The old mother cried silently, her son strained her to his breast,
while the old man wandered round murmuring tearfully into his beard:
"Yes, yes, old lady, it is our Roman."
As Roman Savicky straightened his strong frame and turned round, he
saw a white face with blue eyes in the doorway. He stood transfixed
with astonishment; the girl watched him, smiling shyly.
"Ha! ha!" laughed old Savicky, "how now? Do you not know each
other? Ah! Kiss each other, you have known Magdalena ever since she
was a child."
The young people approached each other in silence, the girl offered
her cheek with eyelids lowered, and Roman kissed her.
"I did not recognize her," said Roman, "she has grown so big."
His mother laughed softly. "You, too, Roman, you have grown much
bigger--and handsome."
"Naturally our Roman is handsome," said the old man, "our own Roman,
old lady."
Again the mother kissed her son. Roman seated himself upon a chair in
the veranda, the old man placed himself on his right, and the mother
on the left; they watched him, feasting their eyes upon him.
"My darling! my darling!" he said to the old woman, "it is long since
I have seen you."
In the end they grew silent, looking intently at one another,
smiling. The gentle rustle of the lime trees broke the heat and
stillness of the August day.
"Whence do you come, Roman?" questioned the old man suddenly.
"From Warsaw," said his son, raising his head.
The old man opened wide his eyes, then he turned towards Ana.
"Do you hear that, old lady, from Warsaw?"
The old lady nodded her head, and said wonderingly:
"From Warsaw!"
"Yes," said Roman, "I have journeyed throughout Poland, full of
bitterness, and I have wandered among our exiled brothers in all
parts of the world."
Profound misery rang in his powerful voice. The old people looked
smilingly at him, lovingly, but without understanding him. All acute
feeling for their country had long ago died away in their hearts. They
sat looking happily into the blue eyes of their Roman, at his fair,
smooth face, at his beautiful luxuriant hair.
The young man began to speak. Gradually his voice rose, it rang
powerfully, full of sorrow and bitterness. Where had he not
been! He had been everywhere, and everywhere he had met exiled
Poles, pining away among strangers, dying far from the land of
their fathers. Everywhere the same longing, everywhere the same
sorrow. Tyrants ruled over the old hearth, the cry of the oppressed
rent the air, patriots lay in chains or trod the road to Siberia,
crowds fled from the homes of their fathers, strangers swept like a
flood into their places.
"Roman, Roman!" said the old woman, bursting into tears, "how
beautifully you talk."
"Beautifully talks our Roman, old lady," said Vladimir Savicky sadly,
"beautifully, but he brings us sad tidings."
And in the old man's soul old longings and bitter memories began to
stir. On the threshold Magdalena stood dismayed and shuddered as she
looked at Roman.
Suddenly two old men entered by the door. One had thick, grizzled
whiskers, the other a long beard in which shone silver threads.
"Ah," cried the old Savicky, "here comes Palchevici, here comes
Rujancowsky. Our Roman has come! Here he is!"
"We know," said Rujancowsky gravely, "we have seen him."
"Yes, yes, we have seen him," murmured Palchevici.
They both approached and shook Roman warmly by the hand.
"Good day and welcome to you! See, now all the Poles of this town
are met together in one place," said Rujancowsky.
"What?" questioned Roman. "Only these few are left?"
"The others have passed away," said old Savicky sadly.
"Yes, they have passed away," murmured Palchevici, running his fingers
through his big grey whiskers.
They were all silent for a time.
"Old lady," said Vladimir Savicky, "go and fetch a bottle of wine
and get something to eat too, perhaps Roman is hungry. But where are
you? Where is Ana?" asked the old man, looking at Magdalena.
"Do not worry, she has gone to get things ready," replied the girl
smilingly.
"'Tis well! 'tis well!" Then turning towards the two Poles. "You do
not know how Roman can talk. You should hear him. Roman, you must
say it again."
The old wife came with wine and cold meat. She placed meat in front
of her boy, and the wine before the older men. They all began to
talk. But Roman's voice sounded melancholy in the stillness of the
summer day. Then they began to drink to Roman's health, to the health
of each one of them.
