side. When they reached the yard gate they stopped. The master would
have liked to say something about the pay. One and a half florins a
week seemed so very little to him, but Sandu was simple and glad to
get work, and he did not ask for much.
"Master, I will go now. Good luck to you!"
"Good luck to you!" replied the master, and he seemed as though he
would like to call him back and say another word to him.
In rather over a month Sandu had had time to get back into his old
ways, and to work hopefully at his trade, but during this time he had,
little by little, come to see that in his master's house the cock by no
means ruled the roost. Sharp-tongued and ill-tempered, Mistress Veta
was often dissatisfied with the work. Now it was because the skins
had not come out of the vat yellow enough, and had not enough creases;
now it was because a range of skins needed mending as the workmen had
not been sufficiently careful; and so on and so on, always hard words
for the workmen who worked eagerly and with all their might that the
skins might be well tanned, and the mistress have no chance to grumble.
At first Sandu found these abusive words hard to bear, and all day
long the thought worried him that the mistress only spoke so to him,
and that it was with him only that she was dissatisfied. At one time
even he was seized with the desire to go away so that he might hear
her no longer, and the other men might not be worried on his account,
for he said to himself that only since he entered the workshop had the
work gone so badly, and the mistress's tongue chided so unceasingly.
But, all unperceived by himself, he grew somewhat accustomed to the
ways of the house, and when a workman told him that the mistress had
always been just the same, and that no matter how well the hides were
dressed she always found some fault, he took heart and dismissed the
idea of quitting the workshop of Talpoane, the master-tanner.
He was up almost before daylight, and never let his work out of his
hand till it was dinner-time. He washed his hands clean, and took his
usual place at his employers' table--for from olden times it had been
the custom for the masters not to keep aloof from the workmen or to
dine apart.
Silent at his work, he was, also, silent at meals. Only when he
was spoken to did Sandu reply, gently and with dignity. The other
men talked and laughed, and when they realized that it pleased the
mistress to make fun of Sandu they began to crack every kind of joke
at his expense.
At first Sandu opened his eyes wide. He looked at them and could not
understand them, but when he took it in he, too, laughed with them,
a laugh full of kindness and friendliness. He lived on good terms
with the workmen; only one of them, Iotza, embittered the days. He
only had to say: "You have made the solution too weak," for Sandu,
although he knew it was not true, to be unhappy all the week, and
often his heart was full of fear that the skins would not come out
yellow enough or creased enough to please the mistress.
But he felt comforted when he noticed that, when he came into the
workshop, Master Dinu asked only him how many hides were being worked,
and when they would be ready, for at such and such a fair he would
need so many, because a customer was trying to get in touch with him.
"They'll be ready when they are wanted; don't worry," Sandu would
reply.
And away Master Dinu would go, quite content, and quite sure that
the hides would be ready when they were wanted for the fair, or had
to be despatched to some customer.
He saw that everything went very well since Sandu entered the
workshop. The skins were kept in the pits just long enough for the hair
to come off easily and not burn in the lime; the solution was boiled
enough, not too hot and not too strong; the poles were in their places;
the stretching-pegs were in a neat pile, and the workshop was cleaner
than it had ever been before.
And Master Dinu knew the value of a good workman in a place where
there were many workers, and where work was plentiful.
"There is only one thing he lacks," he said to himself, "he would be
a man in a thousand, but he is too diffident."
But, even in spite of his diffidence, he thought so highly of him
that had he asked for four florins a week he would gladly have given
it sooner than let him go away.
So he said to himself, but Sandu did not dream of asking for much
more than he had. All his life he had worked for the same wage.
It is true that had he done as the others did, and drawn out money
every Sunday, he might, perhaps, have felt it was hard to see Master
Dinu paying out a great deal more to the others than to him, but
he did not ask for his money. On one occasion only did he draw two
florins from his pay, and that was because, on a certain Tuesday,
his mother had sent greetings to him and had asked him if possible
to send her a little help.
Sandu ran off at once to the market-place to find Master Dinu to ask
for all the money he was entitled to for his work, that he might send
it to his mother. Master Dinu, not knowing what he wanted it for,
nor how much he needed, asked whether two florins would be enough.
