“Will he come back here, doctor?” then asked Ilona, her face white and an ill-concealed anxiety in her eyes.
“Surely, girlie!” answered the doctor cheerily, taking hold of her chin. “Don’t you worry, he won’t run away!”
“I didn’t mean that, but I just wanted to know!” stammered Ilona, her face and ears pink.
Petre grasped that the talk concerned an Urlaub,1 and to the doctor’s satisfaction immediately set about happily getting the lieutenant’s things together. Ilona retired behind the door and did not move from there until Meyer had wished Bologa “a pleasant journey and a good time over there.”
A wave of sadness had crept into the little white room where the white rays of the young sun laughed in through the crimson geraniums at every window. Apostol stood by the table with the permit in his hand, looking now at Petre, who, in his joy, muttered prayer after prayer while busily putting things together, now at the grave-digger’s daughter, who, standing stiffly behind the door, was gazing out into the distance with a tense expression of anxious fear. Bologa thought it his duty to say something to her, but an obscure fear tightened round his throat like a rope. At last he managed to utter, in an almost peremptory tone:
“Ilona …”
The girl, as if she had expected this, answered with a darkened glance. Then she rushed out of the room, banging the door after her, and ran away somewhere to hide her heart.
“I can manage alone, sir,” said Petre, thinking the lieutenant had wanted the girl to give him a hand. “What a mercy that the Lord has at last helped us also to get away for a little while from foreign parts and set eyes on our home again.”
And then it was that Bologa realized that he wasn’t at all glad of this leave.
“My heart does not beat any faster because I am going home, nor do I seem to mind in the least that my plans have failed,” he thought sadly. “And I am losing my head for the sake of a little peasant girl.”
He threw the permit on the table and began to walk to and fro with his hands behind his back, unconsciously gripping his fingers. All at once he felt the betrothal ring on the third finger of his left hand and stopped aghast. How long was it since he had given Marta, his fiancée, a thought? And he had not even noticed the ring all this time; the cause of this was most certainly the grave-digger’s daughter.
He left early for the station. The grave-digger and Ilona accompanied him as if he had been a favoured guest. When the train arrived he shook hands, first, with Vidor, then with the girl. Her hand was burning hot, and in her eyes flamed a question. Then he got in and stood at the window until the train began to move. The grave-digger at once turned towards the exit, but Ilona remained on the platform immovable, her gaze glued on the window in which Apostol, smiling dreamily, stood framed. And then the head of an old cherry-tree in flower hid, first, the window, then the compartment, and finally the train from view.
1 German for “leave”.
VII
Parva’s beech avenue, straight and neat, from the station to the centre of the little town, seemed an unending tunnel at night when it was dark. Apostol’s footsteps crunched noisily on the damp gravel. Petre, weighed down by two portmanteaux, could hardly keep pace with him and panted heavily behind. The square market-place was deserted, all the houses were asleep. They went up the main street, but met no one here either.
“Here we are at Lawyer Domsa’s, so there’s not much farther to go,” gasped Petre from the back, snorting like a bull and jerking his head in the direction of an imposing-looking house on the right.
Apostol made no answer, as if he had not heard, though the orderly’s words sounded in his ears like a reproach, for he himself had just been staring at the house where Marta, his beloved, was mistress. He felt so guilty towards his fiancée that he could hardly wait till the morrow to run over to her, fall at her feet, and beg her to forgive him.
Soon the spires of the church towers became visible in the darkness and Apostol increased his pace. His home was plunged in darkness. When he opened the little gate an old mastiff bounded into his path, barking furiously. Apostol quietened him with a whispered word and the dog lay down at his feet, beating the earth with his bushy tail, rather shamefaced that he had not recognized his young master sooner.
The noise of the little gate and the dog’s barking recalled the house to life. A yellow light sprang up at one window, disappeared, reappeared in the hall and was coming nearer the front-door. Apostol went up the steps and knocked. The candle stopped and wavered. From another room Doamna Bologa’s voice could be heard, and then the key was turned twice in the lock from inside. Apostol’s hand turned the handle and the trembling light flashed straight into his face. The servant began to yell as if she had seen a ghost.
“Help, mum, help! And goodness gracious me, if it isn’t the young master!”
Apostol walked in, laughing, and Petre shut the door. In the doorway of the room at the far end Doamna Bologa appeared, bareheaded, her face as white as paper, looking as if she could not believe her eyes. Then she burst out through her tears:
“Oh, my darling! my precious!”
They clung together in a long embrace, muttering broken words and disconnected sentences in which their joy and tenderness found the needed relief. When she had grown calmer, Doamna Bologa turned to the servant, who, with the candle in her hand, seemed to have been turned into stone, and said:
“Rodovica, what are you standing there for like an idiot? Put the candlestick on the table and run and light the fire; we must get the young master something to eat. Run, Rodovica! And you, Petre, put the bags over there near the door and rest a while; you also must have something to eat before you go on home.”
“I would much rather go on at once, please, mum, for fear I might be overcome with fatigue,” said the orderly, wiping away the sweat that was running from his forehead down his cheeks; “I have a goodish step still to do to get across the water!”
