THE ROUMANIANS: THEIR CHARACTER.
The Roumanian is very obstinate in character, and does not let himself
be easily persuaded. He does nothing without reflection, and often he
reflects so long that the time for action has passed. This slowness has
become proverbial, for the Saxon says, “God grant me the enlightenment
which the Roumanian always gets too late.” In the same proportion as he
is slow to make up his mind, he is also slow to change it. Frankness
is not regarded as a virtue, and the Roumanian language has no word
which directly expresses this quality. The Hungarians, on the contrary,
regard frankness and truth-speaking as a duty, and are therefore often
laughed at by their Roumanian neighbors, who consider as a fool any man
who injures himself by speaking the truth.
Of pride the Roumanian has little idea as yet; he has been too
long treated as a degraded and serf-like being, and the only word
approaching this characteristic would rather seem to express the
vanity of a handsome man who sees himself admired. Also for dignity
the epithet is wanting, and the nearest approach to it is to say that a
man is sensible and composed if you would express that he is dignified.
Revenge is cultivated as a virtue, and whoever would be considered a
respectable man must keep in mind the injuries done to him, and show
resentment thereof on fitting occasions. Reconciliation is regarded as
opprobrious, and forgiveness of wrongs degrading. But the Roumanian’s
rage is stealthy and disguised, and while the Hungarian lets his anger
openly explode, the Roumanian will dissemble and mutter between his
teeth, “_Tine mente_” (“Thou shalt remember this”); and his memory is
good, for he does not suffer himself to forget. When an injury has
been done to him henceforward it becomes his sacred duty to brood over
his vengeance. He must not say a good word more to his enemy nor do
him a service, and must strive to injure his foe to the best of his
ability—with, however, this nice distinction, that he himself do not
profit by the injury done. Thus, it would not be consistent with the
Roumanian’s code of honor were he to steal the horse or ox of his
enemy, but there can be no reasonable objection to his advising or
inducing another man to do so. Such behavior is considered only right
and just, and by so acting he will only be fulfilling his duty as an
honest and honorable man.
The Roumanian does not seem to be courageous by nature—at least not
as we understand courage—nor does courage exactly take rank as a
virtue in his estimation, for courage implies a certain recklessness
of consequences, and, according to his way of thinking, every action
should be circumscribed, and only performed after due deliberation.
When, however, driven to it by circumstances, and brought to recognize
the necessity, he can fight bravely and is a good soldier. In the
same way, he will never expose his life without necessity, and will
coolly watch a house burning down without offering assistance; but when
compelled to action under military orders, he will go blindly into the
fire, even knowing death to be inevitable.
What is commonly understood by military enthusiasm is wanting in the
Roumanian (at least on this side of the frontier), for he is too
ignorant to perceive the advantage of letting himself be shot in the
service of a foreign master, for a cause of which he understands
nothing and cares less. He is extremely sorry for himself when forced
to enlist, and sometimes becomes most poetically plaintive on the
subject, as in the following verses translated from a popular song:
“To the battle-field I go,
There to fight the country’s foe.
Wash my linen, mother mine,
All my linen white and fine.[20]
Rinse it in thy tears, and then
Dry on burning breast again.
Send it, mother, to me there
Where you hear the trumpet’s blare.
Where the banners droop o’erhead,
There shall I be lying dead,
Stricken by the musket’s lead,
Seamed by gashes rosy red,
Trampled by the charger’s tread.”
Something of the spirit of the ancient Spartans lies in the Roumanian’s
idea of virtue and vice. Stealing and drunkenness are not considered
to be intrinsically wrong, only the publicity which may attend these
proceedings conveying any sense of shame to the offender. Thus a man is
not yet a thief because he has stolen; and whoever becomes accidentally
aware of the theft should, if he have no personal interest in the
matter, hold his peace, on the Shakespearian principle that
“He that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.”
Even the injured party whose property has been abstracted is advised
if possible to reckon alone with the thief, without drawing general
attention to his fault.
