Three rainy days followed, horrid days, spreading sadness in the world. From morning till night Apostol sat on the cerdac surrounded by his old books in which all his hopes had centred in the old days, and which each time that he had needed help in life had let him down like powerless and timorous friends. He ran hastily through the proud systems of wisdom, knocked at all the doors more and more anxiously, but as soon as he stopped and raised his eyes from the book to the rain-swept, mud- covered street, to the green and clean-washed meadows and hills, to the sky covered with dark clouds, he felt immediately that all the monumental structures in his soul tumbled down with a clatter of meaningless words, squeezed dry of real wisdom, not leaving even ruins in their wake but just a barren, unending, and engulfing emptiness. And a strange sensation would come over him that the earth was slipping away from under his feet and he was left floating in nothingness, clinging desperately to the cross on the church spire.
Often with his book on his knee his thoughts would turn back into the past, scrutinizing his former life, seeking out motives. And then all his actions, gestures, longings, seemed paltry, selfish, and even ridiculous. How indignant he used to get in hospital and afterwards over words and things which did not conform to his expectations! He had divided the whole world into two halves, one of love and one of hatred. Now he realized that he had never known love at all, the true, deep love that saves—he had known hatred only in different forms. He had thought that all those who were of his own race were dear to him, but as soon as he had discovered that his hatred found no echo in their hearts, his love was scattered like dust by the breath of the wind. True love never died in the soul of man, but accompanied it right through the portals of death into eternity. But love could not take root in a heart tainted with hatred, and in his own heart hatred had ever dwelt, like a rusty nail embedded in living flesh.
The rain rapped on the roof of the cerdac, loudly, peremptorily, like hurried knocks on a bolted gate. Listening vaguely, Apostol Bologa was suddenly confronted with an alarming question which he knew with certainty that he had carried about in his soul all his life without ever facing it, as if he were ashamed of it and dreaded it. But the strange thing was that the question contained the answer that Apostol had longed for with passion and which he constantly avoided like an obstinate child who has transgressed again and again and no longer dares to approach its parents, possibly because it knows that all its transgressions would be forgiven. He tried to avoid it now also. He closed his eyes, but this time the question lit in his soul a white flame, round which all the thoughts of his life formed a chain; they were all there, beginning with the tiny fragments which had died in his brain before they had crystallized and ending with those heavy, logical, proud reflections which he had chosen with confidence as the right guides for his life, and all were equally colourless and submissive, like slaves round an all-powerful master.
Strange, indistinct feelings awoke and melted in his heart, filling his being with a warm content. In his mind a thought tried to raise its head and remind him of the rusty nail of hate, but the mysterious flame smothered it at its birth.
Then it seemed to him as if the pattering of the raindrops died down gradually, changing into a sweet, alluring sound like the flutter of doves’ wings, growing sweeter and sweeter and diffusing in his heart a magic enchantment so exquisite that it hurt. And then suddenly he began to sway and rise as if borne on the wings of song. He felt no surprise, although the cerdac and the fields and the whole earth had disappeared and there was only the cross of the church spire, shining softly and so near that by stretching out his hand he could have touched it. The white flame in his soul burnt more brightly, like a glowing funeral pile which consumed his past and brought forth his future. The stillness and the mysteries of heaven and earth mingled and pulsated in his heart and distilled into it the dew of eternal joy. He could feel his soul, linked to the infinite by thousands of tiny threads, palpitate enchanted, in the rhythm of the great unseverable mysteries, as in a sea of light. Then a rapturous happiness filled his whole being, more potent than the joy of life and more poignant than the anguish of death. And he knew that one moment of such bliss is sustenance for all eternity.
Apostol Bologa started as if he had awakened from a spell. But his eyes were open, large and misty, and on his smiling lips the touch of that ecstasy still lingered. The book had slipped from his knees and was lying at his feet like a worthless rag. The rain still drummed on the roof of the cerdac with a lingering, soft, watery sound. Up on high behind the cross, between slate-coloured clouds, laughed a strip of luminous blue, announcing a new sun.
