In Wartime: The Comaneshteni Saga, #3

By Duiliu Zamfirescu

As Romania enters the conflict between the Russian Empire and the Ottoman Empire to gain its independence, all the men of the Comaneshteanu family go to war. Mihai Comaneshteanu is forced to choose between two competing love interests.

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: 9781386111825

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

In Wartime

The Comaneshteni Saga, Book Three

a novel by

Duiliu Zamfirescu

translated from Romanian by

Alan Stroe

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Copyright © 2018 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 XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER I

April 23rd of the year 1877 was a day like any other, cloudy in one part of the sky and sunny in the other; so many of the capital’s residents would not have been brought into the street if it were not for the deafening shouts of the newsboys. They ran like madmen escaped from the asylum, shouting at the top of their lungs, Romania, free from tomorrow! The Russians are coming!

From the farthest crossroads—from the Paupers Bridge and Spiri Hill, from the Moshilor Way and the Obor Market, from the Magureanu Monastery, from the Olari and Tei quarters—people were headed, like on a parade day, toward the Mogoshoaia Highway. Jews from Good Friday; traders from Brashov, candle makers and soap makers from the Catholic Church area; street shoemakers from the market; lumber traders from the Dudescu and Antim streets; farmers from Oltenia region with their baskets precariously balanced; water vendors pushed over the wagon’s pole—all drove their wagons toward the city center. At the intersections of the small streets with Mogoshoaia Highway sat the shop boys, come from afar, with the aprons rolled up under their vests; curly-haired louts with six-inch heels; street butchers, with lambs hanging on their small shops; seamstress girls, leaving work without reason; and baffled officials, escaped from government cabinets ahead of time.

They all watched the Mogoshoaia Highway impatiently, as if awaiting the passing of an unusual convoy. Strangely, carriages—normally very common at that hour—had become sparse, as if the ruling prince himself was about to visit. People fussed around without any real purpose, yet they were nevertheless preoccupied. Groups of men formed all along the sidewalk, from the palace to the boulevard. Restless Muscovite coachmen pulled out of their queues in front of Theater Square and drove their horses in mad dashes before the public, fluttering their sleeves and whips like ducks before the arrival of the rain.

The same deafening shout of the newsboys was being repeated more and more often: Romania, free from tomorrow! The Russians are coming!

The eyes of these gawkers, come from the depths of the slums, were not pleased with the sights they saw on the streets; there was anxiety and uncertainty on their faces as they spoke the words: The Russians are coming!

The naïve movement of their caps, lifted up on the forehead, their shrugs, their cagy answers as they returned to the slums—showed they realized the imminence of a great event, which they could not measure well, but which unsettled them: The Russians are coming!

Passing through this morose crowd, Mihai Comaneshteanu walked fast, trying to get out into the open, to get into a carriage and arrive at his sister’s sooner. In his haste, at a corner street, he collided with a gentleman, whose glasses fell off his nose.

Pox! the latter said, taking a step back and looking at Comaneshteanu, irritated.

For a moment, they both eyed each other with that savage ancestral meanness that occasionally rears its head in our nature, and only after that did they remember to apologize. They were about to part when they seemed to recognize each other.

Mihai, is it you?

Milescu!

A thousand thunders and poxes! Is it you, old pal? Let me kiss you. Without waiting further invitation, Milescu—ruddy, cheerful, pleased—squeezed his old friend from school in his powerful arms. How are you, chap? When have you come from the boonies?... I’ve asked everyone about you... A thousand thunders! You’re dining with me tonight. I won’t hear it. Did you hear, mister? The Russians are coming. The pox!

Comaneshteanu was looking at him, surprised to have found him just as he had left him ten years before: chatty, healthy, with his tics, with thousands of thunders and poxes pointlessly inserted in his words. He fell back in time many years and found himself gripped by nostalgia for... for no one, just like that, for nothing; for the time that had passed.

