I

WHEN, round the bend of the hill, he saw the first house of Lunca, that wave of gloom swept once again over Apostol Bologa, but almost instantaneously died away, leaving in its stead a joyous anticipation. He thrust his head out of the carriage window, feeling certain that someone would be waiting for him. From a long way off he could see the old cherry-tree, which, in honour of his arrival, had decked itself out with a marvellous crown of white flowers in the place of the delicate buds of a month ago.

In the station bands of soldiers hurled themselves at the train, which puffed and snorted furiously before coming to a standstill. But Apostol’s eyes ran impatiently over the crowd, darting hither and thither almost with fear in their depth, until with a flash of unrestrained gladness they alighted on what they sought. On the platform, in the same place where he had left her and looking as if she had not moved from there these last four weeks, stood Ilona, scanning, with ever-increasing anxiety, one carriage after another. A tense look of expectancy made her face look more rugged and thinner. Then suddenly she caught sight of Bologa and a wild light flamed in her eyes and her lips relaxed into a frightened smile.

Apostol Bologa jumped off the train, deeply moved and excited. His heart bade him rush over to Ilona and take her in his arms in front of everybody, but an overpowering feeling of constraint made him wait near the railway carriage until Petre came up with his luggage.

“Come on, man, hurry up!” he muttered to the orderly, who was fighting his way down the carriage steps through the crowd of soldiers eagerly clambering up.

Out of the corner of his eye Apostol watched the gravedigger’s daughter, thinking with anxiety how disappointing it would be if she should leave the station before he had had time to hear her voice. Nevertheless, when he reached the spot where she was, he stopped and looked surprised, pretending that he had only just seen her, and he said rather coldly:

“What are you doing here, Ilona?”

The girl also pretended that she had not seen him till then and exclaimed in assumed amazement:

“Fancy! If it isn’t Lieutenant Bologa! Did you come by this train? Father was saying you had another three days or so. As a matter of fact, I was waiting for him; he has gone up to town to … But perhaps he won’t be coming till the next train, after all.”

They stared a moment into one another’s eyes. Apostol shook her hand and saw Ilona’s lids droop and her smiling lips tremble, but her hand was cold.

Then Bologa passed on quickly for fear he should do something foolish if he did not hurry away. Once in the lane he looked back. The girl was wrangling with the orderly; she wanted to carry one of the bags, but Petre proudly refused, explaining to her that he needed nobody’s help and that, anyhow, the kit was now much lighter than when they went, because his master had left at home lots of things which were not needed in war-time. Apostol could not keep himself from chiming in:

“Don’t, Ilona; why should you tire youself? A soldier can carry much more than that.”

The grave-digger’s daughter smiled as if she had expected this; then as Bologa went on she began to pump Petre in Hungarian, trying to find out what sort of a time they had had at home. But Petre did not understand her questions very well, and Apostol, a few steps in advance, heard very well what she said and knew that it was really from him that she wanted answers to her questions, and his heart ached with joy.

From all the gardens on the way to the house trees in bloom greeted them and scattered on their path light petals as at a fairy wedding. In his room the scent of flowers was so strong that it confused him. He sighed and looked gratefully at Ilona, who, suddenly embarrassed, said, as if in answer to a question:

“Since you left I have been sleeping here. The officer who took your place wanted this room, but father thought it would be better for me to sleep in here, as you would be coming back, and why should a stranger have the room and mess it up when you were coming …”

She broke off, her face fiery red as if she had given away some great secret. Bologa had the same impression and wished to thank her, but he knew that if he tried to utter a single word he would be unable to restrain his tears of joy and would make a fool of himself in front of the soldier, who had begun to unpack his kit and to put things back as they had been a month ago. Then, as a means of escape, he remembered his work and hastily crossed into the office. The two non-coms, stood up and he, in order to get rid of some of the kindliness with which he was overflowing, smilingly shook them by the hand and inquired how things had been going on during his absence. The sergeant began to explain, but Apostol, running his eye over unimportant documents, was not listening at all, for his thoughts were back in the other room where he had left Ilona and where Petre seemed stuck, as if he did not want to leave them alone on purpose. Then, before the sergeant had finished his say, Apostol was back in the other room, and, without glancing at Ilona, said impatiently to the zealous orderly:

“All right, Petre, that’ll do. You’ll do the remainder another day. That’s enough for just now.”

“I’ve finished, sir, anyway,” answered Petre in a relieved voice, leaving the room immediately in order to make up his own bed in the lobby.

When he was alone with the girl, Bologa flushed deeper than the girl had done just now. He was thinking that probably both Petre and the girl had guessed his thoughts, and he was as ashamed as if he had planned a crime. At the same time he felt an urgent need to tell her that he loved her, and yet he was conscious of the absurdity of making a declaration of love to a little peasant girl who would probably not understand what he meant and as likely as not would laugh in his face. Ilona seemed even more disturbed. While Petre had been present she had moved about too, setting things to rights, but now she stood quite still near the bed, not knowing what to do with her hands, gazing at Apostol with timid curiosity and waiting from moment to moment for something wonderful to happen.

At last, after a heavy silence, Apostol Bologa sat down on the little chest that stood between the windows which looked out on to the street, and said suddenly, in a cold, aloof voice, as if he were talking to some soldier:

“And what has your father been doing all the time I have been away?”