“Yes, so you have! Of course, you come from Jerusalim, on the other side of the Someş—I had forgotten that, Petre. Very well, go then, and God be with you!”
Doamna Bologa led Apostol into her bedroom at the back of the hall. It had only one window, and that was shuttered. A lamp with a china shade hung from the ceiling. The bed was turned down for the night. Here Apostol had spent his childhood until he had gone to Nasaud. His little bed had stood there, where that sofa was now, and here he had repeated aloud fervent prayers, mornings and evenings, on his knees, his eyes fixed on the old ikon hung on the wall above the bed, gazing passionately at the Good God who sat in the white clouds on a throne of gold. Everything was as it had always been, only his little mother had shrunk a bit and now showed innumerable little fine lines at the corners of her eyes, which still, however, burnt with the fire of faith. But Apostol seemed an alien, or he seemed to have fallen into an alien world.
Doamna Bologa asked him to tell her at once everything that had happened to him day by day since he had been home last. But before Apostol could make up his mind to begin, the childish memories conjured up by the little room having plunged him into a kind of torpor, Doamna Bologa, firstly to empty her heart, and secondly because the older she grew the more talkative she became, began to relate, one after another, all sorts of small incidents of her daily life and of the life of the small town.
“God had told me that you would come, darling! If you only knew what a state I was in when I heard all that you had been through! I waited and waited for letters from you and nothing came—even Marta wondered what could have happened. Then I talked things over with Domsa, who is a sensible, wise man, and we came to the conclusion that you had gone over to our people, for we heard that the regiment had been sent over here to fight the Rumanians—the Lord protect us and have mercy on us! Lucky that the Lord enlightened you and you stayed where you were, for if they had laid hands on you, my precious, O God! you might have fared like our poor protopop—even worse … What luck that we were not in bed yet! Usually a
bout this time we are all asleep, but to-day it seemed as if God had whispered to us to stay up a little while longer. I had been talking to and keeping an eye on that fool of a Rodovica, for it so happens that the Polish major quartered here left this morning, and we have been hard at work all day cleaning the room he has had for nearly seven months—your room—and your father’s before you, may his sins be forgiven him. I must say the major was a man of the world, but he had to go, for he said that heavy fighting was about to begin again. It’s no use, there’s no sign of peace. There were rumours that peace was coming, that the Russians are doing this and the other, but alas! it was nothing but talk! All the soldiers who were round here have gone; just a few have been left on account of the magazines—perhaps you noticed them coming along—wooden sheds, a whole townful, near the Feleac road.”
She was interrupted by Rodovica, her cheeks red through bustling round, coming in with food for the young master. While she was laying the cloth she said:
“You see, mum, how true signs are? The whole blessed day long my right eye kept blinking, and there you are, God has sent us joy in the house!”
“Hold your tongue; Rodovica, signs come from the devil,” stated Doamna Bologa, displeased that the maid had taken the conversation upon herself. “Better run and make up the young master’s bed.”
While Apostol was eating with good appetite, Doamna Bologa, after a few questions which she answered herself, began again to talk of Palagiesu, of household troubles, of Protopop Groza. When he had finished eating, Apostol asked one single question:
“And how’s Marta, mother?”
“She’s all right, darling, for she’s healthy and young,” said Doamna Bologa rather embarrassed, as if she had expected the question but had forgotten the answer she had got ready. “It’s no use my telling you about her because you’ll be seeing her yourself and … Is everything ready, Rodovica?” she added quickly to the servant, who had just appeared in the doorway. “That’s right, for the young master is tired and needs a good rest!”
She accompanied him into his room and kissed him on the forehead as she used to do when he slept in the room with the picture of God on the wall. Then Apostol was left alone. On the little night-table wavered the orange flame of a candle ensconced in a tall brass candlestick. Soft shadows danced on the floor, on the walls, on the ceiling, like the dreams of a harassed man.
“Good night!” Apostol said to himself, throwing off his clothes quickly, slipping into bed and tossing hither and thither until he had settled himself comfortably.
He blew out the light. He wanted to sleep at once, for in truth the journey had tired him. “Why was mother ill at ease when I asked her about Marta?” flashed through his mind. Of course, his mother wasn’t so very fond of her and had opposed the match until the betrothal, but afterwards she had become reconciled. Well, it was no good, he was guilty towards Marta, and he’d go without fail to-morrow. He loved her and must love her only. In her stead, however, Ilona kept on appearing before him, Ilona with the red kerchief on her head, with her eyes in which danced strange laughter, with her voice which caressed and hurt. And against his will he felt an immense pleasure in knowing with certainty that far away in a village there was someone who even in her dreams carried no one but him in her heart. But this must not be! Marta! Where was Marta? To-morrow, without fail, he’d go to her.
The next day he awoke under the kisses of the bright April sun. It seemed as if spring had re-entered that room with white waves of light and promise of gladness. On the table, on a tray with a flowered cloth, he found waiting for him, as of yore, a cup of coffee and a good chunk of cozonac.1 A great content filled his heart. He loved all the world.
“If I had succeeded, who knows where I should be now?” he thought with a stab of fear.