For a while Apostol sat there with aching eyes. Fragments of thoughts sprang up in his brain and died at once, useless. A new feeling lay heavy on him, an obscure yet withal urging desire. He wanted to embrace the whole world, to weep with joy and to share his tears with all mankind. He stood up, stretched out his arms, and all at once the pent-up tears ran down his parched cheeks, while his eyes and lips smiled with joy. His heart, overburdened with love and thirsting to love, thrilled. Every moment he could feel more clearly the roots of the white flame in his soul, penetrating into all his fibres, blending with the source of life and dominating his being for the rest of his life and for all eternity.
And then all his feelings, clear and obscure, crystallized into one solid whole, and into his brain there flashed the tremendous thought:
“My soul has found God again!”
A nimbus of white rays scintillated from the rain-bespattered cross. The flame in Apostol’s soul united with the scintillating rays, with the sound of the rain, with the green of the fields, with the patch of blue sky which seemed an eye of the infinite, with the infinite itself, into one thrilling harmony. He was conscious of God in his soul as his soul was conscious in God.
XI
Towards the evening the rain stopped; all the clouds were swept away and at night all the stars flamed in the sky as if it were the eve of a great holiday. Next day the whole town awoke clad in a garment of white flowers and roses which embalmed the whole earth. When Apostol went out on the cerdac and saw all this riotous wealth of beauty, he started as at the sight of a miracle. He wondered how he could have wasted so much time brooding in that arm-chair on the cerdac instead of going out into the world, mixing with human beings or communing with nature and rejoicing in each moment of life. Now he was anxious to carry his happiness into the sight of all and humbly to make known that he had found the great mystery. He wanted to share his brotherly love with others, for all men needed love and were eager to get it. He was fearless now and no longer dreaded loneliness. In everything his soul found the living God, in all the miracles and in all the small things of life. He felt a constant desire to humble himself and to beg forgiveness of all those whom he had wronged in thought or deed.
Every minute he discovered new reasons for joy and love, like a small child for whom the mysteries of the world and of life begin to unfold.
About four days later, Doamna Bologa indignantly brought him the news that that cursed creature, Palagiesu, had called him a “traitor,” a “jail-bird,” and “an agitator” in the presence of all the men at the club, and that he had boasted that he would teach him a lesson in good manners which he would remember all his life. Apostol, without saying a word, caught up his cap and rushed off quickly in the direction of the market-place, leaving his mother trembling and in mortal fear—for now he would surely kill that godless, loose-lipped brute—and regretting that she had repeated to him what, as a matter of fact, she had heard from poor Marta herself. Doamna Bologa spent an anxious hour wringing her hands aiid scolding Rodovica, who “had become so insolent and so lazy that there was no doing anything with her.”
Then Apostol returned, serene and happy.
“What have you done, my darling?” Doamna Bologa asked in fear and trembling.
“I apologized to him, mother,” answered Bologa with gladness in his voice and a flame of happiness in his eyes.
Three days before the month was up, Lieutenant Apostol Bologa received a wire ordering him to report himself immediately.
“Evidently things are getting pretty hot or they would not be cutting down leaves,” Apostol had remarked quietly and confidently to his mother when he communicated the news to her.
“Well, I would not be surprised if this were the doing of the ‘loose-lipped one,’ ” exclaimed Doamna Bologa, still indignant at the thought that Apostol had humbled himself before that cursed creature.
All along Apostol had felt that he still had a duty to perform, but he had not been able as yet to summon up enough courage to do it. Now he realized that the time for hesitation was over. That afternoon he knocked at the door of Domsa’s house and found Marta at home. He took her hand and kissed it, looking deeply into her eyes, and begged her to forgive him with so much passion that the girl became confused, smiled shyly, and then burst into tears, stammering that it had been all her own fault.
