rest.
Every one had changed; Father Trandafir only had remained the same: fresh, gay, and busy. If his grey hair and grizzled beard had not betrayed his age, we might have thought that the little children with whom he played in the evening, on the seat in front of the house, were his own. One of them, whom he had lifted up to kiss, stole his hat from off his head and ran away with it. Mariuca opened the window and called out:
“My little Trandafir, don’t leave grandfather bareheaded.”
Then she flew from the window to catch Ileana, who had stolen her grandmother’s bonnet and adorned herself with it, and was now proudly showing herself to her grandfather. The old grandfather laughed heartily, he loved a joke. From close by came Father Costa, and caught first Ileana and then Mariuca, kissed them, and then seated himself by his father-in-law’s side. Marcu, neighbour and old friend, Mariuca’s father-in-law, and attached to the house, saw the group and came to join in the conversation.
“Old man, take your hat; you must not sit there bare-headed,” said the grandmother, handing his hat through the window.
One of the villagers, in passing, wished him “Good night,” and added to himself, “May the Lord preserve him for many years, for he is one of God’s own men.”