But the thought died as if it could not withstand the joy of life which flamed in his heart.
From this room a double door led on to the front balcony, which was surrounded by a little flower garden. There, in an arm-chair covered with an old rug, Bologa sprawled restfully at full length, like a citizen without cares after a copious meal. He intended to rest a little and then go and see Marta.
The scarcely formed shadows of the walnut-trees in the little garden, trees that had been planted on the day he had been born, danced on his cheeks soothed by the warm rays. From the sky, very blue and clear, peace descended, and from the scattered houses, from the trees in bloom, from the fields furrowed by ploughs, from the yellowy hills, from the black-green forest, rose unseen waves of the great life, all-powerful, implacable and yet unendingly alluring. Love of life floated in the air on silver wings, singing hymns of praise which distilled true happiness and a thousand hopes into human hearts.
Apostol’s soul drank in greedily the magic of spring. His eyes gazed but saw nothing, and his ears only heard the heavenly sounds. People passed along the street and called out greetings to him, but he took no notice. His surroundings had brought back memories of his childhood and had wafted him back into the past. And time flowed over him, measureless and impenetrable, as it flows over those who are no longer tempted to pursue happiness.
And then all of a sudden there burst on his ears a well-known voice, blithe, a little shrill, with glints of roguish laughter in it. Apostol had the impression that he had fallen from a pinnacle, and he jumped to his feet as if stung by an adder. In the street by the gate Marta, who had not seen him, had halted and was talking in Hungarian to an officer of the Home Defence Corps, pointing out the house to him. When she entered the courtyard and saw him, she called out “Good morning!” still speaking Hungarian, while the officer behind her raised his hand to the peak of his cap, smiling constrainedly. In a few moments Marta was standing before Apostol. She was wearing a white, lace-trimmed blouse and a small hat, from under which the brown curls escaped. Her cheeks were on fire and her squirrel’s eyes sparkled with intense mirth.
“Rodovica has trumpeted all over the town that you arrived last night,” she chirped, drawing near. “I was waiting for you to come over, but I couldn’t wait any longer, and here I am!”
She was still speaking Hungarian, and with such pleasure that her full lips trembled. Apostol was nonplussed to hear her. He tried to smile, but made no attempt to take the hand which was being held out to him. After a moment, however, he took her fingers mechanically and answered, also in Hungarian:
“Oh, mademoiselle, I did not expect that … Forgive me, I don’t know what I am saying!”
Because he did not kiss her hand as he usually did, and because he had called her “mademoiselle”, Marta wavered, and her smile faded for a second. But she quickly regained her composure, and, turning to her escort, spoke to him with even noisier gaiety, as if she wished by this means to dispel her slight feeling of discomfort.
“This is my fiancé, whom you almost know because I have talked so much about him to you! You know,” she said, turning again to Apostol, “this gentleman kept me company all the winter, otherwise I should have died of boredom!”
The officer of the Home Defence Corps, smart, spick-and-span, with powdered face, came forward more boldly. On his left arm he carried Marta’s coat. He saluted ceremoniously, clicking his heels:
“Lieutenant Tohaty …”
There followed a silence, each one waiting for the other to speak. Marta again cut short the silence with such exaggerated heartiness that both men dropped their eyes.
“I went to shop in the market and there I met the lieutenant …”
She broke off giggling, then continued:
“So then what did I say to myself? I’ll take him along and introduce him to Apostol, so that there should be no fear of him being jealous! That’s how I happened to bring him. Also he’s engaged, so that …”
She laughed again. The two embarrassed men, however, now, smilingly, exchanged a slight bow. Marta, encouraged, became more natural, stopped her forced laughter and said softly:
“You weren’t very assiduous with rega
rd to letter-writing. I did not mind, but I cried a lot because … because … of you, especially when I heard how you had suffered. Five wounds, and five terrible months in hospital! This gentleman kept on telling me that you would be sure to come home on sick-leave, but I didn’t believe him at all. Now he has been proved right. Luckily I did not bet, but I very nearly …”
She met Bologa’s eyes and stopped short, filled with a fear she could not master. Through Apostol’s mind passed the thought that he had actually intended to ask her forgiveness. That thought was reflected in his eyes in a phosphorescence of hatred and crystallized into a gaze so hostile that it scorched. When Marta stopped speaking, he shuddered as if he had awakened and found himself clutching a dagger in his hand, ready to strike. He felt ashamed and looked at the lieutenant questioningly. Then he looked at Marta and smiled, a little frightened himself at her terror.
“Sit down, M … In the arm-chair!” he muttered, not daring to call her by her name, and drawing the armchair nearer to her.
Then the officer came to the rescue with hurried questions about the battle in which Apostol had been wounded, about the news at the front, and about the hopes of peace.… And Bologa, to prove to himself his self-control, answered him with technical details and with a certain superciliousness that was in rather bad taste. Marta, who had sat down in the arm-chair, soon recovered herself and mixed herself in their conversation, now jokingly, now plaintively. They went on talking lest the icy atmosphere should return. And when, in spite of their efforts, there was a pause, Marta jumped up with her former forced gaiety, ready to go. All three sighed with relief.