Roumanian Stories Part 25

"It will not do!" said Father Trandafir. "This will not do!" And he began to do as the rest of the world does, to occupy himself first and foremost with the care of his own house.

Directly the spring-time came, he hired a gipsy, and set him to work to plaster the house with clay. In a few days all four walls were firmly plastered. After that, the priest enjoyed sitting outside more than inside the house, because you could not see the walls of the house so well from within; a plastered house was a fine thing in Saraceni, especially when one could say to oneself, "That is mine!" There was one thing, though, which was not as it should be. Every time the Father's eyes fell upon the sides of the roof he went indoors--he felt he had seen enough. He did not want to see the defective roof, but every time he wanted to look at the walls he had to see the roof. That d.a.m.ned roof! It could no longer be left like that.

Down in the valley where there are numerous pools, not only willows and osiers grew, but here and there were to be found sedges and rushes, cat's-tail and a species of reed. "That is what I will do!" thought the priest. He engaged a man, and sent him out to cut sedges and rushes and cat's-tail and reeds. One Sat.u.r.day the house was surrounded by bundles tied with osiers; and the following Sat.u.r.day the roof was mended and edged on the top with bundles of reeds over which were stretched two strips of wood fastened with cross pieces. The work was good, and not dear. People pa.s.sed by the priest's house nodding their heads and saying, "The priest is one of the devil's own men." Now the priest could stay happily outside.

But this happiness did not last long. There was still one thing that was not quite right. The priest felt that he was too much in the open. There was no other house in the village like his, and it would have been better a little separated from the village. The Father hardly liked to say "At my place," when "my place" was "in the village." There must be a fence, and a gate for the people to enter by, when they came to see the priest; it might be a fence in name only, and the gate only a hurdle, but it must be an understood thing that before anyone could enter the priest's house he must cross the priest's yard. Once more the priest hired a man and sent him to cut briars and stakes. He fixed the stakes into the ground, and placed the briars between them, and there was the fence, ready made. In front of the house, in the direction of the church, about half an acre of ground was enclosed: the gate was formed by four poles fastened by two others placed crosswise. The priest's wife especially rejoiced at being thus shut in, and the priest rejoiced when he saw his wife's pleasure. There was not a day on which either the priest or his wife did not say to the children: "Listen! you are not to go outside the yard; play quietly at home."

Once a man starts, he never gets to the end. One desire gives rise to another. Now the priest's wife got an idea in her head.

"Do you know, Father," she said one morning, "I think it would be a good plan to make a few beds for vegetables by the side of the fence."

"Vegetable-beds?"

"Yes; we can sow onions, carrots, haricot beans, potatoes, and cabbages."

The Father was astonished. To him that seemed quite beyond their powers. Vegetable-beds in Saraceni!

For a few days his head was full of vegetable-beds, of potatoes, cabbages, and haricot beans; and a few days after that, the ground was already dug up and the beds were ready. Not a day pa.s.sed on which the priest and his wife did not go about ten times to the beds to see if the seeds were growing. Great was the joy one day. The priest had risen very early.

"Wife, get up!"

"What's the matter?"

"They have sprouted."

The priest and his wife and all the children spent the whole day squatting by the beds. The more seeds they saw appear above the ground, the happier they were.

And again the villagers pa.s.sed by the priest's house and looked through the thorns at the priest's vegetable-beds, and they said once more, "The priest is one of the devil's own men!"

"Listen, wife," said the priest. "Wouldn't it be a good plan to sow maize along the fence and round the beds?"

"Indeed it would! I like fresh maize!"

"So do I, especially when it's roasted on the embers!"

Here was a new task! The priest surrounded himself with maize. He laughed with pleasure when he thought how pretty it would be when the maize grew up all round and shut out the briars on the fence which had begun to offend his eyes. But there is the old proverb, "Much wants more." At the back of the house was another strip of ground, about four times the size of the bit they had cultivated. The priest could not get it out of his head. Why should this land lie fallow? Couldn't he plant maize at the back of the house too? In the fields opposite, men were ploughing and sowing, the ground was untouched still in the village because it was the village.

Marcu Flori Cucu, the priest's neighbour, had a plough; it was rather dilapidated, but it was a plough, and Mitru Catamush, Marcu's neighbour, had two feeble oxen and a foundered horse. The priest, Marcu, Mitru, the oxen and the horse, worked all one day from morn till eve. The ground was ploughed up and sown with maize. From thenceforward, the priest was happier when he was at the back of the house.

It was a wonderful and beautiful bit of work--what furrows! And here and there among the furrows a blade of maize peeped out. In spite of this, the priest scratched himself once or twice, and then fairly often, behind the ear. It seemed as though something still weighed upon his mind. It was a difficult matter, which he hardly dare take in hand: the glebe lands. Up to now, they had been neglected; at present, he did not know what to do with them. He would have liked to work them himself. He would have liked to see his own men sowing them; he would have liked to take his wife there in the autumn. It was very tempting. He talked a great deal to his wife about the matter. They would need horses, a cart, a plough, a labourer, stables--they would want a quant.i.ty of things. Moreover, the priest did not understand agriculture.

