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ROUMANIAN STORIES
Translated from the
original Roumanian
By LUCY BYNG
London John Lane, The Bodley Head
New York: John Lane Company. MCMXXI
William Clowes and Sons, Limited, London and Beccles, England.
To
ROUMANIA'S GRACIOUS QUEEN
This book is dedicated with
profound admiration and respect
PREFACE
By H.M. THE QUEEN OF ROUMANIA
Very little is known in England about Roumanian literature,
which although not as rich as in many other countries, presents,
nevertheless, features of real interest.
Like all people in touch with the East, even the peasants have a
strain of poetry in their speech, their expression is picturesque
and gentle, an almost fatalistic note of sadness rings through all
the songs they sing.
Our poets have adapted themselves to this particular strain, and
mostly it is the popular form that has been developed by our literary
men both in prose and poetry.
Roumanian literature possesses eminent historians and critics. I
am not, in these few lines, going to touch upon their activities;
but strangely enough there are few writers of fiction amongst the
Roumanians--great novel writers do not exist.
The Roumanian, above all, excels as poet and as a short-story
writer. In this last art he is past-master, and it is therefore a
great pleasure to me to encourage this book which Mrs. Schomberg Byng
is sending out into the world at a moment when I am so anxious that
my country should be better known and understood in England.
Each one of these short stories is a little work of art, and deeply
characteristic of Roumanian popular life and thought; therefore I have
no doubt that they will interest all those who care about literature.
I feel personally indebted to Mrs. Schomberg Byng to have thought
of making this interesting feature of Roumanian literature known to
the British public. I therefore, with all my heart, wish this little
volume Good Luck.
MARIE.
Jan., 1920.
PREFACE
By Professor S. MEHEDINTZI
Of Bucharest University and the Roumanian Academy
As regards poetry Roumanian literature had reached the European
level by the nineteenth century. Eminescu may be placed by the side
of Leopardi. The drama and the novel are still unrepresented by any
works of the first rank; but the short story shows that Roumanian
writing is constantly on the upward grade.
The following stories have been selected from many writers. The reader
must judge each author for himself. It is impossible to settle their
respective merits; that would presuppose an acquaintance with the
whole of Roumanian literature. We may, however, be allowed to say a
word or two about each writer.
Negruzzi is to Roumanian very much what Sir Walter Scott has been to
English literature. After the lapse of nigh a century the historical
novel is still identified with his name.
Creanga is a production exclusively Roumanian; a peasant who knew
no foreign tongue, but whose mind was steeped in the fairy tales,
proverbs, and wit of the people. He wrote with a humour and an
originality of imagery which make his work almost impossible to
translate into other languages.
Caragiale, our most noted dramatic author, is the antithesis of
Creanga; a man of culture, literary and artistic in the highest
sense of the word. The Easter Torch ranks him high among the great
short-story writers.
Popovici-Banatzeanu--dead very young--and Bratescu-Voineshti are
writers who more than any others give us the atmosphere of the English
novel in which the ethical note predominates. Some of their pages
have the poignancy of Dickens.
The same discreet note is struck by Slavici, born in Hungary, whose
Popa Tanda is the personification of the Roumanian people subject
for centuries to the injustice of an alien race, and driven to seek
support in their own work only.
Delavrancea, a famous orator, is a romantic; while Sadoveanu, the most
fertile prose writer among the younger men, possesses as novelist and
story-teller a touch which makes him akin to Turgenev and Sienkiewicz.
Beza stands by himself. From the mountains of Macedonia he brings
into the national literature the original note of the life of the
shepherds in the Balkans. Constantly upon the road, among mountain
tops and plains, always in fear of the foreigners among whom they
pass, their life manifests a great spiritual concentration. Over
Beza's work there hover a mystery and a restraint which completely
fascinate the reader. Though young, he possesses the qualities of
the classical writers.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE
I wish to take this opportunity of thanking M. Beza for his most
valuable assistance. Without his intimate knowledge of the two
languages and his kindly and expert criticism these translations
would never have seen the light.
Some well-known names, that of Diuliu Zamfirescu for instance,
are absent from my list of authors; lack of time and difficulty in
obtaining their works made their inclusion impossible.
LUCY BYNG.
CONTENTS
Page
The Fairy of the Lake. M. Sadoveanu 1
The Easter Torch. I. L. Caragiale 11
At Manjoala's Inn. I. L. Caragiale 35
Alexandru Lapushneanu, 1564-1569. C. Negruzzi 51
Zidra. M. Beza 85
Gardana. M. Beza 93
The Dead Pool. M. Beza 109
Old Nichifor, the Impostor. I. Creanga 115
Cozma Racoare. M. Sadoveanu 141
The Wanderers. M. Sadoveanu 157
The Fledgeling. I. Al. Bratescu-Voineshti 167
Popa Tanda. I. Slavici 175
Out in the World. Ion Popovici-Banatzeanu 207
The Bird of Ill Omen. I. Al. Bratescu-Voineshti 261
Irinel. B. Delavrancea 267
ROUMANIAN STORIES
THE FAIRY OF THE LAKE
By M. SADOVEANU
One evening old Costescu told us an adventure of his youth.
