Part 14

Night closed sadly in and Sandu had long ago finished his work, but he did not want to move. He was loath to leave the pleasant, quiet spot where he had pictured to himself the path in life that was awaiting him. He gave a sigh of regret as he stepped along the bank and walked towards the house of Mistress Veta.

The nearer it drew to the Christmas festival the busier became the fairs, and the tanners raised the price of their goods because the weather was moist, and the peasants were obliged to buy sandals whether they wanted to or not.

Christmas Eve fell on a Tuesday, and, accordingly, the weekly fair had never been better.

Although Mistress Veta had such a lot to do that she had hardly time to turn round, she remained at the booth till ten o'clock, when she returned home.

The little white, crown-shaped rolls were baked and divided up, some for the house, some for the poor, and some for the guests who would expect hospitality the day after Christmas Day. When everything was finished and put ready, and Master Dinu arrived, they all went into the front room. There they lit a fire that must not be allowed to die out, that Christ, who was born on this night, might not feel the cold, and there they quietly waited till their house was visited by carol-singers and lads carrying "Stars" or "Magi." To make the joy next day more complete, they lit the Christmas Tree, and out of a cupboard Master Dinu took a little riding-horse for Gheorghitza, and for Ana a work-frame and other things suitable for a big girl. The parents were happy at the gratitude written on their children's faces.

Gradually the world seemed to wake up, the quiet in the town was dispelled. As the stars rose in the sky, there appeared in every street, girls carrying "Christmas Trees," boys with "Stars" or "Magi" or "the Manger," and young men with "carols," and amidst this busy movement, amidst this pleasant noise, amidst slow, sad songs or beautiful carols, the whole town seemed enveloped in an atmosphere of reverence; each one, forgetting the troubles of life, felt himself drawing nearer to the glory of God.

While Master Dinu was listening to the carol-singers from his windows, and taking the symbol of the Magi into his house, Sandu sat alone in the workshop over the way. He had lit an end of candle, and was sitting on a chair in front of the opening in the stove below the boiler.

At intervals a drop of liquid fell from the vats, and the sound of its fall echoed long in the quiet workshop.

The noise from outside broke dully against the window and took Sandu's thoughts back to other days. And all at once he began to carol to himself:

"And as you journey thither There comes wafted many a mile, From where the Holy Infant lies, The scent of fair flowers, The glow of bright torches, The smoke of the incense, The song of the angels."

He sang softly, and the dead past of the years he had spent since he left the home where he was born seemed to unroll itself before him. And as he saw himself alone, and deprived of every kind of pleasure, a tear crept into his eye, and with his head resting upon his hand, he sat gazing into the fire. All the nine years that he had spent Christmas among strangers, he had envied the joy of others, and never once had he felt in his heart the peace of the season as he used to in the days when he was at home. And who would think of him, or who would give him any happiness at this holy festival?

The workshop door opened hastily, and the appearance of Ana scattered his thoughts to the wind.

"Sandu, I have brought you something for Christmas." Sandu did not hold out his hand for it. "How you look at me, Sandu! Why do you not want what I bring you?"

So saying, Ana came quite close to him, and put what she had brought into his hand.

"Ana," said Sandu, in a stifled voice, "may God look upon you as I look at you."

His voice seemed to come from the depths of his soul, and Ana's look grew troubled. The kindness and sorrow with which he spoke touched her strangely, and resting her head upon his breast she murmured as in a dream:

"Sandu, dear Sandu."

But she had to go, for she had stolen from the house when some boys, carrying Magi, had arrived, and her mother would be looking for her.

Sandu remained behind to tell himself that never had God given him a happier Christmas.

The day after Christmas, in the afternoon, his various god-children came to Master Dinu's house: hospitality demands hospitality. They brought with them rolls and other things. Mistress Veta spread food upon the table, and whoever came took in exchange a roll from the god-parents.

By the evening, Lena, Tziru's widow, alone remained.

Master Dinu was in a hurry to get away, and Ana was downstairs with some friends.

