woman didn't take care of me. Now because I wronged her so terribly
I must take her back a red fez and a bag of butter to remind her of
our youth. Evidently I took them out yesterday with my pipe. But my
poor, good old wife, difficult though she is, knew all I should want
on the journey, only she did not put them in their right place. But
the woman tried to understand all her husband wanted! Mistress
Malca! Mistress Malca!"
"What is it, Mosh Nichifor?"
"Do you know that I have found the axe, and the rope and the gimlet
and everything I want."
"Where, Mosh Nichifor?"
"Why, under your bundles. Only they had no mouths with which to tell
me. We have made a mistake: we have been like some one sitting on
hidden treasure and asking for alms. But it's good that we have found
them now. It shows my poor old woman did put them in."
"Mosh Nichifor, you are feeling remorse in your heart."
"Well, yes, young lady. I see I am at fault. I must sing a song
of penitence:
Poor old wife of mine!
Be she kind or be she harsh,
Still her home is mine."
And so saying old Nichifor rolled up his sleeves, cut a beech stick,
and made a wonderful axle-pin. Then he set it in position, put the
wheel in place, harnessed the mares, quietly took the road and said:
"In you get, young lady, and let's start."
As the mares were refreshed and well rested they were at Peatra by
middle day.
"There you will see your home, Mistress Malca."
"Thank God, Mosh Nichifor, that I came to no harm in the forest."
"The fact is, young lady, there's no doubt about it, there's no place
like home."
And while they were talking they reached the door of Itzic's
house. Itzic had only just come back from the school, and when he saw
Malca he was beside himself with joy. But when he heard all about the
adventures they had met with and how the Almighty had delivered them
from danger he did not know how to thank old Nichifor enough. What did
he not give him! He himself marvelled at all that was given him. The
next day old Nichifor went back with other customers. And when he
reached home he was so gay that his old woman wondered what he had
been doing, for he was more drunk than he had been for a long time.
From now on Malca came every two or three weeks to visit her
parents-in-law in Neamtzu: she would only let old Nichifor take her
back home, and she was never again afraid of wolves.
A year, or perhaps several years, after, over a glass of wine, old
Nichifor whispered to one of his friends the story of the adventure in
the "Dragon" Wood, and the fright Mistress Malca got. Old Nichifor's
friend whispered it again to some friends of his own, and then people,
the way people will do, began to give old Nichifor a nickname and say:
"Nichifor, the Impostor: Nichifor, the Impostor:" and even though
he is dead the poor man has kept the name of Nichifor, the Impostor,
to this very day.
COZMA RACOARE
By M. SADOVEANU
He was a terrible man, Cozma Racoare!
When I say Cozma, I seem to see, do you know, I seem to see before
me, a sinister-looking man riding upon a bay horse; two eyes like
steel pierce through me; I see a moustache like twin sparrows. Fierce
Rouman! He rode with a gun across his back, and with a knife an ell
long, here, in his belt, on the left side. It was thus I always saw
him. I am old, you know, nigh on a hundred, I have travelled much
about the world, I have met various characters, and many people,
but I tell you, a man like Cozma Racoare I have never seen! Yet he
was not physically so terrible; he was a man of middle height, lean,
with a brown face, a man like many another--ha! but all the same! only
to have seen the eyes was to remember him. Terrible Rouman!
There was grief and bitterness in the land at that time. Turks and
Greeks were overrunning the country on all sides, everywhere honest
men were complaining--they were hard times! Cozma had no cares. To-day
he was here, to-morrow one heard of him, who knows where! Every one
fled before the storm, but he, good Lord, he never cared! They caught
him and put him in chains. What need? He just shook himself, wrenched
the bars with one hand, whistled to his horse, and there he was on
the road again. Who did not know that Racoare had a charmed life? Ah,
how many bullets were aimed at his breast! But in vain! It was said
of him: only a silver bullet can slay him! Where do you see men like
that nowadays? Those times are gone for ever.
Have you heard of the Feciorul Romancei? He was a fire-eater
too! He robbed the other side of Muntenia, Cozma robbed this, and
one night--what a night!--they both met at Milcov, exchanged booty,
and were back in their homes before dawn. Were the frontier guards on
the watch? Did they catch them as they rode? Why! Racoare's horse flew
like a phantom, no bullet could touch him! What a road that is from
here, across the mountains of Bacau, to the frontier! Eh! to do it,
there and back in one night, you mark my words, that's no joke! But
that horse! That's the truth of the matter, that horse of Racoare's
was not like any other horse. That's clear.