"Yes," he said, and with the coins in his hand he went to the man
from his village. He wrapped up the money and begged him to lose no
time in giving it to his mother and in telling her how much he longed
for her, and that, perhaps, she might come to him, for he was working
for a good master, and up to now he had not been idle for a single day.
A fortnight passed and he received no tidings of his mother. But
on Tuesday, the day of the weekly fair, while he was spreading out
the skins, the man came to tell him he had given the money and had
brought a letter written by "Peter the Chinaman."
Sandu took the letter and would have liked to open it, but he caught
the mistress's eye and involuntarily thrust it into his breast.
"Look at him," she cried, "we are longing to finish the work quickly,
and he thinks only of reading lines from his sweetheart."
"I have no sweetheart," replied Sandu gently.
"Who writes to you then?"
"My mother."
"Your mother? She can't know how to use a pen. Did you ever hear such
a lie----"
"I do not lie."
"Not lie? Hold your tongue! As if your mother knows how to write----"
And she looked rather sulkily at Sandu, who moved on to the other
pile of stretching-pegs.
At this moment one of the workmen told her that the letter really was
from his mother, but that it was written by a Chinaman in the village.
"Then why didn't he tell me?" she cried. "Am I supposed to know
everything?" Sandu turned round. "But can you read?"
"Yes, mistress, I can."
"It's a good thing you can."
The mistress went away and the men were busy with their work till
dinner-time.
Sandu lingered over his letter. When he went indoors the mistress
could not resist having one or two hits at him. But Sandu scarcely
understood her; his mother thanked him with all her heart, and he
was so full of joy that even had the mistress struck him he would
have felt nothing of it. He ate of the food, but he could not have
told if he were satisfied or hungry when he got up from the table,
and he worked like a nigger till the evening.
In bed, with his hands beneath his head, many thoughts crossed his
mind. Three years had passed since last he saw his mother. He had
often longed for her when he was in the army, but only from time to
time had he received news of her. He had left her old and poor.
"And longing for me will have aged her a great deal more," he said
to himself, and his heart was heavy when he thought he could not
go to see her. "How good it would be if I could go and see her at
Christmas! In the meantime I must send more money to give her pleasure
and console her."
And he fancied how she would cry with joy when she got the money,
and how she would pray God to lengthen his life and give him success
and happiness.
And he seemed to feel himself close to her, and he seemed to hear
the whisper of sweet comforting words.
Wrapped in such thoughts as these he fell asleep.
The next day God sent glorious weather, and Sandu beat the skins
carefully and often that they might dry quickly.
But no matter what trouble he and the other men took, the skins would
not dry, and Master Dinu could not begin the cutting out till next day;
the cutting out and trimming goes quickly when one has everything
close at hand, and some one to help one, and Master Dinu began to
cut out and to trim. But the damping, oiling, thickening and sewing
of the sandals and straps was difficult and tedious.
There being great need of haste, Master Dinu told his wife to call Ana,
their daughter, that she might help to damp the sandals.
The mistress, who was holding the skins to make it easier for Dinu
to cut out the straps, and trim them after cutting out, put her hands
on her hips and looked at her husband.
"What, my Ana damp the sandals?"
At his wife's words Master Dinu stayed the knife in the middle of
the skin.
"She is not a smart lady, is she, and you are not going to marry
her to some grandee? There is no disgrace to her in coming to give
a little help."
His wife lost her temper. Her daughter damp sandals! Her daughter
associate with the men! Her daughter, who had gone to school to
the nuns for so many years! Her daughter, who knew how to sew so
beautifully! Her daughter, who was friends with the niece of one
important person, and the inseparable companion of the daughters
of another! Her daughter to handle the sandals and make her fingers
smell of bark!
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," she said, hoarse with anger,
"even if you do not know how to behave properly, you need not insult
your daughter."
"Insult?" questioned Master Dinu.
But his wife rushed from the room.
He looked long after her, then glanced at the workmen, took up
the knife with a nervous movement, and began quickly to cut out
the sandals.
The workmen, who had heard the words exchanged, and seen the abrupt
departure of the mistress, kept complete silence and busied themselves
with their work.
Master Dinu finished cutting the skins.