However, the vegetable-beds were growing green, the maize was springing up. The priest made up his mind; he took the residue of his wife's dowry and set to work. Marcu's plough was good enough to start with. The priest bought one horse from Mitru; a man in the Rapitza Valley had another one; Stan Schiopu had a cart with three wheels. The priest bought it as he got a wheel from Mitru, to make up for the horse being foundered.

Cozonac, the bell-ringer, engaged himself as labourer to the priest, for his house was only a stone's throw away. The priest drove four posts into the ground at one end of the house, two long ones and two short, and he made three sides of plaited osiers and a roof of rushes, and there was the stable all ready.

During these days, Father Trandafir had aged by about ten years; but he grew young again when he placed his wife and children in the cart, whipped up the horses, and drove off to see their ploughed land.

The villagers saw him, and shook their heads, and said once more: "The priest is the devil's own man."

The priest's wife had her own feminine worries. She had a beautiful Icon which had been given to her by the son of the priest at Vezura. At present the Icon was lying at the bottom of a box wrapped up in paper. For a long time she had wished to place it between the windows, to put flowers and sweet basil round it, and look at it often; because this Icon represented the Holy Virgin, and the priest's daughter was called Mary. But the walls were dirty and the Icon had no case. There was another thing that annoyed the priest's wife: one window was filled in with a pig's bladder, and in the other were three broken panes mended with paper. The house was rather dark.

Easter drew near. There were only five days to Holy Week. If the priest wanted to spend Easter with his wife, he had still three important things to get: whitewash for the walls, windows for the house, and a case for the Icon of the most Blessed Virgin--all objects that could be found only in a town.

To the market, then!

The priest had horses and a cart. He was vexed about the osier baskets for the maize; only the backs and sides of them still remained. He was ashamed that a priest like himself should have to go to the market without any maize-baskets. He could not borrow any, seeing he was at Saraceni, where even the priest had no proper maize-baskets.

They say "Necessity is the best teacher." The Father sent Cozonac down the valley to fetch osiers, planted two stakes in the ground with thinner sticks set between them about a hand's breadth apart, and then the priest and his wife and children, and Cozonac too, began to plait the osiers in. Before long the baskets were ready. The work was not very remarkable, but for all that they were the best baskets in Saraceni, and so good that Cozonac could not refrain from saying, "The priest is one of the devil's own men!"

To the market-place and from the market-place home the Father went proudly with his baskets; other people had some, but he found people could buy worse baskets than those he had made himself.

"What is the priest making?"

"Baskets for the maize."

"But he has got some."

"He is making them for those who have not got any."

After Easter, Cozonac began to clear the pools of osiers which the priest wove into baskets. The longer the work continued, the better was it done; the last basket was always the best.

Marcu Flori Cucu was a sensible man. He liked to stay and talk to the priest. Cozonac cleared the osiers, the priest plaited them, while Marcu lay upon his stomach with his head in his hands and idly watched.

"This osier is a little too long," said the priest, measuring the osier with his eye. "Here, Marcu! Give me the hatchet to make it shorter."

The hatchet was at Marcu's feet. Marcu raised the upper part of his body, supported himself on his elbows, stretched out his legs, and began feeling about for the hatchet, trying to draw it up by his feet.

"Make haste!" said the priest, and gave him a cut with the osier.

Marcu jumped up and a.s.sured the priest that he was much more nimble than he thought. In the end, this a.s.surance was of great use to him. By Whitsuntide the priest had a cart-load of baskets ready to take to the market, and Marcu knew very well that if the priest sold the baskets he would have a cheerful holiday.

The priest had had help for some weeks, and the help had always brought a reward to the man who had given it.

Just before Whitsuntide the rain began, and seemed as though it would never cease.

"I do not know what I shall do," said the priest. "It seems as though I must leave the market until after Whitsuntide. I do not like going in the rain. If it does not stop raining by Thursday, I just shall not go."

Marcu scratched himself behind his ears and said nothing. He could see that it did not suit the priest to get soaked.

"Here," he said a little later, ceasing to plait, "couldn't we weave an awning? There are reeds and rushes and osiers in the valley."

"Perhaps you are right," replied the priest. "It could be made the same way as we are making these."

Through helping him, Marcu had learnt to make better baskets than the priest. The awning did Marcu great credit, the priest did not get wet and came back from the market with a full purse.

This time Whit-Sunday was fine. The priest's wife had a new gown, the three eldest children had dolls bought in the town; the tiny one, Mary, had a straw hat with two pink flowers, the walls were white both inside and out, the windows were whole, the house was light, and the Icon of the Holy Virgin could be seen very well placed high up between the windows, decorated with flowers grown along the edge of the vegetable-beds. The priest had brought white flour, meat, b.u.t.ter, and even sugar, from the town. The priest loved his wife, but it was not his way to kiss her at odd times. But, this morning, the first thing he did was to embrace her. His wife began to cry--I don't know why--when Father Trandafir entered the church he felt inclined to cry; he had seen people in front of the Icon and there were tears in his eyes when he went up to the altar. The people say he had never sung more beautifully than he did that day. The saying remained: "To sing like the priest at Whitsuntide!"

The parishioners went to see the priest; they pa.s.sed through the gate before they crossed the door-step; they wiped their boots, put their hats on their sticks, leaned their sticks against the wall, smoothed their moustaches and their beards, and stepped inside. When they came out of the house again, they took a look round, nodded their heads, and said nothing.