A ROUMANIAN VILLAGE.
In our intercourse with the Roumanian peasantry we are constantly
reminded of the fact that only yesterday they were a barbarous race
with whom murder and plunder were every-day habits, and in whom the
precepts of respect for life and property have yet to be instilled. Not
that the Roumanian is by nature murderously inclined—on the contrary,
he is gentle and harmless enough as a general rule, and in nine cases
out of ten the idea of harming you will not even occur to him; but
should your life by any chance happen to stand between him and the
object of his desire, no sentiment of religion or morality will be
likely to restrain him from using his knife as freely as he would in
the case of a hare or roe-deer. It is not that he takes life for the
pleasure of shedding blood, but simply that he sets little value on it,
and that he regards as far greater sin any infraction of his Church
laws than the most flagrant attack on life and property.
The study of this people, gradually emerging from barbarism into
civilization, is most curious and interesting. While eagerly grasping
at the benefits held out to them by science, they are as yet unable
to shake themselves clear of the cobwebs of paganism and superstition
which often obscure their vision. It is the struggle between past and
future, between darkness and light, between superstition and science;
and who can doubt that the result will be a brilliant one, and that
a glorious resurrection awaits these spirits, so long enchained in
bondage. But this hour has not yet struck, and the study of this
people, however interesting, has its drawbacks, sometimes even perils;
and especially for a lady, it is not always advisable to trust herself
alone and unarmed in one of the out-of-the-way Roumanian villages, as
I had occasion myself to discover in one of my expeditions to a hamlet
lying south-east of Hermanstadt.
Some time previously I had “spotted” this place on the map; it seemed
to be within easy walking distance—not more than two hours off—and,
lying somewhat away from the high-road, was not likely to have been
much visited, and might therefore be expected to possess a fair
assortment of china jugs and embroidered towels.
“Take your revolver with you, mamma,” suggested my youngest son, when I
told him where I was going.
“Nonsense!” I replied; “the map and some sandwiches are all I shall
require;” for my experience, which till then had lain entirely in
Saxon villages, had shown me no ground for such precautions. I do not
suppose that the child’s warning had been dictated by any prophetic
spirit; more likely he wondered how any one lucky enough to possess
such a delightful toy as a real revolver could refuse themselves the
pleasure of sporting it on every possible occasion. So, leaving the
neat little fire-arm hanging on its customary nail, I started on my
walk, accompanied by a young German maid, who, speaking both Hungarian
and Roumanian fluently, was useful as an interpreter.
It was early in October, and a bright sunshiny day; the high-road
was crowded with carts and peasants coming to town, for it was
market-day; but after we had struck into a path across the fields the
way lay solitary before us. The village, which nestled against a bare
hill-side, was neither very picturesque nor interesting-looking; and as
we drew nearer I saw that it had a somewhat poverty-stricken aspect,
which considerably depressed my hopes of ceramic treasures. I had not
been aware that this hamlet, formerly a flourishing Saxon settlement,
had by degrees become flooded by the Roumanian element, and that the
Protestant church, for lack of a congregation, was now usually shut
up. Many of the people had German names, while speaking the Roumanian
language and wearing the Roumanian dress; and of all the inhabitants
four families only still professed the Lutheran faith. Intermarriage
with Roumanians, and the total extinction of many Saxon families, had
been the causes which had thus metamorphosed the national character of
the village.
Crossing a little bridge over the bed of a partially dried-up stream,
we entered the hamlet, where I forthwith began operations, proceeding
from house to house. At the very outset I found two pretty specimens
of china jugs in a gypsy hovel, but this was a solitary instance of
good-luck which had no sequel, for all the other huts could only
produce coarse Roumanian ware, very much inferior to Saxon pottery.
Our appearance in the village made a considerable sensation, and at
first we were slightly mobbed by all sorts of wild uncouth figures,
mostly gypsies; but luckily by degrees the interest wore off, and we
were left alone, but for one particularly villanous-looking man who
kept following at a little distance. Already I had been rather provoked
by several attempts to pick my pocket on the part of the gypsies, so
was on my guard, when, standing still to reflect where next to go, the
villanous-looking individual approached to accost me, and I could see
that his eyes were riveted on my gold watch-chain, which imprudently
I had left visible outside my jacket. These suspicions were presently
strengthened by his asking me what o’clock it was. “Look at your own
church clock,” I answered, rather shortly, pointing to the tower close
at hand; but he gave a roguish grin, and said, “Our clock is slow; I
wanted to set it right.”
