Forest of the Hanged

by Liviu Rebreanu

  “And when do you intend to come over to us, old bear?” she asked in Rumanian as she was going, arranging the folds of her blouse on her bosom so as to avoid looking into his eyes. “Daddy is expecting you … if you are not keen on coming to see me,” she added more saucily, after an imperceptible break.

  “Of course I’ll come,” murmured Bologa, controlling a sudden feeling of revolt. “But in a day or two. Don’t you see in what a condition I am?”

  “From here to our house there are about thirty steps,” answered Marta, genuinely gay again and raising her eyes to his in sweet defiance. “And you’re not so thin that you can’t go about! You have become colder and more grumpy, otherwise you haven’t changed.”

  Her self-assurance amazed him so much that he answered almost humbly:

  “I have become a savage.”

  But Marta, now rather nervous again, quickly crossed the little garden with Tohaty following at her heels like a faithful shadow. Once in the street, curiosity overcame her and she turned her head to see what Apostol was doing. He was leaning against the pillar of the balcony, his face terribly distorted. Nevertheless, she smiled at him and sent him a kiss with unconscious coquetry.

  Apostol Bologa gripped the pillar with both arms as if he had been stabbed in the heart. He followed them with his eyes and saw them both laugh—she especially was swinging her hips gaily as she kept pace with him. Then, when they were out of sight, he began to shake the pillar of the balcony with all his strength and with a horrible despair, like a madman, grinding for some moments between his teeth without knowing it:

  “Get out! … Get out! … Get out! …”

  And just as suddenly his fury abated and he felt ashamed of his outburst. Hatred still filled his breast, but his mind began to judge more clearly. He dropped into the armchair and kept repeating to himself that he must judge fairly and without haste what had happened, otherwise the consequences might be fatal for him. She was really rather proud of her guilt, whereas he had wanted to go to her and beg her to forgive him. He had been storing her image in the sanctum of his heart and had worshipped her as though she had been an ikon, while she had been busy killing her boredom with that puppy.

  “Horrible … horrible!” his lips went on muttering.

  Now he felt convinced that it was her fault that he had enlisted; simply to gratify a caprice of hers he had imperilled his life. To gratify a mere caprice! That showed him how he must have loved her!

  Over the road the cross on the church-tower glittered like gold. Apostol’s eyes stubbornly persisted in staring at the rays which issued from the body of the cross, as if their dazzling and triumphant light were trying to defy him or to rebuke him, just when his brain was harassed by the fickleness of the woman who had spoilt his life. Then all at once his glance fell from the cross to the graveyard round the church and found the stone with the gilt inscription which marked the grave and the memory of his father. It seemed to him that the letters had become somewhat faded, and he determined to get the old stonecutter to renew them. And then, clearly as on the day when his father had first uttered them in Nasaud, he heard in his mind the elder man’s words: “Do your duty always, and never forget that you are a Rumanian!” He heard perfectly, not only the voice but the intonation, the emphasis on “never” and “Rumanian” and the way he had rolled the “r” in “Rumanian”.

  “Why should they come into my mind just now?” wondered Apostol, finding no connection between them and the matter that preoccupied him just then.

  He sat there another half-hour or so seeking a solution. Then he went back into his room, depressed, irresolute, his thoughts disconnected. He began to hunt for something, then, hastening to his desk, drew out a sheet of writing-paper and wrote down hurriedly a few lines addressed to Domsa, telling him that he now felt that the betrothal with Marta had been a piece of childish folly, and so he was returning the ring.

  “How simple it is; fancy my not thinking of it before!” he thought whilst addressing the note.

  He hunted through his drawers and at length discovered what he was looking for—a little case lined with blue velvet. He slipped the ring off, put it into the box, wrapped up the box neatly and sealed it with red sealing-wax.

  Then he called Rodovica and sent her with the letter and the parcel to Domsa, ordering her to hand it to him in person.

  After that he went out again on to the balcony, again read the inscription on the grave, and once more recalled his father’s words: “… never forget that you are a Rumanian!”

