Five O'Clock
Translation from Romanian of the short story with the same title by XIXth Century Romanian writer Ion Luca Caragiale
A few days ago I asked ChatGPT to generate a caricature based on what it knew about me. The result was a XIX century-looking scientist and writer holding a tablet displaying a map. The anachronism did not bother me, it played well into my obsession with the concept of time travel. It also made me remember an ambitious idea I had a few years ago, to host weekly “five o’ clocks” the way XIXth century Bucharest ladies used to. I would call them “Madame Piscopesco’s Five O’Clock”, inspired by this short story. Then I had the pleasure of meeting American poet of Romanian origin Valery Oișteanu at a party hosted by a mutual friend. Valery encouraged me to start a literary salon. Since I have plenty of artist friends whom I do not meet often enough, and I love entertaining as much as I love attending parties, I might just go ahead and do that, starting this spring.
Five o’clock’ means, plain and simple, five in the afternoon. In high society, every lady picks herself one day of the week—her jour fixe—when, at five o’clock sharp, she throws her doors open to callers and treats them to tea. That’s why they call it ‘five o’clock tea,’ which in our tongue you might as well call ‘the tea at five in the afternoon.’ As a rule, the ladies of the great world announce their reception day in Claymoor’s column, so that their many acquaintances can be properly informed. For instance, in L’Indépendance roumaine we read:
“Madame Esmeralde Piscopesco holds her five o’clock tea every Thursday.”
Well, sir, today’s Thursday. “Come along,” says I, “let’s pay a call on Madame Piscopesco.”
The flunky in his swallow-tail coat and white gloves ushers me into the splendid parlor of the sumptuous Piscopesco Hotel. But I don’t see a soul… Ah! There in the back! From the cozy little boudoir, done up in the purest Louis XV style, come two girlish voices chirping away like a pair of canaries. I head that way. It’s Madame Măndica* Piscopesco with her little sister, Madame Tincuța Popesco. The lady of the house greets me with her usual grace. I’ll confess it straight out… I’ve got a powerful weakness for what the French call la causerie, and that’s why I so dearly love haunting the drawing rooms of high society. To put it in plain language: I relish a good chin-wag with the grand ladies. There’s more charm in their prattle than in all the menfolks’ weighty jawing. Women have the knack of turning a thousand trifles—and then some—into something mighty more diverting than a man’s soberest notions… A flower, a ribbon, the faintest shade betwixt two colors, a perfect nothing, sifted through a lady’s sly wits and spun out in those honeyed tones and the play of lights in her eyes—it’s got an irresistible spell for me, anyhow. So here I am, right in my element… Sure as shooting, I’ll pass a few delicious moments in this spot.
Me: Madame Piscopesco, if you’ll allow me…
Măndica: You’ve showed up just on the dot…
Tincuța: Did you go…?
Măndica: Hush, you! Let me ask him… Were you at the circus last night?
Me: I was.
Tincuța: Who else…
Măndica: Quiet, sister! Don’t you hear? (To me) Did you see Mița?
Me: Mița, your sister?
Măndica: No… Mița, young Mrs. Protopopescu?
Me: Yes; she had a box right across from mine…
Măndica (to Tincuța): You see, don’t you?
Tincuța (to me): Who was she with…?
Măndica: Hush! (To me) What kind of hat did she have on?
Me (flustered): A…
(Tincuța tries to cut in.)
Măndica (clapping a hand over her mouth): A big hat…
Me (breathing easier): Yes…
Măndica (to Tincuța): You see now? (To me) Bleu-gendarme!
Me: Yes…
Măndica (to me): With vieux-rose ribbons…
(I nod in agreement.)
Măndica (to Tincuța): Think you’ll wager next time?
Tincuța: Wait now, let’s see… (To me) Was she with her husband?
Măndica (to Tincuța): You hush!
Tincuța: Oh, come on, sis’, let me have a turn too! Always you?!”
Măndica (to me): Was she with Protopopescu?
Me (flustered): I think she was…
Măndica: Wasn’t she with old Haralambina?
Me (even more confused): With which Haralambina…?
Tincuța: With her ma.
Me: ?
Măndica: …A little old fright, ugly as sin, shriveled up like a dried fig, and dressed to the nines…
Me (with a sigh of relief): Yes.
Tincuța: With that dyed red hair…
Me: Yes, yes.
Tincuța (to Măndica): You see?
Măndica: See what? As if her own mother didn’t know! (To me) Did anyone come into their box?
Me: …
Tincuța: Mitică…
Me: Which Mitică?
Măndica: Why, which Mitică do you think…?
Tincuța: Lefterescu, the lieutenant…
Me: Believe me, ladies, on my honor I tell you, I just can’t say, because I…
Măndica: Because you’re a gentleman and you don’t want to tell.