The old mill of Zavu, he began, stands to this day close to the
Popricani lake. A black building leaning towards the dark waters. The
six wheels are driven by great streams of water which come rushing
through the mill-race, and surround the house, washing through the
cracks. Above the boiling foam which encircles it, the great building
shakes with the unceasing roar of the water.
So it is to-day; so it was at the period when I used to roam about
those parts--it is long, long, since then.
I remember a night like a night in a fairy tale, full of the silver
light of the moon, a night when only youth could see, when only youth
could feel.
It was in July. I was descending the lake by myself with my gun over
my shoulder. Flights of duck passing above the forest of reeds lured
me on. I followed their rapid flight through the clear atmosphere,
the black specks became gradually smaller until they were lost to sight
in the rosy clouds of the setting sun. I passed above the weir, where
the waterfall brawls, between the bushy willow-trees which guard the
narrow path, and approached the mill. The green stream swept through
the mill-race, the foaming water boiled round the black building, and
in the yard, unyoked and ruminating, the oxen slept beside the waggon.
The old man, the miller, the great-grandson of Zavu, descended from
the mill bridge with his pipe in the corner of his mouth. In the
deafening roar of the water and the creaking of the wheels men waited
in silence amid the luminous spray that filled the old building.
"Good health to you, my old friend Simione!"
"Thank you, sir. How goes it with the land? Grinding good flour?"
This was the old man's usual question: was the country grinding
good flour?
"Good, my old friend Simione!"
"Praise be to God!" said the old fellow. "But how are you, sir? You
never come to see us. The duck give you no peace!"
"No, they give me no peace. I mean to lie in wait on the bank
to-night. Perhaps luck will come my way."
"Good; may it be as you wish. See, Zamfira will show you the way."
Just at that moment appeared the miller's niece. She was a strange
girl of sixteen years of age; of middle height and thin, but with
well-developed muscles: her cheeks were sunburnt, and she had two grey
eyes, eyes so restless and so strange, and of such beauty and such
brilliance as I have never seen since. She had not regular features,
but the grey eyes beneath the heavy, arched brows gave her an unusual
and radiant beauty.
At the old man's words she stopped suddenly, and said quickly with
twinkling eyes:
"I don't want to show him the way!"
"Why not?" I asked with surprise, while the old man smiled.
"Because I don't want to!" said Zamfira, looking at me askance.
"Very well," said the old man quietly, "don't take him!"
The girl looked at me searchingly, through half-closed eyelids,
and then cried sharply:
"I'll take him, after all!"
Old Simione began to laugh softly, turned round, and pursued his way to
the mill bridge, but Zamfira remained in front of me, erect, her hands
by her sides. Her head was bent down, but the grey eyes flashed at me
from beneath the eyebrows. Her head was bare, her chestnut hair was
drawn smoothly back from the temples into a thick plait, tied at the
nape of the neck; a white water-lily, beautiful, as though cut out of
silver, was fastened among her rich tresses. Beneath a white chemise
her bosom rose and fell, a blue skirt fell plainly to her ankles.
Suddenly she raised her head and looked shyly at me as she smiled. Her
teeth shone between her thin lips. Then, with her eyes, she gave me
the signal: "Come!"
I followed her. She moved swiftly; her well-developed form was
clearly outlined beneath her thin garments. From time to time she
turned her head, and her teeth flashed. She untied the boat, jumped
in and said curtly:
"Follow me!"
After I was seated, she braced herself for the effort, thrust in the
long pole, and set the boat in motion. For some time we glided through
reeds and rushes, and above great beds of weed. When we reached open
water she put down the pole, and took to the oars. The boat cleft
the deep water which glowed with flames from the fire of the setting
sun. The oars splashed softly with a musical sound. The girl's whole
body moved with a rhythmic grace that was unspeakably fascinating. The
silver lily quivered in the luxuriant chestnut hair.
Silence reigned over the lake. Water-lilies shone in the golden sunset;
the reeds rustled softly; the dragon-flies passed like blue flashes
through the light.
Suddenly the girl turned her strange grey eyes upon me.
"So to-night you will lie in wait for the duck?" she asked.
"Yes, I shall wait."
"Good."
Her voice had a melodious, silvery ring. I questioned her:
"That seems strange to you?"
"No," she said, turning her head away; "but aren't you afraid?"
"Of what should I be afraid?"
"Of the fairy of the lake," she replied with conviction.
"Of the water lady? Who is this fairy of the lake?"
"What? Do you not know? The fairy of the lake."
Her eyes scanned my face intently.
The sun had nearly set; the water of the lake grew dark; a heron
passed above us scarcely moving its wings; its cries sent a shudder
of sadness through the silence of the forest of reeds. The girl
looked at me, and her teeth shone with a smile of almost diabolical
beauty: her clear-cut face seemed to reflect the colour of the green
water. I cannot describe what I felt; only the charm of the speaker
was astounding. In that framework of reeds and creepers--set as it
were between two skies--she was the fairy of the lake.
The boat struck the side of a cave and remained fast.
"Here we are," said the girl.
Slowly I stepped ashore. But the charm made my head reel. I turned
abruptly, took her face between my hands, and would have kissed those
eyes in whose depths the secret of the lake lay hid. She resisted
gracefully with little movements, and trills of laughter, and instead
of kissing her eyes I touched her lips which burnt like fire.
