about whom many tales were told. Especially old men, if they could
engage you in conversation, would try and impress you with the story.
In a village lived a maiden, modest and very beautiful. She was small,
of the same age as Gardana, who was a boy then. They were fond of
each other, they played together, they kissed each other--they kissed
as children kiss. But after a while the girl's form took on the soft
curves of coming womanhood; then it came to pass that they never kissed
each other, they knew not why, and when they were alone they did not
venture to look into each other's eyes; she would blush like a ripe
apple, and Gardana's lips would tremble. Then there appeared upon
the scene, from somewhere, a certain Dina, son of a rich somebody;
the girl pleased him, and he sent her an offer of marriage. Her father
did not think twice, her father gave her to him.
And Gardana--would you believe it--after he realized that it was hard
fact, gnashed his teeth, beat his breast, and disappeared. Two days
later he was on the mountains, and a gang with him.
Eh! love knows no bounds, love builds, but love also destroys many
homes.
The girl's father was seized and murdered; not long after Dina was
murdered too. Then Gardana spread terror for many years in succession.
For some time now, whatever he might have been doing, wherever he
might be in hiding, nothing had been heard of him. But as soon as
something happened, his name once again passed round the village:
"Gardana, it is Gardana!"
Perhaps it was not he, perhaps he had left the mountains, perhaps
even he was dead; but the people who knew something----
"How many did you say there were?" asked Mia.
"Two; both merchants. They came from abroad."
"And who can have murdered them?"
"No one but--Gardana."
"How is it? But is Gardana still alive?"
"Come, do you think he really is dead? No, no, they alone give this
kind of tidings of themselves."
"And why?"
"They have to be on their guard, the bailiffs are after them, they
might capture them."
"Perhaps----"
The spinning-wheel spun on. The spool wound the thread, the treadle
hummed, filling the room with a soothing noise.
Doda Sili said wonderingly:
"Who knows what kind of man he is?"
"Gardana?"
"Gardana."
"Not a very big man, but large enough to terrify one, with a black
beard--oh, so black!--and, when you least expect it, there he is on
your road, just as though he had sprung out of the ground. Didn't
our Toli once meet him!"
"How was that?"
The spinning-wheel stopped suddenly. A swarm of gnats came in through
the windows, and buzzed round in the warmth of the sun; and Lena
said quietly:
"It was on his way from the sheepfold; he came upon Gardana on the
Padea-Murgu."
"Oh, it might have been somebody else."
"It was he, he himself, with that beard, those garments----"
And so the conversation continued. Toli, the shepherd, took no part
in the talk. He sat over on the floor, silent, impassive--like a
moss-grown stone. Only occasionally he raised his bushy eyebrows,
and a troubled, misty look shone in his eyes. Tega's wife wondered to
herself, she could not understand him; really, what was the matter
with him? He was brave, she knew he had not his equal for courage,
when he had charge of the herd not an animal was ever lost; all the
same, what a man he was, always frowning, and never a smile on his
lips! There must be something with him, naturally it must be----
And breaking off her train of thought she suddenly spoke to him.
"Toli, during all the months you have been with us I have never asked
you whether you are married?"
The question was unexpected. The shepherd seemed to be
considering. Then he answered:
"No."
"What? You have never married? Have you no wife, no home?"
"Home--ah!" he sighed. "You are right, even I once had a home, even
I had hopes of a bride, but they came to nought--what would you,
it was not written in the book of destiny--I was poor."
He spoke haltingly, and his eyes wandered here and there. And after
one motion of his hand, as though to say "I have much sorrow in my
heart," he added:
"That girl is dead--and I, too, shall die, everything will die."
One afternoon in March, as the shepherd did not appear, Mitu Tega
prepared to go alone to the fold. He brought out the horse, bought
two bags of bread, and a lamb freshly killed, went to the mill where
he procured some barley, and then on slowly, quietly--he on foot,
the horse in front--till he reached his destination just as the sun
was disappearing behind the Aitosh mountains.
The shepherds rubbed their eyes when they saw him, but he called out:
"I have brought a lamb for roasting."
"You must eat it with us," said Toli, "and stay the night here."
"No, for they expect me at home."
"Will you start back at this hour?" put in Panu, Toli's comrade. "The
night brings many perils."
