The Rentier: The Comaneshteni Saga, #2

By Duiliu Zamfirescu

Mihai Comaneshteanu, a refined young aristocrat, the scion of an ancient family with impeccable reputation, returns from abroad. Has the childhood romance between him and Tincutza Murguletz survived the years of separation? Will she keep her promise to him, or will she favor the attentions of nouveau riche Tanase Scatiu and his rougher brand of masculinity?

The author, Duiliu Zamfirescu, has been called "the Romanian Tolstoy." The Comaneshteni Saga was Romanian literature's first novel series, and one of the most beloved. It offers the readers a unique, authentic glimpse into the life of the peasants and aristocrats of 19th century Romania.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tiberian Press
• Release date: Oct 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386023609

Duiliu Zamfirescu

Duiliu Zamfirescu (October 30, 1858 - June 3, 1922) was a Romanian novelist, poet, short story writer, lawyer, nationalist politician, journalist, diplomat and memoirist. In 1909, he was elected a member of the Romanian Academy, and, for a while in 1920, he was Foreign Minister of Romania. Zamfirescu is best remembered for The Comaneshteni Saga novel series.

Book preview

The Rentier

The Comaneshteni Saga, Book Two

a novel by

Duiliu Zamfirescu

translated from Romanian by

Alan Stroe

––––––––

Copyright © 2017 by Tiberian Press.

All Rights Reserved.

Do Not Reproduce Without Permission.

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER I

A horse-drawn carriage made its way on the muddied road with difficulty. The field was completely covered with water. It was nightfall, and the cold began to numb the mud crests, and the puddles began to grow a thin layer of ice—which made headway even harder. The horses, wet with sweat, walked in the ruts, ringing their monotonous bells: they were four leaders, all young, used to bad weather and mud, since they were born in the herd, in the countryside. They had seen plenty, since they were put in the stable: inclines, blizzards, floods, and especially the fork of Stoica, the coachman; therefore, the day’s hardship would not have stopped them, if the reins had not.

Indeed, Stoica, dead-drunk, in order to maintain his balance on the box, was often propping himself with the reins. The carriage would then stop.

At each stop, the master could be heard cursing: Yo, drunkard, you still haven’t woken up!? Yo!

And at each yo, a thump resounded on the coachman’s back, but to no avail: he was immune to the boyar’s fists by the thick sheepskin on the outside and the strong whiskey on the inside.

Eventually, Tanase Scatiu lost his patience. When the horses stopped again next to the tavern, he got out of the carriage. He unleashed a flood of curses in his rage.

Get off, ox, get off! I’m employing a coachman to drive the horses myself.

Stoica was hesitating to get off, mumbling through his teeth: Well then give me my salary, ‘cause I quit.

God smite you, you lout, you’ve been quitting for twenty years and you’re still not gone. If you’d go to the devil, at least!

Is it my fault that the horses are too tired from the trip? At the same time, he intended to jump off into the mud.

His master grabbed him by the neck. What are you doing, yo? You want to jump into the mud and then climb into the carriage, like a pig?

What should I do, then?

Go to hell, that’s what you should do. Can’t you get off from the box straight into the carriage?

Stoica eyed the slope that began on the box rather dubiously. He realized the state he was in, and he did not at all feel like trying. While he was struggling to get into the carriage, the horses moved. Tumbling, Stoica rolled into the mud.

There! was the one thing he managed to utter. Scatiu’s rage knew no bounds. Crosses, gods, and all the holy parents rolled through his mouth, like an actual coachman. Without a second thought, he whipped the horses and left, leaving his coachman in the mud.

When he reached the city, it was almost nighttime. His houses were arranged around a large courtyard. He had bought them, like everything else he bought, as a bargain, from a bankrupted boyar, Costache Merishescu, and he had renovated them, upgraded them, so presently they were the most beautiful in town.

As soon as they heard the horses’ bells, the servants all came out to meet him, as usual.

When they saw him alone, without coachman, with gloomy face, they did not dare say a single word; they simply started to untie the horses and unload the carriage, in silence.

