only return he would pledge himself, by the most sacred oath, to do
them no harm; but they knew the value of his oath. In order to observe
them more closely, he moved to the town of Hotin which he fortified
with care, but he became ill from spleen here. The disease made rapid
strides, and the tyrant soon saw himself at the portal of the tomb.
In the delirium of his fever he seemed to see all the victims of his
cruelty, terrifying and admonitory, threatening him and calling to the
most just God for justice. In vain he tossed upon his bed of sickness,
he could not find relief.
Summoning Teofan, the Metropolitan, the Bishops and boyars, he informed
them that he felt the end of his life to be approaching; he humbled
himself, and implored pardon for all the wrong he had done. Finally,
he begged for consideration for his son, Bogdan, to whom he left the
throne of the realm if they would assist him. Being of tender years,
and surrounded by powerful enemies, he would be unable to protect
either himself or his country unless the boyars preserved unity among
themselves and affection and loyalty to the Ruler.
"As for myself," he proceeded to say, "if I recover from this sickness,
I am determined to become a monk in the Monastery of Slatina, where
I may repent for the rest of the days that it pleases God to leave
me. Therefore, I beseech you, Fathers, when you see me at the point
of death to shave me like a monk----"
He was not able to say much more. He was seized with convulsions,
and a terrible coma like death itself stiffened his body, so that the
Metropolitan and the Bishops, believing him to be expiring, canonized
him, bestowing upon him the name of Paisie after that of Peter, which
name he had borne previous to becoming Prince. After this they paid
homage to the Princess Rucsanda as regent during the minority of her
son, and proclaimed Bogdan king.
Immediately after they sent envoys to all the boyars within the
country and to the exiles, and to the captains of the army.
The twilight was approaching when Stroici and Spancioc arrived.
Dismounting at an inn, they approached the castle with haste. The town
was silent and dreary like some gigantic tomb. Only the murmuring
waters of the Dniester were audible as they continually washed the
slopes of the grey bare banks, and the monotonous cry of the sentries
who examined each other by the evening light along the length of their
lances. Pursuing their way into the palace, they experienced no small
surprise at meeting no one; at last a lacquey showed them the sick
man's room. As they were about to enter they heard a loud noise,
and paused to listen.
Lapushneanu was rousing from his lethargy. Upon opening his eyes he
saw two monks standing, the one at his head, and the other at his
feet, motionless, like two statues of bronze; he glanced at himself,
and found himself clothed in the habit of a monk; round his head was
a cowl. He tried to raise his hand, but was prevented by the strings
of a rosary. It seemed to him as though he dreamed, and he closed
his eyes again; but opening them once more after a little while he
saw the same things, the rosary, the cowl, the monks.
"How are you feeling now, Brother Paisie?" one of the monks asked him,
seeing that he was not sleeping.
This name brought back to his mind all that had taken place. His
blood began to boil and half raising himself he cried:
"What are these? Ah, you are making fun of me! Avaunt, foul
creatures! Go, or I will murder you all!"
He sought a weapon with his hand, but finding nothing but the cowl
he flung it with his hand at the head of one of the monks.
At the sound of his shouting, the Princess, with her son, the
Metropolitan, the boyars and servants, all entered the room.
Meanwhile the other two boyars arrived and stood by the door listening.
"Ah, you wanted to turn me into a monk," cried Lapushneanu in a raucous
and terrible voice. "You thought to get rid of me? But you can dismiss
that idea! God or the devil will make me well again, and----"
"Unhappy man, do not blaspheme," said the Metropolitan, cutting him
short. "Do not forget you are in the hour of death! Reflect, sinful
man, that you are a monk, you are no longer Ruler! Reflect that such
ravings and yells are frightening this innocent woman, and this child
in whom rests the hope of Moldavia."
"Infernal hypocrite!" added the sick man, endeavouring to rise from
his bed. "Hold your tongue; it was I who made you Metropolitan,
and I unfrock you. You tried to make me a priest but I will put
that right. There are many I will make into priests. But as for that
bitch, I will cut her into four pieces with her pup so that they may
never again listen to the advice of hypocrites or to my enemies. He
lies who says I am a monk. I am no monk--I am Ruler. I am Alexandru
Voda! Help! Help! Where are my soldiers? Fetch them! Fetch them all! I
will command them. Kill all these people. Let none escape. Ah! I am
choking! Water! Water! Water!" And he fell back exhausted, gasping
with excitement and fury.