Ilona threw herself on the question as if it were really the wonderful thing she had been expecting, and answered with hasty and almost offensive pride:

“What’s father been doing, you ask? Why, do you think work and worry isn’t enough to keep one occupied? Even though we have some property, like all decent folk, yet we’ve got to work all we can if we want to live. Only God knows …”

Apostol was looking at her and listening to her with great attention and yet understood nothing. But her voice, with its thrilling cadence of a primitive song, sank into his being and soothed his nerves. And his eyes rested on her rather full, dark-red and moist lips, which moved convulsively, obstinately, and with a sort of secret reproach.

When Ilona stopped speaking, Bologa shook himself as if something had snapped in his heart. Their eyes met, and he saw in hers the timidity that had settled in his own soul, too. Then into the silence that lay between them there fell like a deliverance a loud shout from the courtyard outside and at once they both came to life, and the girl, her voice sweeter and her eyes laughing, asked:

“Did you have a good time at home? Is it nice over there in your home ?”

“It’s the same as over here, Ilona; the only difference is that the war is farther off, a little farther off.”

“You didn’t miss us, I can see. Naturally, why should you miss us, for of course when one is at home …” continued Ilona, hiding her question in a smile.

“I missed you, Ilona,” answered Bologa, also smiling but in a deeper voice than usual, a voice which tried to sink into her heart.

The girl’s eyes gleamed feverishly, while her lips said quickly:

“Goodness! I don’t know why, but I had a strong presentiment that you would be coming back before the month was up, and for the last three days I have been meeting all the trains, I don’t know why—all, all the trains, all day long …”

The setting sun shone full on the window which looked out on the garden. A band of gold quivered slantingly across the table and on the yellow floor right up to the door, separating Ilona from Apostol like an enchanted bridge. The happiness in his heart hurt him, and just one thought filled his brain: if Ilona only knew what she was saying she would feel ashamed and would run away. He stood up in order to beg her not to leave him, although the girl was still speaking with those strange flashes in her eyes. The pool of light between them laughed and seemed to mirror its laughter in Ilona’s cheeks. Then Apostol forgot why he had got up and wondered how to go across to her without disturbing the patch of sunshine. While he wondered he found himself right in the track of the rays and stopped, disconcerted, for the girl was also coming towards him, as if pushed forward by some secret force. Her lips were still moving, but he no longer heard her voice. He whispered hoarsely:

“Thank you, Ilona … for …”

He looked into her eyes and he could see himself as in a mirror. He raised his arm a little as if to take her hand and suddenly caught her round the waist. The girl relaxed in his arms with a weak protest:

“My goodness! You … you really should not …”

Their burning lips met and clung together for some minutes with furious passion. Then Ilona came to her senses, slithered out of his arms and straightened the kerchief on her head with one and the same movement, and disappeared through the door.

Simultaneously the magic of the room seemed to vanish like a dream. Apostol looked round apprehensively. He felt suddenly as if he were in a strange house. The strip of sunlight was still there, but now the melancholy of twilight was in its tremulous gleams. Then the whole room seemed to fill with his thoughts, as if they were a flight of birds escaped from a cage.

“What’s the meaning of all these ridiculous romantics of a schoolboy in love?” he said to himself with a disgust which he knew very well was not genuine, but which he hoped nevertheless would help to quieten the regret which was piling up in his heart. “Such a fuss, such excitement, for …”

And at the same time, in another part of his brain, surged the tantalizing question: “Where has Ilona gone?”

He ran his hands through his brown hair as if he were trying to calm his thoughts. Then he approached the window on the left to distract himself by looking out. The courtyard was surrounded by a paling, and in the garden over the road the white trees in bloom brightened the gathering twilight. Near the gate, leaning against the fence, was an infantry soldier, very dirty and ragged, with his helmet pushed back on his neck, his face hairy like that of an ape. He was talking gently and happily to someone who was in the lobby and he was constantly showing his white, glinting teeth. Apostol’s eyes tried to ignore him, but his heart asked: “To whom is the fellow talking?” He felt sure he was gossiping with Ilona, and at the thought his face unconsciously contracted with pain. The soldier caught sight of him at the window and immediately his laughter stopped and the white teeth were hidden behind a look of nervous gravity. He sprang to attention, pulled up his helmet, saluted and then slowly, keeping the comer of his eye on the dangerous window, he shuffled farther along in the courtyard until he was out of the lieutenant’s sight.

“What does it matter to me with whom that lout was talking, even if it was with her!” said Bologa in answer to the question which still filled his mind. “I’ll become the laughing-stock of the place if I start doing that sort of thing,” he added irritably, and sat down again on the little chest where he had been sitting just now when Ilona had been in the room.

He tried to think of something else, but he felt he couldn’t. In his heart he heard a clear voice say: “I love Ilona.” Then he gave in to that voice and his soul grew serene and was filled with a new alluring joy. He gave himself to this joy, shyly and selflessly as a girl gives herself to her first love. The grey twilight filtered in through the window-panes, in between the somnolent geraniums, enveloping him in a net of happiness.

Presently he tore himself away from his dreams, put on his cap and went out. In the lobby doorway the dirty infantryman was still gossiping with an artilleryman, and Bologa, seeing him, was glad. He avoided looking round for Ilona, both in the lobby and in the courtyard. The coolness of the twilight seemed to sober him.

He reached the street but did not turn towards the centre of the village, but in the opposite direction, as if he were running away from a danger. He walked along for some five minutes, then the lane forked abruptly on the banks of the noisy river. In the sky, on the very summit of the hills whose feet bathed in the waters of the river, the white moon rose, cold as an eye from another world. Bologa, as if he had recovered a forgotten treasure, drank in with passion the heavenly light.