Voda-Calimbach had an Arabian mare, which his servants watched as
the apple of his eye; she was due to foal. One night--it was in the
seventh month--Cozma got into the stall, ripped open the mare and
stole the foal. But that was not all he did! You understand the foal
was wrapped in a caul. Racoare cut the caul, but he cut it in such
a way as to split the foal's nostrils. And look, the foal with the
split nostrils grew up in the dark fed upon nut kernels; and when
Cozma mounted it--well, that was a horse!
Even the wind, therefore, could not out-distance Cozma. On one
occasion--I was a volunteer then--Cozma woke to find himself within
the walls of Probot, with volunteers inside and the Turks outside. The
Turks were battering the walls with their guns. The volunteers decided
to surrender the fortress. Cozma kept his own counsel. The next day
Cozma was nowhere to be found. But from the walls, up to the forest
of Probot, was a line of corpses! That had been Racoare's road!
That is how it always was! His were the woods and fields! He recognized
no authority, he did not know what fear was, nor love--except on one
occasion. Terrible Rouman! It seems to me I can see him now, riding
upon his bay horse.
At that time a Greek was managing the Vulturesht estate, and on this
side, on our estate, within those ruined walls, there ruled such a
minx of a Roumanian as I had never seen before. The Greek was pining
for the Roumanian. And no wonder! The widow had eyebrows that met,
and the eyes of the devil--Lord! Lord! such eyes would have tempted a
saint. She had been married, against her will, to a Greek, to Dimitru
Covas; the Greek died, and now the lady ruled alone over our estate.
As I tell you, Nicola Zamfiridi, the Greek, was dying for the
lady. What did that man not do, where did he not go, what soothsayers
did he not visit, all in vain! The lady would not hear of it! She
hated the Greek. And yet Nicola was not ill-favoured. He was a proud
Greek, bronzed, with pointed moustache and curly beard. But still he
did not please the widow!
One day, Nicola sat pondering in his room while he smoked. What was
to be done? He most certainly wanted to marry, and to take her for
his wife; why would she not hear of it?
A few days before he had gone with Ciocirlie, the gipsy, and had sung
desperately outside the walls. Alas, the courtyard remained still as
stone! What the devil was to be done?
Boyar Nicola thought to himself: "You are not ugly, you are not
stupid--what's the reason of it? Is she, perhaps, in love with some
one else?" No. He watched for one whole night. Nobody entered, and
nobody left the courtyard.
The boyar was angry. He rose, picked up a whip and went out. The
grooms were grooming the horses in the yard.
"Is that horse supposed to be groomed?" he shouted, and slash! down
came the whip on one of the grooms.
Farther on the gardener was resting from the heat.
"Is this how you look after the garden? Hey!" and swish! crack!
What next? Was it any use losing one's temper with the people? He went
into the garden, and seated himself under a beautiful lime-tree. There,
on the stone bench, he pondered again. His life was worthless if the
woman he loved would not look at him! He watched the flight of the
withered leaves in the still air; he heaved a sigh.
"Vasile! Vasile!" called the boyar. His voice rang sadly in the
melancholy garden.
A sturdy old man came through the garden door, and went towards
his master.
"Vasile," said the boyar, "what is to be done?"
The old man eyed his master, then he, too, sighed and scratched
his head.
"What is to be done, Vasile?"
"How should I know, master?"
"You must find something. Many people have advised me, now you suggest
something. I got nothing out of that old witch, and Ciocirlie was no
good; cannot you propose something?"
"H'm----"
"Do not desert me, Vasile!"
"H'm, master, I'll tell you something if you will give me something."
"Take a ducat of mine, Vasilica--speak!"
Vasile did not let himself be put off by the mention of one ducat. He
scratched his head again.
"If I knew you would give me two ducats, master, or even three, or
many--you understand--that's how it is! What will be, will be! I say
go right off to Frasini, go into the courtyard, through the courtyard
into the lady's boudoir and steal her! That's what I say!"
"What are you talking about, good Vasile! Is it possible!"
Vasile said no more. The boyar thought deeply, his hand on his
forehead; then he said:
"That's what I must do, Vasile! I know what I have to do! Bravo you,
good Vasile!"
"If only I knew I was to get two ducats reward!" sighed Vasile,
scratching his head.
And that evening Boyar Nicola kept his word. He mounted his horse,
took with him five companions from among the grooms, and started out
to Frasini.
