Apostol stood waiting by his desk until he saw the old man enter the room opposite, then he walked across firmly, clearing his throat a little on the way. On the grave-digger’s face he saw a kind of fear mingled with cunning.
“Bade,”1 said Bologa resolutely, “I love Ilona, and I want to marry her if she will have me and if you will give her to me.”
The grave-digger Vidor gave him a long look and made no answer, either as if he had not understood what had been said to him or as if he were waiting for further explanations.
“I must have your answer now, at once!” went on Apostol, slightly irritated by the peasant’s suspicious silence. “Don’t think that it is just a sudden whim. I have thought the matter over carefully.”
Vidor gazed through the window into the courtyard, sighed, scratched the top of his head, shook his head, and then said slowly, looking rather askance at the officer:
“Well, sir, you’ve said something big, I own, for we know the world and what is becoming, though we are simple folk as God has made us. I don’t say that you don’t really love the girl, but I am an old man, and I have lived through a lot and I have swallowed whole ladlefuls of trouble, and that is why I think that our little lass is not for you. She is poor, she has neither wealth nor learning and is not suited for you, sir!”
“Because I love her we are suited,” murmured Apostol, upset, for he had not expected any objections.
The grave-digger scratched his head again, then scrutinized the lieutenant once more for a few minutes, uncertain and suspicious. Finally, he went to the door and from the threshold called:
“Ilona! Ilona! Come here a minute, quickly!”
The girl came at once wonderingly, her fingers wet with the red dye of the eggs. When her father told her that the officer had asked her to be his wife she was startled, then she looked at Bologa and burst into tears. The grave-digger bade her give the gentleman an answer, but all in vain; Ilona went on weeping, and nothing would induce her to utter a word.
“We are wasting our time, sir,” said Vidor finally, in a tone of contempt. “Women are all the same; once they start crying you can’t stop them. Besides, there’s no object in wasting words, the girl has to do what I tell her!”
He scrutinized Apostol yet a little while, then he went up to him with hand outstretched, saying heavily:
“You have done us a great honour, sir. May you live long, and the best of luck be yours henceforth!”
Apostol, his face shining with joy, approached Ilona, who had hidden her face in her apron and was still weeping with stifled sobs.
“Ilona!” he whispered, deeply moved. “Will you be my bride, Ilona?”
She uncovered her face and answered him with a passionate look, born of tears and beautified by a smile of happiness. And Apostol kissed her without shyness on both cheeks, damp with tears.
“Then let us hurry to the village priest that he may betroth us!” said Bologa, the taste of her tears on his lips. “I’ll wait for you both in the office.”
He went back to the office calmer than he had left it. In half an hour the grave-digger knocked at the door, announcing that they were ready to go. Both Vidor and Ilona were dressed in their Sunday best. Apostol noticed the girl was wearing the green kerchief of yesterday, and more especially the bodice of red velvet which showed the roundness of her breasts.
Popa Boteanu crossed himself when Bologa reappeared accompanied by Vidor and the girl. He asked, with a little anxiety in his voice:
“What is it, Apostol? What has happened? It is not three hours since …”
“It was you who showed me what to do, Father, and we made haste to come and ask for your blessing!” answered Apostol, smiling.
Boteanu, perplexed, asked them into the room where a little while ago he had received Apostol and begged them to explain. When he heard what Apostol wanted he looked at all three in turn, unable to conceal his astonishment. Then he excused himself for a moment and went out, of a certainty to tell his wife the wonderful thing that was happening. He returned with the stole, the cross, and the prayer-book.
“Let us pray that the Lord may bless your union,” murmured the priest in kindly tones, opening the book.
He read the usual prayers, trying to invest them with more than usual fervour and solemnity. Then they all kissed the cross and the young people embraced. The priest added a few more words, bidding Ilona especially to guard preciously the happiness which God had sent her and to endeavour to deserve the joy granted to her through the mercy of Heaven. The girl wept and the grave-digger was touched.