It was getting quite dark. Stars twinkled. Whether he wished to or
not, Mitu Tega was obliged to remain. Then the shepherds set to work;
one put the lamb on to the spit, and lit the fire; the other fetched
boughs from the wood. He brought whole branches with which they
prepared a shelter for the night for Tega--within was a bed of green
bracken. Then all three stretched themselves by the fire. Gradually
the flames sank a little, on the heap of live coals the lamb began
to brown, and spit with fat, and send out an appetizing smell. The
moon shone through the bushes; they seemed to move beneath the hard,
cold light which flooded the solitude. The shadows of the mountains
stretched away indefinitely. Above, some night birds crossed unseen,
flapping their wings. Mitu Tega turned his head. For a moment his
glance was arrested: by Toli's side, a gun and a long scimitar lay
shining on the ground. He was not nervous, otherwise----He glanced
at Toli.
"What a man!" thought Tega. "I have nothing to fear while I am
with him."
They began to eat, quickly and hungrily, tearing the meat with their
fingers, not speaking a word. Toli picked up the shoulder-bone of
the lamb, and drew near the fire, to scrutinize it, for some omen
for the future.
"What's the matter?" Tega asked.
"Nothing--only it seems to me--that there is blood everywhere, that
blood pursues. Look, and you, too, Panu."
"There is," murmured Panu, "a little blood, one can see a spot,
two red patches."
The hours passed. The dogs started off towards the woods. From their
bark there might be dangerous men on the move. Toli listened a moment,
took his gun, and said quickly to Tega:
"Have you any weapon about you?"
"I have--a pistol."
"Take it out, and go in there, and do not move. But you, Panu, get
more over there--not near the fire, move into the shadow."
He had scarcely finished speaking before the brigands were upon
them. They came stealthily through the bushes, avoiding the moonlight,
but the shepherd saw them, and without waiting fired a chance shot.
"Don't shoot, don't shoot!" cried the robbers.
A great noise arose--the flock scattered, the barking of the dogs
became gradually more and more excited; there was another report,
and yet another. Toli's gun gave a dull sound and was followed by
several cries:
"You will kill us all like this, all----"
"Down with your arms, lay down your arms!" cried Toli.
"Look, man, we are putting them down; only don't shoot."
"Drop them!"
Toli's voice thundered. His voice alone was enough to make one tremble.
The brigands threw down their arms, and advanced. There were three of
them. One was quite a young man, about thirty-five years of age, with a
worn face, and very pale. Blood was flowing from one foot and clotting
on to his white gaiters as it flowed. Toli went up to him and said:
"I have wounded you--have I wounded you?"
The brigand did not reply. Toli crossed his arms and shaking his
head asked:
"Was it me you meant to rob? Was it me you meant to attack? Do you
know who I am?"
They looked into each other's eyes, they stared at each other--deep
into each other's eyes they gazed. Each one was thinking: "Where
have I seen him before?" for they had surely known each other
somewhere. Vague memories of their past life, of bygone years began
to stir, and gradually, recollection dawned.
"Gardana," said the brigand, "is it you?"
Mitu Tega was startled. He shivered as though iced water were being
poured down his back. Who had uttered that name? Where was Gardana? He
was thunder-struck by what followed: Toli and the robbers shook hands,
embraced each other and conversed with each other.
"Gardana, Gardana, I thought you were dead--they told me you had
died, Gardana!"
"No, brother," said Toli. "It might have been better if I had died."
Then after, a short pause:
"But you are in pain, brother; I have hurt you--look, you were within
an ace of being killed, brother Manole, and I should have had another
man's soul, and another man's blood upon my head. There, you were
nearly killed. What brought you, what drew you within range of my
gun? Within an ace, brother Manole--another man's soul, another
man's blood----"
For the first time for many years he seemed moved with self-pity. He
tore a strip from his shirt, bent over Manole, and dressed his
wound. The others watched, amazed. The waters were sleeping,
the forests were sleeping. From the trees, from the valleys,
from the grass, came voices murmuring in the silence of the night,
soft, remote, a sort of breath, more like a sigh from the sleeping
earth. Manole spoke:
"Do you remember, Gardana? We were on the Baitan mountains,
you know--at Piatra-de-Furca--we were together when the bailiffs
hemmed us in on all sides--a host of them. We held our own till
nightfall. Eh! and then I saw what stuff Gardana was made of! You gave
us one call and went straight ahead--we after you, and so we escaped,
we cut our way through with our scimitars. Then, when the trumpets
gave the alarm, and the guns began to go off, I lost sight of you,
Gardana; we were all scattered, I remained alone in the valley under
Piatra-de-Furca. Do you remember? It must be five years, more--six
years ago. Where are all our comrades now?"
