MY COUNTRY
_HER MAJESTY THE
QUEEN OF RUMANIA_
_The Stealers of Light_
Illustrated in Colour by EDMUND DULAC.
Price 6/- net.
_The Dreamer of Dreams_
Illustrated in Colour by EDMUND DULAC.
Price 6/- net.
_The Lily of Life_
Illustrated in Colour by HELEN STRATTON.
Price 6/- net.
HODDER AND STOUGHTON, LONDON
[Illustration]
MY COUNTRY
BY
MARIE
QUEEN OF RUMANIA
[Illustration]
ALL PROFITS FROM THE SALE OF THIS
BOOK WILL BE PAID TO THE BRITISH RED
CROSS SOCIETY FOR WORK IN RUMANIA
PUBLISHED FOR The Times
BY
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO
MCMXVI
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"The thatched roofs are replaced by roofs of shingle that shine
like silver in the sun" 6
"Very different are the mountain villages from those of the
plain. The cottages are less miserable" 6
"Many a hearty welcome has been given me in these little
villages" 7
"Square, high buildings with an open gallery round the top" 7
"It is especially in the Dobrudja that these different
nationalities jostle together" 10
"It had kept the delightful appearance of having been modelled
by a potter's thumb" 14
"Primitive strongholds, half tower, half peasant-house" 14
"Richer and more varied are the peasants' costumes" 14
"With an open gallery round the top formed by stout short
columns" 15
"Composed of a double colonnade.... Behind these colonnades
are the nuns' small cells: tiny domes, little chambers" 15
"A convent ... white and lonely, hidden away in wooded regions
greener and sweeter than any other in the land" 18
"This porch is decorated all over with frescoes" 22
"Some were so old, so bent, that they could no more raise their
heads to look up at the sky above" 23
"Strange old monks inhabited it" 23
"Silent recluses, buried away from the world" 23
"An indescribable harmony makes its lines beautiful" 26
"A lonely little cemetery, filled with crosses of wood" 30
"On lonely mountain-sides" 30
"Guarded by a few hoary old monks" 30
"There lies a tiny wee church" 30
"Tall and upright, with the pale, ascetic face of a saint" 30
"Creatures so old and decrepit that they seem to have
gathered moss like stones lying for ever in the same place" 30
"When found in such numbers they are mostly hewn out of
wood" 31
"These strange old crosses ... they stand by the wayside" 31
"Mostly they stand beside wells" 34
"Quaint of shape, they attract the eye from far" 38
"Sometimes they are of quaintly carved stone" 38
"Strange old crosses that on all roads I have come upon" 38
"Their forms and sizes are varied" 38
"None of the greater buildings attract me so strongly as
those little village churches" 39
"The altar is shut off from the rest of the building by a
carved and painted screen" 39
"The roofs are always of shingle" 42
"Varied indeed are the shapes of these peasant churches" 46
"Their principal feature being the stout columns that support
the porch in front" 46
"But with some the belfry stands by itself" 47
"The columns have beautiful carved capitals of rarest design
... whitewashed like the rest of the church" 47
"Quaint indeed are the buildings that some simple-hearted
artist has painted" 47
"These lonely mountain-dwellers" 50
"These shaggy garments give them a wild appearance" 54
"Their only refuges are dug-outs" 54
"Even tiny boys wear these extraordinary coats" 54
"Here, in company with their dogs, they spend the long summer
months" 54
"On juicy pastures near clear-flowing stream" 55
"Silent watchers leaning on their staffs" 55
"Wherever I have met them, be it on the mountains or in the
plains, ... these silent shepherds have seemed to me the very
personification of solitude" 55
"On the burning plains of the Dobrudja where for miles around
no tree is to be seen" 58
"Stifled by the overwhelming temperature, they had massed
themselves together" 58
"Mothers and children, and old grannies" 62
"Small bronze statues with curly, tousled heads" 62
"Occasionally a torn shirt barely covers them" 62
"Most beautiful of all are the young girls" 63
"Inconceivably picturesque" 63
"These are the respected members of the tribes" 63
"I have often met old couples wandering together" 63
"A bare field where the soldiers exercised" 66
MY COUNTRY
The Queen of a small Country!
Those who are accustomed to see rulers of greater lands can little
understand what it means.
It means work and anxiety and hope, and great toiling for small
results. But the field is large, and, if the heart be willing, great is
the work.
When young I thought it all work, uphill work; but the passing years
brought another knowledge, a blessed knowledge, and now I know.
This is a small country, a new country, but it is a country I love. I
want others to love it also; therefore listen to a few words about it.
Let me paint a few pictures, draw a few sketches as I have seen them,
first with my eyes, then with my heart.
* * * * *
Once I was a stranger to this people; now I am one of them, and,
because I came from so far, better was I able to see them with their
good qualities and with their defects.