I could not help laughing, though I did not feel quite easy in my mind,
and gave him the information he professed to want, but which of course
was only an excuse to look at my watch. I now tried to shake him off,
but my villanous friend was anxious to improve the acquaintance, and
would not leave me without having ascertained who I was, and what I
wanted here.
“Old china jugs!” he exclaimed, when somewhat weakly I had admitted my
errand. “I have got plenty such jugs, if the gracious lady will only
condescend to come into my house close by.”
I looked again more narrowly at the face of my villanous friend, and
the result of my investigations was to answer with great decision,
“Thank you, I have got enough china jugs for to-day—_quite_ enough.”
He tried to insist, till I found it expedient to lose my temper,
telling him to go about his business and leave me in peace. He did
leave me in peace, but only indirectly, for we saw him soon after
speaking to a gypsy woman, who presently began to dog our footsteps in
the same manner, trying to induce me to go into this or that one of the
more disreputable-looking houses.
By this time I was thoroughly tired out. Any one who has had like
experience will know how fatiguing it is to go into twenty or thirty
houses in succession, with the invariable stereotyped questions, “Have
you any jugs? and will you sell them?” and then to repeat over and over
again the self-same process of persuasion and bargaining. Besides this,
I had risen early, had a long walk, and was very hungry, so naturally
wanted a quiet spot to sit down and eat my sandwiches. “There must
surely be a village inn where we can get a glass of milk,” I said,
turning round to our persistent follower.
“There, there,” said the woman, pointing in advance, and she
disappeared running down the street.
We had no difficulty in finding the inn, as indicated by the usual sign
all over Austria—a bunch of wood-shavings hung over the door-way. I
was about to enter the room, when my German servant suddenly drew back
and pulled my dress. “Come away, come away, madam,” she whispered;
“it is not safe to go in there,” and as soon as we had regained the
road and shaken ourselves clear of some loungers outside who tried to
persuade us to re-enter, she explained the cause of her terror: she had
caught sight of that same man who had asked to see the watch hiding
behind the pothouse door, and evidently lying in wait for us.
This looked serious, and it was evident that some sort of trap was
being laid for my unfortunate watch, so I resolved that nothing in the
world should induce me to enter any such suspicious-looking house. My
maid was nearly crying with fright by this time, and shaking like an
aspen leaf, so I kindly advised her not to be a fool, pointing out that
there was really no cause for alarm after all. “We need not enter any
house unless we like, and they will hardly think of murdering us in the
open street, so do not make a fuss about nothing.”
“It is not for myself, but on account of the _gnädige frau_, that
I am frightened,” the girl now explained, apparently stung by the
insinuation of cowardice. “If anything should happen to you, madam,
what will the master say to me when I go home alone? He will say it was
all my fault!”
“Make your mind quite easy,” I said (perhaps rather cruelly, as it now
strikes me). “If they should cut my throat to get the watch, they will
for a certainty cut yours as well to prevent you telling tales of them,
so you will never reach home to be scolded.”
But the question of what to do was in truth becoming perplexing; rest
and food were now secondary considerations, my only thought being how
safely to reach home. The long lonely way that separated this village
from the town seemed doubly long and desolate in anticipation, and I
hardly liked to start from here alone. I now thought with regretful
longing of the handy little revolver I had left at home in its
Russia-leather case. Not that I should ever have required to use it,
of course, but its appearance alone would have served as antidote to
the dangerous fascinations of the gold watch. If I had but followed my
boy’s advice I should not have found myself in this awkward predicament.
Taking a turn down the road to collect my ideas, a thought struck me.
In the course of my peregrinations through the village earlier in the
day, I had noted one house where the people appeared more respectable,
though in nowise wealthier, than their neighbors. The man had a
frank open face, in which I could hardly be mistaken; and, moreover,
I had observed a few books lying on a shelf, in itself an unusual
circumstance in any Roumanian house, which would seem to imply some
degree of culture. To this man, therefore, I resolved to go for advice;
perhaps he would himself accompany us part of the way, or else provide
some other escort who would undertake not to cut our throats between
this and Hermanstadt.
This plan seemed reasonable; but just as I was about to push open the
gate of the little court-yard, the same gypsy woman who had been set
on before to follow me came running up: “Don’t go in there; there
is a terrible bad dog.” She warned so earnestly that for a moment I
hesitated with my hand on the latch; for if in the whole world there
is a thing which has the power to make my flesh creep and my blood run
cold, it is a savage dog, and this woman, with the quickness of her
race, had already had occasion to note my weak point. Her warning,
however, missed its effect, for having been in that courtyard before,
I distinctly remembered the absence of any dog whatever, whether good,
bad, or indifferent, and her anxiety to prevent me from entering was in
itself a sign that there was no danger.
