wanted to spend Easter with his wife, he had still three important
things to get: whitewash for the walls, windows for the house, and a
case for the Icon of the most Blessed Virgin--all objects that could
be found only in a town.
To the market, then!
The priest had horses and a cart. He was vexed about the osier baskets
for the maize; only the backs and sides of them still remained. He
was ashamed that a priest like himself should have to go to the market
without any maize-baskets. He could not borrow any, seeing he was at
Saraceni, where even the priest had no proper maize-baskets.
They say "Necessity is the best teacher." The Father sent Cozonac
down the valley to fetch osiers, planted two stakes in the ground
with thinner sticks set between them about a hand's breadth apart,
and then the priest and his wife and children, and Cozonac too, began
to plait the osiers in. Before long the baskets were ready. The work
was not very remarkable, but for all that they were the best baskets
in Saraceni, and so good that Cozonac could not refrain from saying,
"The priest is one of the devil's own men!"
To the market-place and from the market-place home the Father went
proudly with his baskets; other people had some, but he found people
could buy worse baskets than those he had made himself.
"What is the priest making?"
"Baskets for the maize."
"But he has got some."
"He is making them for those who have not got any."
After Easter, Cozonac began to clear the pools of osiers which the
priest wove into baskets. The longer the work continued, the better
was it done; the last basket was always the best.
Marcu Flori Cucu was a sensible man. He liked to stay and talk to the
priest. Cozonac cleared the osiers, the priest plaited them, while
Marcu lay upon his stomach with his head in his hands and idly watched.
"This osier is a little too long," said the priest, measuring the osier
with his eye. "Here, Marcu! Give me the hatchet to make it shorter."
The hatchet was at Marcu's feet. Marcu raised the upper part of his
body, supported himself on his elbows, stretched out his legs, and
began feeling about for the hatchet, trying to draw it up by his feet.
"Make haste!" said the priest, and gave him a cut with the osier.
Marcu jumped up and assured the priest that he was much more nimble
than he thought. In the end, this assurance was of great use to
him. By Whitsuntide the priest had a cart-load of baskets ready to
take to the market, and Marcu knew very well that if the priest sold
the baskets he would have a cheerful holiday.
The priest had had help for some weeks, and the help had always
brought a reward to the man who had given it.
Just before Whitsuntide the rain began, and seemed as though it would
never cease.
"I do not know what I shall do," said the priest. "It seems as though
I must leave the market until after Whitsuntide. I do not like going
in the rain. If it does not stop raining by Thursday, I just shall
not go."
Marcu scratched himself behind his ears and said nothing. He could
see that it did not suit the priest to get soaked.
"Here," he said a little later, ceasing to plait, "couldn't we weave
an awning? There are reeds and rushes and osiers in the valley."
"Perhaps you are right," replied the priest. "It could be made the
same way as we are making these."
Through helping him, Marcu had learnt to make better baskets than
the priest. The awning did Marcu great credit, the priest did not
get wet and came back from the market with a full purse.
This time Whit-Sunday was fine. The priest's wife had a new gown,
the three eldest children had dolls bought in the town; the tiny one,
Mary, had a straw hat with two pink flowers, the walls were white
both inside and out, the windows were whole, the house was light,
and the Icon of the Holy Virgin could be seen very well placed high
up between the windows, decorated with flowers grown along the edge of
the vegetable-beds. The priest had brought white flour, meat, butter,
and even sugar, from the town. The priest loved his wife, but it was
not his way to kiss her at odd times. But, this morning, the first
thing he did was to embrace her. His wife began to cry--I don't know
why--when Father Trandafir entered the church he felt inclined to
cry; he had seen people in front of the Icon and there were tears in
his eyes when he went up to the altar. The people say he had never
sung more beautifully than he did that day. The saying remained:
"To sing like the priest at Whitsuntide!"
The parishioners went to see the priest; they passed through the gate
before they crossed the door-step; they wiped their boots, put their
hats on their sticks, leaned their sticks against the wall, smoothed
their moustaches and their beards, and stepped inside. When they came
out of the house again, they took a look round, nodded their heads,
and said nothing.