Their country is a fruitful country, a country of vast plains, of
waving corn, of deep forests, of rocky mountains, of rivers that in
spring-time are turbulent with foaming waters, that in summer are
but sluggish streams lost amongst stones. A country where peasants
toil 'neath scorching suns, a country untouched by the squalor of
manufactories, a country of extremes where the winters are icy and the
summers burning hot.
A link between East and West.
At first it was an alien country, its roads too dusty, too endless its
plains. I had to learn to see its beauties--to feel its needs with my
heart.
Little by little the stranger became one of them, and now she would
like the country of her birth to see this other country through the
eyes of its Queen.
Yes, little by little I learnt to understand this people, and little by
little it learned to understand me.
Now we trust each other, and so, if God wills, together we shall go
towards a greater future!
My love of freedom and vast horizons, my love of open air and
unexplored paths led to many a discovery. Alone I would ride for hours
to reach a forlorn village, to see a crumbling church standing amongst
its rustic crosses at a river's edge, or to be at a certain spot at
sunset when sky and earth would be drenched with flaming red.
Oh! the Rumanian sunsets, how wondrous they are!
[Illustration: "THE THATCHED ROOFS ARE REPLACED BY ROOFS OF SHINGLE
THAT SHINE LIKE SILVER IN THE SUN" (p. 13).]
[Illustration: "VERY DIFFERENT ARE THE MOUNTAIN VILLAGES FROM THOSE OF
THE PLAIN. THE COTTAGES ARE LESS MISERABLE" (p. 13).]
[Illustration: "MANY A HEARTY WELCOME HAS BEEN GIVEN ME IN THESE LITTLE
VILLAGES" (p. 13).]
[Illustration: "SQUARE, HIGH BUILDINGS WITH AN OPEN GALLERY ROUND THE
TOP" (p. 21).]
Once I was riding slowly homewards.
The day had been torrid, the air was heavy with dust. In oceans of
burnished gold the corn-fields spread before me. No breath of wind
stirred their ripeness; they seemed waiting for the hour of harvest,
proud of being the wealth of the land.
As far as my eye could reach, corn-fields, corn-fields, dwindling away
towards the horizon in a vapoury line. A blue haze lay over the world,
and with it a smell of dew and ripening seed was slowly rising out of
the ground.
At the end of the road stood a well, its long pole like a giant finger
pointing eternally to the sky. Beside it an old stone cross leaning on
one side as though tired, a cross erected with the well in remembrance
of some one who was dead....
Peace enveloped me--my horse made no movement, it also was under the
evening spell.
From afar a herd of buffaloes came slowly towards me over the long
straight road: an ungainly procession of beasts that might have
belonged to antediluvian times.
One by one they advanced--mud-covered, patient, swinging their ugly
bodies, carrying stiffly their heavily-horned heads, their vacant eyes
staring at nothing, though here and there with raised faces they seemed
to be seeking something from the skies.
From under their hoofs rose clouds of dust accompanying their every
stride. The sinking sun caught hold of it, turning it into fiery
smoke. It was as a veil of light spread over these beasts of burden, a
glorious radiance advancing with them towards their rest.
I stood quite still and looked upon them as they passed me one by
one.... And that evening a curtain seemed to have been drawn away from
many a mystery. I had understood the meaning of the vast and fertile
plain.
* * * * *
Twenty-three years have I now spent in this country, each day bringing
its joy or its sorrow, its light or its shade; with each year my
interests widened, my understanding deepened; I knew where I was needed
to help.
I am not going to talk of my country's institutions, of its politics,
of names known to the world. Others have done this more cleverly than I
ever could. I want only to speak of its soul, of its atmosphere, of its
peasants and soldiers, of things that made me love this country, that
made my heart beat with its heart.
I have moved amongst the most humble. I have entered their cottages,
asked them questions, taken their new-born in my arms.
I talked their language awkwardly, making many a mistake; but,
although a stranger, nowhere amongst the peasants did I meet with
distrust or suspicion. They were ready to converse with me, ready to
let me enter their cottages, and especially ready to speak of their
woes. It is always of their woes that the poor have to relate, but
these did it with singular dignity, speaking of death and misery with
stoic resignation, counting the graves of their children as another
would count the trees planted round his house.
They are poor, they are ignorant, these peasants. They are neglected
and superstitious, but there is a grand nobility in their race. They
are frugal and sober, their wants are few, their desires limited; but
one great dream each man cherishes in the depth of his heart: he wishes
to be a landowner, to possess the ground that he tills; he wishes to
call it his own. This they one and all told me; it was the monotonous
refrain of all their talk.
* * * * *
When first I saw a Rumanian village, with its tiny huts hidden amongst
trees, the only green spots on the immense plains, I could hardly
believe that families could inhabit houses so small.