I felt her draw herself away, I felt those strange eyes piercing
through me, and the boat shot away into the reeds and creepers. The
lake remained desolate, and in the silence only the gentle splash of
distant oars could be heard. I prepared myself a little bed of reeds
in the cave. I spread out my serge cloak, tried the triggers of my
gun, and while I waited for the duck I fell into a brown study. How
strange! I was perfectly conscious of my position; I knew quite
well that the fairy was none other than Zamfira, the miller's niece,
the sunburnt, and perhaps, the simple maiden; and in spite of this,
the eyes, and the laughter, had something about them that intoxicated
me like the strong perfume of some wild flower.
In the gradually deepening shadows of the twilight she remained like
some vision, floating on the bosom of the lake, among the blossoms
of the water-lilies. I was roused by the rapid whirr of wings. I
started up. A flight of duck passed over me. This event drove away
my preoccupation. I steadied the gun in my hands and put it at full
cock. In the reeds, torn and beaten by the wings of the duck, coot
and moor-hens called to each other; a light breeze ruffled the forest
of reeds. Small flocks of birds passed through the darkness of the
night. I fired a few shots. The gun made a deep sound which echoed far
across the water; one or two duck detached themselves from the group,
and fell heavily to the surface of the lake, troubling the water. The
darkness increased, it was impossible to distinguish the duck, one
could only hear the rustle of their flight, like a brief wind. The
evening breeze dropped, and a calm spread itself over the lake: only
great black birds flew overhead, noisily crying: "Chaw! Chaw!" From
time to time, in the silence of the night, could be heard the deep,
lugubrious, indistinct note of the bittern.
Stars glowed overhead, and in the depths of the water--the moon would
not rise for nearly another hour. I wrapped myself in my cloak, and
began to ponder over those grey eyes. In the silence, which grew ever
deeper, the noise of the mill and of the weir could be heard afar off;
somewhere a dog barked in its kennel; from some hill, lighting the
darkness, one caught the twinkle of a bright flame. The supple body,
the eyes, and the laughter, the lily blossom which harmonized so well
with the lake and with the green lights in the eyes, tantalized me. Now
she was no longer the simple maiden, kissed by the sun and caressed
by the wind; every movement, every look, had something particular
about it. And also something strange.
I had never seen her when I visited the mill. I had heard of the
old man's devilish niece, but I had never set eyes upon her. But now
an incident recurred to my mind, to which, at the time, I had paid
scant attention. On one occasion I had perceived a pair of restless
eyes peeping at me through a chink in the mill bridge. Those eyes
were surely hers; they sparkled so--and were so full of light and
mirth. There, in the dark night, that ardent kiss seemed to burn me
and I waited--I waited for something that I could not explain even
to myself.
I dozed, dreaming of those grey eyes. I cannot tell--perhaps I fell
asleep. I awoke in the full light of the moon which was flooding
atmosphere and lake with its silver beams. The water glittered, the
night was still, the mill was silent; in the distance the weir was
murmuring as in a dream.
Here and there, the water rippled into circles the colour of agate;
groups of duck were bathing in the moonlight. I put my hand to
my gun. I raised my eyes, I was ready to pull--when I paused. A
melodious song, scarcely intelligible, could be heard coming from
the lake. It was a simple song, and monotonous, but its remoteness,
the echo across the water, the clear light of the moon, lent it a
profound charm. I immediately thought of the lady of the lake.
I placed my gun beside me and listened. It was a simple and touching
melody. It had ceased for some time, but I still strained my ears;
I could only catch the soft murmur of the distant weir. Time passed,
and yet I still expected something to happen.
After a while I heard distinctly the soft splash of oars. I looked
everywhere, I could not make out whence it came. Then, suddenly,
amid the obscurity of the rushes, the gently floating boat came
gliding into the sea of light with the girl reclining in the silvery
beams. The lily shone in her dark hair.
I cannot tell you what I felt, for the storm of emotion cannot be
expressed in words, and besides that, I was young then, and half
a century has passed since my youth. I know I stood with wondering
eyes and gazed like one possessed: in very truth this was the fairy
of the lake!
All at once I saw a movement. The boat turned, and the oars struck
the water, making great ripples of light. It was directed towards
my cave. She came with wild speed, staring, her great eyes like
phosphorescent stars. But when she got near, she once more let the
boat glide, then turned abruptly, and laughing passed by the cave--a
silvery laugh, which I have never forgotten, no, not to this day
although it is so long ago. She passed by like a phantom, laughing,
and her eyes shining like two stars in the night of those great
eyebrows. To the right of me she rose, and threw something towards
me; then, sinking down, she again took the oars, struck the water,
and shot out into the open lake.
She disappeared. One could only hear the soft stroke of the oars;
then that, too, ceased, and perfect silence fell upon the silvery lake.
By my side I found a bouquet of carnations and sweet basil, the
flowers of love.
At daybreak the old man came to take me off. When I turned towards
the yard I once again bent my head in the direction of the old black
building. Eyes watched me through the chink in the mill bridge.
That very day I went away. Many a time have I wanted to return to
the old Zavu mill, but fate has willed it otherwise. At last, when I
could have done so, other loves have held me in other places. Years
have passed, but the bunch of dried carnations and basil reminds me
of it all. And from time to time, my thoughts wander to the fairy of
the lake.