“And now do please sit down and let us drink a glass of wine to this happy hour, as is the traditional custom of our people!” said Boteanu, taking off and folding up the stole.
As if it had all been arranged beforehand, the maidservant entered at that very minute with a bottle and glasses, and a few minutes later the priest’s wife came in herself, burning with curiosity.
“Look, little doe, our friend has chosen Ilona for his bride!” called out the priest gaily, filling all the glasses.
The good lady congratulated Apostol and praised Ilona, saying she was a good girl, etc. But there was so much amazement in her voice that Apostol did not dare to answer, and was glad when “the little doe” went over to Ilona to pump her and satisfy her curiosity by asking all sorts of questions.
After the priest’s wife had settled down Boteanu told them a piece of news which a soldier, who was quartered somewhere in the neighbourhood, had brought him just now after Apostol had left. The soldier had just returned from Faget, and there he had heard that during last night they had caught—no one knew where—three wretched peasants who were supposed to be spies and to have given away important information to the enemy on the front. The grave-digger hastened to interrupt with more detailed information. He had seen with his own eyes the arrested men. The great general was quartered in the house of his own brother-in-law in Faget, and as his brother-in-law was burgomaster he knew everything that went on. The truth was that a fortnight ago an order had been issued to the village forbidding anyone to go anywhere near the front, either with grazing cattle or to fetch wood, but there were lots of stupid, clumsy fools who did not understand when one spoke nicely to them, and they had kept on going into the forbidden area as if they had verily done it on purpose. The military authorities closed their eyes to this and just chased them away. But for the last few days the division had been making great preparations—why and for what purpose was not known. And since, they had noticed that whatever order was given over here and whatever movement took place over here was known to the enemy a day or two later. In fact, they had come to the conclusion that there must be spies here, and that the spies must be those peasants who, in face of the drastic orders issued, had still persisted in hanging round the forbidden area. Hence they seized three last night and brought them between bayonets to Faget. The general was so infuriated that he had ordered all three to be hanged, to make an example of them. To-morrow the court martial would try them, and, as the great general had said they would be hanged, there was no doubt but that they would be hanged.
“My sister-in-law, poor thing, has been crying her eyes out, she feels so sorry for them,” concluded the grave-digger. “Two are from Faget, well-known men, Rumanians, and one is from here, from our own village. Poor Horvat, Father, you must know him; he lives in the lane leading to the station. God help him! I thought I would tell his wife, but I don’t know.… I dare not.… That’s how it was! I was just on the point of telling the lieutenant all about it when he started to talk about the girl, and it went clean out of my head, fool that I am!”
“O Lord, forgive us our sins and protect us from dangers!” murmured the priest, crossing himself fervently. “Death holds great sway these days. O Lord, Thy decisions are too deep for our poor understanding; have mercy on our weakness and do not leave us without consolation, now and for ever and ever, Amen!”
Apostol Bologa crossed himself three times,
his eyes wet with tears, his heart bleeding with a great pity.
When they left, the priest pressed his hand warmly and said:
“Be sure and come to the Resurrection service, Apostol, to strengthen your heart and faith in God, for you see what terrible times these are and what need the soul of man has of strength and help.”
“I’ll come without fail!” answered Apostol fervently.
In the afternoon he went as usual into the office to work. In the evening, at supper-time, he told Petre he was going to marry Ilona. The orderly wished him joy rather half-heartedly. He had heard the news from Ilona herself, and he could not understand why on earth the “young master” should take for wife a poor and stupid little peasant girl when he could have had so many young ladies by merely stretching out one finger.
Before going to bed he ordered his soldier to waken him in time for the Resurrection service. Towards midnight he was awakened by Ilona’s caressing hands.
“Get up, lazy one. Hurry, or you’ll miss the Resurrection!”