They resembled the houses we used to draw as children, with a door in
the middle, a tiny window on each side, and smoke curling somewhere
out of the heavily thatched roof. Often these roofs seem too heavy for
the cottages; they seem to crush them, and the wide-open doors make
them look as if they were screaming for help.
In the evening the women sit with their distaffs spinning on the
doorsteps, whilst the herds come tramping home through the dust, and
the dogs bark furiously, filling the air with their clamour.
Nowhere have I seen so many dogs as in a Rumanian village--a sore trial
to the rider on a frisky horse.
All night long the dogs bark, answering each other. They are never
still; it is a sound inseparable from the Rumanian night.
I always loved to wander through these villages. I have done so at each
season, and every month has its charm.
In spring-time they are half-buried in fruit-trees, a foamy ocean of
blossoms out of which the round roofs of the huts rise like large grey
clouds.
Chickens, geese, and newly born pigs sport hither and thither over the
doorsteps; early hyacinths and golden daffodils run loose in the untidy
courtyards, where strangely shaped pots and bright rags of carpets lie
about in picturesque disorder.
Amongst all this the half-naked black-eyed children crawl about in
happy freedom.
[Illustration: "IT IS ESPECIALLY IN THE DOBRUDJA THAT THESE DIFFERENT
NATIONALITIES JOSTLE TOGETHER" (p. 16).]
Never was I able to understand how such large families, without
counting fowls and many a four-footed friend, could find room in the
two minute chambers of which these huts are composed.
In winter these villages are covered with snow; each hut is a white
padded heap; all corners are rounded off so that every cottage has the
aspect of being packed in cotton-wool.
No efforts are made to clear away the drifts. The snow lies there where
it has fallen; the small sledges bump over its inequalities, forming
roads as wavy as a storm-beaten sea!
The Rumanian peasant is never in a hurry. Time plays no part in his
scheme of life. Accustomed to limitless horizons, he does not expect to
reach the end of his way in a day.
In summer the carts, in winter the sledges, move along those endless
roads, slowly, resignedly, with untiring patience.
Drawn by tiny, lean horses, the wooden sledges bump over the uneven
snow, the peasant sits half-hidden amongst his stacks of wood, hay,
or maize-stalks, according to the freight he may be transporting
from place to place. Picturesque in his rough sheep-skin coat, he is
just as picturesque in summer in his white shirt and broad felt hat,
contentedly lying upon his stacked-up corn, whilst his long-suffering
oxen trudge away, seemingly as indifferent as their master to the
length of the road. They are stone-grey, these oxen-lean, strong, with
large-spread horns; their eyes are beautiful, with almost human look.
The Rumanian road is a characteristic feature of the country. It is
wide, it is dusty, generally it is straight, few trees shading its
borders; mostly it is badly kept. But, like all things upon which
civilisation has not yet laid too heavy a hand, it has an indefinite
charm--the charm of immensity, something dreamy, something infinite,
something that need never come to an end....
And along these roads the peasants' carts crawl, one after another in
an endless file, enveloped in clouds of dust. If night overtake them on
the way the oxen are unyoked, the carts are drawn up beside the ditch,
till the rising dawn reminds them that there are still many miles to
their goal....
When it rains the dust turns to mud; the road becomes then a river of
mud!
Rumania is not a country of violent colours. There is a curious unity
in its large horizons, its dusty roads, its white-clad peasants, its
rough wooden carts. Even oxen and horses seem to have toned down to
grey or dun, so as to become one with a sort of dreamy haziness that
lies over the whole.
It is only the sunsets that turn all these shadowy tints into a sudden
marvel of colour, flooding earth and sky with wondrous gold. I have
seen hay-stacks change into fiery pyramids, rivers into burning
ribbons, and pale, tired faces light up with a marvellous glow.
A fleeting hour this hour of sunset, but each time it bursts upon me as
an eternally renewed promise sent by God above.
Perchance 'tis in winter and autumn that these sunsets are most
glorious, when the earth is tired, when its year's labour is done, or
when it is sleeping 'neath its shimmering shroud of snow, guarding in
its bosom the harvest that is to come.
* * * * *
Very different are the mountain villages from those of the plain.
The cottages are less miserable, less small, the thatched roofs are
replaced by roofs of shingle that shine like silver in the sun. Richer
and more varied are the peasants' costumes; the colours are brighter,
and often a tiny flower-filled garden surrounds the house.
Autumn is the season to visit these villages amongst the hills; autumn,
when the trees are a flaming glory, when the dying year sends out a
last effort of beauty before being vanquished by frost and snow.
Many a hearty welcome has been given me in these little villages, the
peasants receiving me with flower-filled hands. At the first sign of my
carriage, troops of rustic riders gallop out to meet me, scampering
helter-skelter on their shaggy little horses, bearing banners or
flowering branches, shouting with delight. Full tilt they fly after my
carriage, raising clouds of dust. Like their masters, the ponies are
wild with excitement; all is noise, colour, movement; joy runs wild
over the earth.
