Jonel Fortunat; a Roumanian romance

Front matter

' i* o i>

V% Y ^

'cK X-

II

The manor, a simple, one-storied building, gray with age, with glittering roof of metal, high windows and a balcony supported by two caryatides, lay east of Banesti, on a hilly knoll. A well-kept drive, bordered with plane-trees, about two kilometers long, led from the castle through rich pasture-grounds, through waving corn-fields and through a small birch forest, to the town, which consisted of a single, long, unpaved street, on both sides of which low houses wei;e built mostly of clay, whose black, cracked shingle roofs were overgrown with layers of moss.

From the balcony of the castle one could look upon a broad plain surrounded by forests; one could see a pond like a silver mirror, upon whose banks the rushes were swayed to and fro by the wind. It was a peaceful but not a striking landscape; it was only charming when, on clear nights, the moon lit it up — when its silvery light flooded the cupola of the little church and passed over the glittering surface of the lake. There, too, was the neglected castle garden, with its enormous giant oaks, as beautiful as a dream.

This garden had once known better days; this was proved by the numerous beds bordered with box, in which now weeds grew. There stood, overgrown with a wild vine, a chapel, through whose small, round window one could see into a dark room, in which a taper flickered like a little star. To the right of the door of the chapel, next a marble tombstone, upon which only the day of the year and the date yet remained, was a statue, upon a sandstone stylobata— a marble statue, representing a beautiful, youthful woman. Two weeping-willows with long, slender branches, kept watch before the entrance to the chapel. Several paces further on arose from the center of a basin, a black triton, with puffed-out cheeks and a horn in his mouth. But no water came from it; the contents of the basin consisted only of dead leaves. It was a quiet, sad spot, especially when the autumn wind rustled the oaks, and the yellow leaves flew about.

And quietly and sadly the life of the lord of all this vast estate was being spun out. Herr Demeter Fortunat was no longer young; he was about fifty years old; his black, curly hair was mixed with gray, and the hair upon his temples was quite white. But his carriage was still youthful, his fair beard framed a face still fresh, his high forehead was so white and smooth, and his dark eyes were so bright, that he might easily have passed for a man of thirty whose hair had turned prematurely gray.

Herr Demeter Fortunat was considered odd. He took no interest in politics, held very little intercourse with his neighbors, spoke little, laughed seldom, and seemed to be perfectly contented in managing his estates and the education of his son Jonel, and for the improvement of his mind he turned to his books.

About his early life all sorts of reports were circulated. Everyone knew that this quiet man upon whose features rested a grave expression, had years before been one of the gayest cavaliers at the residence; that he, without a quiver of the eyelid, would lose or win thousands in a night; that in a few years he had lost all his estates except Banesti; everyone knew that at that time he had been engaged to a lovely young girl, a Fraulein Notara — later, Madame Belota — that he had suddenly disappeared from the residence, had wandered about several years in Germany and France; and eight years before this story opened, he had returned to Banesti, a silent, grave man, who had lost all his love for the enjoyments of life; and that soon after, a four-year-old, wonderfully beautiful boy, with curly black hair, had tottered about the castle garden.

How Herr Demeter Fortunat obtained possession of this boy was probably known to only two persons: Alex, Herr FortunaFs old servant, and the owner of Galeni, Madame Aglae Falutza, a childless widow, sixty years old. But Alex was a disagreeable old fellow, who always smelt of gin — who answered, when questioned upon that subject: “Leave me in peace!”

Madame Aglae Falutza, on the other hand, was as talkative as a magpie — the words flowed from her immense mouth with its false teeth. She knew everything that had taken place in the district during the last thirty years; and she loved to tell all those family affairs and scandals, with her own embellishments.

Only when the conversation turned upon Fortunat and his son Jonel, would she remain silent, or she would throw out a few mysterious hints, which would serve to increase curiosity.