So in I went: the man with the good face was not at home, I was
told—he had gone to the field, but would presently return; only his
wife, a sweet-faced young woman, and his aged mother, being alone in
the house. Yes, I might sit down and welcome, said the young woman; and
she hastened to bring me a chair and set some fresh milk before me; so
I passed half an hour very pleasantly in examining the cottage and its
inhabitants.
The young wife was seated at her loom weaving one of the red and blue
towels which adorn each Roumanian cottage. Some of the pillow-cases and
towels here hung up were of superior make to those usually seen, being
both softer in color and richer in texture. “It is the old mother who
made them,” she explained. “She works far better than I can do, but now
she is too old, and the weaving fatigues her; she was ninety-five this
year.”
“Was she in good health?” I asked by means of my interpreter.
“Quite good; but she cannot eat much—a little soup and a glass of wine
every day is about all she takes.”
“And where is your dog?” was my next inquiry, remembering the gypsy
woman’s caution.
“Dog?” she asked in surprise. “We never had a dog. What should we keep
one for? We are too poor to be afraid of robbers.”
When the husband came back I explained our errand. He smiled a little,
and said he thought my fears were groundless. Those fellows would
hardly dare to attempt any violence in daylight; but after all, it
was just possible, he admitted. There certainly were several very
bad characters in the village, and no doubt a gold watch was a great
temptation; it would certainly be wiser not to start from here alone.
After considering a little (apparently it _did_ require consideration),
he said that he knew of one respectable man in the village, and would
come with us to look for him. I expressed my astonishment at seeing
so many books in his house. “I began by being school-master in a
neighboring village,” he told me, “but it was only for a short time.
Then my father died, and I had to return here to look after the fields.
That was ten years ago. If I had remained there longer I should know
more than I do.” He showed me a volume of general history he was then
studying. “I read a little of it every evening when I come back from
work. I try to keep myself from forgetting everything—one is apt to
get rusty and _verbauert_ (peasantified) living here among peasants.”
The sole other respectable man which the village could produce turning
out to be absent, our host expressed his willingness to accompany us as
far as I wished, though I knew that he was leaving his work to do so.
Before quitting the village, however, I had a last encounter with my
villanous friend of heretofore, whom I found waiting for me near the
little bridge. He begged me so urgently to come in just for one minute
to look at his china jugs, which he described in enthusiastic terms,
that I gave an unwilling consent. He was apparently surprised and not
over-pleased on recognizing my escort, and would have shaken him off
on reaching his door, saying, “Well, good-by, neighbor; you need not
trouble yourself further.”
Of course I refused to go into the house alone, and of course, too,
when I did go in, the much-vaunted jugs turned out to be cracked and
worthless specimens of the very commonest sort of ware, bearing no
resemblance to what I was seeking.
I was fairly glad to turn my back on this horrid little village,
fully resolved never again to set foot within its precincts; and in
conversation with our obliging protector, who spoke very tolerable
German (an unusual thing in any Roumanian), three-quarters of an hour
passed very quickly. He told me much about himself and his family; also
about the village, which twice had been burned down within fifteen
years and reduced to the most abject poverty; everything of value in
the place had perished on the one or other of these occasions. His
family life seemed happy, but for one source of grief, for his marriage
was childless, and to any Roumanian this is a very great grief indeed.
“It is sad for us to be alone,” he said; “but God has willed it so.”
In the course of our talk he inquired, but with great delicacy, who I
was, saying, “I do not know whether I should say madam or fräulein; and
perhaps I seem impolite if I am not giving the gracious lady her proper
title.” And when I had mentioned the name and position of my husband,
I found him to be well informed as to all the military arrangements of
the country, correctly naming off-hand all the ten or twelve cavalry
stations in Transylvania. He recognized our name as being a Polish
one, and began to talk of that nation. “Those Poles have sometimes
very good heads,” he remarked, “but they do not seem able to manage
their own affairs. What a pity they were not able to keep their country
together!” After this he inquired much about the state of commerce and
agriculture in Poland, the influence of the Jews, etc., all he said
indicating such a mixture of natural refinement and shrewd common-sense
that I was quite sorry when, arriving within sight of the high-road,
and there being no reason further to tax his good-nature, he took his
leave with a bow which would not have disgraced any gentleman.