THE EASTER TORCH
By I. L. CARAGIALE
Leiba Zibal, mine host of Podeni, was sitting lost in thought, by a
table placed in the shadow in front of the inn; he was awaiting the
arrival of the coach which should have come some time ago; it was
already an hour behind time.
The story of Zibal's life is a long and cheerless one: when he is
taken with one of his feverish attacks it is a diversion for him to
analyse one by one the most important events in that life.
Huckster, seller of hardware, jobber, between whiles even rougher
work perhaps, seller of old clothes, then tailor, and boot-black in a
dingy alley in Jassy; all this had happened to him since the accident
whereby he lost his situation as office boy in a big wine-shop. Two
porters were carrying a barrel down to a cellar under the supervision
of the lad Zibal. A difference arose between them as to the division
of their earnings. One of them seized a piece of wood that lay at hand
and struck his comrade on the forehead, who fell to the ground covered
in blood. At the sight of the wild deed the boy gave a cry of alarm,
but the wretch hurried through the yard, and in passing gave the lad
a blow. Zibal fell to the ground fainting with fear. After several
months in bed he returned to his master, only to find his place
filled up. Then began a hard struggle for existence, which increased
in difficulty after his marriage with Sura. Their hard lot was borne
with patience. Sura's brother, the inn-keeper of Podeni, died; the
inn passed into Zibal's hands, and he carried on the business on his
own account.
Here he had been for the last five years. He had saved a good bit of
money and collected good wine--a commodity that will always be worth
good money--Leiba had escaped from poverty, but they were all three
sickly, himself, his wife, and his child, all victims of malaria,
and men are rough and quarrelsome in Podeni--slanderous, scoffers,
revilers, accused of vitriol throwing. And the threats! A threat
is very terrible to a character that bends easily beneath every
blow. The thought of a threat worked more upon Leiba's nerves than
did his attacks of fever.
"Oh, wretched Gentile!" he thought, sighing.
This "wretched" referred to Gheorghe--wherever he might be!--a man
between whom and himself a most unpleasant affair had arisen.
Gheorghe came to the inn one autumn morning, tired with his walk; he
was just out of hospital--so he said--and was looking for work. The
innkeeper took him into his service. But Gheorghe showed himself to
be a brutal and a sullen man. He swore continually, and muttered to
himself alone in the yard. He was a bad servant, lazy and insolent,
and he stole. He threatened his mistress one day when she was pregnant,
cursing her, and striking her on the stomach. Another time he set a
dog on little Strul.
Leiba paid him his wages at once, and dismissed him. But Gheorghe
would not go: he asserted with violence that he had been engaged for
a year. Then the innkeeper sent to the town hall to get guards to
remove him.
Gheorghe put his hand swiftly to his breast, crying:
"Jew!" and began to rail at his master. Unfortunately, a cart full
of customers arrived at that moment. Gheorghe began to grin, saying:
"What frightened you, Master Leiba? Look, I am going now." Then bending
fiercely over the bar towards Leiba, who drew back as far as possible,
he whispered: "Expect me on Easter Eve; we'll crack red eggs together,
Jew! You will know then what I have done to you, and I will answer
for it."
Just then, customers entered the inn.
"May we meet in good health at Easter, Master Leiba!" added Gheorghe
as he left.
Leiba went to the town hall, then to the sub-prefecture to denounce
the threatener, begging that he might be watched. The sub-prefect
was a lively young man; he first accepted Leiba's humble offering,
then he began to laugh at the timid Jew, and make fun of him. Leiba
tried hard to make him realize the gravity of the situation, and
pointed out how isolated the house stood from the village, and even
from the high road. But the sub-prefect, with a more serious air,
advised him to be prudent; he must not mention such things, for,
truly, it would arouse the desire to do them in a village where men
were rough and poor, ready to break the law.
A few days later, an official with two riders came to see him about
Gheorghe; he was "wanted" for some crime.
If only Leiba had been able to put up with him until the arrival
of these men! In the meanwhile, no one knew the whereabouts of
Gheorghe. Although this had happened some time ago, Gheorghe's
appearance, the movement as though he would have drawn something
from his breast, and the threatening words had all remained deeply
impressed upon the mind of the terror-stricken man. How was it that
that memory remained so clear?
It was Easter Eve.
From the top of the hill, from the village lying among the lakes
about two miles away, came the sound of church bells. One hears in a
strange way when one is feverish, now so loud, now so far away. The
coming night was the night before Easter, the night of the fulfilment
of Gheorghe's promise.
"But perhaps they have caught him by now!"
Moreover, Zibal only means to stay at Podeni till next
quarter-day. With his capital he could open a good business in
Jassy. In a town, Leiba would regain his health, he would go near
the police station--he could treat the police, the commissionaires,
the sergeants. Who pays well gets well guarded.
In a large village, the night brings noise and light, not darkness
and silence as in the isolated valley of Podeni. There is an inn in
Jassy--there in the corner, just the place for a shop! An inn where
girls sing all night long, a Cafe Chantant. What a gay and rousing
life! There, at all hours of the day and night, officials and their
girls, and other dirty Christians will need entertainment.
What is the use of bothering oneself here where business keeps falling
off, especially since the coming of the railway which only skirts
the marshes at some distance?