The bells of the village ring, their voices are full of gladness, they
too cry out their welcome. Crowds of gaily clad women and children
flock out of the houses, having plundered their gardens so as to strew
flowers before the feet of their Queen.
The church generally stands in the middle of the village; here the
sovereign must leave her carriage, and, surrounded by an eager, happy
crowd, she is led towards the sanctuary, where the priest receives her
at the door, cross in hand.
Wherever she moves the crowd moves with her; there is no awkwardness,
no shyness, but neither is there any pushing or crushing. The Rumanian
peasants remain dignified; they are seldom rowdy in their joy. They
want to look at one, to touch one, to hear one's voice; but they show
no astonishment and little curiosity. Mostly their expression remains
serious, and their children stare at one with grave faces and huge,
impressive eyes.
It is only the galloping riders who become loud in their joy.
[Illustration: "IT HAD KEPT THE DELIGHTFUL APPEARANCE OF HAVING BEEN
MODELLED BY A POTTER'S THUMB" (p. 21).]
[Illustration: "PRIMITIVE STRONGHOLDS, HALF TOWER, HALF PEASANT-HOUSE"
(p. 21).]
[Illustration: "RICHER AND MORE VARIED ARE THE PEASANTS' COSTUMES" (p.
13).]
[Illustration: "WITH AN OPEN GALLERY ROUND THE TOP FORMED BY STOUT
SHORT COLUMNS" (p. 21).]
[Illustration: "COMPOSED OF A DOUBLE COLONNADE.... BEHIND THESE
COLONNADES ARE THE NUNS' SMALL CELLS: TINY DOMES, LITTLE CHAMBERS" (p.
26).]
There are some strange customs amongst the peasants, curious
superstitions. Rumania being a dry country, it is lucky to arrive with
rain: it means abundance, fertility, the hope of a fine harvest--wealth.
Sometimes as I went through the villages, the peasant women would put
large wooden buckets full of water before their threshold; a full
vessel is a sign of Good-luck. They will even sprinkle water before
one's feet, always because of that strange superstition, that water is
abundance, and, when the great one comes amongst them, honour must be
done unto her in every way.
I have seen tall, handsome girls step out of their houses to meet me
with overflowing water-jars on their heads; on my approach they stood
quite still, the drops splashing over their faces so as well to prove
that their pitchers were full.
It is lucky to meet a cart full of corn or straw coming towards one;
but an empty cart is a sure sign of Ill-luck!
Many a time, in places I came to, the inhabitants have crowded around
me, kissing my hands, the hem of my dress, falling down to kiss my
feet, and more than once have they brought me their children, who made
the Sign of the Cross before me as though I had been the holy Image in
a church.
At first it was difficult unblushingly to accept such homage, but
little by little I got accustomed to these loyal manifestations; half
humble, half proud, I would advance amongst them, happy to be in their
midst.
* * * * *
It were impossible to describe all I have seen, heard, or felt whilst
moving amongst these simple, warm-hearted people; so many vivid
pictures, so many touching scenes have remained imprinted on my heart.
I have wandered through villages lost in forsaken spots, upon burning
plains; I have climbed up to humble little houses clustering together
on mountain-sides. I have come upon lovely little places hidden amongst
giant pines. On forlorn seashores I have discovered humble hamlets
where Turks dwelt in solitary aloofness; near the broad Danube I have
strayed amongst tiny boroughs inhabited by Russian fisher-folk, whose
type is so different from that of the Rumanian peasant. At first sight
one recognises their nationality--tall, fair-bearded giants, with blue
eyes, their red shirts visible from a great way off.
It is especially in the Dobrudja that these different nationalities
jostle together: besides Rumanians, Bulgarians, Turks, Tartars,
Russians, in places even Germans, live peacefully side by side.
I have been to a village in the Dobrudja which was part Rumanian, part
Russian, part German, part Turkish. I went from one side to another,
visiting many a cottage, entering each church, ending my round in
the tiny rustic mosque hung with faded carpets, and there amongst a
crowd of lowly Turks I listened to their curious service, of which I
understood naught. A woman who is not veiled has no right to enter the
holy precinct; but a royal name opens many a door, and many a severe
rule is broken in the joy of receiving so unusual a guest.
On a burning summer's day I came to a tiny town almost entirely
inhabited by Turks. I was distributing money amongst the poor and
forsaken, and had been moving from place to place. Now it was the turn
of the Mussulman population, therefore did I visit the most wretched
quarters, my hands filled with many a coin.
Such was their joy at my coming that the real object of my visit was
almost forgotten. I found myself surrounded by a swarm of excited women
in strange attire, prattling a language I could not understand.