Neither is drunkenness necessarily degrading. On the contrary, every
decent man should get drunk on suitable occasions, such as weddings,
christenings, etc., and then go quietly to a barn or loft and sleep
off his tipsiness. _Bea cat vrei apoi te calcu si dormi_ (drink thy
fill and then lie down and sleep) says their proverb; but any man who
has been seen reeling drunk in the open street, hooted at by children
and barked at by dogs, were it but once, is henceforward branded as a
drunkard. It is therefore the duty of each Roumanian who sees a drunken
man to conduct him quietly to the nearest barn or loft.
There are some few villages where even the noblest inhabitants are not
ashamed to be seen drunk in the open street, but in such villages the
moral standard is a low one throughout.
Another curious side of the Roumanian’s morality is the point of view
from which he regards personal property, such as grain and fruit. In
general, whatever grows plentifully in the fields, or, as they term
it, “whatever God has given,” may be taken with impunity by whoever
passes that way, but with this restriction, that he merely take so much
as he can consume at the moment. This is but right and just, and the
proprietor who makes complaint at having his vineyard or his plum-trees
rifled in this manner only exposes himself to ridicule. Whoever carries
away of the fruits with him is a thief, but, strictly speaking, only
when he sells the stolen goods, not when he shares them quietly with
his own family.
With regard to fowls, geese, lambs, and sucking-pigs, the rule is more
or less the same. Whoever steals only in order to treat himself to a
good dinner is not blamed, and may even boast of the feat on the sly;
but the man caught in the act is punished by having the stolen goods
tied round his neck, and being led round the village to the sound of
the drum to proclaim his shame to the people. If, however, he has
stolen from a stranger—that is, some one of another village—the
culprit does not usually lose his good reputation; and he who robs a
rich stranger is never considered base, but simply awkward to have
exposed himself to the odium of discovery.
The Roumanian only looks at deeds and results, motives being absolutely
indifferent to him. So the word passion he translates as _pâtima_,
which really expresses weakness. Thus an _om pâtima_—a weak man—may
be either a consumptive invalid, a love-sick youth, or a furious
drunkard. Passion is a misfortune which should excite compassion, but
not resentment; and whoever commits a bad action is above all foolish,
because it is sure to be found out sooner or later.
An anecdote which aptly characterizes the Roumanian’s moral sense is
told by Mr. Patterson. Three peasants waylaid and murdered a traveller,
dividing his spoils between them. Among his provisions they discovered
a cold roast fowl, which they did not eat, however, but gave to their
dog, as, being a fast-day, they feared to commit sin by tasting flesh.
This was related by the murderers themselves when caught and driven to
confess the crime before justice.
While on the subject of fasts, I may as well here mention that those
prescribed by the Greek Church are numerous and severe; and it is a
well-ascertained fact that the largest average of crimes committed
by Roumanians occurs during the seasons of Advent and Lent, when the
people are in a feverish and over-excited state from the unnatural
deprivation of food—just as the Saxon peasants are most quarrelsome
immediately after the vintage.
Another English traveller, speaking disparagingly of the serf-like,
crouching demeanor of the Roumanians, remarked that “perhaps nothing
else could be expected of people who are required to fast two hundred
and twenty-six days in the year.”
The inhabitants of each Roumanian village are divided into three
classes:
First, the distinguished villagers—front-men—called _fruntasi_, or
_oameni de frunta_.
Second, the middle-men—_mylocasi_, or _oameni de mana adona_—men of
second-hand.
Third, the hind-men, or _codas_ (tail-men).
Each man, according to his family, personal gifts, reputation, and
fortune, is ranged into one or other of these three classes, which have
each their separate customs, rights, and privileges, which no member of
another class durst infringe upon.
Thus the codas may do much which would not be suitable for the other
two classes. The mylocasi have, on the whole, the most difficult
position of the three, and are most severely judged, being alternately
accused of presumption in imitating the behavior of the fruntas, and
blamed for demeaning themselves by copying the irregular habits of
the codas. In short, it would seem to be all but impossible for an
unfortunate middle-man to hit off the _juste milieu_, and succeed
in combining in his person the precise proportions of dignity and
deference required of his state.