"Leiba," calls Sura from within, "the coach is coming, one can hear
the bells."
The Podeni valley is a ravine enclosed on all sides by wooded
hills. In a hollow towards the south lie several deep pools caused
by the springs which rise in the hills; above them lie some stretches
of ground covered with bushes and rushes. Leiba's hotel stands in the
centre of the valley, between the pools and the more elevated ground
to the north; it is an old stone building, strong as a small fortress:
although the ground is marshy, the walls and cellars are very dry.
At Sura's voice Leiba raises himself painfully from his chair,
stretching his tired limbs; he takes a long look towards the east,
not a sign of the diligence.
"It is not coming; you imagined it," he replied to his wife, and sat
down again.
Very tired the man crossed his arms on the table, and laid his head
upon them, for it was burning. The warmth of the spring sun began to
strike the surface of the marshes and a pleasant lassitude enveloped
his nerves, and his thoughts began to run riot as a sick man's will,
gradually taking on strange forms and colours.
Gheorghe--Easter Eve--burglars--Jassy--the inn in the centre of the
town--a gay restaurant doing well--restored health.
And he dozed.
Sura and the child went without a great deal up here.
Leiba went to the door of the inn and looked out on to the road.
On the main road there was a good deal of traffic, an unceasing noise
of wheels accompanied by the rhythmic sound of horses' hooves trotting
upon the smooth asphalt.
But suddenly the traffic stopped, and from Copou a group of people
could be seen approaching, gesticulating and shouting excitedly.
The crowd appeared to be escorting somebody: soldiers, a guard and
various members of the public. Curious onlookers appeared at every
door of the inn.
"Ah," thought Leiba, "they have laid hands on a thief."
The procession drew nearer. Sura detached herself from the others,
and joined Leiba on the steps of the inn.
"What is it, Sura?" he asked.
"A madman escaped from Golia."
"Let us close the inn so that he cannot get at us."
"He is bound now, but just now he escaped. He fought with all the
soldiers. A rough Gentile in the crowd pushed a Jew against the madman
and he bit him on the cheek."
Leiba could see well from the steps; from the stair below Sura watched
with the child in her arms.
It was, in fact, a violent lunatic held on either side by two men:
his wrists were tightly bound over each other by a thick cord. He was
a man of gigantic stature with a head like a bull, thick black hair,
and hard, grizzled beard and whiskers. Through his shirt, which had
been torn in the struggle, his broad chest was visible, covered like
his head, with a mass of hair. His feet were bare; his mouth was full
of blood, and he continually spat out hair which he had bitten from
the Jew's beard.
Every one stood still. Why? The guards unbound the lunatic's hands. The
crowd drew to one side, leaving a large space around him. The madman
looked about him, and his fierce glance rested upon Zibal's doorway;
he gnashed his teeth, made a dash for the three steps, and in a flash,
seizing the child's head in his right hand and Sura's in his left, he
knocked them together with such force that they cracked like so many
fresh eggs. A sound was heard, a scrunching impossible to describe,
as the two skulls cracked together.
Leiba, with bursting heart, like a man who falls from an immense
height, tried to cry out: "The whole world abandons me to the tender
mercies of a madman!" But his voice refused to obey him.
"Get up, Jew!" cried some one, beating loudly upon the table with
a stick.
"It's a bad joke," said Sura from the doorway of the inn, "thus to
frighten the man out of his sleep, you stupid peasant!"
"What has scared you, Jew?" asked the wag, laughing. "You sleep
in the afternoon, eh? Get up, customers are coming, the mail coach
is arriving."
And, according to his silly habit which greatly irritated the Jew,
he tried to take his arm and tickle him.
"Let me alone!" cried the innkeeper, drawing back and pushing him away
with all his might. "Can you not see that I am ill? Leave me in peace."
The coach arrived at last, nearly three hours late. There were two
passengers who seated themselves together with the driver, whom they
had invited to share their table.
The conversation of the travellers threw a light upon recent
events. At the highest posting station, a robbery with murder had
been committed during the night in the inn of a Jew. The murdered
innkeeper should have provided change of horses. The thieves had
taken them, and while other horses were being found in the village
the curious travellers could examine the scene of the crime at their
leisure. Five victims! But the details! From just seeing the ruined
house one could believe it to have been some cruel vendetta or the
work of some religious fanatic. In stories of sectarian fanaticism
one heard occasionally of such extravagant crimes.
Leiba shook with a violent access of fever and listened aghast.
What followed must have undoubtedly filled the driver with respect. The
young passengers were two students, one of philosophy, the other of
medicine; they were returning to amuse themselves in their native
town. They embarked upon a violent academic discussion upon crime and
its causes, and, to give him his due, the medical student was better
informed than the philosopher.
Atavism; alcoholism and its pathological consequences; defective birth;
deformity; Paludism; then nervous disorders! Such and such conquest
of modern science--but the case of reversion to type! Darwin, Haeckel,
Lombroso. At the case of reversion to type, the driver opened wide
his eyes in which shone a profound admiration for the conquests of
modern science.
"It is obvious," added the medical student. "The so-called criminal
proper, taken as a type, has unusually long arms, and very short feet,
a flat and narrow forehead, and a much developed occiput. To the
experienced eye his face is characteristically coarse and bestial;
he is rudimentary man: he is, as I say, a beast which has but lately
got used to standing on its hind legs only, and to raising its head
towards the sky, towards the light."