  1 A kind of brioche.

  VIII

  Doamna Bologa had prepared a royal feast in honour of Apostol. When they had reached the roast, Lawyer Domsa burst into the house, his face red and perspiring and his round eyes bulging with excitement. He called out from the hall:

  “I beg of you to excuse me, dear lady, for intruding upon you in this manner.”

  Startled by his appearance, Doamna Bologa sprang to her feet, certain that something dreadful had happened to Marta—either she had run away with the Hungarian, or … something even worse. Domsa, however, went on hurriedly, throwing his hat on a chair and wiping the perspiration from his face:

  “Nothing on earth would ever have made me believe that Apostol could play me such a trick! I swear it, Doamna Bologa! I had such confidence in him—in his common sense and decency—that this hit me like a blow from a hammer, full in the face! I assure you, dear lady!”

  The more he talked the more worked up he became, and the more the perspiration oozed from his face—for God had made him stout. He tried to calm himself, lowering his voice, but he could not succeed in banishing the look of anxiety from his eyes, more especially as Apostol had remained undisturbed in his seat and had continued to battle with the chicken leg on his plate as if nothing had happened.

  Doamna Bologa became still more bewildered when she heard that Apostol was the cause of the lawyer’s excitement, for Apostol had said nothing to her about having had any misunderstanding with his future father-in-law. True, Rodovica had hastened to whisper to her in the kitchen that the young master had sent her to Lawyer Domsa’s, but Doamna Bologa had thought that the parcel had probably contained some war souvenir for Marta. So she didn’t know what to say, and to get over her embarrassment she invited Domsa to sit down and to honour her by tasting a small piece of the roast. Her invitation and Apostol’s coldness brought forth new showers of perspiration from the lawyer. He thanked Doamna Bologa with a despairing smile and turned to Apostol.

  “You know very well what a lot I think of you, my dear boy,” he said rather hesitatingly, as if he were talking to a stranger, “otherwise I should not have troubled to come here at all after your letter … in fact … after your gesture, which hurt me, Apostol, very, very much.”

  “It was my duty to make that gesture, Domnu1 Domsa,” answered Apostol, raising his eyes and looking at the lawyer with unruffled calm.

  “But what is it? What has happened?” then asked Doamna Bologa, recovering herself a little and adding: “Do sit down, do sit down, sit here! Oh, my goodness! You gave me such a fright, and I don’t even know what it is all about!”

  “How is this? You know nothing? Hasn’t Apostol told you?” asked Domsa, astonished, a little ray of hope illuminating his features. “You really don’t know? Well, you shall hear, dear lady, and I’ll warrant you’ll cross yourself when you’ve heard!”

  He explained to her in great detail—for Domsa had the gift of the gab—that while they had been waiting for Apostol this forenoon, after Marta had had the nice thought of running round here to bid him welcome—without worrying about etiquette and conventions—Rodovica had suddenly appeared. Wondering what the letter could possibly be, he had broken the seal, had read it, and had almost collapsed. Marta, as a matter of fact, had actually fainted, and it was no wonder, for such a smack in the face could blight a girl’s reputation and compromise her future. They did not even open the box, they forgot it. His first impulse had been to m
ake Marta return immediately her ring and cut Apostol entirely out of their lives. Then he had reflected that the boy was young, and youth was rash. Who knew what had come over him, and it would indeed be a pity if through some childish folly a couple so suited to one another should become separated. So he had come over to find out the cause of that “gesture” and to draw his attention to the seriousness of so unjustified a decision when a young lady’s honour was in question. “My decision is irrevocable, Domnu Domsa,” broke in Apostol with the same imperturbable calm. All the time the lawyer had been speaking he had gone on eating steadily, scraping clean with marked attention each bone on his plate. “It is irrevocable, because I no longer love Domnisoara1 Marta.”

  “How do you mean, you don’t love her any more ? Why not?” asked Domsa, opening his eyes wide.