The next morning, soon after dawn, Doamna Bologa accompanied him to the station, for the train left very early. Pctre, with the kit on his back, panted even more loudly than he had done on the night of their arrival. Apostol was almost gay. He was very gentle with his mother and kept on repeating:
“Everywhere there are men who seek love, mother dear, and God accompanies one everywhere! Now I know, mother, and now my path in life is straight and clear.”
When the whistle blew, Doamna Bologa, near the steps of the compartment, whispered to him anxiously :
“Don’t forget, my darling, that to-morrow Holy Week begins. Be sure to go to church, and don’t forget God!” Apostol smiled tenderly and answered her with a look of fervent faith. The train began to move out slowly. And for Doamna Bologa, left alone on the platform, that look in his eyes was a divine consolation. Then the crown of an apple-tree in bloom veiled her as with a bridal garment. At that instant a wave of bitterness welled up in Apostol’s heart like a black foreboding in the midst of great rejoicing.
BOOK III
I
WHEN, round the bend of the hill, he saw the first house of Lunca, that wave of gloom swept once again over Apostol Bologa, but almost instantaneously died away, leaving in its stead a joyous anticipation. He thrust his head out of the carriage window, feeling certain that someone would be waiting for him. From a long way off he could see the old cherry-tree, which, in honour of his arrival, had decked itself out with a marvellous crown of white flowers in the place of the delicate buds of a month ago.
In the station bands of soldiers hurled themselves at the train, which puffed and snorted furiously before coming to a standstill. But Apostol’s eyes ran impatiently over the crowd, darting hither and thither almost with fear in their depth, until with a flash of unrestrained gladness they alighted on what they sought. On the platform, in the same place where he had left her and looking as if she had not moved from there these last four weeks, stood Ilona, scanning, with ever-increasing anxiety, one carriage after another. A tense look of expectancy made her face look more rugged and thinner. Then suddenly she caught sight of Bologa and a wild light flamed in her eyes and her lips relaxed into a frightened smile.
Apostol Bologa jumped off the train, deeply moved and excited. His heart bade him rush over to Ilona and take her in his arms in front of everybody, but an overpowering feeling of constraint made him wait near the railway carriage until Petre came up with his luggage.
“Come on, man, hurry up!” he muttered to the orderly, who was fighting his way down the carriage steps through the crowd of soldiers eagerly clambering up.
Out of the corner of his eye Apostol watched the gravedigger’s daughter, thinking with anxiety how disappointing it would be if she should leave the station before he had had time to hear her voice. Nevertheless, when he reached the spot where she was, he stopped and looked surprised, pretending that he had only just seen her, and he said rather coldly:
“What are you doing here, Ilona?”
The girl also pretended that she had not seen him till then and exclaimed in assumed amazement:
“Fancy! If it isn’t Lieutenant Bologa! Did you come by this train? Father was saying you had another three days or so. As a matter of fact, I was waiting for him; he has gone up to town to … But perhaps he won’t be coming till the next train, after all.”
They stared a moment into one another’s eyes. Apostol shook her hand and saw Ilona’s lids droop and her smiling lips tremble, but her hand was cold.
Then Bologa passed on quickly for fear he should do something foolish if he did not hurry away. Once in the lane he looked back. The girl was wrangling with the orderly; she wanted to carry one of the bags, but Petre proudly refused, explaining to her that he needed nobody’s help and that, anyhow, the kit was now much lighter than when they went, because his master had left at home lots of things which were not needed in war-time. Apostol could not keep himself from chiming in:
“Don’t, Ilona; why should you tire youself? A soldier can carry much more than that.”
The grave-digger’s daughter smiled as if she had expected this; then as Bologa went on she began to pump Petre in Hungarian, trying to find out what sort of a time they had had at home. But Petre did not understand her questions very well, and Apostol, a few steps in advance, heard very well what she said and knew that it was really from him that she wanted answers to her questions, and his heart ached with joy.