At the age of twenty, after so much excitement, and after a good
repast with wine so well vinted, and so well matured as Leiba's,
a phrase with a lyrical touch came well even from a medical student.
Between his studies of Darwin and Lombroso, the enthusiastic youth
had found time to imbibe a little Schopenhauer--"towards the sky,
towards the light!"
Leiba was far from understanding these "illuminating" ideas. Perhaps
for the first time did such grand words and fine subtleties of thought
find expression in the damp atmosphere of Podeni. But that which he
understood better than anything, much better even than the speaker,
was the striking illustration of the theory: the case of reversion to
type he knew in flesh and blood, it was the portrait of Gheorghe. This
portrait, which had just been drawn in broad outline only, he could
fill in perfectly in his own mind, down to the most minute details.
The coach had gone. Leiba followed it with his eyes until, turning to
the left, it was lost to sight round the hill. The sun was setting
behind the ridge to the west, and the twilight began to weave soft
shapes in the Podeni valley.
The gloomy innkeeper began to turn over in his mind all that he had
heard. In the dead of night, lost in the darkness, a man, two women
and two young children, torn without warning from the gentle arms of
sleep by the hands of beasts with human faces, and sacrificed one after
the other, the agonized cries of the children cut short by the dagger
ripping open their bodies, the neck slashed with a hatchet, the dull
rattle in the throat with each gush of blood through the wound; and
the last victim, half-distraught, in a corner, witness of the scene,
and awaiting his turn. A condition far worse than execution was that
of the Jew without protection in the hands of the Gentile--skulls
too fragile for such fierce hands as those of the madman just now.
Leiba's lips, parched with fever, trembled as they mechanically
followed his thoughts. A violent shivering fit seized him; he entered
the porch of the inn with tottering steps.
"There is no doubt," thought Sura, "Leiba is not at all well, he is
really ill; Leiba has got 'ideas' into his head. Is not that easy to
understand after all he has been doing these last days, and especially
after what he has done to-day?"
He had had the inn closed before the lights were lit, to remain so
until the Sabbath was ended. Three times had some customers knocked
at the door, calling to him, in familiar voices, to undo it. He had
trembled at each knock and had stood still, whispering softly and
with terrified eyes:
"Do not move--I want no Gentiles here."
Then he had passed under the portico, and had listened at the top of
the stone steps by the door which was secured with a bar of wood. He
shook so that he could scarcely stand, but he would not rest. The most
distressing thing of all was that, he had answered Sura's persistent
questions sharply, and had sent her to bed, ordering her to put out the
light at once. She had protested meanwhile, but the man had repeated
the order curtly enough, and she had had unwillingly to submit,
resigning herself to postponing to a later date any explanation of
his conduct.
Sura had put out the lamp, had gone to bed, and now slept by the side
of Strul.
The woman was right. Leiba was really ill.
Night had fallen. For a long time Leiba had been sitting, listening
by the doorway which gave on to the passage.
What is that?
Indistinct sounds came from the distance--horses trotting, the noise
of heavy blows, mysterious and agitated conversations. The effort of
listening intently in the solitude of the night sharpens the sense
of hearing: when the eye is disarmed and powerless, the ear seems to
struggle to assert its power.
But it was not imagination. From the road leading hither from the main
road came the sound of approaching horses. Leiba rose, and tried to
get nearer to the big door in the passage. The door was firmly shut
by a heavy bar of wood across it, the ends of which ran into holes in
the wall. At his first step the sand scrunching under his slippers made
an indiscreet noise. He drew his feet from his slippers, and waited in
the corner. Then, without a sound that could be heard by an unexpectant
ear, he went to the door in the corridor, just as the riders passed in
front of it at walking pace. They were speaking very low to each other,
but not so low but that Leiba could quite well catch these words:
"He has gone to bed early."
"Supposing he has gone away?"
"His turn will come; but I should have liked----"
No more was intelligible; the men were already some way away.
To whom did these words refer? Who had gone to bed or gone away? Whose
turn would come another time? Who would have liked something? And
what was it he wanted? What did they want on that by-road--a road
only used by anyone wishing to find the inn?
An overwhelming sense of fatigue seemed to overcome Leiba.
"Could it be Gheorghe?"
Leiba felt as if his strength was giving way, and he sat down by the
door. Eager thoughts chased each other through his head, he could
not think clearly or come to any decision.
Terrified, he re-entered the inn, struck a match, and lighted a small
petroleum lamp.
It was an apology for a light; the wick was turned so low as to conceal
the flame in the brass receiver; only by means of the opening round
the receiver could some of the vertical shafts of light penetrate
into a gloom that was like the darkness of death--all the same it
was sufficient to enable him to see well into the familiar corners
of the inn. Ah! How much less is the difference between the sun and
the tiniest spark of light than between the latter and the gloom
of blindness.
The clock on the wall ticked audibly. The monotonous sound irritated
Leiba. He put his hand over the swinging pendulum, and stayed its
movement.
His throat was parched. He was thirsty. He washed a small glass in
a three-legged tub by the side of the bar and tried to pour some
good brandy out of a decanter; but the mouth of the decanter began
to clink loudly on the edge of the glass. This noise was still more
irritating. A second attempt, in spite of his effort to conquer his
weakness, met with no greater success.