"To Poland!" cried Roman excitedly, striking the table with his
fist. And then he began to speak:
"Do you realize how the downtrodden people begin to murmur and
to agitate? Soon there will rise a mighty storm which will break
down the prison walls, the note of liberty will ring through our
native land! Ah, you do not know the anguish and the bitterness
there! Stranger-ridden and desolate! Since Kosciusko died there are
exiles and desolation everywhere! Mother," cried Roman, then turning
towards the old woman, "give me the case from over there, I must sing
something to you."
With these words his eyes darkened and he stared into space. The old
people looked at him, much moved, their heads upon their breasts, not
speaking a word. Quiet reigned in the old house, and in the garden
there was peace; a fiery sunset, crowned with clouds of flame, was
merging into the green sea of the woods. Golden rays penetrated into
the old veranda and shone on Roman's hair.
His mother handed him the case.
"Well," said the young man, "I will sing you something with my
cither. I will sing of our grief."
Then, beneath his fingers, the strings began to murmur as though
awaking from sleep. Roman bent forward and began, the old people sat
motionless round him.
Sad tones vibrated through the quiet of the old house, notes soft and
sorrowful like some remote mournful cry, notes deep with the tremor
of affliction; the melody rose sobbing through the clear sunset like
the flight of some bird of passage.
In the souls of the old people there rose like a storm the clamour of
past sorrows. The song lamented the ruin of fair lands; they seemed
to listen, as in a sad dream, to the bitter tears of those dying
for their native land. They seemed to see Kosciusko, worn with the
struggle, covered in blood, kneeling with a sword in hand.
Finis Poloniae! Poland is no more! Ruin everywhere, death all around;
a cry of sorrow rose; the children were torn from their unhappy land
to pine away and die on alien soil!
The chords surged, full of grief, through the clear sunset. Then
slowly, slowly, the melody died away as though tired with sorrow
until the final chord finished softly, like a distant tremor, ending
in deathlike silence.
The listeners seemed turned to stone. Roman leant his head upon
his hand, and his eyes, full of pain, turned towards the flaming
sunset. His chin trembled; his mind was full of bitter memories. The
old men sat as though stunned, like some wounded creatures, their
heads upon their breasts; the old mother cried softly, sighing, her
eyes upon her Roman. As the young man turned his eyes towards the
door he saw two bright tears in Magdalena's blue eyes; amid a deep
silence his own eyes gazed into the girl's while the last crimson
rays faded away from the woods.
THE FLEDGELING
By I. AL. BRATESCU-VOINESHTI
One springtime a quail nearly dead with fatigue--she came from far-away
Africa--dropped from her flight into a green corn-field on the edge
of a plantation. After a few days of rest she began to collect twigs,
dried leaves, straw, and bits of hay, and made herself a nest on a
mound of earth, high up, so that the rain would not spoil it; then
for seven days in succession she laid an egg, in all seven eggs,
as small as sugar eggs, and she began to sit upon them.
Have you seen how a hen sits on her eggs? Well, that is how the
quail did, but instead of sitting in a coop, she sat out of doors,
among the grain; it rained, it pelted with rain, but she never moved,
and not a drop reached the eggs. After three weeks there hatched out
some sweet little birds, not naked like the young of a sparrow, but
covered with yellow fluff, like chickens, only smaller, like seven
little balls of silk, and they began to scramble through the corn,
looking for food. Sometimes the quail caught an ant, sometimes a
grasshopper, which she broke into pieces for them, and with their
little beaks they went pic! pic! pic! and ate it up immediately.
They were pretty and prudent and obedient; they walked about near their
mother, and when she called to them "pitpalac!" they ran quickly back
to her. Once, in the month of June, when the peasants came to reap
the corn, the eldest of the chicks did not run quickly at his mother's
call, and, alas, a boy caught him under his cap. He alone could tell
the overwhelming fear he felt when he found himself clasped in the
boy's hand; his heart beat like the watch in my pocket. Luckily for
him an old peasant begged him off.
"Let him go, Marin, it's a pity on him, he will die. Don't you see
he can hardly move, he is quite dazed."