They called me Sultana, and each one wanted to touch me; they fingered
my clothes, patted me on the back, one old hag even chucked me under
the chin. They drew me with them from hut to hut, from court to court.
I found myself separated from my companions, wandering in a world
I had never known. Amongst a labyrinth of tiny mud-built huts, of
ridiculously small gardens, of hidden little courts, did they drag
me with them, making me enter their hovels, put my hand on their
children, sit down on their stools. Like a swarm of crows they
jabbered and fought over me, asking me questions, overwhelming me with
kind wishes, to all of which I could answer but with a shrug of the
shoulders and with smiles.
The poorer Mussulman women are not really veiled. They wear wide
cotton trousers, and over these a sort of mantle which they hold
together under the nose. The shape of these mantles gives them that
indescribable line, so agreeable to the eye, and which alone belongs to
the East. Also the colours they choose are always harmonious; besides,
they are toned down to their surroundings by sun and dust. They wear
strange dull blues and mauves--even their blacks are not really black,
but have taken rusty tints that mingle pleasingly with the mud-coloured
environment in which they dwell.
When attired for longer excursions, their garb is generally black,
with a snow-white cloth on their heads, wrapped in such manner that it
conceals the entire face, except the eyes.
Indescribably picturesque and mysterious are these dusky figures when
they come towards one, grazing the walls, generally carrying a heavy
staff in their hands; there is something biblical about them, something
that takes one back to far-away times!
On this hot summer's morn of which I am relating, I managed to escape
for a moment from my over-amiable assailants, so as to steal into a
tiny hut of which the door stood wide open.
[Illustration: "A CONVENT ... WHITE AND LONELY, HIDDEN AWAY IN WOODED
REGIONS GREENER AND SWEETER THAN ANY OTHER IN THE LAND" (p. 25).]
Irresistibly attracted by its mysterious shade, I penetrated into the
mud-made hovel, finding myself in almost complete darkness. At the
farther end a wee window let in a small ray of light.
Groping my way, I came upon a pallet of rags, and upon that couch of
misery I discovered an old, old woman--so old, so old, that she might
have existed in the time of fairies and witches, times no more in touch
with the bustle and noise of to-day.
Bending over her, I gazed into her shrunken face, and all the legends
of my youth seemed to rise up before me, all the stories that as a
child, entranced, I had listened to, stories one never forgets....
Above her, hanging from a rusty nail within reach of her hand, was a
curiously shaped black earthenware pot. Everything around this old hag
was the colour of the earth: her face, her dwelling, the rags that
covered her, the floor on which I stood. The only touch of light in
this hovel was a white lamb, crouching quite undisturbed at the foot of
her bed.
Pressing some money between her crooked bony fingers, I left this
strange old mortal to her snowy companion, and, stepping back into the
sunshine, I had the sensation that for an instant it had been given me
to stray through unnumbered ages into the days of yore.
From the beginning of time Rumania was a land subjected to invasions.
One tyrannical master after another laid heavy hands upon its people;
it was accustomed to be dominated, crushed, maltreated. Seldom was it
allowed to affirm itself, to raise its head, to be independent, happy,
or free; nevertheless, in spite of struggles and slavery, it was not a
people destined to disappear. It overcame every hardship, stood every
misery, endured every subjugation, could not be crushed out of being;
but the result is that the Rumanian folk are not gay.
Their songs are sad, their dances slow, their amusements are seldom
boisterous, rarely are their voices loud. On festive days they don
their gayest apparel and, crowded together in the dust of the road,
they will dance in groups or in wide circles, tirelessly, for many
an hour; but even then they are not often joyful or loud, they are
solemn and dignified, seeming to take their amusement demurely, without
passion, without haste.
Their love-songs are long complaints; the tunes they play on their
flutes wail out endlessly their longing and desire that appear to
remain eternally unsatisfied, to contain no hope, no fulfilment.
For the same reason few very old houses exist; there is hardly a castle
or a great monument remaining from out the past. What was the use of
building fine habitations if any day the enemy might sweep over the
country and burn everything to the ground?
One or two strange old constructions have been preserved from those
times of invasion: square, high buildings with an open gallery round
the top formed by stout short columns, and here and there, in the
immense thickness of the walls, tiny windows as look-outs. Primitive
strongholds, half tower, half peasant-house, they generally stand
somewhat isolated and resemble nothing I have seen in other lands.
I have lived in one of these strange houses. The gallery, that once was
a buttress, had been turned into a balcony, and from between the squat
pillars a lovely view was to be had over hill and plain. The rooms
beneath were small, low, irregular, behind great thick walls; a wooded
staircase as steep as a ladder led to these chambers.