The forest shuddered with the whisper of the breeze of the autumn
night. The men rode silently. From time to time could be heard the
trumpeting of the cock, coming they knew not whence. Beyond lay
silence. At last the widow's courtyard came into sight, black, like
some heap of coal.
Like ghosts Nicola and his companions approached the wall; in silence
they dismounted; they threw rope-ladders over the top of the wall,
climbed up and over to the other side. The horses remained tied to
the trees.
Suddenly they heard cries. Boyar Nicola was not afraid. He hurried
to the door--the doors were not shut. He passed along the corridor.
"Aha!" murmured the Greek. "Now I shall have the darling in my arms."
But suddenly a door was opened, and a bright sea of light illuminated
the passage. Boyar Nicola was not frightened. He advanced towards the
room. But he had scarcely gone two paces when there, on the threshold,
stood the Sultana, with her hair undone, in a thin white petticoat
and a white dressing-jacket. With frowning brows she stood in the
doorway looking at the boyar.
Nicola was beside himself. He would willingly have gone on his knees,
and kissed her feet, so beautiful was she. But he knew if he knelt
before her she would only mock him. He approached to embrace her.
"Hold!" cried the Sultana. "I thought there were thieves! Ha, ha! it
is you, Boyar Nicola?"
And suddenly, there in the light, she raised a shining scimitar in
her right hand. Nicola felt a hard blow on the side of his head. He
stood still. His grooms started to run, but one fell, yelling, and
covered with blood. Just then a great noise was heard, and the lady's
servants came in.
Nicola fled towards the exit followed by his four companions. Then
on into the yard with scimitars flashing on their right and on their
left. And once more they are on horseback fleeing towards Vulturesht.
There he dismounted, feeling very bitter, and entered the garden
once more, and once more sat on the stone bench, and hid his face in
his hands.
"Woe is me!" he murmured miserably. "How wretched is my life! What
is to be done? What is to be done?"
He sat there in the October night tortured by his thoughts. Only the
breeze carrying the mist from the fields disturbed him.
"Woe is me! How wretched is my life!" and he bent forward, his head
in his hands, his elbows on his knees. "What a terrible woman!" he
murmured again as he mused. "What eyes she has! Oh, Blessed Virgin! Oh,
Blessed Virgin! Do not abandon me, for my heart is breaking!"
For some time he stayed there dreaming. After a while he rose and
moved towards the house.
"What a terrible woman, and what eyes!"
In the house he once more called for Vasile.
"Good Vasile, I am undone! A terrible woman, good Vasile--she has
burnt my heart and turned it to ashes! What is to be done? Do not
leave me! Look, you understand, you shall have two of my ducats."
"I know what you have been through, master. She is a proud lady,
there is no denying it! If I knew you would give me five ducats,
or even six--but there, it's only an idea----"
"Speak, Vasile, good man, I will give you---- What eyes! Woe is me!"
"Then I understand, master," says Vasile, "that you give me seven
ducats, but you'll have to give seven times seven if you get her here
at your hand--don't be afraid, master, it is not much--only seven
times seven to have her here at your hand! I'll bring Cozma Racoare
to you! As sure as you put the ducats into the palm of my hand,
so sure will he put the Sultana into your arms, that's that."
Boyar Nicola was rather alarmed when he heard talk of Cozma Racoare,
but afterwards he sighed and said:
"Good!"
Three days later Racoare came. Nicola was sitting on the stone
bench in the garden under the lime-tree, smoking a pipe of fragrant
tobacco. When he caught sight of the highwayman he sat gazing at him
with startled eyes. Cozma came calmly along with his horse's bridle
in his left hand. He wore top boots up to his knees with long steel
spurs. A long gun was slung across his back. On his head was a black
sheepskin cap. He walked unconcernedly as usual with knitted brows;
his horse followed him with bent head.
Vasile, the boyar's agent, came up to the stone seat, scratching his
head, and whispered with a grin:
"What do you say to this, master? Just take a look at him. He could
bring you the devil himself!"
Boyar Nicola could not take his eyes off Cozma. The highwayman stopped
and said:
"God be with you!"
"I thank you," replied Vasile. "God grant it!"
The boyar remained persistently silent.
"H'm!" murmured Vasile. "You have come to see us, friend Cozma?"
"I have come," responded Racoare.
"On our business?"
"Yes."
Cozma spoke slowly, frowning; wherever he might be no smile ever lit
up his face.
"Ah, yes, you have come," said the boyar, as if awaking from
sleep. "Vasile, go and tell them to prepare coffee, but bring wine
at once."
"Let them make coffee for one," said Cozma, "I never drink."