Tincuța: But you did see Lefterescu at the circus!
Me: I think he was in a stall, right across from me.
Măndica: Next to her box! (To Tincuța) You see? Do you get the point now? You see what a goose you are?
Tincuța: Outrageous!
Me (glancing out the window and spotting a closed carriage pulling up to the steps): Speak of the devil, Madam Protopopescu’s at the door.
Tincuța: It’s her!
Măndica: Just look how brazen she is!…
Me (with a bad feeling coming on, grabbing my hat): Ladies, allow me to take my leave… I’m always delighted to find you so merry and gracious… But I must be off.
Tincuța (blocking my path): So soon?
Me: I assure you… business… urgent business…
Măndica (blocking the door): Without even taking a cup of tea?
Me (pressed harder by that old foreboding): On my word…
Măndica: Right now?
Tincuța (snatching my hat): Out of the question!
Me (forced to give in, I collapse crushed onto an ottoman.)
The footman announces: Madam Protopopescu!
Măndica turns red, Tincuța blue, me yellow.
(Madam Mița Protopopescu appears, stunningly beautiful and as quiet as ever, wearing the bleu-gendarme hat. The three ladies kiss very affectionately.)
Mița: It’s a freeze outside, ma chère, you’ve no idea… If it keeps up all night, the rapeseed harvest’ll go straight to the devil!
Me: I don’t think so… I’ve talked to the tenant farmers…
Mița: Nonsense! Protopopescu wrote to me today!
Măndica (to Mița): Were you out last night…
Tincuța (to Măndica): Hush! Let me ask! (To Mița) Were you at the circus last night, Madame Protopopescu?
Mița: Yes.
Măndica: Alon—
Tincuța: Quiet! (To Mița) Alone?
Mita: No; with maman.
Tincuța: With maman? Well done!
Me (getting up): Ladies, I…
Măndica (stopping me from grabbing my hat, softly): Just on the dot? (She goes to press the bell button.)
Tincuța: And… was there a big crowd at the circus?
Mița: Tons of people.
Măndica (ringing long and hard): Such stupid servants! (The footman enters.)
Măndica: I didn’t call you; your job is to stay at the door; where’s that numskull Roza? What’s keeping the tea? (The footman exits.)
Tincuța (to Mița): Was anyone we know there?
Mița: Nobody much… Just lady Constandinescu, Trescu, Vasilescu, Georgescu, the Ogretinencu girls…
Roza, the chambermaid, appears.
Măndica: What’s taking you with that tea?
Roza: It’s ready, ma’am.
Măndica: Well, then why the devil haven’t you brought it!
Roza: It’s ready, in the parlor.
Măndica: Then why didn’t you say so, you idiot!
(Roza leaves muttering.)
Măndica: Don’t you mutter, you impudent thing!
(All this while, Madame Tincuța Popesco sits silent, tapping her left palm with a mother-of-pearl paper knife; meanwhile Madame Protopopesco eyes herself in the mirror, fussing with a rebellious forehead curl that won’t behave. Madam Piscopesco, with a casual wave, invites us into the big parlor for tea, where there is a samovar and a silver service emblazoned with a count’s coronet over the monogram E.P.—Esmeralde Piscopesco—of the finest quality.)
Tincuța (to Mița): By the way, you didn’t tell me who else was at the circus.
Mița: But I did… The Ogretinencu girls…
Tincuța: No… Among the men…
Mița: The men?
(I slip quickly from the parlor and snatch my hat.)
Măndica: Not staying for tea?
Me (holding my hat up high): Oh yes.
Tincuța: Mitică… wasn’t there!”
Mița: Mitică? …I don’t know which Mitică…
Tincuța: Lefterescu… the lieutenant!
Me (burning my mouth on the tea, to Măndica): Pardon, I really must…
Mița (laughing brightly, to Tincuța): Oh, Lefterescu! Your little Mitică…
Tincuța: No, yours, you hussy!
Mița: No, YOURS, you frump!!
Me, dropping my tea cup, shoving Madam Piscopesco aside, elbowing past the footman, and in a flash I’m in the courtyard. At the gate I run into brave lieutenant Lefterescu.
Me: Where are you heading?
Mitică: To the five o’clock at Madame Piscopesco’s!
Me: Scram, you wretched bungler!!!
*”Măndica” is the diminutive of Smaranda, which is Romanian for Esmeralda. “Tincuța” is a diminutive of Ecaterina. Mița is a diminutive of Maria, used predominantly in the South of Romania, mostly in the XIXth century. “Mitică” is a diminutive for Dumitru, which is Romanian for Demetrius. Dumitru remained a very popular name in Romania.