The women remained by themselves, enjoying the wine and conversing. And when two women sit gossiping, who escapes unscathed by their tongues? One person is so and so, another person dresses so absurdly that every one laughs at her, and so the idle talk runs on.

"Doesn't it make you laugh"--Mistress Veta takes up the word--"when you see Costa's wife as pink as a girl? How can a woman of her age paint herself?"

"Never mind her, my dear, there are others----"

"I don't seem to have heard of them."

Then a little later on:

"I don't know how it is but Costa is an ill-natured man and a regular chatterbox."

"You say truly, it's the talk of the town."

"But he has become a little more careful, he's not as he was a while ago. He has begun to shrug his shoulders only and keep his tongue quiet."

"He pretends to, my dear, but you have not heard him--it's better for me not to tell you, not to make you unhappy, especially on a feast day."

"Of course, you must tell me," Mistress Veta raised her voice and her eyes flashed.

"I would sooner you heard it from other lips."

"Now, Lena, either you tell me, or----"

Lena knew Mistress Veta too well not to tell her that Costa was saying how he had seen Ana going down to the Timish with warm wine for Sandu, and how she had stood in the cold for two hours talking to him, and a great deal more besides.

Red was the wine, but Mistress Veta's face was redder still. She might have had an apoplectic stroke.

"Ah! He said those words?"

Lena did not know how to calm her.

"My dear, really I did not know how much it would upset you or I should never have told you. Why do you get so angry? Every one knows he is a liar and a mischief-maker without his equal in the empire, and who pays attention to all his tales, and all the world knows how you have brought up Ana. What tanner's daughter can touch her? Your Ana--come, leave it."

"I will not leave it," cried Mistress Veta, somewhat calmer. "I'll show him. To whom did he say these words?"

"I don't know to whom he said them; I heard of it in Trifu's house."

"In Trifu's house! Trifu is his cousin. Don't listen, Lena; do you believe his lies?"

"How could I believe him, my dear, how could I believe him? Neither did Trifu believe him. He said he would blush to invent such lies."

"Lies, Lena, lies. But let him see me! My daughter----"

"Say no more about it, Veta. May God keep Ana well, and you see her happy. Costa--but who's Costa? Everybody laughs when he opens his mouth."

"You heard it in Trifu's house! Who knows in how many places he has spit out his libels, for that man spits, Lena, he spits worse than any cat; but I am not I if I don't pay him out."

Lena agreed with her, and sympathized with her and urged her not to be so angry, for the whole town knew what Ana's behaviour always was, and people stood still and looked after her when she passed by, sweet and modest as a rosebud.

"Why let yourself be unhappy, my dear?" she said, getting up to go, "when every one's heart swells when they see Ana, as if she were not the pride of us all when we see her going about with gentlemen's daughters. Ana is just herself, and there is no one like her, so why give yourself bad moments because of the tittle-tattle of a man like Costa?"

Mistress Veta accompanied Lena to the door, and came back asking herself what was to be done.

Master Dinu came back just at the right moment.

Without much hesitation his wife told him everything with various additions and improvements.

"Eh! And what of it?" he said. "Don't the people know us and our daughter, and don't they know what Costa's words are worth? Only Costa says it."

Mistress Veta looked furiously at him.

"What! The town is talking about your daughter, and you don't mind?"

"It isn't that I don't mind! Of course I mind, but what would you have me do? Go and kill him? Don't be like this."

"Not be like this? I'd better be like you and not care when they insult my daughter!"

"Come now, what am I to do?"

"What are you to do? Woe betide the house where the man is not a real man! Find out, discover to whom he has said it, collect witnesses, and see he never opens his mouth again."

"I will see about it."

"Don't see about it, find him."

Master Dinu knew that his wife must always have the last word, so he said nothing; he would have been glad not to be at home, but he could not go now. A few minutes later he said:

"Listen, Veta, all right, I will find witnesses, but supposing it's true?"

"True?" screamed his wife, and looked as though she could have thrown herself upon him and struck him. "True? Why doesn't God strangle the word in your throat?" she snarled, and hurriedly left the room.