When he found himself free, he fled full of fear to the quail to tell
her what had befallen him. She drew him to her and comforted him,
and said to him:
"Do you see what will happen if you do not listen to me? When you
are big you can do what you like, but while you are little you must
follow my words or something worse may overtake you."
And thus they lived, contented and happy. The cutting of the corn and
the stacking of the sheaves shook a mass of seeds on to the stubble
which gave them food, and, although there was no water near, they
did not suffer from thirst because in the early morning they drank
the dew-drops on the blades of grass. By day, when it was very hot,
they stayed in the shade of the plantation; in the afternoon, when
the heat grew less, they all went out on to the stubble, but on the
cold nights they would gather in a group under the protecting wings of
the quail as under a tent. Gradually the fluff upon them had changed
into down and feathers, and with their mother's help they began to
fly. The flying lesson took place in the early morning towards sunrise,
when night was turning into day, and in the evening in the twilight,
for during the daytime there was danger from the hawks which hovered
above the stubble-field.
Their mother sat upon the edge and asked them:
"Are you ready?"
"Yes," they answered.
"One, two, three!"
And when she said "three," whrrr! away they all flew from the side
of the plantation, as far as the sentry-box on the high road, and
back again. And their mother told them they were learning to fly
in preparation for a long journey they would have to take when the
summer was over.
"We shall have to fly high up above the earth for days and nights,
and we shall see below us great towns and rivers and the sea."
One afternoon towards the end of August, while the chicks were
playing happily near their mother in the stubble, a carriage was
heard approaching, and it stopped in the track by the edge of the
plantation. They all raised their heads with eyes like black beads
and listened. A voice could be heard calling: "Nero! to heel!"
The chicks did not understand, but their mother knew it was a man out
shooting, and she stood petrified with fear. The plantation was their
refuge, but exactly from that direction came the sportsman. After a
moment's thought she ordered them to crouch down close to the earth,
and on no consideration to move.
"I must rise, you must stay motionless, he who flies is lost. Do
you understand?"
The chicks blinked their eyes to show they understood, and remained
waiting in silence. They could hear the rustling of a dog moving
through the stubble, and from time to time could be heard a man's
voice: "Where are you? To heel, Nero!"
The rustling drew near--the dog saw them; he remained stationary,
one paw in the air, his eyes fixed upon them.
"Do not move," whispered the quail to them, and she ran quickly
farther away from them.
The dog followed slowly after her. The sportsman hurried up. His foot
was so near to them that they could see an ant crawling up the leg of
his boot. Oh, how their hearts beat! A few seconds later the quail
rose, and flew low along the ground a few inches in front of the
dog's muzzle. It pursued her, and the sportsman followed, shouting:
"To heel! to heel!" He could not shoot for fear of hurting the dog;
the quail pretended to be wounded so well that the dog was determined
to catch her at all cost, but when she thought she was out of range
of the gun she quickly flew for shelter towards the plantation.
During this time, the eldest fledgeling, instead of remaining
motionless like his brothers, as their mother bade them, had taken
to his wings; the sportsman heard the sound of his flight, turned
and shot. He was some distance away. Only a single shot reached his
wings. He did not fall, he managed to fly as far as the plantation,
but there the movement of the wings caused the bone which had only
been cracked at first to give way altogether, and the fledgeling fell
with a broken wing.
The sportsman, knowing the plantation was very thick, and seeing it
was a question of a young bird only, decided it was not worth while
to look for it among the trees. The other little birds did not move
from the spot where the quail had left them.
They listened in silence. From time to time they heard the report of
a gun and the voice of the sportsman calling: "Bring it here!" After
a time the carriage left the cart-track by the plantation and followed
the sportsman; gradually the shots and the shouting became fainter and
died away, and in the silence of the evening nothing could be heard but
the song of the crickets; but when night had fallen and the moon had
risen above Cornatzel, they clearly heard their mother's voice calling
to them from the end of the stubble: "Pitpalac! pitpalac!" They flew
quickly towards her and found her. She counted them; one was missing.
"Where is the eldest one?"
"We do not know--he flew off."
Then the heart-broken quail began to call loudly, and yet more loudly,
listening on every side. A faint voice from the plantation answered:
"Piu! piu!" When she found him, when she saw the broken wing, she
knew his fate was sealed, but she hid her own grief in order not to
discourage him.
