by Marie Nizet
“My father will come to see you often. He...”
“Your father! He’s not you! That isn’t the same thing at all!” she cried, blushing.
Ioan squeezed her small hand gently within his own, and they walked in silence for a little while.
“And we aren’t married yet!” said Mariora, peevishly. “If we had been, I would have come with you to that nasty place, which I hate!” She went on, mysteriously: “Listen–I’m jealous of Giurgiu.”
“Jealous? Of Giurgiu?”
“Yes–don’t laugh. I’m jealous, and I have many promises to demand of you. So listen!” She slipped her arm under that of the dorobantz. “First, I want you to be bored as often as possible, so that you think about me all day long...”
“But if I think about you...”
Oh–that’s true!” she said, smiling. “You won’t be bored. So be it! I demand that you keep company with Mitica as little as you can, because Mitica...” She frowned, and added in a whisper: “It’s the raki, you see!”
Ioan smiled, and attempted to speak.
“Wait–that’s not all. You’ll write to me every day–and you’ll prevent Mitica from writing...to her.”
“Mariora!” he exclaimed, in a reproachful tone.
“That’s all right, isn’t it?” she murmured, in a coaxing voice.
“No,” said Ioan. “I can’t do what you ask of me. Zamfira and Mitica love one another, just as we love one another. We’d draw the wrath of Heaven down upon us if we as much as thought of hurting them in such a cruel fashion. What would you say if your brother wanted...?”
Mariora guessed the rest of the sentence. Impatiently, she exclaimed, a little too loudly: “You’re not a gypsy!”
“What’s that?” said Mitica, whose head–entirely shorn of its long black locks–appeared over the young woman’s shoulder.
“Nothing... nothing... I was talking about those gypsies over there, with their dancing bear.”
Mitica enjoyed embarrassing his sister; an ironic smile played upon his lips. “Be careful, little sister,” he said, significantly. Dropping back a few paces, he rejoined his companion.
“Mariora,” said the dorobantz, “let’s not talk about Mitica and Zamfira.”
“Yes, let’s not,” she sighed. “They’re very boring.”
“Mariora,” he continued, taking her by the hand without paying any heed to her abrupt remark, “there’s something I’ve wanted to give you for some time... something that constantly reminds me of you.”
“My Ionitza!”
“It’s not of any great value,” he went on, in a emotional voice, “but it was my mother’s–she traveled a lot in her youth, as you know, and she brought it back from Constantinople...”
At that moment, Mariora felt something cold sliding along the length of one of her fingers. She withdrew her hand excitedly–and saw, to her surprise, a pretty ring that shone like gold.
The ring was made of copper. A jeweler would have laughed through his nose at anyone who wanted to sell it, but an antiquary would have thought himself lucky to be able to place it in his collection. Large enough to cover an entire knuckle, it was elaborately engraved; mingled with the Byzantine arabesques was a phrase in Greek or Turkish–Ioan could not tell which. The ring was worthy of attention by virtue of its strangeness; it was very old, and there was probably no other like it.
(I know that the ring is a hackneyed gesture, but, from Kamchatka to Senegal, fiancés have piously conserved its usage, and however it may displease the reader avid for novelty, Mariora received Ioan’s copper ring joyfully.)
“It’s pretty, Ionitza, it’s pretty!” she repeated. “Is it gold?”
“I don’t know,” Ioan said, “but I don’t think so.”
“Yes, yes! I can see that it’s gold!” insisted Mariora, who was a great believer in intrinsic value. “I’ll never take it off–never, my Ionitza!” And, without worrying about what anyone might say, Mariora kissed the dorobantz in the middle of the Chaussée.
“In your turn, my beloved,” Ioan said, “would you promise me...?”
“Anything you wish,” Mariora interrupted, devouring her ring with her eyes. “Anything at all!”
Ioan Isacescu’s features took on a wild expression. His famous eyebrows bristled and his hand went instinctively to his belt as if in search of the hilt of a dagger.
“Mariora,” he said, with a hiss in his voice, “keep away from the Russians. God has cursed them! If you see that man again...”