A few seconds later she returned with Ana.

"Ana, hear your father say that it is true you took warm wine to Sandu."

The haste with which her mother had called her, and her father's expression so overcame her, that she stood with drooping head, and raising a corner of her apron began to cry.

"So this is where we have got to--get out of my sight that I may never see you again."

Mistress Veta sank exhausted on to a chair, while Ana sobbed as if her heart would break.

"Why all this to-do even if she did take wine to the poor man? What is the great harm in that? She took him wine because he was cold, and because I told her to go," said Master Dinu, going up to Ana. "Don't cry any more," and he stroked her forehead.

Ana continued to sob, and clung more and more tightly to her father. Master Dinu felt as if his heart would break.

"Go and kiss your mother's hand, it's nothing. Veta----"

"No, let her get out of my sight, let her go. Ana has done this to me, my prudent daughter, my good daughter, my much-praised daughter, her mother's joy--she has done this," and Mistress Veta shook her head while everything seemed to turn black before her eyes.

Master Dinu did not know what to do. To put an end to it, he drew Ana gently outside, and tried to quiet her sobs.

A little later he returned to the house. His wife was exhausted and depressed, and sat gazing at the floor.

Suddenly she rose.

"Dinu, you must give Sandu notice to-day, do you hear? If you don't go now and tell him never to show himself here again, you'll never have any peace from me."

"How can I dismiss the man in the middle of the night? You must see we cannot--and then, what harm has he done?"

Mistress Veta could have killed him with a look.

"You will give him notice, do you understand? Or I will turn him out."

"All right, Veta, we will give him notice, but what stories will be told about us outside! How we dismiss workmen on feast days, and turn them out of the house in the dead of night. You must be patient. To-morrow I will give him all the money due to him, and tell him to go in God's name."

"It's your business to deal with him; never let me see him again; if they make any fuss I'll scratch his eyes out. He has got us talked about, no other than he, do you hear? Let him get out of my workshop, or there will be trouble."

Early next day, Master Dinu went to the workshop and called to Sandu.

He found it difficult, and he much regretted having to part with him, but there was nothing else to be done. He asked him how long he had been in his workshop, what money he had drawn, and made the calculation as to how much he had still to receive.

Sandu felt as if the house were falling about his ears--he could not keep him any longer? The blow was a heavy one.

"You have twenty-seven florins to come to you," said Master Dinu, and he did not seem to have the courage to look Sandu in the face. "Here are thirty, so that you do not lose your daily pay up to the beginning of next week. May God give you good fortune, you are a good man, and an honest, but I--I can no longer keep you. I am sorry, but I cannot help it. God be with you."

And so saying, Master Dinu went away.

Lost in thought Sandu stood gazing in front of him, seeing nothing. After a while he sighed heavily, picked up his money, and with a heart that seemed turned to ice he went off to collect all he had, poor man, in the way of clothes and linen, before he took the road.

He collected all his possessions, but he could not make up his mind to take leave of the men with whom he had worked so long. Even Iotza was sorry, for Sandu had been kind, and never spoken a rude word to him.

"I am sorry to leave you," said Sandu, and he felt as if his heart was breaking.

"God be with you," replied they, and holding out their hands they accompanied him outside.

Iotza went a little way with him.

"Sandu, listen; I cannot bear not to tell you, but I know the mistress and you, and I know you want to go and say good-bye to her. Don't go, listen to me: it was not the master, it was she who said you were to be dismissed. Don't go, it is better not to go."

Sandu made no reply.

They went a few steps farther together and parted. The nearer he drew to Master Dinu's house, the more he longed to enter. He felt as though some one were urging him to go in.

When he was quite near the door Master Dinu came out into the street. When he saw Sandu he stopped.

"You are going?"

"I am going, master, but I wanted to take leave of the mistress."

"As the mistress is not at home let me tell her."

Sandu bent his head.

"Good luck to you, master."

"May God be with you!"

With slow and heavy step Sandu took the road to the market-place. At the corner he stopped. He turned his head and looked back along the street towards Master Dinu's house.