"You might hurry yourselves a little when you know the work ought to
be ready," he said to the men, and departed, hanging his head.
"Very unhappy is Master Dinu," said Iotza, looking after him.
"Why?" one of them asked him.
"Why? Because those are the sharpest words I have ever heard coming
from his mouth."
Dinner was unusually quiet, only the little boy whined and asked for
first one thing and then another. His mother gave him one or two raps
over the knuckles to make him sit still and be silent, but the child
began to cry, and she angrily sent him into the next room.
Master Dinu said never a word and his daughter, Ana, looked round
her in a frightened manner, and would like to have asked what had
happened to-day to make them all so downcast.
Sandu had seen her many times, but he had never seen her well. He
knew she was the master's daughter. He greeted her when she came to
the table, but speak to her or look her really in the face, that,
up till to-day, he had never done.
But when he saw her looking sadly, now at her father, now at her
mother, and then at the others seated round the table, he wanted to say
something to her to cheer her and make her laugh. But he had nothing
to tell her, he could not find a word, and when their eyes met he
felt as though he were being swept away by a storm, and carried he
knew not whither.
Ana was so beautiful and so graceful. With her white hands and her
fair face one would never have believed her to be the daughter of an
artisan. Her big blue eyes, so full of kindness, were shaded by black
eyelashes, and when she laughed one's heart glowed in the joyous sound,
and one wished one could often hear her laughing.
Iotza--he had been workman with Dinu for a long time--when the mistress
was out of the house, had more than once asked her to mend something
for him, and not infrequently she had brought him drink from the
cellar when the frost was sharp and he had complained that he could
not stand the cold. And with all his prudence Iotza had let drop a
word in the workshop in praise of Ana's kindness.
And so it came about that they all waited for the mistress to go out
that they might speak to Ana and ask her one thing or another.
Only Sandu had never been to her. And that was why he especially
wanted now to divert her thoughts and make her smile.
Her eyes troubled him, and he felt happier when he found himself back
in the workshop.
One day, according to the allotment of the work, it was his duty to
turn the skins in the vats full of birch bark solution. He was alone
in the workshop, he could work in peace, but he often let the stick
fall from his hand, for, unlike other days, that day the fumes made
him perspire, and he did not notice whether the skins were thoroughly
turned. There was one vat more to turn when the door opened gently.
"Good luck, Sandu."
Sandu raised his head as though he were in a dream, wiped away the
sweat, and looked at Ana as one looks at a person one does not the
least expect to see. He wanted to say something to her, but a lump
rose in his throat. Ana came nearer to him.
"Sandu, I came to tell you to put the sandals in the box after you
have turned the skins."
"Good," replied Sandu.
"Don't forget what Father said," and away she went.
Outside she met Iotza, and passed him in such a hurry that she did
not hear his greeting.
"Well, Sandu, what did Ana want in the workshop?" he asked as he
threw his apron behind a vat.
"Nothing," replied Sandu, who was disappointed at not talking longer
with Ana.
"Nothing? Well, well! Listen, have you turned the skins?"
"I have."
"Have you filled the boiler with water?"
"Yes, I have."
"How much have you put? You have not filled it! Bring two more
bucketfuls."
"How can you pour two more bucketfuls in when it does not hold more
than one?"
"It does not hold more? I tell you plainly you have been too lazy to
bring more, and who knows how you have turned the skins."
Sandu grew red.
"Iotza, I learnt my work from the master and not from the workman."
"And what next?"
"The next is, that I don't need your advice."
"We shall see," cried Iotza, and went off.
Three days later the mistress came to the workshop; she walked about
here and there, and after a while she looked at the vats and took
out a skin.
"Who turned this vat?"
"I did," replied Sandu.
"I thought as much! Now you--just come and look at your work! That's
how you turned it; that's what the solution is like; that's the kind
of work you get paid for!"
Sandu went up to the vat feeling as though he had been struck on the
head. The solution was yellow, the skins were yellow and creased as
usual, and he could not understand what fault the mistress had to find.
"I told him so," said Iotza, interfering in the conversation;
and as he opened the door to take out a bundle of bark, he added:
"But he knows everything, and doesn't need advice from anyone."