Madame Aglae Falutza had been a widow twenty years; but notwithstanding her sixty years she was still a vigorous, resolute woman, who took unusual interest in the family affairs of her numerous acquaintances and had quite a mania for bringing single men under the matrimonial yoke.

Every Sunday afternoon at five o’clock she paid Herr Fortunat a visit, spent two or three hours with him, drank two or three cups of Turkish coffee, and related to him all the news of the week. That day her old-fashioned carriage with four horses had driven into the court-yard of the castle. Her white-haired coachman, Dumitree, had, as usual when the carriage stopped before the door, cracked his whip three times, as usual uttered a loud cry, whereupon Alex hurried up and helped the old lady to descend. At the moment when Madam Falutza stepped out of the carriage, Jonel and Herr Brunner entered the court-yard.

“Jonel !” cried she, delighted to see the boy, hastened to him, embraced and kissed him with motherly affection.

“What is that?'’ cried she suddenly. She had noticed the swelling on his forehead.

“I fell down,” said Jonel, lowering his eyes.

“Fell down?” cried she with an annihilating glance at Herr Brunner. “Do you think, Herr Brunner, that Herr Fortunat steals the money that he pays you to take care of Jonel — do you?”

And without ascertaining if Herr Brunner thought

JONEL FeRTUNAl

■33 so or not, she seized Jonel’s hand, hurried with him into the castle, pushed the door of a room on the first floor to the right of the entrance open, forced Jonel to lie down upon a lounge, ordered Alex to fetch a kitchen knife immediately, pressed the blade upon the swelling and murmured several mystic words. When she had finished this performance, which, according to her opinion, would undoubtedly have a healing effect, she kissed Jonel and begged him to lie still half an hour. Jonel promised to do so on the condition that she would not tell his father of what jad happened. After she had given her word, she left the room and ascended the stairs to greet Herr Fortunat, whose study was on the first floor. When she entered Fortunat was sitting at a window, deep in his book. He sprang up, came toward her, shook her hand heartily and invited her to a seat.

After she had chatted glibly for some time about everything imaginable — about the crops, about the price of grain, about her intention of investing several thousand francs in stocks; about the rumored engagement of a neighboring land-owner; about a law-suit she had with a grain-dealer, about JoneFs handsome appearance, and about his instructor’s queer nose — the stream of her eloquence being suddenly exhausted she emptied at one draught a cup of Turkish coffee, which Alex in the meantime had brought in, made herself a cigarette, lit it, and then said, looking Herr Fortunat full in the face, without further de- 1 ay :

“Madame Belota has been your neighbor for several

34 JO^EL FORTUNAT

weeks. -During that time you have only visited her thrice. Why?”

A slight flush suffused Fortunat’s pale face.

“I am surprised that you ask me such a question, when you know of my former relations with Madame Belota! "

Madame Falutza laughed softly to herself. “Just for that reason,” cried she, “because I know of them, do I ask you why you do not make amends to this woman for the wrong you once did her? ”

Fortunat rose. He walked up and down the room several times, and stopped before the old lady, whose eyes sparkled mischievously.

“What you have just said to me, dear friend,” began he, and his voice trembled with emotion, “I have often said to myself. But there are certain things which a woman never forgives. Amongst them, I think, is included desertion a week before the wedding-da)^, which makes of her a laughing-stock for the world. Such an action, which can only be excused by those who understood the unhappy passion which drove me to it, I once was guilty .of toward Fraulein Notara, the present Madame Belota. Thirteen years have flown since then. In the meantime my hair has turned gray, and I have learned to forget much. But that Madame Belota should forget the affront which I offered her — that she should give her hand to the one who was the cause of her consecrating twelve years of her youth to a sickl}^ husband— that I consider an impossibility. ”

”An impossibility,” said Madame Falutza, who had listened to him calmly — “an impossibility?” repeated she, with a cunning smile about her mouth; “then you must suffer Prefect Remus Aldean to lead away the lovely w'idow.”

“Never!” Fprtunat interrupted. He uttered these words so violently, so passionately, and his face grew so pale, that he was startled himself.