"Our comrades--they have gone away, I let them go. Brother Manole,
heavy curses lie on my head--enough to crush me, brother. I was not a
bad man. You know how many times I went to Dina. I said: 'Don't drive
me too far, bethink yourself.' And I went to the girl's father. But
you see Dina was rich, Dina had flocks of sheep. And her father gave
her to him without asking whether the girl loved him. And after that,
tell me, brother, could I sit patiently by, bite my nails and say
nothing? Could I?"
Toli Gardana ceased speaking. After a moment of reflection he added
softly:
"But the girl faded away--she died of grief and disappointment. One
day the earth will cover me too, our bodies may rot anywhere, and
no one will weep--not a tear, they will all rejoice. I don't know,
brother, but since that girl died it seems to me I am not the man I
was. I wanted to kill myself, I roamed about here, and one day I went
to Tega. I was strong--I gave out that I came from Blatza, and that I
was a shepherd; who was he that he should know differently! But you,
brother, how has the world treated you?"
"Harshly, Gardana. I was shut up in Tricol for three years. Prison
cut me off from life. For months I dug--with hands and nails I
dug--until one night, during a storm, I broke through the wall and
escaped with these two companions. And when I found myself back among
these mountains my thoughts turned to you. I had heard you were dead,
Gardana; but see what has happened, and how it has come to pass,
how fate brings these things about, brother Gardana ... it is not a
month since I escaped...."
Before they were aware of it the shadows of the night began to melt
away. The brigands ceased to speak as though they feared the signs
of the coming day. They remained silent, their heads upon the ground
in the face of the glory of the flaming dawn.
Toli Gardana asked:
"Where are you going now?"
"How should we know? No matter where. There are many forests."
THE DEAD POOL
By M. BEZA
We seemed to be between Mount Gramos and Mount Deniscu. I guessed it
to be so from the peaks, which showed like some fancies of the night,
keeping steadfast watch in the moonlight; the moon we could not see,
we could only feel her floating over us. The pale light shone only
in the ether above, and gradually diminished till it was lost to the
eyes in a mass of shadows; they fell like curtains, enveloping us,
dense, black. The silence extended indefinitely; it was as though
the world here had remained unchanged since its creation. Hardly a
breath of wind reached us. It always carried with it at this spot the
same odour of dank weeds, of plants with poisonous juices; everything
told of the neighbourhood of water--not fresh water, but water asleep
for centuries.
"Can you see the pool?" questioned my companion, Ghicu Sina; and then
he added: "It is hidden, certainly, but look with attention."
I looked, and after a time, getting accustomed to the darkness, I,
too, got the impression of something shining and smooth.
"The pool----"
"Only the pool? Some lights too?"
"That is so," I whispered with a shudder.
There on the surface of the water were flickering points of fire. They
could not come from above, they were not glow-worms, or sparks such
as one sees passing over graves.
Ghicu Sina spoke:
"They are reflections, the lights are burning in the pool."
With the fear that seizes us in the presence of the supernatural,
I asked:
"What induced us to stay here?"
"Where else could we stop? There are no sheep-folds in these parts,
formerly there were such, but since the death of the Spirit who
guarded the mountains, none of them remain."
After a pause he said slowly:
"You have heard of dead pools?" He stood immersed in thought. "This
is a dead pool. I will tell you about it.
"Once upon a time, when the trees were bursting into leaf, this
district was full of sheep. Flock after flock passed through, handled
by sturdy shepherds, well known in their own neighbourhood. Then one
spring-tide a stranger showed his face, beautiful as a god, wearing
upon his shoulders a cloak as white as snow. Every one wondered, 'Who
may he be, and whence does he come?' Many tales passed round until the
mystery began to unravel itself. In the valley of the Tempe, so runs
the story, whither he had wandered with the sheep, he fell in love
with the beautiful Virghea. Mad with love, when the family made the
winter-move, he followed her to the mountains; he came with a comrade
and wandered about till he settled his sheep-fold here, in these parts.
