IV

Towards evening the grave-digger, Vidor, returned home from the town where he had been with his brother-in-law, and immediately wanted to know from Bologa what prospects of peace there were, for over here there were again rumours of pending battles.

“We shall be the last to hear of peace,” Apostol told him, “because peace is arranged by those who have not known war!”

That same evening on leaving the office and going into his room he found Ilona there, who, without shyness and almost defiantly, said to him:

“I have been waiting for you to tell you that I am not angry but I am ashamed.”

Apostol took her in his arms and she hid her face on his breast.

“Ilona, Ilona!” murmured Apostol, straining her madly to him and seeking her mouth.

But the girl freed herself abruptly and ran out as if she were afraid of something. A few minutes later Petre came in to light the lamp.

The next two days Apostol Bologa spent in a fearful state of agitation. His work in the office was torture to him. His mind was empty of any thoughts but those that referred to Ilona, and his heart and the whole of his being longed for her all the time with desperate passion. Every five minutes he crossed over into the other room, hoping to catch at least a glimpse of her. Several times he tried to think of Cervenco, of God, of the love of mankind. But he simply could not; besides, he felt that by trying to do this he was insulting her. He would have liked to speak of nothing but Ilona all day long, and it was all he could do to refrain from asking even the non-coms. in his office what they thought of the “landlord’s daughter”. With Petre, however, he could talk more freely. He pumped him as to what “the little lassie” was doing now, where did she sleep, how did she spend her time? The most commonplace details seemed to him enchanting. The grave-digger no longer bored him; he invited him to chat with him, and found special delight in hearing tales of “my lassie’s” childhood.

On the other hand, Ilona no longer hid herself, and saw to it that there should be plenty of work for her to do about the house so that he should constantly see her or come across her. However, she avoided entering the “officer’s room”, not so much because she was afraid of her father catching her there, but rather because she feared that if Apostol found her there again it might well happen that she would not be able to escape so easily from his arms. In these two days she only crossed his threshold twice, and both times Apostol felt that she was there, rushed across to his room and did not let her go until he had kissed her with such passion that she almost lost her head. In fact, the second time the orderly caught them.

On the third day, after sunset, the grave-digger told the lieutenant that he was going to Faget, where he would stay until Saturday afternoon, for he had a bit of maize ground over there and wanted to plough it with his brother-in-law’s plough and oxen, and so be done with the working of his land and feel easy over the Easter holidays. Bologa had forgotten that it was Holy Week, although his mother had reminded him of it even as his train was leaving. He asked the grave-digger one or two questions about the holidays, but all the time he was thinking that Ilona would be left at home alone. After the grave-digger had disappeared, Apostol, happy, set out to look for Ilona, but he could not find her. Then he waited for her. In vain. A tormenting sadness filled him at the sudden thought that the girl would probably sleep at some neighbour’s or some relative’s house. At supper, however, Petre told him casually that the “lassie” had locked herself in the little room at the back and she hadn’t even stirred from it, as if she were frozen stiff with fear of “the Lord knew what!”

The next day seemed to him all wrong. He didn’t catch a single glimpse of Ilona. In the evening he met her in the lobby. She was all dressed up. On her head she had tied a grass-green kerchief, her bosom was caught tightly in a red velvet bodice. There was no one in the office, but in the other room Petre was moving about, muttering prayers. Apostol, who was just coming out of the office, caught her trying to slip out quietly. He could have shouted with joy, and yet he seemed turned to stone and stood looking at her with eyes at once passionate and frightened. She also stopped, terrified, and swayed slightly as she stood. A few moments passed thus, the silence broken only by the orderly’s prayers issuing from the officer’s room.

Then Bologa whispered with a new light in his eyes:

“Why are you hiding from me, Ilona?”

The girl, as if she had not understood the question, turned white and answered immediately the other question which trembled in his eyes.

“Let me be.… I have to go to church.… It’s Good Friday.… And after to-morrow it’s Easter Sunday.”

Apostol saw only her lips, he did not hear her voice. Then his eyes fell on her breasts, which seemed ready to burst the velvet bodice which oppressed them. The blood flew to his face. He caught her hand and whispered with such ardour that the girl shielded her face:

“Ilona! I shall wait for you after church.”

Because she was silent Apostol went on still more passionately, looking down with burning eyes into her frightened ones:

“You must come, Ilona, you must.… After church without fail.… I shall wait for you.…”

Ilona shuddered and tried to pass. He barred the way, waiting for her answer before he allowed her to go. Their breasts touched and Apostol gathered her into his arms and kissed her long, as if he wished to absorb her whole soul. The girl, her arms limp, kept murmuring almost desperately:

“Lord … Lord … forgive me!”

“You must come, Ilona.… Ilona!” stammered Bologa as he freed her, and watched her leave the dark lobby with faltering footsteps.