Mariora went pale; she passed her hand vaguely over her forehead, and murmured, as if she were talking to herself: “That man! That’s true... I’d forgotten him! But he won’t forget me! He’ll come back! He said that he would come back! Oh, my God! And you’re going away. Mitica’s going away, everyone’s going... but where is everyone going?”
Light was probably dawning in her deceived mind–the cruel truth had probably been revealed to her in its entirety–when a cry of horror escaped her lips. Her wide open eyes were staring at a fixed point within the crowd, towards which she extended her arm.
“The man!” she cried. “The man–there he is!”
“Where?” said Ioan, attempting to clear a path through the throng.
“There! I can’t see him any longer. Oh there, to the right, next to Relia Comanescu. He’s mounted on his chestnut horse. Domna Rosanda’s talking to him–he’s smiling. Do you see him? Why is Relia dressed up like a dorobantz?”
Ioan did not reply. He had just recognized his adversary of the sunken path.
Liatoukine was here, insolent, fêted, surrounded by his friends. Domna Epistimia was offering him her hand. Androcles Comanescu adopted a humble attitude in his presence. The noblewomen favored him with their softest smiles and their most ceremonious greetings.
“It’s him!” murmured Ioan, though gritted teeth. “It’s him! And I can’t sink a dagger into his cowardly breast! I have to kill that man, though–I’ve sworn to do it! His name–who will tell me his name?”
But none of the common people knew the name of the foreign Colonel.
“When he passes close to me,” Mariora sighed, near to fainting, “I go cold.”
Mitica and Zamfira drew nearer. “Look, Zamfira,” said Ioan, seizing the gypsy by the arm. “Look! That’s the man who dared to insult the wife of Ioan Isacescu, the one who... the one against whom you must arm yourself and defend her. Do you understand?”
Zamfira crossed herself rapidly. “They say he’s a vampire!” she said.
Mitica was silent. Ioan’s simple words were translated, for him, into bitter reproaches, covering his forehead with a blush that he tried to hide beneath his military cap.
The Comanescus’ calèche and Liatoukine’s chestnut horse had disappeared in whirlwinds of dust in the direction of Bucharest. The four young people had arrived at the second roundabout on the Chaussée. It was nearly 7 p.m.; the air was warm and humid, and light grey clouds were missing in the north, which would hasten the dusk. Ioan saw them and stopped.
“We’ll have to part here,” he said, in a definite tone.
“Oh, no, Ionitza!” cried Mariora, dissolving into tears. “I don’t want to leave you. I’ll go with you as far as the station. I’ll...”
“It’s a long way to the Philarete Station, my poor love,” he said, very gently, caressing the tearful Mariora’s blonde hair. “The train leaves at 8 p.m.–see how the other dorobantzi are hurrying!”
Mariora tried to insist.
“Besides,” he went on, more severely, “it’s getting late, and even if you both walk quickly, you won’t get home before it’s completely dark.”
“Ioan’s right,” Zamfira put in. “They have to leave us.” Her eyes sought Mitica’s.
The latter seemed prodigiously embarrassed; he was rooted to the spot, tugging at the feather in his cap as if to detach it. All of a sudden, he pulled himself together. “Zamfira! Zamfira!” he cried, hurling himself upon her. Placing his head on the gyps
y’s shoulder, he burst into tears.
Mariora, who had never seen her brother weep, stood there bewildered, not knowing what to think. “What’s the matter?” she exclaimed. Then the contagion of the example took hold of her, and she started crying too.
Ioan ran from one to the other, rallying Miteca’s courage, addressing words of consolation to Zamfira, and–most of all–making every effort to calm Mariora, who was crying even harder, although she was ignorant of the dangers her fiancé would be running, and had no reason to do so.
Besides, Ioan seemed more irritated than emotional. “It’s getting late!” he repeated, incessantly. “We have to go!”
Finally, they all resigned themselves to following his advice. A kiss, a squeeze of the hand, a few words murmured in the ear, a lot of tears–and it was all over. Mitica, sensing that emotion was getting the better of him, heroically followed in Ioan’s footsteps.
The latter lingered beside Mariora. “Walk very quickly,” he said to her, with a singular agitation. “Follow the main road, avoid the sunken paths and don’t leave Zamfira’s side. Do you understand? Don’t leave Zamfira’s side!” He emphasized the repeated words.