By the time he had shaken off sleep the girl had disappeared noiselessly. He dressed quickly. The coolness of the night made him quicken his steps. The sky was serene, greyish-blue, and the stars twinkled like tiny lights in the dome of an immense cathedral.
The churchyard was full of people, and yet more and more kept on coming, some singly and others in parties. The little wooden church—old, giving way on one side and propped up with beams to prevent it from collapsing, with its slightly crooked little tower, with its door so low that one had to stoop in order to enter—could hardly be distinguished in the darkness from the old trees which stretched out their branches like protecting arms right over the roof. Issuing from the inside of the church as from a cavern could be heard a tortured voice mumbling, now dolefully and painfully, now harshly and shrilly.
“It is too early,” whispered someone near Bologa, “the priest arranges the service so that Communion is over just as day breaks.”
“Better to be too early than not to have room even in the churchyard,” answered another reprovingly.
The people were crowding in, whispering. Here and there smothered laughter could be heard. The darkness began to thin.
At last the door of the church became illuminated, and a few minutes after the priest, with the Bible in the crook of his arm and a lighted candle in his other hand, appeared on the threshold. Dozens of candles were stretched out eagerly towards the priest1 in the splendid vestments, and soon the whole churchyard was full of tiny yellow, twinkling lights, like a company of timid souls waiting tremblingly at the gates of heaven for the call of deliverance.
Amongst the peasants who crowded round the priest Apostol Bologa also saw many soldiers, their faces transfigured with fervour, eagerly muttering prayers. He was surprised to see, not far off from where he stood, the Hungarian sergeant who worked in his office.
Then the service began. Popa Boteanu chanted softly in his thin voice, with eyes either closed or raised towards heaven. The light played on his emaciated face, making him look like a saint in an old ikon. All round Apostol the dry lips of the people moved quickly, hungrily. The incense spread in bluish waves and the worshippers inhaled it with gladness as a perfume from another world.
“We must obey the Holy Word!” chanted the priest, looking over the heads of the crowd with a look that seemed to announce a new mystery. The congregation fell on their knees. Apostol listened transported, his eyes fixed on the lips of the priest. The sentences wavered, floated, and united into a wonderful melody which diffused into his soul implicit faith. Slowly, unconsciously, he bowed his head to the ground. Then suddenly he heard again the voice of the priest, triumphant, strong, and now blithe as a silver bell:
“Christ has risen from the dead!”
Apostol sprang to his feet. All were singing, their faces luminous with joy. And the voices fluttered like little flags of truce, and rising into the clear air climbed higher and higher until they reached the throne of Divine Consolations.
1 A mode of address used by the peasants when speaking to an elder brother or to an older man.
1 The people all light their candles from the priest’s.
VII
On Easter Sunday there was rather a lot to do in the office, nevertheless Bologa knocked off at midday and had his meal with Vidor and Ilona. For the second time, but this time with more details, the grave-digger told him the tale of the three arrested peasants, and after dinner the old man, eaten up with curiosity, hastened over to his brother-in-law’s to hear if there was anything new. He could now go off with his mind easy, for he needed no longer to worry about his girl.
“From now onwards you’ll guard her more jealously than I!” he told Bologa, winkingly slyly.
Towards the evening, before the grave-digger had returned from Faget, the rumour spread in the village that the three prisoners had been condemned to death by the court martial and that they would be hanged the very next morning. The news filled the villagers with horror, and entered like a sinister messenger into all the houses, casting a gloom over the Easter festivities.
And the grave-digger brought further news. Firstly, that the condemned men were in truth to be executed the next day before sunrise. The wives, children, and friends of the men had knelt and wept at the general’s feet, begging him to pardon them, to have mercy. In vain! The general had been furious and had had them driven away by the police. Secondly, that on the night before, four more men had been arrested, also Faget men, and also in the forbidden area, and that to-morrow these, too, would be tried.
“In fact, it is obvious that the general intends to hang us all in turn!” sighed the grave-digger gloomily.