"Ah! where had the fame of this Virghea of Gramuste not reached! All
the beauties of nature seemed to have bestowed some gift upon her: the
blue of heaven--the colour of her eyes; the shadow of the woods--the
mystery of their liquid depths; the setting sun--the gold of her soft
hair; the springs--the tone of her silvery laugh. Attracted by such
charms every youth fell at the feet of Virghea. But she did not care;
only when her eyes rested on the shepherd did her youthful being fill
with a burning desire.
"Now day after day from the high ground about the sheep-fold could
be heard the sound of a flute; heard in the stillness of the dusk it
roused strange longings in the girl's breast. Then she would steal
out of the house, and the shepherd himself would come down towards
Gramuste.
"About this time, there broke loose such a storm as had never been
seen before. The peaks began to rattle as though the mountains were
changing places, striking each other with noise like thunder. Thus it
continued for three days. Only on the fourth day, late in the evening,
could the shepherd leave the fold: he had taken only a few steps
when--what a sight met his eyes by the side of the pool! A big fire,
and round it a shadowy form. And suddenly the phantom spoke with hand
pointing to the spit which he held above the heap of burning coals:
'The heart of the Spirit of Deniscu.'
"In a flash the shepherd realized the meaning of the hurricane of
the last few days. The guardian Spirits of the mountains had striven
together, and one had been overthrown. The shadow continued to speak:
'Turn this spit that I may rest a while. Taste not of the heart,
for if you touch it you will immediately die.'
"The shadow fell into a profound slumber.
"By the side of the fire the shepherd looked fearfully on all
sides. Far off, in the pale blue sky, a star broke away; it fell with
a long tail of fire, and went out. 'Some one will die,' sighed the
shepherd. The words of the Spirit flashed through his mind. 'H'm!' he
said. 'If I taste, perhaps the contrary is true, who knows?' So
thinking, he put his finger on the heart on the spit and carried it
to his mouth. The sensation was unspeakably pleasant. He laughed;
then quickly ate the whole heart. Immediately there rose within him a
cruel passion towards the sleeping Spirit; upon the spot he killed it
and took the heart. At once there came to him the strength of a giant,
the ground began to tremble beneath his footsteps, while aerial voices,
and voices from the water, sounded round him. Creatures never seen
before emerged from the pool; linked together by their white hands they
danced round in whirling circles. Thus changed, he reached his comrade
at the fold, and tried to explain, but his thoughts were elsewhere, and
his voice sounded as though from another world. He finished with broken
words: 'The water calls me--tell no one what has happened to me--take
my flute: if danger threatens come to the pool and sing to me.'
"During the evenings that followed Virghea saw naught of the shepherd,
and she wondered at not seeing him, expecting him from day to day. So
days passed that seemed like weeks, and weeks seemed months, and they
went by without any news of him till the poor maiden took to her bed
from grief. Then the comrade of the hills remembered the shepherd's
words. He came at midnight to the side of the pool and sang--a long
time he sang. Towards dawn, when the strains of the flute died away,
there came from Gramuste the sound of two strokes of a bell, then
another two, and others in succession, mournful, prolonged. The echoes
answered back, as though other bells were ringing in other places,
resounding from hill to hill until they reached the bottom of the pool,
and after a time, to the voice of the bells were joined real words,
sobbing to the rhythm: 'Virghea is dead--is dead!'"
Ghicu Sina paused a while. Although he had only told me these things
quite briefly, I felt their secret had entered my soul; with my
eyes upon the pool where the strange reflections constantly played,
I seemed to hear, as one sometimes hears the faint voice of memory
from a remote past, the sound of the bells and their metallic words:
"Virghea is dead--is dead!"
And then, the story adds, he rose from the pool. Like the wind, he
raised her in his arms and carried her deep down to his translucent
palace where, to this day, little fiery points of light burn round
the head of the dead woman.
OLD NICHIFOR, THE IMPOSTOR
By I. CREANGA
Old Nichifor is not a character out of a story-book but a real man
like other men; he was once, when he was alive, an inhabitant of
the Tzutzuen quarter of the town of Neamtzu, towards the village of
Neamtzu Vinatori.