Then, giving up the idea of the glass, he let it fall gently into
the water, and drank several times out of the decanter. After that he
pushed the decanter back into its place; as it touched the shelf it
made an alarming clatter. For a moment he waited, appalled by such
a catastrophe. Then he took the lamp, and placed it in the niche of
the window which lighted the passage: the door, the pavement, and
the wall which ran at right angles to the passage, were illuminated
by almost imperceptible streaks of light.
He seated himself near the doorway and listened intently.
From the hill came the sound of bells ringing in the Resurrection
morning. It meant that midnight was past, day was approaching. Ah! If
only the rest of this long night might pass as had the first half!
The sound of sand trodden underfoot! But he was sitting in the corner,
and had not stirred; a second noise, followed by many such. There
could be no doubt some one was outside, here, quite near. Leiba rose,
pressing his hand to his heart, and trying to swallow a suspicious
lump in his throat.
There were several people outside--and Gheorghe! Yes, he was there;
yes, the bells on the hill had rung the Resurrection.
They spoke softly:
"I tell you he is asleep. I saw when the lights went out."
"Good, we will take the whole nest."
"I will undo the door, I understand how it works. We must cut an
opening--the beam runs along here."
He seemed to feel the touch of the men outside as they measured the
distance on the wood. A big gimlet could be heard boring its way
through the dry bark of the old oak. Leiba felt the need of support;
he steadied himself against the door with his left hand while he
covered his eyes with the right.
Then, through some inexplicable play of the senses, he heard, from
within, quite loud and clear:
"Leiba! Here comes the coach."
It was surely Sura's voice. A warm ray of hope! A moment of joy! It
was just another dream! But Leiba drew his left hand quickly back;
the point of the tool, piercing the wood at that spot, had pricked
the palm of his hand.
Was there any chance of escape? Absurd! In his burning brain the
image of the gimlet took inconceivable dimensions. The instrument,
turning continually, grew indefinitely, and the opening became larger
and larger, large enough at last to enable the monster to step through
the round aperture without having to bend. All that surged through
such a brain transcends the thoughts of man; life rose to such a
pitch of exaltation that everything seen, heard, felt, appeared to
be enormous, the sense of proportion became chaotic.
The work outside was continued with method and perseverance. Four times
in succession Leiba had seen the sharp steel tooth pierce through to
his side and draw back again.
"Now, give me the saw," said Gheorghe.
The narrow end of a saw appeared through the first hole, and started to
work with quick, regular movements. The plan was easy to understand;
four holes in four corners of one panel; the saw made cuts between
them; the gimlet was driven well home in the centre of the panel;
when the piece became totally separated from the main body of the
wood it was pulled out; through the opening thus made a strong hand
inserted itself, seized the bar, pushed it to one side and--Gentiles
are in Leiba's house.
In a few moments, this same gimlet would cause the destruction of
Leiba and his domestic hearth. The two executioners would hold the
victim prostrate on the ground, and Gheorghe, with heel upon his body,
would slowly bore the gimlet into the bone of the living breast as
he had done into the dead wood, deeper and deeper, till it reached
the heart, silencing its wild beatings and pinning it to the spot.
Leiba broke into a cold sweat; the man was overcome by his own
imagination, and sank softly to his knees as though life were ebbing
from him under the weight of this last horror, overwhelmed by the
thought that he must abandon now all hope of saving himself.
"Yes! Pinned to the spot," he said, despairingly. "Yes! Pinned to
the spot."
He stayed a moment, staring at the light by the window. For some
moments he stood aghast, as though in some other world, then he
repeated with quivering eyelids:
"Yes! Pinned to the spot."
Suddenly a strange change took place in him, a complete revulsion of
feeling; he ceased to tremble, his despair disappeared, and his face,
so discomposed by the prolonged crisis, assumed an air of strange
serenity. He straightened himself with the decision of a strong and
healthy man who makes for an easy goal.
The line between the two upper punctures of the panel was
finished. Leiba went up, curious to see the working of the tool. His
confidence became more pronounced. He nodded his head as though to say:
"I still have time."
The saw cut the last fibre near the hole towards which it was working,
and began to saw between the lower holes.
"There are still three," thought Leiba, and with the caution of
the most experienced burglar he softly entered the inn. He searched
under the bar, picked up something, and went out again as he entered,
hiding the object he had in his hand as though he feared somehow the
walls might betray him, and went back on tiptoe to the door.
Something terrible had happened; the work outside had ceased--there
was nothing to be heard.
"What is the matter? Has he gone? What has happened?" flashed through
the mind of the man inside. He bit his lower lip at such a thought,
full of bitter disappointment.
"Ha, ha!" It was an imaginary deception; the work began again, and he
followed it with the keenest interest, his heart beating fast. His
decision was taken, he was tormented by an incredible desire to see
the thing finished.
"Quicker!" he thought, with impatience. "Quicker!"
Again the sound of bells ringing on the hill.
"Hurry up, old fellow, the daylight will catch us!" said a voice
outside, as though impelled by the will of the man within.
The work was pushed on rapidly. Only a few more movements and all
the punctures in the panel would be united.
At last!