Both outside and inside the building was whitewashed, and so primitive
was its construction, that it had kept the delightful appearance of
having been modelled by a potter's thumb. There were no sharp angles,
but something rounded and uneven about its corners that no modern
dwelling can possess. The whole was crowned by a broad roof of shingle,
grey, with silver lights.
But it is the old convents and monasteries of this country that have
above all guarded treasure from out the past.
From the very first these secluded spots of beauty attracted me more
than anything else; indescribable is the spell that they throw over
me, almost inexplicable the delight with which they fill my soul!
As in many other countries, the Rumanian monks and nuns knew how to
select the most enchanting places for their homes of peace.
I have wandered from one to another, discovering many a hidden
treasure, visiting the richest and the poorest, those easy of access
and those hidden away in mountain valleys, where the traveller's foot
but rarely strays.
Some I was only able to reach on horseback, having climbed over hill
and dale, up or down stony passes, followed by troops of white-clad
peasants, mounted on shaggy, dishevelled ponies, sure-footed as
mountain-goats.
Once at dusk, after a whole day's riding over the mountains, I came
quite suddenly upon one of these far-away sanctuaries, whitewashed,
strangely picturesque, half-hidden amongst pines and venerable
beech-trees with trunks like giants turned suddenly to stone--giants
that in their last agony are twisting their arms in useless despair.
On my approach the bells began ringing--their clear and strident voices
proclaiming their joy to the skies.
I rode through the covered portal into the walled-in court. Before I
could dismount I was surrounded by a dark swarm of nuns making humble
gestures of greeting, crossing themselves, falling to their knees, and
pressing their foreheads against the stones on the ground, catching
hold of my hands or part of my garment, which they kissed, whilst they
cried and murmured, mumbling many a prayer.
[Illustration: "THIS PORCH IS DECORATED ALL OVER WITH FRESCOES" (p.
26).]
[Illustration: "SOME WERE SO OLD, SO BENT, THAT THEY COULD NO MORE
RAISE THEIR HEADS TO LOOK UP AT THE SKY ABOVE" (p. 28).]
[Illustration: "STRANGE OLD MONKS INHABITED IT" (p. 27).]
[Illustration: "SILENT RECLUSES, BURIED AWAY FROM THE WORLD" (p. 27).]
Dazed by such a welcome, I was seized under the elbow by the mother
abbess, a venerable, tottering old woman, whose face was seared by age
as a field is furrowed by the plough.
Half leading me, half hanging on to me for support, she conducted me
towards the open church-door. From time to time she would furtively
kiss my shoulder, and in a sort of lowly ecstasy press her old, old
face close to mine.
All the other nuns trooped after us like a flock of black-plumed birds,
their dark veils waving about in the wind, the bells still ringing in
peals of delight!
Within the dim sanctuary the lighted tapers were as swarms of
fire-flies in a dusk-filled forest; the nuns grouped themselves along
the walls, their dark dresses becoming one with the shadow, so that
alone their faces stood out, rendered almost ethereal by the wavering
candle-light.
They were chanting--fain would I say that their singing was beautiful,
but that were scarcely the truth! Not as in Russia, the chanting in
the Rumanian churches is far from melodious--they drone through the
nose longdrawn, oft-repeated chants, anything but harmonious, and which
seemingly have no reason ever to come to an end.
But somehow, that evening, in the forlorn mountain convent far from
the homes of men, there, in the low-domed chapel, filled with those
sable-clad figures whose earnest faces were almost angelic in the
mystical light, the weird sounds that rose towards the roof were not
out of place. There was something old-time about them, something
archaic, primitive, in keeping with the somewhat barbaric paintings and
images, something that seemed to have strayed down from past ages into
the busier world of to-day....
More pompous were the receptions I received in the larger monasteries.
Here all the monks would file out to meet me--a procession of
black-robed, long-bearded beings, austere of appearance, sombre of face.
Taking me by the arm, the Father Superior would solemnly lead me
towards the gaily decorated church, whilst many little children would
throw flowers before me as I passed.
Not over-severe are the monastic rules in Rumania. The convent-doors
are open to all visitors; in former days they were houses of rest for
travellers wandering from place to place.
Three days' hospitality did the holy walls offer to those passing that
way; this was the ancient custom, and now in many places monks or nuns
are allowed to let their little houses to those in need of a summer's
rest. This, however, is only possible where the convents are real
little villages, where more or less each recluse possesses his own
small house.
There are two kinds of convents in this country: either a large
building where all the monks or nuns are united beneath the same roof,
or a quantity of tiny houses grouped in a large square round the
central church.
The former alone are architecturally interesting, and some I have
visited are exquisitely perfect in proportion and shape.
One of these convents above all others draws me towards it, for
irresistible indeed is its charm.
A convent ... white and lonely, hidden away in wooded regions greener
and sweeter than any other in the land. Perfect is the form of its
church, snow-white the colonnades that surround its tranquil court.