He had crossed the square and was on the bridge when he met Nitza Burencea.

"What's up, Sandu, have you left? Where are you going?"

Sandu, like a person awakened out of a trance, with his eyes fastened dreamily upon the distant horizon, answered in a troubled voice:

"I go out into the world!"

THE BIRD OF ILL OMEN

By I. AL. BRATESCU-VOINESHTI

Conu Costache had one of the pleasantest faces in the town.

Men of the same age as himself said he was nearly seventy years old; but a life free from care, a comfortable fortune, a wife as loving as a sister, two children who were getting on well, and, above all, his own kindly nature, had kept him so healthy, quick of movement and clear of mind, that one would not have given him fifty years.

He told stories with a charm and humour that gathered an audience round him whenever he opened his mouth; and as he had travelled much abroad, and was also a sportsman, he knew every kind of amusing anecdote.

This man, who was as good as new bread, always smiling, whose person seemed to radiate joy, became acrimonious and impatient every time his game of Preference went badly; it was the one and only, but the daily game of cards he played. He did not get angry out of stinginess--he was not a miser; on the contrary, he was open-handed, that was his nature.

If it happened that he "entered" twice in succession, or if he got irritated with his partners, he grew furious. Everything seemed wrong to him; the jam was sour, the coffee too sweet, the water too cold, the lamp too dim, the chalk was not sharp enough; he shouted at the boy who served him; he changed his chair because it squeaked; he hammered upon the table with his fists until the candlesticks jumped; he looked daggers over his spectacles at anyone who made a joke--I assure you, he was in a vile temper, as vile a temper as a man could be in, when he had no other place in which to give vent to it.

His partners knew him, and were aware that five minutes after the game was over he would become once more kind, amiable, and amusing Conu Costache.

If you were sitting near him when he was playing Preference, you should get up the first time he "entered"; shouldn't wait for him to say to you: "Can't you get away, my good fellow; you spoil my luck!" One day, after two "entries," he said to a person with whom he had only just become acquainted and who would not move away from his side:

"Excuse me, sir, but I believe in birds of ill omen. This game is a question of faces. I can scarcely compose my own face; I certainly cannot compose yours. Kindly move a little farther off! Thank you. Don't be offended."

Ever since that day, the onlookers at the game have been given the name of birds of ill omen, and they swarmed in the room where Conu Costache played; if the game went well he was affable and they listened to him with pleasure--if the game went badly, they moved away from him and made fun of his ill humour.

One evening the Prefect gave a party. The young people danced in the drawing-room; their elders assembled in the other rooms; Conu Costache sat at a table playing Preference with three other people; among them was the attorney, a cunning player with a special talent for making him lose his temper; a large audience had gathered round.

Conu Costache was losing: he was angry, but controlled himself--he could not give vent to his annoyance, for there were ladies present. Conu and his friends were playing in the middle of the room; he had barely scored six, and had entered the pool with thirteen.

At this moment an old lady approached. She was a Moldavian, the mother of Dr. Ionashcu. She took a chair, seated herself by Conu Costache with the calm serenity of the aged, who neither see nor hear well.

There she remained.

From time to time she gently put a question to Conu Costache; it had the same effect upon his agitation as does oil upon a fire of coals.

"How beautiful it must be at your country-house now, Mr. Costache!"

"Beautiful, Mrs. Raluca," he replied, forcing himself to smile--and chalking himself another eighteen in the pool.

"I expect you often go there, as it is so close."

"I went to-day, Mrs. Raluca."

No words can describe the contrast between the placidity with which Mrs. Raluca told her beads, and the fury with which Conu Costache shuffled his cards.

"Is it a good harvest, Mr. Costache?"

"G--g--good, Mrs. Raluca," he replied, thrusting both hands inside the neck of his shirt to loosen the collar.

The game began, the attorney played below the ace, Conu Costache named the suit for the second time.

"Have you got a good road along there now?"

"Y--y--yes, Mrs. Raluca."