"Of course," scolded the mistress, "you did not have time to turn
the skins; you stood talking, and took no heed of your work. What
was Ana looking for here the day before yesterday?"
"Ana--Ana came to tell me to put away the sandals in the box."
"And you could not do that much without being told? You are the kind
of man one must tell everything to, otherwise there would not be much
use in your work!"
For some time Sandu stayed alone in the workshop; he felt as though
he could not move. His mistress's words rang continually in his ears,
and he felt numbed by their harshness.
The apprentice had come to call him to dinner, but he had not gone. It
seemed to him they had all heard what the mistress said, and would
have stared at him.
Iotza and the other man returned from dinner and found him in the
workshop, his hand resting on the vat.
"Why, when you had turned the skins, didn't you come to dinner,
or have you been talking to Ana?" sneered Iotza.
Sandu heard his voice, but he did not take in what he said. He looked
at him with great sad eyes, and not knowing what to do went outside.
Sandu rose at daybreak the following day, but he could not have
told if he had slept, or whether his thoughts had tormented him all
night. He left the workshop without having done anything, he went
to the pits, and took the skins out with the pincers to try whether
they were ready to dress, then he returned to the workshop and was
still quite unsettled.
He went to dinner with the other men; he followed them; had anyone
asked him whither he was going he could not have told them. They
were alone, and all quite silent, and just this silence was painful
to Sandu. He would have liked to hear conversation, a great deal of
talking. They were about to rise from the table when the mistress
arrived. Everything seemed to turn black before Sandu's eyes.
After exchanging a few words, Iotza said:
"Mistress, you better let me turn the skins in those two vats----"
"Yes, you turn them, just like Sandu did."
The blood rushed to his head as Sandu dropped his knife and spilt a
piece of lard upon the table.
"Do you think I shall pity you because you don't eat? You have not
turned them well, and that's all. I didn't begin to keep a workshop
to-day or yesterday."
"Mistress----"
"Oh, it's always mistress, mistress! Do your work properly, and
don't let your thoughts go wandering far afield, then no one need
find fault with you."
The workmen rose. Sandu got up too; his feet could hardly carry him,
and his head was heavy.
For two whole days Sandu did not know whether he was himself or some
one else. He could not take his food, sleep only came to him at rare
intervals. And during this time he often thought of going to Master
Dinu and giving him notice. Several times he had left the workshop
determined to tell him, but once Iotza had called him to come and
help with something, and then he had thought it over and had left it
to a more suitable time when he should find Dinu alone, for in front
of the mistress he could have said nothing to him.
And who knows whether he would have said anything, if Master Dinu
had not come through the workshop. He asked him how the skins were
getting on, and then, as he never cared to prolong a conversation,
he prepared to go, after telling him that one lot of work must be
pressed forward, and the other done in such and such a way.
Sandu had followed him but the words died upon his lips.
"What is it, Sandu? Do you want to tell me something?"
"Well, Master Dinu, without any offence to you, I want to give up
the work."
Master Dinu looked long at him. He was prepared for anything except
this, and just now when the fairs were in full swing.
"You want to give me notice? But why?"
"Because the mistress is always abusing me, and she is not satisfied
with the way I work, and Iotza makes fun of me, and I can bear it
no longer: it is too hard. I work with all my might, and I want to
do good work, and I don't want you to keep me just out of charity as
people say you do."
"Come, don't do that; you know the mistress, that is her way. As for
Iotza--listen, I'll stop his mouth. And, then, where would you find
another place? Take my advice and let me talk to the mistress."
Master Dinu went away, and Sandu returned to the workshop. Before he
had spoken with Master Dinu he had not seemed to realize whether there
was work to finish, and now he did not know whether he had finished
it or not.
Master Dinu went into the house. He told his wife that Sandu had
wished to leave, and bade her leave him in peace from now on, seeing
that he was an industrious workman and an honest man.
"Thank you," replied his wife; "let me tell you that I take as much
interest in the workshop as you do, and if I am not to be allowed to
speak to the workmen, or give them orders about the work----"
"I do not say you are not to give them orders, but you are not to
make fun of them. After all, they are human beings."