From all the gardens on the way to the house trees in bloom greeted them and scattered on their path light petals as at a fairy wedding. In his room the scent of flowers was so strong that it confused him. He sighed and looked gratefully at Ilona, who, suddenly embarrassed, said, as if in answer to a question:
“Since you left I have been sleeping here. The officer who took your place wanted this room, but father thought it would be better for me to sleep in here, as you would be coming back, and why should a stranger have the room and mess it up when you were coming …”
She broke off, her face fiery red as if she had given away some great secret. Bologa had the same impression and wished to thank her, but he knew that if he tried to utter a single word he would be unable to restrain his tears of joy and would make a fool of himself in front of the soldier, who had begun to unpack his kit and to put things back as they had been a month ago. Then, as a means of escape, he remembered his work and hastily crossed into the office. The two non-coms, stood up and he, in order to get rid of some of the kindliness with which he was overflowing, smilingly shook them by the hand and inquired how things had been going on during his absence. The sergeant began to explain, but Apostol, running his eye over unimportant documents, was not listening at all, for his thoughts were back in the other room where he had left Ilona and where Petre seemed stuck, as if he did not want to leave them alone on purpose. Then, before the sergeant had finished his say, Apostol was back in the other room, and, without glancing at Ilona, said impatiently to the zealous orderly:
“All right, Petre, that’ll do. You’ll do the remainder another day. That’s enough for just now.”
“I’ve finished, sir, anyway,” answered Petre in a relieved voice, leaving the room immediately in order to make up his own bed in the lobby.
When he was alone with the girl, Bologa flushed deeper than the girl had done just now. He was thinking that probably both Petre and the girl had guessed his thoughts, and he was as ashamed as if he had planned a crime. At the same time he felt an urgent need to tell her that he loved her, and yet he was conscious of the absurdity of making a declaration of love to a little peasant girl who would probably not understand what he meant and as likely as not would laugh in his face. Ilona seemed even more disturbed. While Petre had been present she had moved about too, setting things to rights, but now she stood quite still near the bed, not knowing what to do with her hands, gazing at Apostol with timid curiosity and waiting from moment to moment for something wonderful to happen.
At last, after a heavy silence, Apostol Bologa
sat down on the little chest that stood between the windows which looked out on to the street, and said suddenly, in a cold, aloof voice, as if he were talking to some soldier:
“And what has your father been doing all the time I have been away?”
Ilona threw herself on the question as if it were really the wonderful thing she had been expecting, and answered with hasty and almost offensive pride:
“What’s father been doing, you ask? Why, do you think work and worry isn’t enough to keep one occupied? Even though we have some property, like all decent folk, yet we’ve got to work all we can if we want to live. Only God knows …”
Apostol was looking at her and listening to her with great attention and yet understood nothing. But her voice, with its thrilling cadence of a primitive song, sank into his being and soothed his nerves. And his eyes rested on her rather full, dark-red and moist lips, which moved convulsively, obstinately, and with a sort of secret reproach.
When Ilona stopped speaking, Bologa shook himself as if something had snapped in his heart. Their eyes met, and he saw in hers the timidity that had settled in his own soul, too. Then into the silence that lay between them there fell like a deliverance a loud shout from the courtyard outside and at once they both came to life, and the girl, her voice sweeter and her eyes laughing, asked:
“Did you have a good time at home? Is it nice over there in your home ?”
“It’s the same as over here, Ilona; the only difference is that the war is farther off, a little farther off.”
“You didn’t miss us, I can see. Naturally, why should you miss us, for of course when one is at home …” continued Ilona, hiding her question in a smile.
“I missed you, Ilona,” answered Bologa, also smiling but in a deeper voice than usual, a voice which tried to sink into her heart.
Forest of the Hanged Page 18