The years come, the years go; the world moves on, and man is sometimes
at peace with the world, and sometimes at odds with it. The high road
passed through the town, passed by the Dry Valley and ran farther on
to the Rapitza Valley. Where the roads met, at the conjunction of the
two valleys, there was a mill on the Rapitza. Near Rapitza was a cross;
close to the cross was a fountain, and by the fountain were eight fine
sycamores. This spot was called "The Cross of Saraceni." From here to
Saraceni was only about an hour by road. In spite of this, whenever
he came from the town, the man of Saraceni pulled up here to water
his horse, and waited a while, hoping that some wayfarer might come
and ask: "What village is that where one sees that beautiful church
with white walls and the glittering tower?" And when he is asked, he
strokes his moustache, and looking proudly towards the place replies:
"Up there on the Grofnitza? That's our village--Saraceni; but you
ought to hear the bells--what bells that tower contains! One can hear
them a three hours' journey away!"
Where the road divided there stood a sign-post with two arms; on
one arm was written, "To the Rapitza Valley," and on the other one,
"Towards the Dry Valley." There was no road anywhere round about like
the one that ran through the Dry Valley towards Saraceni.
It was as smooth as a table, and as solid as a cherry-stone. One could
see the Saracenese had constructed it lovingly. To right and left,
at intervals of ten to fifteen paces, were some shady nut-trees
which were a pleasure to look at. The river-bed lay on the right;
the road ran along its bank, but higher up, so that the water could
not disturb it. The Saracenese had to destroy rock in their progress,
but that they did cheerfully, for out of the rock they built the road.
From here on, the Saracene felt at home, and drove at a foot's
pace. But he was not bored for a second. At every step almost he
met an acquaintance with whom he exchanged words, "Where do you come
from?" and "Where are you going?" One man had a cart full of lime,
another a load of apples; then came a man carrying a trellis-work,
and another with a wheelbarrow, a stave, or some other article made
of wood.
From time to time, along the side of the road, one found the
stone-masons at work, their trowels ringing from daybreak till
sunset. This road was not a dreary one!
There were lime-kilns where the road ran along the valley. In one
place there was a whole village. Some men were loading up lime,
others unloading stone and wood; the masons were shaping the stones,
the men at the kilns were throwing wood on to the fires; the foremen
were making noise enough for five.
From this point one could see the village well. The gardens were full
of trees; only between the bushes or beyond the trees did one catch
a glimpse here and there of a bit of the walls or the roofs of the
houses. The priest's house was just up by the church; one could only
see five windows and a red roof with two chimney stacks. Opposite the
church stood the school. The house, of which one could only see a piece
of wall with two windows and a roof, belonged to Marcu Flori Cucu.
The big building visible lower down was the Town Hall. If the houses
had lain less closely together the village would have looked very
beautiful, but, as it was, one only caught a glimpse and must imagine
the rest.
Every one had changed; Father Trandafir only had remained the same:
fresh, gay, and busy. If his grey hair and grizzled beard had not
betrayed his age, we might have thought that the little children with
whom he played in the evening, on the seat in front of the house,
were his own. One of them, whom he had lifted up to kiss, stole his
hat from off his head and ran away with it. Mariuca opened the window
and called out:
"My little Trandafir, don't leave grandfather bareheaded."
Then she flew from the window to catch Ileana, who had stolen
her grandmother's bonnet and adorned herself with it, and was now
proudly showing herself to her grandfather. The old grandfather
laughed heartily, he loved a joke. From close by came Father Costa,
and caught first Ileana and then Mariuca, kissed them, and then seated
himself by his father-in-law's side. Marcu, neighbour and old friend,
Mariuca's father-in-law, and attached to the house, saw the group
and came to join in the conversation.
"Old man, take your hat; you must not sit there bare-headed," said
the grandmother, handing his hat through the window.
One of the villagers, in passing, wished him "Good night," and added
to himself, "May the Lord preserve him for many years, for he is one
of God's own men."
OUT IN THE WORLD
By ION POPOVICI-BANATZEANU
The man tramping along the broad, dusty highway gradually drew near to
a town. He carried a bundle on his back--some old clothes, a change
of underlinen and a pair of boots--and at his breast, wrapped up in
a handkerchief, were his certificate of baptism, his work-book and
his book of military service--all his worldly goods.