Vasile went off grinning, after a side-glance at his master.
"Ah, you never drink!" said the boyar with an effort. "So, so, you
have come on our business--how much? Ah, I am giving fifty ducats."
"Good!" said Racoare quietly.
Vasile returned, smiling knowingly. The boyar was silent.
"Eh," said Vasile, scratching his head, "how are you getting on?"
"Good Vasile, go and fetch the purse from under my pillow."
"No, there is no need to give me a purse," said the highwayman,
"I have no need of money."
"What?" murmured the boyar. "Ah, yes! You do not need? Why?"
"The thing is to put the Sultana of Frasini into your arms--I hand
you over the lady, and you hand me the money."
"Let's be brief!" cried Vasile, passing his hand through his hair. "One
party gives the lady, the other the money. What did I tell you? Cozma
would fetch you the devil from hell. From henceforth the lady is
yours."
Racoare turned round, strode to the bottom of the garden, fastened
his horse to a tree, drew a cloak of serge from his saddle, spread
it out and wrapped himself in it.
"Well! Well!" groaned Boyar Nicola, breathing heavily. "What a terrible
man! But I feel as though he had taken a load off my mind."
Vasile smiled but said nothing. Later, when he was by himself, he
began to laugh and whisper: "Ha, ha! He who bears a charmed life is
a lucky man!"
The boyar started up as from sleep and looked fearfully at Vasile;
then he shook his head and relapsed into thought.
"Ah, yes!" he murmured, without understanding what he was talking
about.
When night had fallen Cozma Racoare tightened his horse's girths and
mounted. Then he said:
"Boyar, wait for me in the glade at Vulturesht."
The gates were opened, the horse snorted and rushed forth like
a dragon.
The full moon shone through the veil of an autumnal mist, weaving
webs of light, lighting up the silent hills and the dark woods. The
rapid flight of the bay broke the deep silence. Racoare rode silently
under the overhanging woods with their sparse foliage; he seemed like
a phantom in the blue light.
Then he reached Frasini. Every one was asleep, the doors were
shut. Cozma knocked at the door: Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat!
"Who is there?" cried a voice from within.
"Open!" said Racoare.
"Who are you?"
"Open!" shouted Cozma.
From within was heard a whispered:
"Open!" "Do not open!" "Open, it is Cozma!"
A light shone through a niche in the wall above the door, and lighted
up Cozma's face. Then a rustling sound became audible, the light was
extinguished, and the bar across the door rattled.
Cozma entered the empty courtyard, dismounted by the steps, and pushed
open the door.
"The door is open," he murmured, "the lady is not nervous."
In the dark corridor his footsteps and his spurs echoed as in a
church. A noise was heard in one of the rooms, and a bright light
shone into the passage. The Sultana appeared in the doorway, dressed
in white with her hair unplaited, with frowning brows and the scimitar
in her right hand.
"Who are you? What do you want?" she cried.
"I have come to fetch you," said Racoare shortly, "and take you to
Boyar Nicola."
"Ah, you are not burglars?" said the lady, and raised her
scimitar. "See here, you will meet the same fate as your Nicola!"
Racoare took a step forward, calmly seized the scimitar, squeezed the
lady's fist, and the steel blade flew into a corner. The lady sprang
quickly back, calling:
"Gavril! Niculai! Toader! Help!"
Voices were heard, and the servants crowded into the passage, and
stood by the door. Racoare approached the lady, and tried to seize
her. She avoided him, and caught up a knife from the table.
"What are you doing, you boobies? Help! Seize him, bind him!"
"Don't talk nonsense--I see you are not frightened; I cannot do other
than I am doing!" said Racoare.
Then the servants murmured again:
"How can we bind him? It is Racoare. He is here! Cozma Racoare, lady!"
"Cowards!" cried the lady, and threw herself upon Cozma.
The highwayman took her arm, pressed her hands together, tied them
with a leather strap, and lifted her under his arm like a bundle.
"Get out of the way!" he said then, and the people fell over each
other as they scattered to either side.
"What a pearl among women!" thought Cozma, while he strode along
the corridor with the lady under his arm, "he has not bad taste,
that Boyar Nicola! Proud woman!"
The Sultana looked with eyes wide with horror at the servants who
gave way on either hand in their terror. She felt herself held as
in a vice. At last she raised her eyes to Racoare's fierce face. The
light from the room was reflected in the man's steely eyes, and lit
up his weather-beaten face.
"Who are you?" she gasped.
"I? Cozma Racoare."
