Chapter VII: Part 7

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.

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.

Did I love my uncle who had managed my affairs? Yes. Was I ashamed, directly I came of age, to demand an account as though I doubted his honesty? Yes. Anything besides? Was there anything else that kept me in bondage?

If you had looked at me a little askance, I should have blushed and replied, "Yes." And if you were to look at me even now when I have already grown many white hairs, I should tell you like a guilty child: "No, it is not true that I loved so much the house in which I grew up, or the uncle with whom I lived. There was something else."

There was some one there besides a cousin of the same age as myself, besides my uncle--my aunt was dead--besides the house, and a long-haired dog. There was somebody else!

Ah! This sort of somebody has reformed many a ne'er-do-well, has dazzled many a shy man, has turned many business men into poets, has shaken many a professor to the depths of his being, blowing away his system like the threads of a spider's web.

No doubt it was a very fascinating "somebody" who made you stay in tutelage twenty-four hours after you had reached your twenty-first year and come into 15,000 lei.

I think you have guessed the secret which I have hidden till now.

Oh, women, women! What do they care for the timid or the philosopher?

Neither innocence nor philosophy can resist a light step and a pair of eyes which sparkle and glow and pierce through the coldest, most selfish, most impenetrable heart.

Was it not the same Irinel, with whom I once played childish games? Was she not the same wild tomboy with her frocks down to her knees only, and her white stockings that became green by the evening? Was she not the same little demon who threw her books into the veranda on her return from school, and put both arms round my neck to make me give her a ride on my back?

The child turned into the woman, and instead of the gentle eyes with their extreme innocence in which I lost myself as in a boundless expanse, there shone two devilish fires in whose light I saw an explanation of life with all its sea of pleasures and emotions.

And now Irinel used to take me by the hand. She was fifteen years old; for some time her hand had felt different--warmer, softer, more I don't know what, when I took it in mine. Her gaiety was no longer even and continual as of old; she no longer talked quickly and incessantly.

And if I said to her: "Irinel, do you think it will rain to-day?" or "Irinel, there are only two weeks before the long vacation begins, shall you be pleased, as you used to be, when we go to Slanic?" Irinel remained silent, looking straight in front of her, and I am sure that at that moment she saw nothing--trees, houses, and sky disappeared as though in a thick mist.

This silence surprised and disquieted me, and I said to her in a low voice, almost as though I were guilty of something wrong:

"Irinel, you are scarcely back from school and you are bored already?"

An exaggerated gaiety was her immediate reply; she laughed, and talked, and told little anecdotes which she began and left unfinished, especially about life at school.

"You don't know," she said to me in a quick, loud voice, "what a letter one of my friends showed me. Only I read it, and another girl and her sister, and it seems to me she showed it to some others. I nearly died of laughter."

And Irinel began to laugh, and laughed and laughed until the tears ran down her rosy cheeks. Then sighing and laughing she began:

"He wrote to her, trembling, of stars, two only, which burnt and spoke to him. How can the stars he talks about burn? Are they bits of coal? How can stars speak? I don't understand. After that came ice, thawing, marble, a bed of fire, a monastery, suicide--Ah! pauvre Marie! Indeed, I was sorry for her, poor girl! Many a time we put our arms round each other's necks and kissed each other. We kissed each other and began to cry. You must know, Iorgu, that we kept nothing from each other. Every Monday she read me a letter on which could be seen traces of big tears, and I, after I had controlled myself sufficiently not to burst out laughing over those 'two twin stars which burn and speak,' had to prepare to cry, and, believe me, I cried with all my heart. Pauvre cherie!"

Irinel was ready to cry after laughing with such enjoyment, but, when she noticed that I kept my eyes cast down and listened in silence as though I were offended, she asked me with malicious irony:

"Iorgu, do you think it will rain to-day?"

Such scenes took place early in the morning: Sunday was a day of torture for me. All day Irinel said "If you please" to me. She embroidered or played the piano instead of our walking about the yard and garden. All day I felt the terrible anger of a very shy person with "those two stars which speak."

For three years I lived this life of daring dreams during the week, of fear and misery on Sunday, of wonderful plans put off from day to day, and concealed with an hypocrisy possessed only by the timid and innocent.

During the last year, after a vacation passed at Slanic, I made up my mind.

The day she went back to school we hardly dared kiss each other. What cold kisses! We neither of us looked at the other. I remember I looked at the sofa, and it seemed to me as though my lips had touched the hard yellow material instead of those firm, rosy cheeks which were to me a fearful joy.

I made up my mind, and I am sure that no one could have come to a more heroic decision.

To give myself courage, during the first night I thought out the scene which should take place the following Sunday without fail. I did not sleep all night; in the intense darkness I saw the garden, I saw Irinel, I heard myself, I heard her.

The cocks crew. I was lying at full length, my face uppermost, my eyes shut. I was perspiring from the boldness which I had shown during the scene which was running in my mind.

"Irinel, will you come and walk in the garden?"

"No, merci!"

"That will not do, we must go for a walk."

She understood that I had decided to say something important to her. Such courage impressed and compelled.

The cocks crew. It was midnight. It was pouring; flashes of lightning, like serpents of light, shone for a second through my curtains.

"Irinel, you must come with me. Don't you see what a beautiful day it is? I have discovered a bunch of ripe grapes which I have kept for you all the week."

"No, merci!"

"It is impossible for you not to come. I have made up my mind to tell you something----"

"What?" replied Irinel, and turned her eyes upon me.

Who could bear such a bright light? I looked down, but revolted by such cowardice I felt the courage of a hero, and lifting my head I replied to her:

"You must come!"

In all my life I had never commanded anyone. I was ordering her!

It was pitch dark; it was raining outside. I turned towards the wall. I closed my eyes. It was light. It was a beautiful Sunday. And still full of that courage I said to her once more:

"You must come!"

And I took her by the hand. From now on my heart almost ceased to beat. I told her all I had wanted to say to her for two years.

"Irinel, Irinel, I love you! Do you love me? Why are you silent? Why do you look down? Tell me, shall I leave the house where I have watched you growing up under my eyes, or----"

"Stay!"

We embraced each other; we kissed each other. It was over.

Lord! How brave men are when they are in love!

I grew cold all over when I reflected that this scene had not yet taken place, but was still to come. I sank down under my quilt afraid of such courage.

It began to grow light. I went off to sleep gradually, rehearsing this heroic scene:

"Irinel, will you come for a walk?"

"No, merci!"

"This cannot be, you must----"

The next day I woke up about ten o'clock. My uncle asked me in his kind, calm voice:

"Iorgu, are you not well that you got up so late to-day?"

I, feeling myself in fault, replied, embarrassed:

"No--a book--I went to sleep late."

My ears were burning as though I had held them against a hot stove.

The veranda seemed to be giving way under me. Do you know, at that moment a thought crossed my mind that overwhelmed me? Irinel was only Irinel, but, with my uncle, what courage I should need! How would he, an old man of pious habits, regard in his old age a marriage within the prohibited degree among members of his own family?