When old Nichifor lived in Tzutzuen my grandfather's grandfather
was piper at the christening feast at the house of Mosh Dedui from
Vinatori, the great Ciubar-Voda being godfather, to whom Mosh Dedui
gave forty-nine brown lambs with only one eye each; and the priest,
uncle of my mother's uncle, was Ciubuc the Bell-ringer from the Neamtzu
Monastery, who put up a big bell at this same monastery at his own
expense, and had a fancy to ring it all by himself on big feast days,
on which account he was called the bell-ringer. About this time old
Nichifor lived at Tzutzuen.
Old Nichifor was a cab-driver. Although his carriage was only fastened
together with thongs of lime and bark, it was still a good carriage,
roomy and comfortable. A hood of matting prevented the sun and rain
from beating down into old Nichifor's carriage. In the well of the
carriage hung a grease box with a greasing stick and some screws
which banged against each other ding! dong! ding! dong! whenever the
carriage moved. On a hook below the boot--on the left--was suspended
a little axe to be ready for any emergency.
Two mares, white as snow and swift as flame, nearly always supported
the pole of the carriage; nearly always but not quite always; old
Nichifor was a horse-dealer, and when he got the chance he would
either exchange or sell a mare in the middle of a journey, and in
that case the pole would be bare on the one side. The old man liked
to have young, well-bred mares; it was a weakness with him. Perhaps
you will ask me why mares and always white ones, and I will tell you
this: mares, because old Nichifor liked to breed from them, white,
because the whiteness of the mares, he said, served him as a lantern
on the road at nights.
Old Nichifor was not among those who do not know that "It is not
good to be coachman behind white horses or the slave of women;" he
knew this, but the mares were his own, and when he took care of them
they were taken care of and when he did not--well, there was no one
to reproach him. Old Nichifor avoided carrier's work; he refused to
do any lifting for fear of giving himself a rupture.
"Cab driving," he said, "is much better; one has to deal with live
goods who go up hill on foot, and down hill on foot, and only stay
in the carriage when it halts."
Old Nichifor had a whip of hemp twig, plaited by his own hand, with
a silk lash, which he cracked loud enough to deafen you. And whether
he had a full load or was empty, old Nichifor always walked up the
hills and usually pulled together with the mares. Down the hills he
walked to avoid laming the mares.
The passengers, willing or unwilling, had to do the same, for they had
enough of old Nichifor's tongue, who once rounded on one of them like
this: "Can't you get out and walk; the horse is not like a blockhead
that talks." If you only knew how to appreciate everything that fell
from old Nichifor's mouth, he was very witty. If he met a rider on the
road, he would ask: "Left the Prince far behind, warrior?" and then,
all at once, he would whip up the mares, saying:
"White for the leader, white for the wheeler,
The pole lies bare on the one side.
Heigh! It's not far to Galatz. Heigh!"
But if he met women and young girls then he sang a knowing song,
rather like this:
"When I took my old wife
Eight lovers did sigh:
Three women already wed,
And five girls, in one village."
They say, moreover, that one could not take the road, especially in
the month of May, with a pleasanter or gayer man. Only sometimes,
when you pretended not to see you were passing the door of a public
house, because you did not feel inclined to soften old Nichifor's
throat, did you find him in a bad mood, but even on these occasions
he would drive rapidly from one inn to the other. On one occasion,
especially, old Nichifor coveted two mares which were marvels on the
road, but at the inns, whether he wanted to or no, they used to halt,
for he had bought them from a priest.
My father said that some old men, who had heard it from old Nichifor's
own lips, had told him that at that time it was a good business
being a cab-driver in Neamtzu town. You drove from Varatic to Agapia,
from Agapia to Varatic, then to Razboeni; there were many customers,
too, at the church hostels. Sometimes you had to take them to Peatra,
sometimes to Folticeni, sometimes to the fair, sometimes to Neamtzu
Monastery, sometimes all about the place to the different festivals.
My father also said he had heard from my grandfather's grandfather
that the then prior of Neamtzu is reported to have said to some nuns
who were wandering through the town during Holy Week:
"Nuns!"
"Your blessing, reverend Father!"
"Why do you not stay in the convent and meditate during Passion Week?"
"Because, reverend Father," they are said to have replied with
humility, "this wool worries us, but for that we should not come. Your
Reverence knows we keep ourselves by selling serge, and though we do
not collect a great deal, still those who go about get something to
live on...."
Then, they say, the prior gave a sigh, and he laid all the blame on
old Nichifor, saying:
"I would the driver who brought you here might die, for then he could
not bring you so often to the town."