Madame Falutza’s small, dark eyes rested upon his, searching^. For a second he stood there as if turned to stone. Then he seized both of the old lady’s hands: “Laugh, Madame Falutza, laugh at an old fool if you will; what until now I have not dared to confess even to myself, I will tell you: Since I have again met Madam Belota, I feel as if my .youth were renewed, as if I had been born again; the sight of her fascinates me; I tremble like a silly boy if her gown brushes against me; I should like to fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness for all the suffering I have caused her — my heart beats as violently, as uncontrollably as it once did when I read my fate in Rachel’s eyes. I am no longer a boy; my hair is gray — is it not laughable?”

Madame Falutza laughed heartily. She arose, laid her hand familiarly upon his shoulder and said: “Then you will not be vexed with me if I say a good word for you to Madame Belota?”

“Do not do so !”

“Then do so yourself. Pay her a visit to-morrow, and do not forget to take Jonel with you; Florica has taken a great fancy to him. As we arranged, you will drive over to Madame Belota’ s to-morrow and sound the ground a little. A bon entendeur salutT

She pressed his hand and left the room with a beaming face. Fortunat soon after heard her carriage drive up, the whip crack, old Dumitree utter a merry cry — and the carriage rolled away.

Then the court-yard was quiet again. The sun had set behind the forest. The evening sky had grown pale; the shadows of night began to encircle the broad plain; several stars twinkled in the heavens, and soon the moon arose full and bright.

Fortunat sank into a chair, his head against its back, looking thoughtfully and seriously before him. And as he sat there and meditated, old memories of the past arose clearly before him.

It was a cold February night. Heavy flakes of snow whirled through the air. Fine sleighs flew through the main streets of Jassy.

He was sitting in a comfortable saloon, lighted by a rose-colored lamp, upon a tabauret at his fiancee’s feet. It was a week before their wedding-day. He held her small, white hand in his, and whispered to her words of love. Now and then she stroked the hair from his brow and kissed his eyes. But those kisses did not move him, and the loving words that he whispered to her, did not come from his heart. He had never been so conscious of this as upon that evening when he found himself alone with his bride in the quiet saloon, and the question obtruded itself upon him, if he would be happy with the girl who clung to him so devotedly. Fraulein Notara seemed to have divined his thoughts. Then as the black marble clock which stood upon a table near the window, struck twelve and interrupted the silence, and he rose to take his leave, o»

she looked in his eyes and asked softly: “Do you really love me, Tica?” There was such a touchingly beseeching expression in her eyes, that he could not answer at once!

‘See here, Tica,” she continued hurriedly, “there are malicious people who envy a poor girl one happy hour, and they say all sorts of things! They have told us that you are only going to marry me because you have lost your money at gaming, because through me — through my father’s influence — you wish to make your mark. I do not believe it; and yet a drop of the poison has remained in my heart, and robs me of my peace. Tell me, Tica, that all that people say about you is untrue; only say so, and I will believe you. “

He said nothing, but he drew her to his breast and whispered:

“You little simpleton!” '

Then he left her. He wandered through the deserted streets. His heart was heavy. In a few months he had run through the greater part of his fortune. He had felt the ground shake beneath his feet, and the thought occurred to him that he would soon be unable to maintain his position. He was thirty-six years old, and longed for a , comfortable home. His parents had died years before; his only sister had been taken from him the preceding year; he was alone, quite alone in the world. And he often felt miserable when he thought how aimlessly he had wasted the best years of his life, when he saw how others by his side were striving.

“You must marry,” Madame Falutza had said to him one day, as he told her his trouble. And she found him a bride. It only wanted eight days until the wedding, and he would then be bound to a wife who was beautiful, good and clever and possessed all possible virtues, but whom he did not love. He would marry and become a staid man — a staid man! He would become a politician like the others, would speak in the senate, would attend to business, would earn money; and spend every evening with his young wife, to whom he would owe his position, his money, everything. This thought cut him to the heart.