For three years he had served the Emperor, and failing to find
employment in the town where he was, with a stick in his hand and a
few coppers in his pocket he had set out into the world, and walked
with the steadiness of a man well acquainted with the road.
Some one had advised him to go to Lugosh; he had heard there were
many craftsmen there driving a big trade, and he pursued his way
with hope in his heart. He felt strong and eager to work. For three
years he had not seen a workshop, for three years he had not followed
the craft which he had learnt so lovingly; it seemed to him he would
hardly know how to handle a hide now. Yet with each step forward his
confidence in himself increased, and he thought, "I will work, and
work so that every one wonders, and the peasant who takes in his hand
the sandals I have tanned will never want to part with them." And when
he said this to himself he walked faster. He would have liked to fly
that he might arrive quicker. But then again he slackened his pace,
and other thoughts assailed him: supposing he did not get a situation,
what would he do then?
"Supposing I do not find work?"
He was afraid to answer this or to think of what he would do if he
did not get a place. Ah, just to find work with somebody. He comforted
himself, and putting away from him all sad thoughts he imagined a rosy
future. He saw himself in the workshop doing the work of seven, and
saving penny after penny; he saw himself buying first one skin, then
two, then three, six and more, and many more, until he had a workshop
of his own, and then, if he met a girl he liked, he would marry.
He was intoxicated by his own thoughts, and hardly knew where he
was going. He walked slowly with his head bent. He would not rest,
for he felt no fatigue; it was as though some one urged him forward.
It was late autumn, the fields were bare and the road dreary. Buffeted
by the wind, the poplars along the side of the road were shedding
their leaves, and sadly swaying their pointed tops.
The country lay barren and dead, while the voiceless hills were glowing
in the light of the setting sun like a man who, on the point of death,
tries to save himself by some final remedy. The outlines of solitary
fountains prolonged themselves mournfully against the horizon, as
though they regretted the life and gaiety of other days. A flight of
crows, frightened by I know not what, rose from the dark marshes and
alighted upon the tops of the poplars, beating their wings and cawing
above the waste.
But Sandu saw and heard nothing; he walked absorbed in himself and
communing with his own heart.
He entered the town as the lights were being lit. He took no side
turnings but kept to the main street so that the dogs should not
hinder him.
"Keep straight on," he said to himself, "past the Roumanian church,
then I take the turning to the right till I get to the bridge and at
the bridge I must ask my way."
And at the bridge he asked his way, but they explained it in such a
manner that he lost himself, and it was late before he reached the
hostel. He bade good evening and asked rather diffidently whether
there were anywhere he could sleep, and if there were something to eat.
The innkeeper entered into conversation with him, and learnt that
Sandu came from the Dobre district, had done three years' military
service, and now was looking for a situation with some tanner.
"I have come," Sandu spoke with difficulty, "to see if I can find a
place here, for you see----"
"Who knows, perhaps you may," the innkeeper interrupted him, and went
out of the room.
"Should you say I shall find a place?" Sandu asked the innkeeper as
he brought him some lard and a piece of bread.
"Oh, you may find one if you are good at your trade and hard-working."
Sandu said nothing; the only word he could have uttered would have
been to say, as he could have said, how hard he meant to work,
and what kind of a man he was. But as he could not say this to the
innkeeper he told himself what a lot of work he meant to do, and how
well he meant to behave himself, as well as if he were a young girl.
Absorbed in thought, he ate at long intervals, and the innkeeper,
seeing how silent he was, bade him put out the lamp and wished him
a good night.
But the night was not restful. He crossed himself and stretched himself
out on the bench by the side of the wall, his bundle he placed at
his head and carefully pushed his money and his papers underneath
it. Although he was tired from his tramp, sleep would not visit his
eyes. He grew excited, a sort of giddiness overcame him, and he broke
into a cold sweat at his own thoughts. He tossed and turned on the
narrow bench, and pressed his forehead against the cold wall as he
sighed heavily.
When the day broke he was exhausted, his bones seemed weak, his feet
could hardly support him, and his head felt queer. Water, and the
freshness of the early morning, revived him, and he made his way to
the market-place where, according to the innkeeper, he would find
the booths of the master-tanners.