"So I am in the wrong! If I tell them how they are to do something I
am making fun of the men; impertinent man, to accuse me of joking. And
why didn't you send him away?"
"Send him away? Why? Just now when we are greatly in need of men? I
rack my brains to try and get another hand for the work, and don't
know where to find one, while you are longing to get rid of Sandu,
and in the long run, for no reason. You must not be like this."
They were still talking when Nitza Burencea came to ask if he was
going to the fair at Devi.
That evening, after supper, the mistress stopped Sandu as she wanted
to send him somewhere.
"Sandu, why did you want to leave your work? Are you not satisfied
with our food?"
"Quite satisfied."
"Or don't we give you enough whisky in the evening?"
"I don't drink whisky."
"Don't drink it? But, you silly man, why didn't you tell me? And those
other two said nothing about it--you don't think it rains whisky with
us, do you? They have drawn your share all these days. But I'll wipe
their mouths for them. Why did you not tell me long ago?"
"You never asked me."
"Well, go where I tell you; and, listen, if I send you it is because
I have not got so much confidence in the others; do just what I have
told you."
"I will do so, mistress," replied Sandu, with a much lighter heart.
When he reached the street he told himself the mistress was not so
bad after all.
An hour later, when he returned, only Ana was downstairs.
After saying good evening, seeing that Ana was by herself, he prepared
to go out again.
Ana, who saw he was about to open the door, asked him:
"What do you want, Sandu? Whom are you looking for?"
"For the mistress."
"Then wait for her, she will soon come. Sit down."
Sandu seated himself on the edge of a chair.
Ana was sewing; he watched her hands with their rapid movements, and
his eyes were absorbed in looking at something more beautiful than he
had ever seen before. Ana felt she was being watched. This idea seemed
to hurry her, and she grasped her needle and began to sew quickly. The
more intently he watched her, the more embarrassed did Ana become,
and a rosy flush mantled her cheeks. A sort of fever came over her,
and in her innermost soul she was picturing Sandu to herself, how he
was sitting on the chair with his black eyes fixed upon her, and his
eyes were so beautiful and so eloquent, and Sandu was good-looking. She
could bear it no longer, his look seemed to burn her.
"Sandu, why do you look at me like that?"
"I--I--was not looking."
A long silence followed. Their souls seemed to draw near each other in
the silent room; they spoke no word, but it was as though they told
each other many things and understood each other very well. He was
very conscious of her, so near to him, her light breath was almost
inaudible, but it made his heart beat fast; she was very conscious of
him, and something intangible but sweet seemed to invade their hearts.
She felt as though she could not sew, and he found it hard to look
at her. He was afraid of offending her and he was shy, and he felt
he should be ashamed for her to find his glance resting upon her hands.
He kept his head down. But Ana would have liked to look at him, she
would have liked to bask in the light of his eyes, for she felt happy
enveloped in their warm glow.
Sandu did not lift his head. She dropped her ball of thread. Roused
by the noise, Sandu jumped as though he had been burnt. He searched
under the table and saw it.
She forgot to thank him, and he could not say a word, but their eyes
met and they both blushed.
The time passed on.
"The mistress does not come," said Sandu a little later, "and I wanted
to tell her that I had to stay some time where she sent me."
"She will soon come," replied Ana. "Sandu, you told Mother that I
had been in the workshop?" she suddenly questioned, looking straight
at him.
"I did not tell her."
"Then who can have told her?"
"It was not I, and I do not know who it was."
"How Mother scolded me! And she said I had stayed a long while talking
to you. Was I a long time?"
"Certainly not; you just came to tell me to put the sandals in the
boxes, and then you went away."
"Why doesn't Mother like my talking to you when Father says you are
so good?"
He said nothing; she stopped; and a few moments later the mistress
came in.
"It is a good thing you are back. I was waiting for you," she said
hurriedly. "I nearly sent some one after you; you are very slow. Now,
come and tell me what you have done."
In the ante-room he told her what he had arranged with her aunt,
and then went off to bed.
The next day was Sunday. The men had little work to do, and by ten
o'clock they were free. As usual on feast days there was wine on the
table, and Master Dinu, having bought some thirty skins much more
easily than he had expected to, was more cheerful than usual.