Part 13

"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.

Sandu was more forthcoming than was his wont, and had washed and brushed himself extra well to-day. Ana, too, was smart, smart as always, but she had no time to sit as she had constantly to jump up to help her mother. Every now and then she threw a glance at Sandu, and a strange feeling of joy possessed her that he could see her, that he looked at her.

Only the mistress was as usual, and when the child complained constantly that his head ached she wanted the meal to finish quickly. She laid a wet handkerchief on his forehead and put him to bed. The child became quieter, and Master Dinu, after drinking the wine that was left over, rose from the table--a signal that the meal was finished. Then, according to his usual habit, he took up his hat, inquired if anyone wanted any money, gave Iotza what he asked, and went off into the town.

"Sandu," said the mistress, when the workmen had gone, "if you are not going anywhere, come back in an hour when we have finished with the dinner things and sit with Gheorghitza, for to-day is Sunday and perhaps visitors will come to the house."

Ana looked at him; Sandu hardly understood the mistress's words, and could not answer her.

"Speak, are you coming or not?"

"I will come." And he went out as though he had been pushed.

At three o'clock came the mistress's mother, a woman of about sixty years of age, rosy in the face and well made. She was wearing a dark coloured skirt, and on her head a kerchief of black silk which reached nearly to her knees, and in her hand, like all old women, she carried a yellow handkerchief.

She rarely came to see her daughter, partly because she knew her time for going out in society was past, but especially because Mistress Veta was not glad to see her on feast days; she would not have come to-day, but she had not been for a long time and she was desirous of seeing her grandchildren.

Inside the front room she rejoiced over the beauty and good manners of her grand-daughter, who, with her mother, was removing the last speck of dust, or putting back in its right place anything that had been left about.

Ana sat down by her grandmother, and her grandmother stroked her head and looked tenderly into her face. She never grew tired of saying: "Such grandchildren, such dear grandchildren." But just when she was feeling happy the door opened.

"Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Naraschievici!" said Mistress Veta, jumping up to receive them as though some royal party had arrived.

"Pray sit down."

Mr. and Mrs. Naraschievici accepted the invitation, while their daughter, a pale, plain girl of over twenty years of age, did not forget to kiss the mistress's hand.

"I kiss your hand, aunt," said Ana, too, while Mrs. Naraschievici in her turn embraced her on the forehead, and could not help expressing her wonder at how tall Ana had grown and how pretty she was.

Ana blushed and joined Miss Naraschievici, while the mistress's eyes shone with pleasure.

"You must not tell her so; you must not turn her head," she said, just for something to say, while her mother was asking herself the question as to why on earth her grand-daughter had said that "Aunt."

It is true that neither Ana nor Mistress Veta was related to the Naraschievici family; however, Mr. Naraschievici said it was "aristocratic," and all he said was right in Mistress Veta's eyes.

"Is Master Dinu at home?"

"No. You know what he is--he cannot bear to stay at home."

As she said this, Mistress Veta approached her mother, who looked as if she could have taken the whole Naraschievici family and put them outside the door, so angry was she because they had spoilt the happy hour she had hoped to pass with her grand-daughter.

"Mother," she whispered in her ear, "it would be kind if you would go downstairs to Gheorghitza, who ought to be up now."

The old lady was at the door before she had finished speaking: with her hand on the latch she looked furiously at her daughter and at Mr. and Mrs. Naraschievici, choked back some words and went out.

She was going away, saying to herself that she would never again set foot inside the house, when she remembered Gheorghitza. When the old lady went in Sandu was telling him tales.

"Here is kind Granny, here is kind Granny," cried Gheorghitza gaily.

He got up quickly, put his arms round her neck and kissed her over and over again.

The old woman forgot her distress as she held Gheorghitza in her arms. He began to untie the handkerchief and feel in the pocket of her gown.

"Look what Granny has brought for Gheorghitza," she said.

It was her habit to bring some toy for him.

Now that he had a plaything, Gheorghitza was no longer ill. His kind Granny made him forget it. The old lady watched him for some time, and then she looked at Sandu.

"How is the work getting on?"

"Well."

"And business is profitable?"

"Profitable."

As Sandu said this Mistress Veta came into the ante-room, took a plateful of cakes out of a cupboard and went quickly away again.

During the noise she made the old lady looked intently towards the window.

"She takes them upstairs, but she did not invite me," and her eyes filled with tears. "That is how she esteems me," said the old lady, steeped in bitterness. "It's a sad world. I have reached an old age when my own daughter is ashamed of me. She sends me out of the house as if I were a nobody. May God not punish her, for she has children. But it hurts me to see her pay no attention to me just because of some bankrupts, some wretches who have fled from Temishoara to avoid their creditors. But I did not come to get something out of her. I did not come like those bankrupts to get something to eat. Thank God I have all I need at home, but that she should belittle me in such a way as to make me ridiculous in their eyes--Lord, Lord, did I rear her for this? Is it for this I watched over her?"

"Sandu," said the old lady, sighing heavily, "give her my thanks, tell her how I appreciate the honour she has done me, and that all my life I shall never forget that she received me as she should receive her mother. But listen to me; tell her, too, she may wait a long time before I cross her threshold again, and she need not send to me when she wants anything. Let her go to the gentleman, to the bankrupt Naraschievici."

And away went Mistress Veta's mother, so angry that she could not see where she was walking, while Sandu sat with drooping head.

In about half an hour Ana came. She was disappointed to hear her grandmother had gone, and wanted to know why.