From now on, sad days began for the poor fledgeling. He could scarcely
move with his wing trailing behind him; with tearful eyes he watched
his brothers learning to fly in the early morning and in the evening;
at night when the others were asleep under his mother's wings, he
would ask her anxiously:
"Mother, I shall get well, I shall be able to go with you, shan't
I? And you will show me, too, the big cities and rivers and the sea,
won't you?"
"Yes," answered the quail, forcing herself not to cry.
In this way the summer passed. Peasants came with ploughs to plough
up the stubble, the quail and her children removed to a neighbouring
field of maize; after a time men came to gather in the maize. They
cut the straw and hoed up the ground, then the quails retired to the
rough grass by the edge of the plantation.
The long, beautiful days gave place to short and gloomy ones,
the weather began to grow foggy and the leaves of the plantation
withered. In the evening, belated swallows could be seen flying low
along the ground, sometimes other flocks of birds of passage passed
and, in the stillness of the frosty nights, the cry of the cranes
could be heard, all migrating in the same direction, towards the south.
A bitter struggle took place in the heart of the poor quail. She would
fain have torn herself in two, that one half might go with her strong
children who began to suffer from the cold as the autumn advanced,
and the other half remain with the injured chick which clung to her
so desperately. One day, without any warning, the north-east wind
blew a dangerous blast, and that decided her. Better that one of
the fledgelings should die than that all of them should--and without
looking back lest her resolution should weaken, she soared away with
the strong little birds, while the wounded one called piteously:
"Do not desert me! Do not desert me!"
He tried to rise after them, but could not, and remained on the same
spot following them with his eyes until they were lost to sight on
the southern horizon.
Three days later, the whole region was clothed in winter's white,
cold garb. The violent snowstorm was followed by a calm as clear as
crystal, accompanied by a severe frost.
On the edge of the plantation lay a young quail with a broken wing
and stiff with cold. After a period of great suffering he had fallen
into a pleasant state of semi-consciousness. Through his mind flashed
fragments of things seen--the stubble-field, the leg of a boot with an
ant crawling upon it, his mother's warm wings. He turned over from
one side to the other and lay dead with his little claws pressed
together as though in an act of devotion.
POPA TANDA
By I. SLAVICI
God have mercy on the soul of Schoolmaster Pintilie! He was a good
man, and a well-known chorister. He was very fond of salad with
vinegar. Whenever he was hoarse, he would drink the yolk of an egg
with it; when he raised his voice, the windows rattled while he sang,
"Oh, Lord, preserve Thy people." He was schoolmaster in Butucani,
a fine, large town containing men of position and sound sense, and
given to almsgiving and hospitality. Now Schoolmaster Pintilie had
only two children: a daughter married to Petrea Tzapu, and Trandafir,
Father Trandafir, priest in Saraceni.
God keep Father Trandafir! He was a good man, he had studied many
books, and he sang even better than his dead father, God have mercy
on his soul! He always spoke correctly and carefully as though he
were reading out of a book. Father Trandafir was an industrious,
careful man. He gathered from many sources, and made something out of
nothing. He saved, he mended, he collected to get enough for himself
and for others.
Father Trandafir went through a great deal in his youth. One does
not achieve big results in a minute or two. The poor man has to go
without a great deal more than he ever gets. He worked harder with
his brain than with a spade and fork. But what he did was not work
thrown away. Young Trandafir became priest in his native town, in
Butucani, a fine large town containing men of position and good sense,
but Trandafir did not enjoy the almsgiving and hospitality.
Father Trandafir would have been a wonderful man had not one
thing spoilt him. He was too severe in his speech, too harsh in his
judgments; he was too straightforward and outspoken. He never minded
his words, but said right out what he had in his mind. It is not good
to be a man like that. Men take offence if you speak too plainly
to them, and it is best to live peaceably with the world. This
was evident in Father Trandafir's case. A man like him could not
stay two years in Butucani. It was first one thing, then another;
at one time he complained to the townspeople, the next time to the
archdeacon. Now it is well known that priests must not make complaints
to the archdeacon. The archdeacon understands presents much better than
complaints. But that was what Father Trandafir would not comprehend.