Apostol Bologa remained a few minutes in the lobby, dazed, uncertain whether it had really been Ilona, or whether his hungry imagination had played him a trick. Her kiss burnt his lips, and so riotous was the happiness in his heart that he began to shout unknowingly, as if he were trying to shout down an inner voice that was perturbing him:

“Petre! Petre!”

The orderly appeared in the doorway thinking that something had happened. Apostol, recovering himself, looked gaily at Petre for a moment and then said—for something to say:

“What are you doing, Petre? Is supper ready? I am hungry, Petre, and I feel so happy, so …”

The soldier answered gravely, as if his master’s gaiety shocked him:

“I have prepared everything, sir, so that I can go to church afterwards.”

“All right, all right, Petre. Go wherever you like!” shouted Apostol, barely preventing himself from embracing him, so delirious was the joy in his heart.

He did not go into his room, but hurried out of doors, as if he wished to announce his happiness to the earth and sky. The coolness of the evening calmed him. He turned back. When he had reached the house again an idea occurred to him: Why shouldn’t he go to church also? He decided he would go, but the next minute he thought he had better not, as the crowd there would prevent him from finding Ilona; he might also miss her at the end of the service, and by the time he got back she might …

In the street one or two people passed from time to time on their way to church. In his room the lamp was lit, and through the window, the little white curtains of which were not drawn, he could see the bed with the bedclothes turned down.

“But suppose she doesn’t come?” whispered his mind suddenly. And immediately all the joy departed from him.

A cold shudder shook him. He entered the courtyard feeling miserable—a live coal in his heart. Petre had gone. He was all alone in the house. On the table a cold supper was laid out. He did not go near it. He took a book from the shelf above his bed and sat down with it to pass away the time and distract his thoughts. But the letters were all blurred, seemed to run away, and became all jumbled together. And his heart was full of obscure admonitions.

“If she doesn’t come it will mean that she doesn’t love me, and then …”

The last word remained suspended in his brain.… Then … then … He knew that this love drew him away from all his creeds and aspirations, and yet he felt that without it his heart would perish and life itself would lose its purpose and the world be turned into a wilderness. Not for one moment did he wonder where his love for Ilona would lead him, as he used to wonder about the future a little while ago, when he had loved Marta and he had thought she would be his wife. Now he could think of nothing but that he wanted Ilona with all his heart and soul. The fear that Ilona might not come penetrated right to the marrow of his bones. The book shook in his hands, and the light of the lamp began to get on his nerves. He threw down the volume on the little chest and started to walk backwards and forwards more and more rapidly, as if he wished to hasten the passage of time and bring nearer the decisive moment.

At last he could not bear the light any longer and put out the lamp. He walked up and down a little while longer, but his restlessness would not leave him. Dressed as he was, he lay down on his bed. The darkness and the stillness soothed him. The throbs of his heart sounded to him like stifled gasps. To beguile the time he began to count, but before he had even reached ten he lost count.

An eternity passed. Then suddenly he heard voices in the street. He started to get up, but on second thoughts stayed as he was. “I ought to have waited for her outside,” he said to himself with frantic despair in his soul. Just then footsteps sounded in the courtyard. He recognized them as being hers, although he had never realized that he knew her footsteps. They entered the lobby, slowed down, and finally stopped hesitatingly. Apostol could hear the hesitation, and again he heard clearly the throbbing of his own heart. Then the handle of the door turned noiselessly, the door was opened just as noiselessly, and only wide enough to allow her to slip in. Again Apostol felt like leaping off the bed and again he remained as if glued to the spot, trying to quieten the beating of his heart and trembling lest he should frighten the girl. “Why does she not close the door?” he thought, filled with a new despair. But even as the thought flashed through his mind he heard the bolt being shot home, and joy flooded his being.

Ilona stood stock still for about two minutes near the door. In the lobby other footsteps now sounded, heavy, dragging. Bologa and Ilona both shuddered as if they had expected a castigatory foe to appear. Soon the noise in the lobby ceased. “It must have been Petre,” thought Apostol, relieved, and he heard immediately the rustle of a skirt drawing nearer. The girl stopped by the bed, uncertain and tremulous. Apostol could hear her breath coming in gasps. He could no longer control himself. He stretched out his arm, and his fingers touched her breasts straining against the velvet bodice. Ilona gave a smothered cry.

“Ilona, my little wild dove!” whispered Bologa hoarsely, taking her cold hand and trying to rise.

“I am afraid.… I am afraid.… Forgive me!” murmured the girl, trying to push him away with a sudden new power of resistance. But even as she spoke she felt her strength ooze away, and, bending over him, she murmured passionately:

“I don’t care … let him kill me!”

Her foot slipped on the floor, and with a moan she fell limply on the bed at Apostol’s side.