Sandu did not like to tell her, and because his heart would not let him lie he said to her in a low voice:

"Well, she went because she could not stay."

Ana sat on the edge of the bed, and sympathizing with her brother, she asked him whether his head ached.

Gheorghitza had no time to answer; he shook his head and went on playing.

"Sandu, can you stay with him? You see, I must go up again. Gheorghitza dear, be good and play nicely."

Then she kissed him and went slowly away as though she were loth to go.

And with her went Sandu's heart and the joy which filled his soul when he saw her standing by her brother and kissing him so tenderly.

Mistress Veta was beside herself with pleasure that evening. She did not even ask when or why her mother had gone so suddenly. She told Sandu that he was not to dare to tell her what the old lady had said, but to go and get wood to make a fire to warm the supper. And once again she went over in her mind all that Mr. and Mrs. Naraschievici had said. She felt very flattered, and said she did not remember when she had spent such a pleasant day.

There was a heavy frost and the Timish was frozen. The tanners were obliged to have openings made in the ice to enable the rinsing of the skins to take place.

Sandu, shod in big working boots, made his way through the thick mist and came down to the Timish to rinse a set of skins. Behind him came the apprentice with a barrow containing the block of wood with its stand, the rinser and two hatchets for breaking the ice. They made the opening in the ice and Sandu remained alone. He fixed one end of the block on to a stake and arranged the stand firmly under the other, opened out two skins, placed them one over the other, on the block, and began to work.

Sandu was hardened and accustomed to the cold, but however fast he worked his breath froze and his hands grew stiff. Seldom at first, but then more and more frequently did he stamp his feet. He put the rinser on the block, breathed into the palms of his hands, and swinging his arms he beat under his left arm with his right hand, and then under the right arm with his left hand, to make his blood circulate, the while his eyes watered with the cold.

Round him was a frosty calm; the gurgling of the water as he turned the skins made him realize all the more the severity of the winter. He worked away at his task, but slowly, and with little result. It was getting towards noon, and he had rinsed five skins when he heard a crunching of the snow on the bank, and raised his head.

The rinser dropped from his hand. On the bank was Ana with a jug in her hand, wishing him "Good luck."

Sandu did not know how to answer her.

"Come, see what I have brought you, a drop of warm wine, for Mother is out, and you must be cold."

Sandu came up the bank; he could hardly hold the jug.

"Thank you," he said with his mouth, but his heart spoke from his eyes.

Ana looked down.

"Drink quickly," she said, so softly she could scarcely be heard, "for I must not stay long."

Sandu drank the wine.

"Ana, Miss Ana----"

Ana drew back her hand, and looking at him in a way I cannot describe, she said:

"Are you warmer now?"

Sandu's eyes were too eloquent, the peaceful isolation was too tempting, the stillness of the atmosphere was too intense, their hearts were too attuned for them not to understand each other.

She went up to him with an eager movement, and he put his arm about her waist and clasped her to his heart.

They neither of them said a word, but to them both it seemed that no words were needed.

"Sandu, I must go, I must really go, for Mother might come," and gently she disengaged herself from his arms, took a few slow steps, turned round, and then fled like a little kid towards the house.

While Sandu was watching her, Costa came along; he, too, was a master-tanner.

"Ha, ha! Talpoane's hands live well. What a moment for me to arrive," murmured Costa in his beard, smiling as he thought of the story he would be able to tell. "Sandu," he shouted, "I was going to see you, but as you are at the rinsing I have come down to ask you whether the hides which I have been waiting for these three days have come from Pesta."

"No, they have not come."

"Not? Why the devil haven't they sent them? Have you much work?"

"A great deal."

"How many hides?"

Sandu looked at him.

"We have a lot."

"A lot. Yes, I know you have a lot, but how many?"

"I have not counted them."

"Have you got business at Hunedoar fair?"

"I believe so; the drying is difficult, though."

"You have got some heavy skins, haven't you?"

"Some heavy, some light; you know how it is with the work."

Costa bit his lips and would like to have given Sandu a cuff or two, so angry was he that he would not tell him what he was longing to know.

"But, it's cold!"

"It's cold."

"Come, you ought not to feel it much when Talpoane's daughter brings you drink."

The blood rushed to Sandu's face, and he did not know why he did not strike Costa to the ground as he smiled at him.

"But what of it, haven't we all done the same kind of thing? Only look out that nobody sees you and nobody hears you. That's all right, I won't keep you from your work!"

Sandu could not see, everything was black before his eyes, he was hot all over and a fire seemed to burn within him. He gnashed his teeth and stretched the skin as though he would tear it, and rinsed as though he had some rival to surpass.

At midday the apprentice came to call him to dinner. On the way he remembered what had happened and would have liked to turn back. In the ante-room he saw Ana, and his heart beat as though it were on fire. Ana, too, was radiant, her eyes laughed with joy, and the dimples in her cheeks were more tantalizing than ever. Sandu's heart was full of delight; he forgot what Costa had said; he was only conscious of Ana's voice.

After dinner the cold was not quite so cruel, the calm was not so intense, and he did not feel alone; there seemed to be plenty of life around him, but whenever he turned his head he could only see Ana. And longings awoke in his heart, and many pleasant thoughts passed through his mind, and they all gathered round Ana's form. His thoughts carried him far, and he pictured himself with a workshop and a house of his own, and Ana beside him making life sweet. They were so tempting and so full of charm that Sandu smiled to himself as he strung together tender, caressing words to say to Ana, for he felt she belonged to him, and no one could disturb the peace of these happy days.