A charm and a mystery envelop it, such as nowhere else have I felt.
Sober are its sculptures, but an indescribable harmony makes its lines
beautiful, and such a peace pervades the place that here I felt as
though I had truly found the house of rest....
Whenever I go there the nuns receive me with touching delight, half
astonished that one so high should care about so simple a place. I go
there often, whenever I can, for it has thrown a strange spell over me,
and often again must I return to its whitewashed walls.
The building forms a quadrangle round the church, three sides of which
are composed of a double colonnade, built one above the other, the
upper one forming an open gallery running round the whole. Behind these
colonnades are the nuns' small cells: tiny domes, little chambers,
whitewashed, humble, and still....
Large is the church, noble of line, rich of sculpture, fronted by a
large, covered porch supported by stone pillars richly carved. Like
the interior of the building, this porch is decorated all over with
frescoes, artless of conception, archaic of design, and harmonious, the
colour having been toned down by the hand of time.
Within, the church is high, dim, mystical, entirely painted with
strange-faced saints, who stare at one as though astonished to be
disturbed out of their lonely silence and peace.
Many a treasure lies within these walls: ancient images, crumbling
tombstones, a marvellously carved altar-screen, gilt and painted with
incomparable skill, all the colours faded and blended together by the
master of all arts--Time.
In shadowy corners, heavily chased lamps, hanging on chains from above,
shed a mysterious light upon silver-framed icons, polished by many a
pious kiss. In truth a holy sanctuary, inducing the spirit to soar
above the things of this earth....
[Illustration: "AN INDESCRIBABLE HARMONY MAKES ITS LINES BEAUTIFUL"
(p. 25).]
The fourth side of the quadrangle is shut in by a high wall, with a
door in the centre opening upon a narrow path that leads towards a
second smaller temple, as perfect in shape as the greater building of
the inner court. Here the nuns are buried; an idyllic spot enclosed by
crumbling walls that wild rose-bushes, covered with delicate blooms,
hold together by their long thorny arms. The strangely shaped wooden
crosses that mark the graves stand amidst high, waving grass and
venerable apple-trees that age seems to incline tenderly towards those
slumbering beneath the sod at their feet.
All round--beech forests upon low, undulating hills; as background to
these, mountains--blue, hazy, unreachable, forming a barrier against
the outside world....
A place of beauty, a place of rest, a place of peace....
Many sites of beauty rise before my eyes when I think of these hidden
houses of prayer. Countless is the number I have visited in all four
corners of the land, and again I turn my feet towards them whenever I
can.
Hard were it to say which are the more picturesque, the convents or the
monasteries; both are equally interesting, equally quaint.
I remember a small monastery, nestling beneath the sides of a frowning
mountain, surrounded by pine forests, dark and mysterious. The way
leading there was tortuous, stony, difficult of access, yet the place
itself was a small meadow-encircled paradise of tranquillity, green and
reposeful as a dream of rest.
Strange old monks inhabited it--silent recluses, buried away from
the world, shadowy spectres, almost sinister in their aloofness,
their eyes having taken the look of forest-dwellers who are no more
accustomed to look into the eyes of men.
Noiselessly they followed me wherever I went, heads bent, but their
eyes watching me from beneath shaggy brows, their hands concealed
within their wide hanging sleeves; it was as though dark shadows were
dogging my every step.
I turned round and looked into their obscure faces--how far-away they
seemed! Who were they? What was their story? what had been their
childhood, their hopes, their loves? For the most part, I think, they
were but humble, ignorant beings, with no wider ideals, no far-away
visions of higher things. Some were so old, so bent that they could no
more raise their heads to look up at the sky above; their long, grey
beards had taken on the appearance of lichens growing upon fallen trees.
But one there was amongst them, tall and upright, with the pale,
ascetic face of a saint. I know not his name, naught of his past; but
he had a noble visage, and meseemed that in his eyes I could read
dreams that were not only the dreams of this earth.
I cannot, alas! speak of all the convents I have seen, but one I must
still mention, for indeed it is a rare little spot upon earth.
Hidden within the mouth of a cavern, lost in the wildest mountain
region, there lies a tiny wee church, so small, so small that one must
bend one's head to step over the threshold; it appears to be a toy,
dropped there by some giant hand and forgotten. Only a tiny little
wooden chapel guarded by a few hoary old monks, creatures so old and
decrepit that they seem to have gathered moss like stones lying for
ever in the same place....
No road leads to this sanctuary; one must seek one's way to it on foot
or horseback, over mountain steeps and precipitous rocks. There it lies
in the dark cave entry, solitary, grey, and ancient, like a hidden
secret waiting to be found out.
Behind the wee church the hollow stretches, dark and tortuous, running
in mysterious obscurity right into the heart of the earth. When the end
is reached a gurgling of water is heard--a spring, ice-cold, bubbles
there out of the earth, pure and fresh as the sources in the Garden of
Eden....