“I’ll do as you say, Ionitza. Goodbye–come back soon, and don’t forget me!”
“Adio!” cried the dorobantz, one last time–and the two soldiers went on their way towards the city, while all the Rumanian expressions reserved for such occasions resounded behind them: La revedere! Cale bunà! Remaì sènàtos! 23
“He’s gone!” said Mariora, when the crowd had swallowed up the two friends’ white uniforms. “I’ve never seen Ionitza going away! How sad departures are!” A vague astonishment distressed her features. “Gone, gone!” she repeated. Her eyes could not tear themselves away from the spot where she had seen Ioan Isacescu vanish. “Come on, Zamfira, let’s go,” she sighed. “We’ve no more business here!”
The gypsy, however–who also had a heart, although Mariora seemed to have no suspicion of it–was lost in thought and did not reply.
“Well, what is it now?” said Mariora, acrimoniously. “Come back down to Earth, my beauty; think about the cheeses that are waiting for you, and the clouds that Ioan pointed out to you.”
Zamfira’s sky was so very dark, alas! She turned her eyes, which were full of dolorous surprise, upon Mariora. The latter, who presumably wanted to be forgiven for her ungracious manner, put her arm around the gypsy’s waist, and they went back along the Chaussée in silence.
Zamfira was dark, Mariora was fair; Mariora knew that Zamfira served her as a contrasting foil, and she collected the flattering remarks of the handsome gentlemen whose paths they crossed with a secret pride.
Baba Sophia was an incorruptible guardian who did not permit anyone to play with fire; she only had to catch sight of a young boyar’s moustache to start marching at a military pace, and Mariora had to follow suit whether she liked it or not. When her aged relative’s skirts were not brushing hers, though, Mariora would take her revenge and would prick up her ears to listen–and a well brought-up girl, who appears not to understand anything, can still hear! When she compared the laudatory words of these brilliant unknowns to the slightly laconic severity of her future spouse, the comparison was not entirely to the latter’s advantage.
The Chaussée, its noise and its strollers, no longer existed for poor Zamfira, whose excited imagination was evoking the most frightful scenes. There were terrible battlefields covered in corpses; there were towns in flames, their entire populations massacred. She heard the roar of cannon, the galloping of horses–and she thought she could make out Mitica’s voice, rising above the imaginary racket, calling to her. She wanted to run to his aid, but Mariora’s arm, which was holding hers, suddenly brought her back to a less cruel reality.
“My God, Zamfira!” her companion said, in a tone of lamentation. “It’s ridiculous to run like this! When you’re on your own, you don’t walk so quickly that officers can’t follow you!”
Zamfira slowed down, but she remained silent with regard to the unjust reproach, which was no kinder by virtue of coming from the mouth of Mariora Slobozianu.
Five minutes later: “My God, Zamfira! You’re doing it on purpose. We’ll never get out of the woods before nightfall. If you don’t hurry up, I’ll go back alone and Ioan will say that I was right!”
Zamfira bit her lip; her reserves of patience were exhausted.
A certain angry glance, which Mariora noticed, told her that a third observation of the same sort would probably be less well-received–but an evil genius seemed to have taken upon itself to counsel the priest’s daughter that evening. She told herself that if Zamfira was angry, it was cause for rejoicing. While these ugly thoughts were circulating in her pretty head, she and her friend–or, rather, her victim–arrived at the entrance to the Baniassa woods. At the same moment, a group of young women irrupted into the principal thoroughfare; they let out cries of joy on seeing Zamfira and Mariora–to whom the unexpected encounter seemed extremely unwelcome.
“Hey, Zamfiritza! Hey, Mariora!” cried Ralitza, the brunette we have already met. “We’re going back through Baniassa–are you coming with us?”
“I can’t stand that little Ralitza!” Mariora muttered between her teeth. “She puts on airs, although she only has sandals on her feet.” Zamfira was just about to accept the brunette’s proposition when Mariora said, impertinently: “Speak for yourself if you wish, Zamfira, but I warn you that I won’t accompany you where you want to go.”
“But Ioan...” the Bohemian objected, timidly.
“Ioan couldn’t foresee everything! You’re free, and so am I. I know a pretty path that will spare me the tedium of keeping company with silly girls of your sort.”