The Princess and the Metropolitan retired. At the door they came face
to face with Stroici and Spancioc.
"Madam," said Spancioc, seizing Rucsanda's hand, "that man must die
at all costs. See this powder, pour it into his drink."
"Poison," she cried with a shudder.
"Poison!" pursued Spancioc. "Unless this man dies at once, the lives
of your Highness and your son are in danger. The father has lived
long enough and done enough. Let the father die that the son may live."
A servant came out of the room.
"What is it?" asked the Princess.
"The sick man has roused and asks for water and his son. He bade me
not to return without him."
"Oh, they wish to kill him," groaned the wretched mother, pressing
her son passionately to her breast.
"There is not time for hesitation, Madam," added Spancioc. "Think of
the wife of Voda Shtefanitza and choose between father and son."
"What say you, Father?" said the poor woman, turning towards the
Metropolitan, with her eyes full of tears.
"This man is cruel and fierce, my daughter; may the Lord God give you
counsel. As for me, I go to prepare for our departure with our new
Ruler; for our late Prince, may God pardon him, and also forgive you."
With these words the holy Teofan departed.
Rucsanda took a silver cup full of water, which was handed to her
by the servant, and then, amid the entreaties and arguments of the
boyars, poured the poison into it. The boyars pushed her into the
sick man's room.
"What is he doing?" asked Spancioc of Stroici, who pushed open the
door again and looked in.
"He asks for his son--he says he wishes him to come to him--he asks
for a drink--the Princess trembles--she gives him the cup--he will
not take it!"
Spancioc starts and draws his dagger from his belt.
"But yes, he takes it, he drinks. May it do your Highness good!"
Rucsanda emerged shaking and livid, and supporting herself against
the wall.
"You must render account before God," she said, sighing, "for you
have caused me to commit this sin."
The Metropolitan arrived.
"Let us go," he said to the Princess.
"But who will tend to this wretched man?"
"We will," replied the boyars.
"Oh, Father, what have you made me do!" said the Princess to the
Metropolitan, and she went sobbing with him.
The two boyars went into the sick man. The poison had not yet begun
to do its work. Lapushneanu lay stretched out, his face uppermost,
calm but very weak. When the two boyars entered, he looked at them
for some time, but not recognizing them he asked who they were,
and what they had to say.
"I am Stroici," replied one.
"And I am Spancioc," added the other, "and our wish is to see you
before you die as we promised you."
"Oh, my enemies!" sighed Alexandru.
"I am Spancioc," continued that person, "Spancioc whom you would
fain have beheaded when you murdered the forty-seven boyars, and
who escaped from your clutches! Spancioc, whose property you have
destroyed leaving his wife and children to beg for alms at the doors
of Christian houses."
"Ah, I feel as though a fire burnt me!" cried the sick man, grasping
his stomach with both hands.
"To-day we free ourselves, for you must die. The poison works."
"Oh, you have poisoned me, infamous creatures! Oh, what a fire! Where
is the Princess? Where is my son?"
"They have gone away and left you to us."
"They have gone away and left me! Have left me to you! Oh, kill me
and let me escape from suffering. Oh, stab me, you are still young,
have pity, free me from the agony that rends me, stab me!" he said,
and turned towards Stroici.
"I will not desecrate my noble dagger with the blood of such a
worthless tyrant as you."
The pains increased. The poisoned man writhed in convulsions.
"Oh," he cried, "my very soul burns me! Oh, give me water--give me
something to drink."
"Look," said Spancioc, taking the silver cup from the table, "the
dregs of the poison are left. Drink and quench your thirst!"
"Nay, nay, I will not," said the sick man, setting his teeth.
Then Stroici seized him and held him tight while Spancioc, drawing a
knife from its sheath, unclenched his teeth with its point and poured
down his throat the poison which had remained at the bottom of the cup.
Lapushneanu, roaring like a bull which sees the hand and axe which
is about to strike him, tried to turn his face towards the wall.
"What, you do not want to see us?" said the boyars. "No, but it is
meet that you should see in us your punishment; learn to die, you who
have only known how to kill." And seizing him both together, they held
him inflexibly, staring at him with devilish delight and reviling him.
The unhappy Prince writhed in spasms of agony, he foamed at the mouth,
he gnashed his teeth, and his bloodshot eyes protruded out of his
head; an icy sweat, sad forerunner of death, broke out in drops upon
his brow. After a torture of half an hour, he finally yielded up the
ghost in the hands of his judges.