Very well, Milescu, I will gladly come some other time. Tonight, I am expected at my sister’s.

Pox! No way: tonight! I’m going and I’ll be waiting for you. The Russians are coming. Goodbye!

Milescu again rushed into the crowd, ready to crash into other passersby. Comaneshteanu got into a carriage and was about to leave when his friend caught up with him again.

Thousands of babylons and thunders! We almost parted without me telling you where I live. Don’t show up with poxes and frocks, you hear? Come dressed as you are, at seven thirty, you understand? Making a gesture, he went to leave again.

Milescu, tell me where you live! Mihai shouted behind him.

Milescu jumped into the carriage again. Pox! And pox again! I’m losing my mind. Batishtea Street, dear. Goodbye.

Going to Sasha’s, Mihai thought about his friend, whom he had laughed about so much in Paris. Although he still felt like smiling at his friend’s ways, nevertheless, he felt happy to have met him, and especially that he had met him as he knew him: naïve, full of tics, always in a hurry, and above all, a ne’er-do-well. That which in his early youth seemed just ridiculous in his friend’s character, presently, on the verge of maturity—when wisdom highlights one’s character more and more—he found delightful, due to the utter sincerity Milescu’s being expressed itself with.

He arrived at Sasha’s more cheerful than he’d been in a long time; he climbed the stairs whistling, and, when he reached the salon, could not restrain himself from saying pox, like Milescu. He told his sister about the encounter with his old school comrade: the unexpected pleasure at their meeting, his thousands of bombs and poxes, and lastly, the invitation to dinner.

Sasha, whose boundless affection for her brother had grown with time, looked at him with a warm gaze, happy to see him laughing, although she seemed sad.

Sasha’s serious serenity had been disturbed by a shadow of painful melancholy, which seemed to affect everyone else around her. For a moment, Mihai remained still in the middle of the room, looking at those present; things became clear to him immediately. The news of the impending war worried all of them. If armed conflict did commence—he realized for the first time—all the men in their family would take part. He looked at Victoria and his brother-in-law, Colonel Amza; at Mary and her husband, Captain Dudescu; at Matei—now a doctor—who would probably also be called if the need arose. He thought of himself too, lieutenant in reserve. They all had to go.

Colonel Amza, who had always been something of an enigma to him, tanned, with hair almost white and a twisted moustache, was contentedly looking through an illustrated journal. His patent leather boots elegantly ended in bronze spurs that jingled martially, and his coat was buttoned up tightly as though he was on parade. Victoria, although twenty years younger than her husband, seemed utterly absorbed by his personality.

Captain Dudescu was the complete opposite of Colonel Amza: fair and plain, skinny and unkempt, wearing the Hunters battalion (t.n.: light infantry) uniform with obvious loathing. He spoke fast and nervously, without considering the effects of his words. An impression of unsightly permeated his entire exterior presentation. It was obvious Mary suffered because of her husband’s appearance.

Nevertheless, who could tell with certainty which of the two was the greater man? The war, perhaps. Until then, however, Mihai saw in his own family the natural predilection of women for strong and handsome men. He felt sorry, although he was himself handsome and strong; he felt sorry because he found a certain amorality in this natural law, and he believed his family was supposed to be impeccable in all matters, without flaws, without resembling the vulgarities found in other families. Because of this, he had an instinctive antagonism for Amza and an unjustified sympathy for Dudescu.

However, if he could have been completely sincere in his analysis of the souls of those around him, he would have had to admit there were additional reasons for which Colonel Amza seemed less likable to him than Captain Dudescu.

Someone else was also looking at the illustrated journal in the colonel’s hand, a person not related to them: Natalia Canta, a childhood friend of Sasha, married in Moldova, resident of their estate from Vrancea—Sarba, next to Mihai’s estate.