A German author of the 17th century said, in speaking of Rumanian women: “They are not, in truth, very good, but they are strong-minded, thinking much and saying little.” The observation is quite just, save for the second point about saying little. That must have changed over time.
The young women knew that they would ruin everything by getting angry, but they lashed out with tongues, to such good effect that Mariora would have given her necklace of rubias 24 to take back her words.
“Oh! So the society of peasants like us doesn’t suit you any more, my girl?” cried Katinka. “Someone must have made you a Princess.”
“You’re in a great hurry to be on your own! Ioan Isacescu hasn’t left Bucharest yet, and you’re already thinking of replacing him.”
“It’s done!” Ralitza put in. “Tell us, then, my beloved Mariora–what’s you’re new gentleman called? Konstantin? Nicolas? What?”
“Is he a handsome boyar, darling? A handsome boyar with pockets full of galbeni 25 and a mouth full of lies?”
“I’ll bet he’s an officer,” said Florica.
“A Russian officer, hey, girl? One of those who talks lubliubliubli?”
“That’s worth more than a simple soldier who’s only got the uniform on his back and the love in his heart!”
“Aha!” said Ralitza, making a rapid movement to seize the hand that Mariora was hiding under her apron. “He’s generous, your officer!”
Ioan’s ring was revealed to all eyes, and was soon being passed from hand to hand, despite Zamfira’s pleading and Mariora’s invective. Scarlet with anger, Mariora tapped her dainty foot on the round and snatched the ring from the fingers of her jeering companions. “Give it to me!” she cried. “It was Ioan who gave it to me!”
The gleam of the copper and the delicacy of the engraving misled the young women as to the actual value of the metal.
“Ioan! Ioan!” they said, shaking their heads incredulously. “No peasant like your Ioan could have made you a gift of a ring that must have cost more than a hundred leï.”26 A hundred leï is the estimated cost of any glittering or unfamiliar object among Rumanian village women.
“Zamfira! Zamfira! Tell them that it was him who gave it to me!” cried the exasperated Mariora.
Zamfir
a’s testimony carried more weight than her own, and she went on, indignantly: “Oh! You put less credence in my word than that of a gypsy! I know that you hate me–I know that you’re jealous of me because my Ionitza...”
A burst of laughter, emitted with astonishing unanimity, drowned out poor Mariora’s irritated voice.
“Your Ionitza! Your Ionitza! A fine bird, truly, for making us jealous!”
“Three hectares of land where wheat won’t grow because the soil’s too damp!”
“A hut whose roof lets the rain in, because Old Mani’s too mean to have it repaired!”
“A rickety table, three chairs and two threadbare rugs for furniture, and what crockery! Great God!”
A smile brightened Mariora’s features. “Ioan Isacescu isn’t as poor as you think,” she said, with dignity, “for I own nothing that doesn’t belong to him.”
She was truly beautiful when she spoke thus, and that unexpected reply appeared to have put a cap on the caustic verve of the disconcerted young Walachians, when little Ralitza, a true demon in petticoats, struck an ingenuous pose, biting the end of her thumb. “On that account, Zamfira isn’t any poorer!”
A vivid blush covered the Bohemian’s cheeks. She sensed that Ralitza’s words were the first lightning-stroke of a storm that was about to descend upon her head.
Mariora went pale. “Zamfira!” she said, in a taut voice. “Zamfira! Ah, while the slightest breath of life animates Mariora Slobozianu, Mitica will never be the husband of Zamfira Mozaïs!” Taking a step towards the gypsy, she added: “You intend to be mistress of the Slobozianu household, do you? You want to have your own land! Tell us, then, what became of your sister Aleca?”
“Ale...Aleca?”
“Ah! You no longer remember Aleca, who was taken from behind by a Magyar magnate after he had espoused her, as one espouses the daughters of your race?”
“Aleca is dead!” said Zamfira in a dull voice, “and my father forgave her.”
“And your brother, the renegade, who used to watch our flocks and now sells silks in Smyrna; your brother who named himself Serban and called himself a Yezidee;27 your brother, who was born a Christian and is now no more than a pagan dog... if he isn’t already dead and damned.”