Could he not save himself by his own powers? owe all to himself, and not to any woman? Why not? Was he not in the prime of life? Had he not as much knowledge and talent as those so-called patriots, whose names everyone spoke with respect?

Should he marry? Should he bind himself to a wife, who could not awaken his affections — give up his free bachelor life, and receive nothing in place of it but a wife, and a father-indaw, who would always be a living repoach to him? Never! He shook his head as if to shake off invisible chains. All kinds of thoughts flew through his brain, as he wandered dejectedly through the street^.

Suddenly sounds of music fell upon his ear. He found himself in an out-of-the-way street, in which, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour^ there was quite a good deal of confusion. Almost all the houses were illuminated. Muffled figures hastened to and fro. Then he remembered that the Jewish '' Purirn' was being celebrated, and that that evening he was invited to a ball at a Jewish banker’s.

He walked farther, and soon arrived at a one-storied, brightly illuminated house, before which a number of idlers stood. He opened the house door, ascended the steps covered with carpet to the first floor, entered the hall, where a servant relieved him of hi^ fur, and soon after stepped into a brilliantly lighted room, through which a gay, masked company moved about. His arrival had not been noticed. He stepped into a niche and watched their movements.

Suddenly there was a lull. All eyes were turned toward the door at which two strange forms appeared. Next a short, curly-headed masked Jew, upon whose head was a red cap and bells, and who held a fiddle under his arm, stood a majestic woman with a red velvet jacket and a blue skirt reaching to her ankles. Her face was covered with a black silk mask from which two sparkling eyes peeped. A white rose ornamented her blue-black hair.

“Good evening, my people,” said the little Jew, bowing on all sides. Then with a quick movement he tore the mask from his face. A shout of laughter greeted him.

“Zilibi Psantir!” was heard from every mouth. “Zilibi Psantir, with his sister Rachel.”

Tf everyone is mad to-day, why should not I be?” laughed Zilibi Psanter. Rachel,” he turned to his sister, “you need not be ashamed of your face. Any of these ladies,” he added boldy, “would give a thousand ducats for a face like yours!”

“Unmask!” cried several young men.

But Rachel stood there motionless, her burning eyes fixed upon Fortunat.

Then the host — a Somali, slight Jew, in a black frockcoat — stepped forward, bowed before her with comical gravity, stood upon tiptoe and tore the mask from the girl’s face.

For a second, silence reigned in the room; all were enchanted by the classically beautiful, marble face; then exclamations of admiration were heard, but the little slender host made the most noise of all. He clapped his hands, and with his small dark eyes ogled the lovely girk

At a sign from the host, a Hungarian band on an estrade in a corner of the room began to play a waltz. The host tried to encircle Rachel’s waist.

She drew back, and Fortunat stood suddenly before her. For a second they looked into one another’s eyes, silently and with a deep and peculiar earnestness. Then they floated into the hall.

Dance followed dance, and the pair who danced the most and were the most inseparable were Fortunat and the handsome Jewess.

The ladies began to whisper, the gentlemen put their heads together. But Fortunat paid no attention to them. He was as if intoxicated; his eyes sparkled and he seemed to be in exuberant spirits. Morning dawned as the last strains of music sounded. The majority of the guests had departed as Fortunat, with Rachel upon his arm, left the hall. In the anteroom he wrapped her in his own fur and led her down the stairs. He lifted her into a sleigh which stood before the house, awoke the coachman who had fallen asleep upon the box, and ordered him to drive on.

“Where is my brother?” asked she, as if awaking from a dream.

“Zilibi Psantir is watching a game of cards,” answered he, merrily. “I am going to run away with you. ”

He stepped into the sleigh, gave the coachman a sign, and away they went.

The drive only* lasted a few minutes. The sleigh stopped before a small house. Rachel took off the furs and handed them to her companion. They had not exchanged a single word.

"When can I see you again?” asked he.

“Whenever you wish.”