  “Why? Because I don’t love her!” said Bologa, wiping his mouth on his napkin and looking smilingly at Doamna Bologa, who was sitting on her chair, struck dumb, unable to believe her ears.

  “That’s impossible!” exclaimed the lawyer. “That’s impossible! That’s no reason! Because of some childish foolishness you cannot be allowed to spoil a girl’s happiness! Tell him, dear lady, you tell him also, for you are a sensible woman and know the world, tell him that that sort of thing isn’t done.”

  The appeal found Doamna Bologa unprepared. In her inmost heart she was pleased that Apostal had come to see that she had been right. Marta’s “goings-on” had scandalized her, who had never known what flirting meant. Not that she suspected her of any serious misbehaviour, but for her son she wanted an entirely self-sacrificing wife as she herself had been. And she had not been able to forgive Marta for leading a life of pleasure and irresponsibility while her fiancé was risking his life every minute of the day and night at the war. She had not written to tell the boy because she had not wished to embitter him, but she had determined she would tell him everything when he came home. Now, however, she felt sorry for “poor Domsa, such a decent fellow”, and even a little sorry for Marta, thinking how ashamed she would be when people knew. So she told Apostol immediately to reflect well on what he was doing, for a broken engagement was no joke, no child’s play.

  For a whole hour they both talked at Apostol. Rodovica came in several times and signed to her mistress in dumb show that the remainder of her dinner was getting quite spoilt. Doamna Bologa, however, had by now warmed to her task, and much to the lawyer’s joy waved her aside. The lawyer, becoming more eloquent, kept on asking Apostol to give him his “reasons and motives” for so inexplicable an action. Apostol remained unshaken, refusing curtly to give any further explanation, simply repeating that he no longer loved Marta. So that in the end Domsa, perplexed and depressed, was forced to go home as he had come, empty-handed, without the slightest hope of a reconciliation.

  As a matter of fact, Domsa had also noticed and condemned in his own heart Marta’s flightiness, but he had never been able to stop it or even curb it. He loved his only child more than the light of his eyes, with a love sinful in its indulgence and which had only one aim in view, namely that Marta should be happy. And now, was her whole happiness to be destroyed ?

  At home he discussed with Marta what they should do to protect themselves, for it was obvious that in a few days the whole town would know and discuss the extraordinary event. It was important, very important, that the blame for the broken engagement should fall on Apostol, who would suffer no disadvantage, whereas the girl … Looking at it this way and that, Marta arrived at the conclusion that her fiancé’s annoyance had been caused, without a manner of doubt, by the conversation in Hungarian.

  “I am certain of it, daddy,” she exclaimed triumphantly. “I also noticed a strange hardness in his eyes which frightened me. And look here, daddy, how could we two speak a language which the other person present could not understand? It would have been fearfully ill-bred, wouldn’t it?”

  “Perhaps he has become Chauvinistic, like his father, who was a real fanatic,” said Domsa, agreeing. “He spent two years in prison in connection with the Memorandum.”

  “Chauvinism is horrid, isn’t it, daddy?” said Marta, after a pause. “One should love one’s own people, of course, but not feel hatred for other races, should one?”

  This reflection seemed to the lawyer so “deep” that he could not conceal his admiration, and, embracing Marta warmly, he exclaimed:

  “What a clever little girl it is! And to think that a girl like you should be thrown over by a …”

  He was on the point of saying a “scoundrel”, but fore-bore to do so, either because he felt ashamed or because he nursed a hope that Apostol would come to his senses and all would be well. To be on the safe side, and so that the news should not reach them from another quarter, Domsa told the doctor in the afternoon and the Hungarian judge in the evening at the club, what had befallen him in connection with young Bologa, ending thus:

  “And for what reason do you think, my dear fellow? You’ll never believe it, it is so utterly absurd—merely because the child spoke Hungarian! Isn’t it queer? Is it such a terrible crime to speak Hungarian? Especially if there is a Hungarian present who speaks no other language? No, no, I am also Rumanian, and I even pride myself on being ultra-Rumanian, but such exaggerations are abnormal, absolutely abnormal, not to say dangerous.”