Nor is the position of the front-men entirely an easy one. Each one of
these has a separate party of hangers-on, friends and admirers, who
profess a blind faith and admiration for him—endorsing his opinion on
all occasions, and recognizing his authority in matters of dispute. His
dress, his words, his actions are all strictly regulated on the axiom
_noblesse oblige_; but woe to him if he be caught erring himself—for
only in the case of the popa is it allowable for the practice to differ
from the preaching. A fruntas may sit down to table with the codas of
his own village, whenever they are in his service helping him to bring
in the harvest or to build a house; but he durst not, under pain of
losing caste, be equally familiar with any strange codas.
There are, moreover, whole districts which are reckoned as
distinguished, and whose codas take rank along with the mylocasi, or
even the front-men, of less aristocratic villages. A single woman,
coming from one of these distinguished neighborhoods, may in a
short time transform the whole village into which she marries, the
inhabitants eagerly studying and imitating her dress, manners, and
gestures, down to the most insignificant details.
* * * * *
A distinctive quality of the Roumanian race is the touching affection
which mostly unites all members of one family. Unlike the Saxon, who
seeks to limit the number of his offspring, the poor Roumanian, even
when plunged into the direst poverty, yet regards each addition to
his family as another gift of God; while to be a childless wife is
considered as the greatest of misfortunes.
Numerous instances are recorded of children of other nationalities,
who, deserted by their unnatural parents, have been taken in by poor
Roumanians, themselves already burdened with a numerous family.
There is an ancient Roumanian legend which tells us how in olden
times there used to prevail the custom of killing off all old men and
useless encumbrances, on the same principle as in Mr. Trollope’s “Fixed
Period.” One young man, however, being much attached to his parent,
could not resign himself to executing this cruel order; but fearing the
anger of his country-people, he concealed his father in an empty barrel
in the cellar, where every day he secretly brought him food and drink.
But it came to pass that all arms-bearing men were summoned together
to sally forth in quest of a terrible dragon which was devastating the
land. The pious son, sorely puzzled to know how to provide his father
with nourishment during his absence, carried together all the victuals
in the house, lamenting to him that possibly he might never return from
the expedition, in which case his beloved parent would be obliged to
die of hunger. The old man answered,
“If in truth thou returnest not, then life has no more charms for me,
and gladly will I let my weak body sink into the grave. But wouldst
thou come back victorious out of the conflict with the dragon, listen
to my words. The cavern inhabited by the monster has over a hundred
subterraneous passages and galleries which run like a labyrinth in
every direction, so that even if the enemy be killed the victors,
unable to find the outlet, will perish miserably. Therefore take with
thee our black mare which goes to pasture with a foal, and lead them
both to the mouth of the cavern. There kill and bury the foal, but take
the mother with thee, and when the struggle with the dragon is over,
she will safely lead thee back to the light of day.”
The son then took leave of his father with many tears, and marched away
with his comrades, and when he reached the cavern he obeyed the given
directions, without, however, revealing the secret to any one.
After a desperate struggle, the monster in the cavern was slain; but
terror and dismay took possession of the warriors when it proved
impossible to find the outlet from this dreadful labyrinth. Then
stepped forward the pious son with his black mare, and called upon
the others to follow him. The mare began to neigh for her foal, and,
seeking the daylight, soon hit on the right track, which brought them
safely to the mouth of the cavern.
The warriors, seeing how their comrade had saved them all from certain
death, now besought him to reveal to them how he chanced to have hit on
this cunning device. But he now took fright that if he spoke the truth,
not only his own life but that of his old father would be forfeited for
having thus dared to disobey the law of the land. Only at last, when
all had sworn to do him no injury, did he consent to unseal his lips
and tell them how, in his cellar, there lived his father, an old and
experienced man, who, at parting, had given him this advice with regard
to the mare.
On hearing this the warriors were mightily astonished, and one of them
called out, “Our ancestors did not do wisely in teaching us to kill
the old ones, for these are more experienced than we, and can often
help the people with their sage counsels when mere strength of arm is
powerless to conquer.”
All applauded this sentiment, and the cruel law which demanded the
death of the aged was henceforth abolished.
FOOTNOTES:
[20] The Roumanian peasant has a passion for white snowy linen. Usually
it is his sweetheart on whom devolves the duty of keeping it clean, or,
when he has no sweetheart, then his mother or sister.