Such was the end of Alexandru Lapushneanu, who leaves a bloody page
in the history of Moldavia.
A portrait of himself and his family may be seen to this day in the
Monastery at Slatina, which he built, and where he is buried.
ZIDRA
By M. BEZA
We were talking in the inn at Grabova and passing round the wine
without troubling ourselves as to the lateness of the hour. In time we
began to sing--as it is the custom to sing in these parts. One raises
his voice, while the others subdue theirs, till all take up the chorus:
Your head lies in my pouch,
Zidra, mighty Zidra!
Only our friend, Mitu Dola, was silent; he was much moved and kept
turning first to one side and then to the other.
"Oh, that song!" he gasped when we stopped. Then suddenly to me:
"Do you know who Zidra was? And do you know who killed Zidra?"
He took up his mug, drank from it several times, and then, with a
brain clouded by distant memories and the strong wine, he began to
tell me the story:
"It must be some thirty years ago. Zidra was then a haiduk in
the Smolcu mountains. What a man! There was a heavy price upon
his head. His very name, passed from mouth to mouth, brought a
wave of fear. And we children would gather together in the evening
under the eaves of the fountains, by the church doors, and talk of
Zidra. This much we knew: at one time he had lived amongst us and
then had unexpectedly disappeared from the village; on account of
some murder everybody said. After a long time he appeared again,
robbing a long way this side of Smolcu: 'Zidra is at Seven-Hills;
Zidra is in the Vigla Forest.'
"Whispering thus secretly, we would glance over our shoulders. We
would shiver as though we could feel a cold breath from the dark
thicket whence Zidra might appear. I pictured him just like my father,
probably because my father, too, was a striking figure. In a coat
with long flowing sleeves, his cap on one side, and his belt loaded
with pistols, my father--like all tax-gatherers at that period--was
on the road a great deal of his time, so that my mother and I remained
alone for weeks on end.
"We had a house just on the outskirts of the village surrounded by a
beech wood, the shadows of which hung darkly above our heads. How it
would begin to moan at night! The rustling of the leaves, the prolonged
roar of the rocking trees was like some great waterfall. From our soft
bed, clasped in my mother's arms, I listened to the fierce din. From
time to time it ceased; then, through the silence, came the sound of
whistling, of shots, of the trampling of horses and of men.
"I sighed with terror. 'Mother, supposing robbers should attack
us.' 'Hush! It is unlucky to speak of such things.' 'You know,
mother, Zidra is in Vigla Forest.' When I first mentioned this name
my mother trembled and started back, but quickly coming forward she
said hastily and with unusual anxiety: 'Who told you this?' 'Cousin
Gushu, mother. Gushu's father, mother, saw a host of vultures over
Vigla Forest circling round.'
"My mother repeated in a puzzled way: 'Vultures circling round----'
Then, after thinking a moment, she said to herself: 'That is it;
that is where he halted and had his food--the vultures are attracted
by the smell.'
"My father, arriving a few days later, said the same thing, while he
added that some shepherds had also seen Zidra. My mother was delicate,
her features bore the melancholy expression of some hidden sorrow. She
looked wan and remained staring into space. 'Eh? What?' said my father
sternly. 'Why should I be afraid of Zidra?'
"He closed the conversation. But into our house there crept an
unexplained disquietude--something intangible, blowing like an icy
breath that made my mother shudder. How could I understand then? Time
alone has given me the explanation of it all. And to-day when I think
of the spot where this dark mystery unfolded itself old scenes and
things emerge from oblivion and stand vividly before me. I see the
yard of our house with the door opening into the wood, the staircase
leading into the bedroom; here is the hearth and along the walls are
the great wooden cupboards. Sitting upon the corner-seat by the fire
my mother spun at her wheel--often she would start to spin but seemed
as though she could not. She would constantly stop, her thoughts
were elsewhere. And if I asked her anything, she would nod her head
without listening to me. Only when, amid the loud rustle of the trees,
I would mention Zidra she would turn quickly, her eyes wide open,
and say with a shiver: 'Zidra?' 'Yes, mother.'