It was a wonder his handkerchief did not rub the skin off his forehead, he mopped it with such vigour. His partners and the onlookers shook with laughter; the attorney did not give way at all, he saw how furious he was; he bid with nothing in his hand, and passed just in time to make him "enter" a second time.

And at this moment Mrs. Raluca's questions fell one after the other as fast as the beads of a rosary. She did not hear the rustling of the cards nor the choking in Conu Costache's throat, she did not see his misery nor the amusement of the others.

"But they have cut down the lovely wood on the right, haven't they, Mr. Costache?"

"Th--th--they have cut it down, Mrs. Raluca," he answered, gazing at the ceiling and pressing his temples between his hands.

He bid and came in, said "Play"--and found two clubs in the talon which he did not want. Such a collection of cards you have never seen; it might have been done on purpose. If you had tried to arrange them so, you could not have done it. It was a regular "walk-over": one cut four honours, the other cut the spades, and out of the eight games won five.

All he cut was an ace, and a pair. He put forty-eight in the pool.

"But the little lake still lies on the left, doesn't it, Mr. Costache?"

"St--st--still, Mrs. Raluca."

With a small brush he violently effaced the whole row of his stakes chalked on the cloth and wrote down a total of ninety-four in huge figures.

"But I must ask you, the inn----"

Conu Costache turned his chair right round.

"Mrs. Raluca, to-morrow afternoon my wife and I are going to our country-house--we will come and pick you up. In this way you will see how they cut down the wood on the right; you will see how the storks walk by the lake on the left; you will see how they have repaired the bridges; you will see how they have renovated the inn at the cross-gates; you will see what a nice house Ionitza Andrescu from Ulmi has built; you will see what big reservoirs the Aurora factory have erected by the road...."

Mrs. Raluca understood and took her departure, telling her beads as she went, but even when she had passed into the third room Conu Costache still continued, while the others were convulsed with laughter:

"You will see how illegible the figures on the 76 milestone have become; you will see how the boys have broken the insulators on the telegraph posts by throwing stones at them; you will see how the geese hiss when the carriage passes by; you will see----"

Then, turning back to his partners, who laughed till the tears ran down their cheeks, he groaned:

"Terrible bird of ill omen!"

IRINEL

By B. DELAVRANCEA

When my parents died, both in the same year, I was quite small; I think I must have been about seven years old.

I wanted to cry over them both, for I loved them both, but when I approached their coffin I was not alone.

You must know that my father left a considerable fortune.

There were many people about him who could not endure him.

There was talk of a will.

There was one member of the family about whom my father said: "It is so long since he crossed our threshold that I do not understand why he is so offended with us."

It is unkind to tell you: it was his brother and my uncle, a very good man, with only one fault--he had lost his entire fortune at cards. I found among my father's papers a quantity of his I.O.U.'s, beautifully signed with flourishes, but unpaid.

I approached the coffin; I was sure that I should weep as no one had ever wept before.

My home without my parents!

Some one took me by the hand, and said to me as he kissed me on both cheeks:

"Iorgu, Iorgu, cry, Iorgu, for those who will never return!"

It was he! The uncle of the promissory notes!

Just when my eyes ought to have been full of tears, I caught sight of him, and when I looked round me and saw the other people, when I met so many pairs of eyes, then--I was ashamed and could not cry. Oh, it is a terrible thing to feel ashamed to cry when one is sorrowing!

Do you see how shy I am? Have you grasped it? It is difficult to understand. It is difficult, because you, readers, are different. Not one of you are the same as I am.

I was so good and timid that, when I completed my twenty-first year, I did not want to leave the guardianship of my eldest uncle, my mother's brother, a very gentle man like myself, and very shy like my mother.

It makes me laugh. Is it likely I shall tell you an untruth? Why should I? I don't ask you anything, you don't ask me anything. Why should I lie?

But it is true that I have not told you quite openly why I did not ask for an account of my minority, and why I stayed in that house, which was as white as milk--especially on moonlight nights--with its balcony, its oak staircase, its pillars with flowered capitals and wreaths round their centres.

Did I like the house? Yes.