Although it was autumn, people were in no hurry to buy sandals, and
only a few of the master-tanners, who did business here on Sundays,
were walking about and moving their strips of leather according to
the position of the sun so as to ensure them being in the shade.
Sandu stood still by the cross in the market-place, and it seemed as
if a knife went through his heart; when he saw the empty booths he
felt as though his last atom of will had been destroyed. He felt as
though he must turn back, as though he could not ask. It seemed to him
as though he had not the strength to bear hearing one of the tanners
tell him he had no place for him; it would be such a catastrophe that
he would sink into the earth.
Not knowing what he did he moved forward; but when he approached
the first booth he lost confidence, and had not the courage to greet
the master.
He passed on. He walked round the booths two or three times, but
could not summon up courage to ask whether one of the tanners had a
situation open or not.
"Now I will go," he said very firmly to himself, to give himself
strength, but when he moved he saw a peasant go up to the booth. "I
will let him make his purchase and then I will go."
But he did not stir, he was afraid, especially when the master,
not being able to come to terms with the peasant, undid the box,
and flung the sandals violently into it. He did nothing; it seemed
terrible to him to have to go up to the booth. He did not know why. He
felt angry with himself that it should be so. And as he asked himself
why he was like this, he recalled to mind various acquaintances who
were so very bold and fearless. If only he could be like that! But
he could not be so, his nature did not allow it.
"Now you good-for-nothing, you are wandering about here like a sheep
in a pen," a tanner, small of stature, with brown eyes and a harsh
voice, said roughly to him.
"I?" stammered Sandu. "I am not a good-for-nothing."
"No? Then why do you keep coming round? Haven't I seen you? You walk a
bit, you stand still, you have been round us several times, and now you
are standing still again; it is as though you had some evil intention!"
"Master, I am not----"
"Go, whatever you are or are not, else you will see I will get rid
of you."
Sandu could hardly stand, a sort of mist darkened his eyes, and his
heart was bursting. He would have cried, but he was ashamed for a
grown man to be walking across the market-place with tears in his
eyes. He suffered and would gladly have told how deeply the words he
had listened to had hurt him, but he had no one to whom he could open
his heart.
He returned to the innkeeper with whom he was lodging. Tired and
spent he threw himself on the bench.
"What is it?" asked the innkeeper.
Sandu looked vaguely at him, then, as if afraid to hear the sound of
his own voice, he said:
"Nothing."
The innkeeper felt sorry for him.
"Have you found a situation?"
"I did not ask for one."
"Then how can you hope to get one?"
Sandu remained silent. The innkeeper looked strangely at him, shrugged
his shoulders, shook his head, and went to attend to his duties.
With his elbows on the table, and his head resting in his hands,
Sandu gazed in front of him, and who knows where his thoughts would
have led him if the innkeeper had not said to him:
"Listen, Dinu Talpoane sent to ask whether there was any workman
in need of work. Go with the apprentice and he may perhaps engage
you. He is a respectable man and does a big trade."
Without a word Sandu got up. It seemed to him he must be dreaming. But
when he saw the apprentice with an apron stained yellow and with big
boots covered with stale sap, his eyes shone, and he could have kissed
the innkeeper's hands for very joy.
Outside he began to talk to the apprentice, who told him that the
master was a splendid man, but his wife was harsh and heaven defend you
from her tongue; that the workshop was large and the work considerable,
especially in the autumn; and that the master sometimes engaged
workmen by the day in order to get a set of hides ready more quickly;
and many other things he told him. But Sandu was no longer listening.
When the apprentice saw that he asked no further questions, he
hesitated to say more, and they walked along together in silence.
Sandu knew where he had to go, but he did not know what to say,
or what terms to make--by the year, the month, the week; he could
not think what would be best to do. What he knew of the workshop of
the master-tanner with whom he had learnt his trade, and all he had
heard from the hands working there with him, seemed to be buzzing in
his brain until he grew so bewildered that he could not have told
how many days there are in a week, or how much money he would earn
if he worked for a whole month.
"Here we are," said the apprentice, stopping in front of a doorway
with gates.