  The next day all Parva knew that Apostol Bologa had broken off his engagement with the lawyer’s daughter because he had heard her speak Hungarian. And everybody pitied “poor Marta”, predicting that Apostol would put a rope round his neck if, while war was in full swing, he began to do as his dead father had done. In the evening at the Rumanian Club, where nowadays all the gentlemen met because the officers’ mess had been installed in the Hungarian Club, they talked of nothing but Apostol with the same passionate interest as they had shown two or three weeks ago concerning the Russian revolution. And when Lawyer Domsa, as a rule not very popular, arrived at about seven o’clock, they bombarded him with questions, which he answered with great modesty and much indulgence for the youth and thoughtlessness of “the boy”. But the great sensation was the appearance of Apostol himself. Everybody expected something sensational to happen, even a scandal seemed possible. To the general regret nothing happened. Apostol shook hands, first with Domsa, who gave him a friendly smile, then all round with everybody. Naturally no one dared to mention the subject that filled everybody’s mind. They all talked rather constrainedly about the topics of the day, the food difficulties, etc., some complaining of the flour rations and the unfortunate rise in prices, which was very discouraging.

  Apostol left after about ten minutes, saying that he had only looked in to shake hands with them. After he had gone, the manager of the Parvana Bank remarked that the lieutenant had worn no decorations, and the accountant, that he hadn’t breathed a word about the war.

  The following days the excitement in the little town increased, more especially owing to strange rumours that seemed to have got about. Some said that things would soon be straightened out, because someone had seen Apostol talking to Marta right in the middle of the market-place; others again said that the affair might take an unexpected turn if the notary Palagiesu interfered, and he was supposed to have declared at the club, before several gentlemen, in a very significative tone, that he had no intention of allowing anyone, not even his own father, to disturb the harmony of the place.

  In truth, Palagiesu, worried at the scandal, thought it his duty to report it to the sheriff, who, as a matter of fact, knew all about it and also felt somewhat anxious. They consulted together as to what steps to take to ensure that “the peace should be kept”. They had to own that it was a very delicate business: firstly, because it was a private quarrel in which the State had no call whatever to interfere; secondly, because an officer was involved, over whom civil authorities had no power. At the same time the quarrel affected public opinion by reason of its initial cause, which put into the people’s mind the pernicious thought that he who made use of t
he official language of the State was not an honourable Rumanian. The guilt was all the greater because the author and spreader of this idea was a soldier, who for that very reason was under the sacred obligation of raising the morale of the citizens, more especially just now, when the country was carrying on a life-and-death struggle for the good and happiness of all. The notary in a burst of indignation gave it as his opinion that this business was even more serious than the preachings which had made necessary the internment of Protopop Groza. They differed with regard to the steps to be taken. Palagiesu would have liked to apply to Bologa’s superiors and get him recalled to the front in the interest of peace and quietness. The sheriff had thought of that himself; he had even talked about it to the commander of the battalion which was still stationed in Parva. The captain, however, who was a drunkard and despised civilians, had told him that he had no time to worry about foolish things. These soldiers thought everything foolish that was not armed with rifle or gun! It would be better, he thought, if one tried, for the time being at any rate, to smooth things over by a friendly intervention.

  “You are the lieutenant’s friend,” the sheriff concluded, “you were children together. Why don’t you try to have a word with him?”

  1 Rumanian for “Mr.”

  1 Miss.

  IX

  On the day that he broke off his engagement to Marta, Apostol Bologa felt very happy. In his happiness there was a touch of pride for his firmness in sticking to his resolutions and satisfaction that he had got over so trying a situation. After Domsa’s departure he had a long explanation with his mother, who, convinced by the lawyer’s arguments, and thinking more especially of Marta’s disappointment, did her best to save the engagement, exactly as only a short while back she had done her best to prevent it, and she felt sorry that the poor protopop was not at home to give her a hand.