"And when night fell she would try the doors one after the other. She
would walk up and down, a pine-torch in her hand, passing through
visions of horror, and with her went the smoking flame which rose and
fell as it struggled with the shadows, moving upon the ceilings and
floors and on the walls of the room where the sofa was, where it lit
up for a second the hanging weapons: an old musket, two scimitars,
some pistols.
"Sometimes there was a pleasant silence over everything. The wood
slept, the country, too, was asleep. Then, in the light of the little
icon-lamp, could be heard the gentle hum of the spinning-wheel,
murmuring like a golden beetle in a fairy-tale, lulling me till
I slept.
"During one of these nights--the wheel stopped and I heard
my mother saying: 'Tuesday at Custur, Wednesday at Lehova,
Thursday--Thursday----' She knew where my father usually stayed and
was calculating.
"Becoming confused she began again from the beginning: 'Tuesday at
Custur, Wednesday at Lehova, Thursday--Thursday on the road.' And she
rose. She went to the lamp to pour in oil that it might burn till
the daylight. In the meantime a noise came from the yard and was
repeated more loudly. 'Mother, some one is knocking!' 'Who could be
knocking?' she murmured.
"After a moment of indecision she went downstairs. Unintelligible
words followed--a man's voice, the door was shaken. My mother began to
speak gently, inaudibly. Soon everything was silent again. By my side
I could hear my mother's breath, coming short and with difficulty,
but her tongue remained tied. When she recovered herself she said
suddenly: 'Can I? How can I open? I am married. I cannot.' 'To whom,
mother--to whom must you open?' She took me tremblingly in her arms,
squeezed me to her, and pressed her burning cheek against mine. 'You
are too little. You do not understand, my treasure!'
"And, after a while, talking more to herself, while the tears flowed
slowly down her cheeks: 'At the fountain in Plaiu--it is long ago. We
pledged our word--at dusk--God saw us; and in the end he made off
one day, and I waited for him--years and years I waited. Now what
does he want? I am married. What does he expect? Why did he come?'
"Thus much I remember. I fell asleep close to my mother. The next day
she might just have got up after a long illness so white was she in
the face, with fear shining in her eyes. When my father saw her he
raised the thick bushy eyebrows which gave such a harsh appearance
to his hairy face. 'There is something wrong, something has happened.'
"Could she deny it? They went into the room where the sofa stood,
and soon after my father broke out with: 'From henceforth either I
or he!' And he stormed about, taking long heavy strides while the
weapons clattered on the wall. He swore, and added with a wild burst
of laughter: 'Ha, ha! And the head and two hundred ducats!'
"From now on he no longer took the road; he remained on guard. Spies
began to move about. Fierce-looking men knocked at the door. My father
went out, exchanged some rapid words with them, among which could be
continually heard the name of Zidra, and they disappeared. But what
were those cries, those sharp whistles through the night? Often,
too, across the hillocks came the sound of stones--stones striking
one against the other, and my father replied in the same way. And the
knocking sounds rose sonorous, ringing through the darkness as though
some strange birds were rattling their beaks. I heard it in my sleep
and shuddered. 'Have no fear,' whispered my mother, 'it is nothing,
my dear one. Your father is talking--with some sentries.'
"A few weeks passed thus, until one midnight there appeared in the
further room four men in black cloaks, carrying guns; they seemed
to have sprung out of the ground. They shook hands and without a
moment's pause began moving about in the ruddy, uncertain light of
the pine-torch. In the silence outside--a silence caused by the fog
which deadened all sound--their words could be overheard. As my father
slung his scimitar over his shoulder, one of them said in a loud
clear voice: 'At Sticotur, in the monastery.' 'Since when?' 'Since
dinner-time to-day--he is eating and drinking.' 'The man is caught,'
said another. 'He can't escape this time.'
"They went out quickly; they were lost in the black darkness which
began to vibrate with the rising of the wind. The bushes rattled and
bent beneath the rain--storms of rain beat and splashed against the
window-panes, a sea of sound, storm after storm."
Here, as far as I can remember, Mitu Dola brought the story to a
close. I asked:
"How did it end?"
"Didn't you hear the song? My father took the head and put it in his
pouch. As he said, 'and the head and two hundred ducats.'"
GARDANA
By M. BEZA
Mitu Tega returned to the house much annoyed. As he entered his wife
asked him:
"Well, has he not turned up yet?"
"No, not to-day either."
"This is what happens when you rely on an unknown man, a
stranger. Suppose he never comes. God forbid that he should go off
with the whole herd!"