The lady gave another glance at the servants huddled in the corners,
and she said not another word. Now she understood.
Outside, the highwayman mounted the bay, placed the lady in front of
him, and set spurs to his horse. Once more the sound of the galloping
horse broke the silence of the night.
"What a pearl among women!" thought Racoare, and the horse sped along
the road like a phantom.
The lady turned her head, and studied Racoare by the light of the moon.
"Why do you look at me like that, lady?" And the horse sped along
under the overhanging woods.
The black hair of the lady shone in great billows of light. The
foliage glistened with hoar-frost, like silver-leaf. The lady looked
at the highwayman and shuddered, she felt herself squeezed in his
powerful arms, and her eyes burnt like two stars beneath the heavy
knitted brows.
"Why do you look at me like that, lady? Why do you shiver? Are
you cold?"
The galloping hooves thundered through the glades, the leaves
glittered in their silver sheen, and the bay passed on like a phantom
in the light.
A shadow suddenly appeared in the distance.
"What is that yonder?" questioned the lady.
"Boyar Nicola awaits us there," replied Racoare.
The lady said no more. But Cozma felt her stiffen herself. The leather
strap was snapped, and two white hands were lifted up. The highwayman
had no time to stop her. Like lightning she seized the bridle in
her right hand, and turned the horse on the spot, but her left arm
she twined round Racoare's neck. The highwayman felt the lady's head
resting against his breast, and a voice murmured softly:
"Would you give me to another?"
And the horse flew like a phantom through the blue light; the meadows
rang with the sound of the galloping hooves, the silver leaves
glistened, and tresses of black hair floated in the wind. But now
shadows seemed to be pursuing them. The hills on the horizon seemed
peopled with strange figures, which hurried through the light mist. But
the black phantom sped on, and ever onwards, till it was lost in the
far distance, in the gloom of the night.
THE WANDERERS
By M. SADOVEANU
A house stood isolated in the middle of a garden, separated from the
main group about the market-place.
It was an old house, its veranda was both high and broad and had
big whitewashed pillars. The pointed roof was tiled and green with
moss. In front of the veranda, and facing south, stood two beautiful
round lime-trees throwing out their shade.
One day in the month of August, the owners, Vladimir Savicky and Ana,
his wife, were sitting in the veranda. Both were old, weather-beaten
by the storms of many journeys and the misfortunes of life. The old
man wore a long white beard and long white hair, which was parted
down the middle and smooth on the top; he smoked a very long pipe,
and his blue eyes gazed towards the plains which stretched away
towards the sunset. The old woman, Ana, selected a nosegay of flowers
from a basket. He was tall and vigorous still, she was slight with
gentle movements. Forty years ago they left their ruined Poland, and
settled in our country. They kept an adopted daughter, and had a son
of thirty years of age, a bachelor, and a good craftsman. They had
lived for thirty years here in the old house, busying themselves with
market-gardening: for thirty years they had lived a sad, monotonous
life in this place. They had been alone with their adopted child,
with Magdalena; Roman, their boy, had been roaming through the world
for the last ten years.
Old Vladimir puffed away at his pipe as he stroked his beard; the
warmth of the afternoon had made him lay aside his blue jacket. The old
wife was choosing her flowers. A gentle breeze, laden with fragrance,
came from the garden, from the trees heavy with fruit, and from the
gay-coloured flowers. Shafts of light penetrated through the leafy
limes, little patches of white light came from above, and played
over the bright grass, green as the tree-frog. From time to time the
quivering foliage sent a melodious rustle into the peaceful balcony.
At intervals the soft notes of a song floated through the open window.
Suddenly a resounding noise broke the stillness of the day. What
was it? A carriage. The old man started, put down his pipe, and
rose. The old woman put her head, wrapped in a white shawl, out over
the railings. The rumbling vehicle, an ugly Jew upon the box, drew
nearer, and pulled up outside the door of the old house. A strong,
broad-shouldered young man descended, a big bundle in his right hand,
a case in his left.
"Roman! Roman!" cried the old lady in a feeble voice. She tried to
rise but fell softly back beside the flowers.
"There, there, old lady, it is Roman," murmured the old man gaily,
as he went down the stairs.
"Mr. Roman!" cried a gentle voice, and Magdalena's fair head appeared
at the window.
Roman had let fall the bundle and thrown himself into his father's
arms.
"Yes, old lady, it is Roman!" murmured Vladimir Savicky, with tears
in his eyes. He embraced his son, and pressed him to his heart. "Yes,
old lady, it is Roman!" That was all he could find to say.