Sandu felt a cold shiver go through him. For a second he stood
still. Three years as apprentice and four years as workman he had
worked for one master only, and he would have remained there all his
life if he had not been taken to be a soldier, and if the master had
not died he would have gone back to him the day he left the army. He
felt quite nervous, and if the apprentice had not opened the gate he
would not have gone in.
"They are eating," said the apprentice, seeing the big yard was empty,
and he crossed to the bottom of it where a small house stood built
against the old workshop.
They were close to the window when they heard people talking in the
house, and the clatter of knives.
"Look here," said Sandu, "you go on and say I have come but that I
am waiting till they have finished dinner."
The apprentice went in and told the master that a workman was outside,
but would not come in till the master had got up from the table.
"Tell him to come into the house."
But his wife interrupted him with:
"Leave him out there. Who knows what sort of a creature he is if
he does not venture to show his face inside! Let me have my dinner
in peace."
The husband, a well-built man, with a round, red face and kind blue
eyes, felt if he said any more his wife would snap his head off,
so he let the apprentice go.
The apprentice, who knew that one word from the mistress was worth a
hundred orders from the master, withdrew to the hearth in the outer
room, and waited till he should be called to dinner.
"But what's the matter, Ghitza, you are not eating?" he heard his
mistress saying. "Or are you waiting to be invited? Dear, dear,
perhaps I ought to beg the gentleman to come to table!"
The apprentice, accustomed to the mistress's ways, took a chair. But
he had not swallowed three mouthfuls before the mistress bade him
call in "that ne'er-do-well out there."
Sandu shyly wished them good day, but of all those sitting round
the table he only saw the master, and by his side the mistress,
whose eyes seemed to scorch him and make him lose his presence of mind.
"What is your name?" the master asked him.
"I am called Sandu Boldurean."
And in a low voice he told where he was born, with whom he had learnt
the trade, and how long he had worked, but during the questioning
he scarcely raised his eyelids. He grew confused at once when the
mistress screamed at him:
"But you'll ruin your hat turning it round like that in your hands. Put
it down somewhere and speak up so that a man can understand what you
are saying."
Sandu felt the blood go to his head, and hardly knowing what he was
doing he hung his hat on a bolt on the door.
"And you worked only with one master?"
"Only one. See, here is my work-book," and with some haste he drew
out the handkerchief, unknotted it, and held out his "work-book"
to the master.
"Let me see too," said the mistress, snatching the book from her
husband's hand. "After all, it's no wonder this idiot stayed in the
same place; and who knows what kind of a master it was?" she whispered
to her husband.
He would have replied that it was a very good thing for a workman to
have stayed so long with one master, for most tanners worked in the
same way, and only here and there were the hides dressed differently;
but he was ashamed to say so before the workman, and so he busied
himself by looking through the book.
Sandu broke into a sweat; when he held out the book he felt his
soul was full of joy at having got so far, but little by little,
especially when the mistress took the book and whispered to her
husband, his heart seemed turned to ice.
What would he say to him? Supposing he found something bad? Supposing
he did not give him work? These were the questions which passed through
his mind and which he could not answer, although he knew his book only
spoke well of him, and that the master required a workman because it
was autumn when business is in full swing.
A great burden seemed lifted from him at the master's words:
"Good, I will engage you. How much did you get from your late master?"
"I worked for him for four years and had a salary."
"What a lot of talk! We will give you one and a half florins per week
without washing, and you can stay, though probably in the army you
have forgotten all you knew about work," the mistress broke into the
conversation, as she rose from the table.
It was the signal for the two workmen and the apprentice to return
to their work.
Sandu stood transfixed. Only the master and a child of six or seven
years of age remained in the house, as the girl and the mistress went
into the passage to see to the dinner things.
"Well, do you agree? Will you stay or not?" scolded the mistress as
she appeared in the doorway.
"I will stay," replied Sandu, scarcely knowing what he said.
The master looked at her, and turned to Sandu.
"Have you had your dinner?"
"Did he come for you to feed him," his wife interrupted him.
"Woman, you----"
The mistress threw him a look full of meaning, and disappeared into
the yard.
"You can start work to-morrow."