He drew nearer her, took her head between both hands and whispered : Rachel, I am not intoxicated,

I know what I am saying, listen: To-night something happened to me; I fell in love, deeply in love with you, Rachel, do you hear?”

Then he bent toward her, kissed her lips once — and then again — passionately, as if he wished to sip her very soul.

That was a blessed night, and a blessed kiss, which even after many years filled his heart with .warmth.

Fortunat arose. The remembrance of that night, which was to play such an important part in his life, had moved him deeply. He. walked up and down the room a while. Then he stopped before the window and looked down upon the park, about which the moonlight had woven a glittering web. The memories of the past would not leave him. That night had been followed by happy days. His passion for the beautiful Jewess had taken possession of him with such power that he sacrificed everything for her. He

JONEL FORTUNy^T fled with her to his estate on the Russian frontier.

In happy oblivion flew the weeks, the months. But the happiest day of all those blissful ones was that upon which his Rachel presented him with a boy. The feeling of being a father intoxicated him like wine; he would stand for hours and gaze at his child, which was the image of its mother.

One morning a srnall, dusty Jew presented himself. He was RachePs brother, the jester, Zilibi Psantir.

“1 have sought you a long time, sir,” said he in a trembling voice. His short figure drew itself up and the Jew’s small eyes glared wildly; ‘T have sought you a long time, for I have something serious to say to you. I am a poor, honest Jew, and my sister was a poor, honest girl. You turned her head. You caused her to become an outcast. There is only one way by which you can atone for your wickedness; become a Jew and marry my sister, will you?”

Fortunat at this absurd question laughed aloud.

‘T know why you laugh,” said Zilibi; then he turned to his sister: “Come with me, we will go to some distant land, where no one knows of your shame. Take your child with you, I will care for you both.”

“Get out! ” cried Fortilnat, and his whip fell upon Zilibi’s shoulders.

Rachel caught Fortunat’ s arm. The little Jew was deathly pale. At first his words were unintelligible, but suddenly they flowed from his mouth. What he uttered were curses, terrible curses upon the woman, which made Fortunat’ s hair stand on end. And then he left them.

FORTUNAT

From that hour a change took place in Rachel, which spoilt all his pleasure. She was still loving and obedient, but her eyes were inexpressibly sad and filled him with dread forebodings.

He left the small estate on the Russian frontier where he had spent so many happy hours, and moved to Banesti. There, in the neighborhood of the town, he hoped that the ban would be removed — that she would revive, and forget that terrible scene. His hopes seemed about to be realized. But one evening — it was a lovely, moonlight autumn evening like that particular one — Alex rushed to him, breathless and pale, with wide-open eyes, and stammered :

“Rachel !“

A terrible suspicion crept over him; he flew to her room ; there she lay upon the divan with distorted features, his revolver clutched convulsively in her right hand, and from her right temple blood flowed upon the white pillow. Upon the floor lay a piece of paper upon which a few words were written:

“My life is lost! Care for pur child!”

The horrible suicide of that beautiful, passionatelyloved woman was to him a terrible blow, and he felt as if he must tear the weapon from the hand of his beloved dead and put it to his own temples.

Then he remembered his child. His life belonged no longer to himself; he must dedicate it to the poor creature who innocently had driven his own mother to her death. This thought sustained him in the midst of his sorrow. In a couple of days he buried his Rachel under the sod in the park. He chose the prettiest spot for her. Then he gave his child into Madame Falutza’s keeping and left the country.

Several years he wandered in foreign lands, with the silent, ineradicable love of home and of his child in his heart. Then he returned home a changed man, who desired nothing in life for himself, and who 1 ad only one wish and that was to see his Jonel develop into a good man.

But now all his plans were disturbed, and in his heart raged a passion which filled him — now with horror, now again with’delight — and a feeling of blissful joy. Was he really to expedence another love than that for his son? He felt as if he must fall at Madame Belota’s feet, kiss her hands, and tell her how deeply and truly he loved her.