There is no doubt that Father Trandafir was in the right.
But the thing is, right is the prerogative of the mighty. The weak
can only assert themselves gradually. The ant cannot overthrow the
mountain. It can, though, change its position; but slowly, slowly,
bit by bit. Perhaps the Father knew that this was so in the world;
he had his own standard, though.
"Even the devil cannot turn what is true and right into a lie!" This
was his remark, and with this remark he got himself turned out of
Butucani. That is to say, it was not only he who did it, it was the
townspeople too. One word and a little something besides to promote
a good understanding with the archdeacon, a visit to the bishop, and
a word there from the archdeacon: things get done if one knows how
to do them. The long and the short of it was that Father Trandafir
was sent from Butucani to Saraceni--to promote a good understanding
among the faithful. Priest in Saraceni! Who knows what that means to
be priest in Saraceni? That is what befell Father Trandafir! Who would
fain leap the ditch throws his bag over it first. Father Trandafir
only had a wife and two children; his bag was empty. That was why he
leaped so unwillingly from Butucani to Saraceni.
In the "Dry Valley" there was a village which they called "Saraceni."
A village called "poor" in a "dry" valley; could any place have a more
unpleasant name?
The Dry Valley!
"Valley" because the place was shut in between mountains; "dry,"
because the stream, which had cut its way through the middle of the
valley, was dry most of the year.
This was how the valley lies.
To the right stood a hill called "Ripoasa." On the left were three
other hills, called "Fatza," "Grofnitza," and "Alunish." Ripoasa was
rocky. Fatza was cultivated; the village stood on Grofnitza, while on
Alunish lay the village graveyard among hazel and birch trees. Thus
it lay to right and left, but the chief feature of the landscape stood
at the bottom. Here rose the mountains--from there, came what did come.
The other side, beyond Ripoasa was the Rapitza Valley--a much
deeper valley than the Dry Valley, and so called because the Rapitza
flowed through it. The Rapitza was a treacherous river, especially
in the spring, and the stream in the Dry Valley was a branch of the
Rapitza. In the spring, when the snow melted on the mountains, the
Rapitza got angry and poured part of her fury into the branch that
flowed through the Dry Valley, and the latter ceased to be "dry."
In a few hours the inhabitants of Saraceni were rather too rich in
water. This occurred nearly every year. When the crops in the valley
appeared to be most favourable, the Dry Valley belied its name and
washed away all that lay in its path.
It would have been rather better if this invasion had lasted only a
short time, but the water remained in the valley, and in many places
formed refuges for the frog family. And instead of corn, osiers and
interlacing willows grew by the side of its pools.
Was it any wonder that in consequence of this the people of Saraceni
had become in time the most idle of men? He is a fool who sows where
he cannot reap, or where he does not know whether he will be able to
reap or not. The Fatza was a sandy spot; the corn grew a few inches
high and the maize a yard; on Ripoasa one could not grow blackberries
even, for at the bottom the water spoilt the fruit. Where there is no
hope of reward there is no incentive to work. Whoever works wants to
earn, but the people of Saraceni had given up all thoughts of gain,
and therefore no one felt inspired to work. Those who could afford
it passed their time lying out of doors; those who could not, spent
their day working in the neighbouring villages. When the winter came
life was hard and bitter.
But whoever has got used to the bad does not think of better things;
the people of Saraceni appeared to think that things could not be
better than they were. Fish in the water, birds in the air, moles in
the ground, and the people of Saraceni in poverty!
Saraceni? One can imagine what a village like Saraceni must have been;
here a house, there a house--all alike. Hedges were superfluous, seeing
there was nothing to enclose; the street was the whole village. It
would have been absurd to put a chimney on the house--the smoke found
its way out through the roof. There would have been no sense in putting
plaster on the walls either, as that dropped off in time. Some of the
buildings were made of bits of wood knocked together, a roof of straw
mixed with hay, an oven of clay, an old-fashioned veranda outside,
a bed with four posts built into the ground, a door made out of three
boards held together by two stakes placed crosswise--quickly made and
well made--whoever was not pleased with it, let him make something
he liked better.