Tega did not reply. He sat motionless in the silent veranda, which
gradually grew dark with shadows of the evening mist, and pondered. Of
course such things did happen; he might have taken the goats and
gone off, in which case let him find him who can! Where could one
look for him? Whither could one follow him?
And as he meditated thus he seemed to see the shepherd before his eyes;
he called to mind the first day he had seen him; a terrible man, like
a wild man from the woods, with a great moustache lost in a hard,
black beard, which left only his eyes and cheek-bones visible. He
came into him, and without looking him in the face, said:
"I have heard--some people told me that you want a man to tend the
bucks. Take me, I am a shepherd."
Tega gave him one look, he was just the kind of man he wanted. He
asked him:
"Where do you come from?"
"I come--well, from Blatza. Toli--Toli the shepherd--I have been with
many other goat owners."
Tega looked at him again, considered a little, and said:
"Good, I'll take you; may you prove honest, for, look, many a man
has cheated me, and many a man has stolen from me up to now."
And so he engaged him. Toli stayed with Tega, and no one could have
conducted himself better.
A month later they went together to the Salonica district, where they
bought goats, over eight hundred head. When it was time to return,
Tega--for fear of attack by brigands--went ahead secretly, leaving
Toli to follow on alone with the herd. The days slipped by--one week,
two--Toli did not put in an appearance. What could have happened? Many
ideas passed through Tega's brain. Especially after what his wife
had said. At night he could not sleep. He dozed for a while, and
then woke again, with his mind on the shepherd, tormenting himself,
until the crowing of the cocks heralded the dawn. Then he got up; and,
as he was short and plump, he took a staff in his hand, and proceeded
to the nearest hill whence could be seen the country opening out as
flat as the palm of a hand.
At that hour the first blush of dawn glowed in the east. And slowly,
slowly rose the sun. Round, purple, fiery, it lit first the crests of
the mountains, then flashed its rays into the heart of the valleys;
the window-panes in the village suddenly caught the fiery light; the
birds began to fly; on the ground, among the glistening dew, flowers
raised their heads out of the fresh grass, a wealth of daisies and
buttercups like little goblets of gold. But Mitu Tega had no time
for such things. His eyes were searching the landscape. Something
was moving yonder--a cloud of dust.
"The herd, it is the herd!" murmured Tega.
He could hear the light, soft tinkle of the bells, sounding
melodiously in the spring morning. And see, see--the herd drew near,
the bell-carrier in front, two dogs with them, and last of all the
shepherd with his cloak round his shoulder.
"Welcome," cried Tega with all his heart. "But, Toli, you have tarried
a long while. I was beginning to wonder----"
"What would you, I did not come direct, I had to go round."
The bucks played around, a fine, picked lot with silky hair, they
roamed about, and Tega felt as though he, too, could skip about,
could take the shepherd in his arms, and embrace him for sheer joy.
As in other years, Tega kept the herd on the neighbouring slopes,
on the Aitosh hills. It was Toli's business to get the bread, salt,
and all that was needed, and once every two or three days, leaving the
herd in the care of a comrade, he would take his way to his employer's
house. Usually Tega's wife would be spinning at her wheel when he
went in.
"Good day!"
"Welcome, Toli," the woman said pleasantly. "Tega is not at home at
present, but sit down, Toli, sit down, and wait till he comes."
The shepherd took off his cloak, and did not say another word.
The veranda where they were sitting was upstairs; through the open
windows the eye could follow the distant view; the hills lay slumbering
in the afternoon light, along their foot lay a road--processions
of laden mules, whole caravans ascending slowly and laboriously,
winding along in bluish lines till lost to sight over the brow of
the hill. The woman followed them with her eyes, and without moving,
from her wheel, pointing with her hand, she said:
"There are sheepfolds yonder, too, aren't there?"
The shepherd nodded his head.
"I never asked you, Toli, how are the goats doing? Do you think my
man chose well this year?"
"Well, very well."
That was all. He said no more. His deep-set eyes were sad, and black
as the night. A minute later footsteps sounded in the garden, and
then the voice of a neighbour:
"Where are you, dear, where have you hidden yourself?"
"Here, Lena, here," replied the woman upstairs.
Lena mounted the stairs. Behind her came Doda Sili and Mia; they
had all brought their work, for they would not go away till late in
the evening.
"Have you heard?" asked Lena.
"What?"
"Two more murders."