While she leaned over the illustrated journal, her eyes darted to the door at every movement; she seemed to be waiting for someone. When Mihai entered, cheerful, her face lit up with joy. Slowly, she pulled her chair to a side and listened to the story about Milescu in the most natural way.

Really, Natalitzo, stay to dinner, Sasha said. What will you do alone at the hotel?

I must dress, dear.

You have plenty of time to get dressed by eleven o’clock. Are you coming to the ball, Mihai?

I don’t know... Milescu said not to wear a frock coat, so I too should go by the hotel to get dressed. We’ll see.

How disagreeable this is, with the hotel, Sasha told Natalia. I wish you stayed here. But when we’re all in Bucharest, there isn’t enough room even for Mihai.

Don’t worry, dear. I’m here with you all day, as you see...

Sasha suddenly changed her tone: What else have you heard about the war, Mihai? Come sit by me.

What else is there to hear, Mommy? The Russians have crossed the border.

Natalia began to laugh, with a sympathetic note in her voice, looking back and forth at the brother and sister.

You’re laughing because you’re not in danger of it leaving your house empty... Sasha reproached her.

Natalie gazed warmly at Mihai. Say it again.

Mihai smiled rather halfheartedly, not understanding why Natalia was laughing. What did I say? That the Russians have crossed the border. It is true.

Say ‘Mommy’ again.

With this intimate note, the conversation went on the best it could, but without reaching its usual pleasantness. Mihai, too, seemed calm as always, but was in fact concerned.

Well, Colonel, it seems to me I too will have to retrieve my razors from storage. In hills or plains, we’ll end up fighting somebody.

Let us fight, if we must. I, as a military man, cannot speak differently. I do believe, however, that it is a mistake to end our neutrality.

Dudescu, agitated, leaped up. What neutrality, mister? Who guarantees your neutrality? What were the results of the Constantinople conference? Zero money, zero cents. We sent Dimitrie Bratianu there, to convince the Turks it is foremost in their interest to declare us neutral. Who listened to us?

We have the Paris Treaty. We must be a buffer zone between the two empires.

"Buffer? Nonsense! We’ll be a strolling boulevard for Russian armies... as we’ve always been since the Phanariotes (t.n.: Greek aristocrats from Istanbul’s Phanar quarter) began ruling us. Lord, how I’d like the Draculeshti back, to purge the country of the pagan plague! I’d be the first to sharpen the stake for a new Vlad."

I’m saying the same thing: I do not want foreign troops on our soil.

Let us fight, then. With either of them.

Victoria, annoyed by Dudescu’s haughty way of speaking, wanted to end the conversation. Let’s get dressed. Goodbye, Mihai, if you’re going to that Milescu of yours.

They all stood up. In the slight awkwardness of the moment, Natalia asked Comaneshteanu, softly, Would you like me to go to the ball?

He answered looking down, embarrassed, As you wish... Are you coming?

I might come...

CHAPTER II

Going to Milescu, Comaneshteanu found himself gripped by the same concern: the war. He had received the deployment order a few days before, on April 18th. The 10th Dorobantzi Regiment (t.n.: regional, reserve infantry)—a part of the 2nd Army Corps—was on its way to the Danube border, the sector between Giurgiu and Oltenitza. He was supposed to catch up with them at Fratzeshti. It rained. A purple dash of light lined the clouds to the west. Fantastical and indifferent, to men nature seemed involved in the earthly events—an uncertain sky, fog, rain—just as the events of the following day might be uncertain and gloomy.

Passing by the princely palace, Comaneshteanu put his head out the window of the carriage and looked at the lighted windows. The multicolored windows had never seemed more interesting to him; the responsibility and worries behind them must have been truly great. An instinctive feeling of sympathy and respect made him lower his head, in order to better see a shadow that passed by the windows, increased in size by the light of a lamp. The strong desire to fight, with anyone and anywhere, was born in him for the first time; to rush into a swarm of enemies; to wound, to kill without mercy—he, the peaceful man of