“My sweet wife.” Those words escaped him, and he was startled at the sound of his own voice. Yet in those words there lay such a charm, that he repeated them again and again. He seated himself in his arm-chair and closed his eyes in order to be the better able to indulge his dreams.

Suddenly some one embraced him. It was Jonel.

“We have been awaiting you for supper for an hour, papa,” said the boy.

Fortunat kissed his son^s brow. “I was busy,” said he confusedly; then he arose.

“What do you think, Jonel; would you like to have Madame Belota for your mother?” Fortunat felt the boy’s hand tremble in his.

“Do you wish to marry Madame Belota?”

“Perhaps; do you not long for a mother?”

*'I do not know,” said Jonel, evasively, “but T love Madame's little daughter very much, I could not love a sister more.”

“You must tell Madame Belota so to-morrow noon, when we shall visit her.”

Ill

Madame Belota had lived with her husband twelve years, which could be called neither happy nor unhappy ones. When she married him, he was almost three times as old as she, decrepit and sickly. first people had been surprised, but then decided that Fraulein Notara was practical. A girl of a tender and romantic nature, whose fiance had deserted her a week before her wedding-day, would have died of mortification and grief — would have complained and lamented and withdrawn from society for a time, to escape the unpleasant gossip of the people — the compassion of some, and obtrusive sympathy of others.

Fraulein Notara, ho's^ever, did not complain, did not lament; she seemed to take her desertion very little to heart and surprised everyone by her speedy engagement to Herr Belota, who was, as aforesaid, old and sickly, but was at the same time very wealthy and very highly esteemed.

“It will not be a year,” was the universal opinion, “before Fraulein Notara will be a handsome, wealthy and life-loving widow.”

But Herr Belota did not do those, who had predicted his death and speculated upon it, the favor of dying. On the contrary, a year after his marriage he became the happy father of a charming daughter, and lived another eleven years.

That must certainly have been a sad existence which was spent altogether in a sick-room.

And there was no lack of kind souls, who greatly pitied Madame Belota, because the only issue of this strange marriage was crippled. But Madame Belota did not seem to need any pity— any comfort.

She lived in fine style, gave magnificent balls, at which she did the honors gracefully, and eclipsed all her dear friends by her costly and tasteful toilets, by the ease of her manner, and by her wonderful beauty.

It impressed one strangely to see the lovely, evercheerful wife by the side of her shrunken, dim-eyed spouse.

It was almost incomprehensible to her swarm of admirers how such a fine woman could live and laugh by the side of such a man. Efforts were not wanting to prepare for her that happiness which she, according to her admirers’ opinions, could not possibly find in her wedded life.

Madame Belota did not reject the innumerable declarations of love that she received during the first years of her marriage, with abrupt coldness, but with such an ironical smile, with such sovereign equanimity, that she was soon placed in the category of heartless women. It is true all worshiped her, notwithstanding this; still none of her satellites ever hoped to become the Pygmalion of this Galatea.

Several months after her husband's death, Madame

Belota left the residence and repaired to Nice with her child. She was in the habit annually of visiting some bathing resort, each time inspired by the hope that her poor Florica would be restored to health. There were no celebrated physicians in Europe that she had not consulted, no baths that she had not visited. But the lameness, in spite of all the treatment imaginable, had not been cured.

Still the maternal heart did not despair. When she looked into the clear, blue eyes of her Florica— when she gazed upon that refined little face — she- could not make up her mind that her child was doomed to live there forever like a nipt bud.

Some months after her arrival at Nice she received a letter from Madame Falutza.

It contained three postscripts. The first depicted in a very vivid manner, the solitary, miserable life Herr Fortunat was leading at Banesti; the second consisted of innumerable hints to the effect that a young, lovely widow was not created to pass her life alone, and that a woman needed the guidance of a man’s firm hand. Finally, the third contained the laconic announcement that the estate of Olesti, in the neighborhood of Banesti-, could be had for a mere song.