He went out to tell some of the neighbours the misfortune which had fallen upon their fellow-creatures like a bolt from the blue, but he soon returned, changed his clothes, and went off again to Faget.
“My trade may be of some use to the poor fellows,” he said as he wished Apostol and Ilona good-bye, and then, crossing himself, added: “O Lord, what a misfortune! O Lord, protect us!”
The next day Vidor returned home at midday in order to tell them that the three had been hanged in a private wood on the margin of the highroad, half-way between Lunca and Faget.
“They did not even trouble to set up a gallows,” said the grave-digger, weeping like an old woman. “They strung them up like dogs, each on the branch of a tree. We wanted to bury them, as is meet for Christians, but they would not take the bodies down. They said the orders were that they were to hang there three days and three nights so that all may see and take the lesson to heart. Lord, Lord, protect us! Right up to the moment when the rope was put round their necks the poor fellows swore they were innocent. Do you think anyone took the slightest notice of their protests? Orders and again orders! And look, all that on Easter Monday! O Lord, great is Thy power and great Thy mercy, Lord! And there are four more prisoners!”
He went back at once to Faget without putting a single morsel into his mouth, his eyes red with weeping, his back bent as if this one day had aged him by ten years.
About two hours later, just when Apostol was busiest, Captain Klapka blew into the office, shouting:
“Bologa! You lucky fellow! You are back from leave? Have you been back long? Oh, you lucky, lucky fellow! Anyway, I hope you have quite recovered now?”
He embraced Apostol noisily, overwhelming him with questions. He was a little thinner in the face, and his little militiaman’s beard seemed fairer, scantier, and less well cared for. After a few minutes Bologa asked him to come over into the other room so that they could talk in peace. There they found Ilona, who now scarcely allowed Petre to set foot in the room, jealously wishing to look after and do everything for her betrothed herself. Klapka, seeing her, went up to her and without much ado chucked her cheekily under the chin and was rewarded with a smart slap.
“Aah? Lively lassie!” murmured the astonished captain. “She strikes hard, there’s no denying it! Who is the p
retty one, Bologa? Well, well, you seem to be having a good time here! That’s why you don’t worry your head about us!”
“She is my betrothed,” said Apostol, smiling.
“What? Your … betrothed?” repeated Klapka quite nonplussed. “But … but … this is madness, Bologa! Excuse me, perhaps I am a clumsy, mannerless lout, but all the same, I don’t understand! I don’t understand at all!”
“Oh well, if man understood everything he now doesn’t understand, where would the charm of life be?” Bologa answered gaily. “You’d better sit down here and rest a while and we’ll crack2 Easter eggs, for don’t forget it is Easter Monday to-day.”
And while Klapka, rather at a loss, settled himself at the table, Apostol went out into the lobby and came back with Ilona, who was carrying one plateful of red eggs and another of cozonac and pasca. The captain stood up very politely, and somewhat embarrassed said to Ilona:
“I was very rude just now … but I didn’t know … I thought that.… Please forgive me!”
Though she didn’t know a word of German, Ilona understood what Klapka was trying to say. She gave him a long look and then burst into such a merry laugh that both men had to join in her laughter.
“The lassie … I mean your fiancée … is very saucy!” said Klapka, after Ilona had run out of the room to laugh at her ease. “But,” he added seriously, “this engagement is a mystery to me, of course …”
“And for me!” whispered Apostol exuberantly. “But not only the engagement but life as a whole, beginning with my soul and ending with the starry infinite!”
The captain looked at him wonderingly, and proceeded uncertainly:
“Yes … that’s so.… These are some of the big things we all feel and no one really understands, but the engagement is something material—an actual fact. What I don’t understand in this engagement are the motives that induced you to tie your future to a little girl who is very sweet, there is no doubt about it, but totally uncivilized. What can a man like you see in a little peasant girl, and Hungarian at that? That’s what I can’t make out, my dear fellow!”
Forest of the Hanged Page 22