Wearing his sheepskin overcoat that touched the ground, with the revolver’s belt over it, he went in. His little daughter with her nanny were waiting in the hall; he pretended to not even notice them, went into the greenhouse, overturned a few flowerpots, then went into the dining room, then back again, until he came face to face with his wife. Why, no one lives in this house?

Tincutza had rushed to meet him, but she did not get there in time. Of course they do. Look, we’re all here. But what happened to you?

Stop interrogating me. Where’s Costea? The valet had followed him from the entrance. What you waiting for, boy? You’ve become a boyar too, eh? It’s full of boyars in this house. Everyone’s a boyar, only I remain a lout. Let the lout lift, ‘cause that’s what he’s made for. I’ll kick you out, you sinner!

The valet stood in front of him, frozen.

Pull this, ox! Why do you look at me like you haven’t seen me before?

Costea unfastened the revolver’s belt, helped him take off his overcoat, then asked him, Would you like some jam?

Bring me my shoes first, stupid. You still haven’t learned the job yet?

His wife approached him softly. Tanase, come to your room, I’ve prepared everything you need, don’t take your shoes off here.

Give me a break with your lessons. Teach whoever you’ve taught before, not me. The valet was waiting. Bring me the shoes, boy.

Tincutza looked at him, from head to toe, without saying a word; then she took the daughter’s hand and moved to go into a different room.

He called the girl back. Zoitzica, stay here.

The girl would rather not. Her mother asked her nicely to stay. She stayed, against her will.

Don’t you want to stay with Daddy? he tried to say with gentle voice.

No, the girl answered, about to cry.

Then go, shoo!

The little girl turned toward the door, with her hand to her mouth, not daring to exit, but at the same time not wanting to stay.

Shoo! Get out of my sight, ugly.

The girl burst into tears. Her mother, who had been waiting at the door, picked her up, and they went out. The nanny had already disappeared.

Devil’s own kin! Scatiu said. But the girl’s tears seemed to have refreshed the air, like a welcome rain. Tanase brightened a bit. He asked the valet if anyone had come by in his absence, then, under the pretext that there was not enough room where he was at (so it would not appear he was following his wife’s request), he went to his room to change.

Meanwhile, Tincutza was comforting the girl, fulfilling the need to hug someone, the need to hear a gentle word, she, who needed so much comforting.

They had been sitting together for about an hour when Scatiu came in. So, are we eating today? he asked.

Tincutza was about to tell the girl a story. She stopped for a moment and told him, Ring, please. Then she resumed talking to the girl.

He was leaning on the stove, searching for a way to get into the conversation. He rolled a cigar and told the girl to give him the matches. The girl brought him the matches then quickly returned to her seat.

Maaaan! he said, drawn out.

Tincutza looked at him, like someone who understands what is being asked of her, but is in doubt whether she should give it or not. Eventually she decided to ask him. What happened to you?

What could happen to me? Well, the coachman I inherited from your lordships.

From us! From what I hear you’ve had him for about twenty years.

I have. But who dropped him into my lap? Your father.

Of course. It’s my father’s fault again... She got up to leave, wanting to preempt the new storm that was brewing, when the valet entered and invited them to dine.

It was during the Christmas Fasting, and it happened to be a Wednesday. The steam from the soup was rising all the way to the light of the lamp, filling the room with the smell of food. They all sat in their places—the nanny, the little girl, Tincutza, Tanase at the head of the table, and Mr. Nae, who had now become the Ciulnitza’s caretaker, in a corner; just one spot remained empty.

Have you called the grand lady? Tincutza asked the valet.

I have, my lady.

Tanase gulped from a sizable bottle of tzuica that would have been enough for three men, then slammed it on the table, clicking his tongue. He then grabbed two olives with his fingers and threw them into his mouth, one after another.

Isn’t Mama coming, Costea?

She’s coming, Boyar. I’ve invited her just now.

Tanase got up from the table and was about to get out, but just in that moment Coana Profira entered the room.

Come on, old woman, come on, ‘cause the young don’t wait, Tanase said.

Thick, swollen-faced, dirty, Coana Profira was moving with difficulty, with a scarf tied under her chin, with trembling lips, with the eyes grey from old age. She went slowly to her seat and fell on the chair