Gently the drill carried out the four-sided piece of wood. A large and
supple hand was thrust in; but before it reached the bars it sought
two screams were heard, while, with great force, Leiba enclosed it
with the free end of the noose, which was round a block fixed to the
cellar door.
The trap was ingeniously contrived: a long rope fastened round a
block of wood; lengthwise, at the place where the sawn panel had
disappeared, was a spring-ring which Leiba held open with his left
hand, while at the same time his right hand held the other end taut. At
the psychological moment he sprang the ring, and rapidly seizing the
free end of the rope with both hands he pulled the whole arm inside
by a supreme effort.
In a second the operation was complete. It was accompanied by two
cries, one of despair, the other of triumph: the hand is "pinned
to the spot." Footsteps were heard retreating rapidly: Gheorghe's
companions were abandoning to Leiba the prey so cleverly caught.
The Jew hurried into the inn, took the lamp and with a decided movement
turned up the wick as high as it would go: the light concealed by the
metal receiver rose gay and victorious, restoring definite outlines
to the nebulous forms around.
Zibal went into the passage with the lamp. The burglar groaned
terribly; it was obvious from the stiffening of his arm that he had
given up the useless struggle. The hand was swollen, the fingers
were curved as though they would seize something. The Jew placed the
lamp near it--a shudder, the fever is returning. He moved the light
quite close, until, trembling, he touched the burglar's hand with the
burning chimney; a violent convulsion of the finger was followed by
a dull groan. Leiba was startled at the sight of this phenomenon.
Leiba trembled--his eyes betrayed a strange exaltation. He burst into
a shout of laughter which shook the empty corridor and resounded in
the inn.
Day was breaking.
Sura woke up suddenly--in her sleep she seemed to hear a terrible
moaning. Leiba was not in the room. All that had happened previously
returned to her mind. Something terrible had taken place. She
jumped out of bed and lighted the candle. Leiba's bed had not been
disturbed. He had not been to bed at all.
Where was he? The woman glanced out of the window; on the hill in front
shone a little group of small bright lights, they flared and jumped,
now they died away, now, once more, soared upwards. They told of
the Resurrection. Sura undid the window; then she could hear groans
from down by the door. Terrified, she hurried down the stairs. The
corridor was lighted up. As she emerged through the doorway, the
woman was astonished by a horrible sight.
Upon a wooden chair, his elbows on his knees, his beard in his hand,
sat Leiba. Like a scientist, who, by mixing various elements, hopes
to surprise one of nature's subtle secrets which has long escaped
and worried him, Leiba kept his eyes fixed upon some hanging object,
black and shapeless, under which, upon another chair of convenient
height, there burnt a big torch. He watched, without turning a hair,
the process of decomposition of the hand which most certainly would
not have spared him. He did not hear the groans of the unhappy being
outside: he was more interested, at present, in watching than in
listening.
He followed with eagerness each contortion, every strange convulsion
of the fingers till one by one they became powerless. They were like
the legs of a beetle which contract and stretch, waving in agitated
movement, vigorously, then slower and slower until they lie paralysed
by the play of some cruel child.
It was over. The roasted hand swelled slowly and remained
motionless. Sura gave a cry.
"Leiba!"
He made a sign to her not to disturb him. A greasy smell of burnt flesh
pervaded the passage: a crackling and small explosions were heard.
"Leiba! What is it?" repeated the woman.
It was broad day. Sura stretched forward and withdrew the bar. The
door opened outwards, dragging with it Gheorghe's body, suspended by
the right arm. A crowd of villagers, all carrying lighted torches,
invaded the premises.
"What is it? What is it?"
They soon understood what had happened. Leiba, who up to now had
remained motionless, rose gravely to his feet. He made room for
himself to pass, quietly pushing the crowd to one side.
"How did it happen, Jew?" asked some one.
"Leiba Zibal," said the innkeeper in a loud voice, and with a lofty
gesture, "goes to Jassy to tell the Rabbi that Leiba Zibal is a Jew
no longer. Leiba Zibal is a Christian--for Leiba Zibal has lighted
a torch for Christ."
And the man moved slowly up the hill, towards the sunrise, like the
prudent traveller who knows that the long journey is not achieved
with hasty steps.
AT MANJOALA'S INN
By I. L. CARAGIALE
It took a quarter of an hour to reach Manjoala's Inn. From there
to Upper Popeshti was about nine miles; at an easy pace, that meant
one hour and a half. A good hack--if they gave it oats at the inn,
and three-quarters' of an hour rest--could do it comfortably. That
is to say, one quarter of an hour and three-quarters of an hour
made one hour, on to Popeshti was one hour and a half, that made
two and a half. It was past seven already; at ten o'clock at latest,
I should be with Pocovnicu Iordache. I was rather late--I ought to
have started earlier--but, after all, he expected me.
I was turning this over in my mind when I saw in the distance, a good
gun-shot length away, a great deal of light coming from Manjoala's Inn,
for it still retained that name. It was now really Madame Manjoala's
inn--the husband died some five years ago. What a capable woman! How
she had worked, how she had improved the place! They were on the
point of selling the inn while her husband was alive. Since then
she had paid off the debts, and had repaired the house; moreover,
she had built a flight of stone steps, and every one said she had
a good sum of money too. Some surmised that she had found a hidden
treasure, others that she had dealings with the supernatural.