I have known of passionate lovers coming to be married in this church,
defying the hardships of the road, defying nature's frowning barriers,
so as to be bound together for life in this far-away spot where crowds
cannot gather.
On the way to this church, not far from the mouth of the cave, stands
a lonely little cemetery, filled with crosses of wood. Here the monks
who have lived out their solitary lives are finally laid to eternal
rest. Dark are those crosses, standing like spectres against the naked
rock. The summer suns scorch them, the winds of autumn beat them
about, and ofttimes the snows of winter fell them to the ground. But in
spring-time early crocuses and delicate anemones cluster around them,
gathering in fragrant bunches about their feet.
Meseems that, in spite of its solitude, it would not be sad to be
buried in such a spot....
* * * * *
Once I was riding through the melting snow. The road I was following,
like all Rumanian roads, was long, long, endlessly long, dwindling away
in the distance, becoming one with the colourless sky.
It was a day of depression, a day of thaw, when the world is at its
worst.
All around me the flat plains lay waiting for something that did not
come. The landscape appeared to be without horizon, to possess no
frontiers: all was dully uniform, without life, without light, without
joy. Silence lay over the earth--silence and dismal repose.
With loose reins and hanging heads my horse and I trudged along through
the slush. We were going nowhere in particular; a sort of torpor of
indifference had come over us, well in keeping with the melancholy of
the day.
A damp fog hung like a faded veil close over the earth; it was not a
dense fog, but wavered about like steam.
[Illustration: "A LONELY LITTLE CEMETERY, FILLED WITH CROSSES OF WOOD"
(p. 29).]
[Illustration: "ON LONELY MOUNTAIN-SIDES" (p. 35).]
[Illustration: "GUARDED BY A FEW HOARY OLD MONKS" (p. 29).]
[Illustration: "THERE LIES A TINY WEE CHURCH" (p. 28).]
[Illustration: "TALL AND UPRIGHT, WITH THE PALE, ASCETIC FACE OF A
SAINT" (p. 28).]
[Illustration: "CREATURES SO OLD AND DECREPIT THAT THEY SEEM TO HAVE
GATHERED MOSS LIKE STONES LYING FOR EVER IN THE SAME PLACE" (p. 29).]
[Illustration: "WHEN FOUND IN SUCH NUMBERS THEY ARE MOSTLY HEWN OUT OF
WOOD" (p. 34).]
[Illustration: "THESE STRANGE OLD CROSSES.... THEY STAND BY THE
WAY-SIDE" (p. 33).]
All of a sudden, I heard a weird sound coming towards me out of the
distance, something the like of which I had never heard before....
Drawing in my reins, I stood still at the edge of the road wondering
what I was to see.
Unexpected indeed was the procession that, like a strange dream, was
coming towards me from out the mist!
Wading through the melting snow advanced two small boys, carrying
between them a round tin platter on which lay a flat cake; behind them
came an old priest carrying a cross in his hand, gaudily attired in
faded finery--red, gold and blue. His heavy vestment was all splashed
and soiled, his long hair and unkempt beard were dirty-grey, like the
road upon which he walked. A sad old man, with no expression but that
of misery upon his yellow shrunken face.
Close behind his heels followed a rough wooden cart drawn by oxen whose
noses almost touched the ground; their breath formed small clouds about
their heads, through which their eyes shone with patient anxiety.
It was from this cart that the weird sound was rising. What could it
be? Then all at once I understood!
A plain deal coffin had been placed in the middle of the cart; seated
around it were a number of old women, wailing and weeping, raising
their voices in a dismal chant, that rang like a lament through the
air. Their white hair was dishevelled, and their black veils floated
around them like thin wisps of smoke.
Behind the cart walked four old gipsies playing doleful tunes upon
their squeaky violins, whilst the women's voices took up the refrain in
another key. Never had I heard dirge more mournful, nor more lugubrious
a noise. Pressing after the gipsies came a knot of barefooted
relatives, holding lighted tapers in their hands. The tiny flames
looked almost ashamed of burning so dimly in the melancholy daylight.
In passing, these weary mortals raised pale faces, looking at me with
mournful eyes that expressed no astonishment. Through the gloomy mist
they appeared to be so many ghosts, come from nowhere, going towards
I know not what. Like shadows they passed and were gone; ... but
through the gathering fog the wailing came back to haunt me, curiously
persistent, as though the dead from his narrow coffin were calling for
help....
Long after this strange vision had disappeared, I stood gazing at the
road where traces of their feet had remained imprinted upon the melted
snow. Had it all been but an hallucination, created by the melancholy
of the day?
As I turned my horse I was confronted by a shadow looming large at a
little distance down the road. What could it be? Was this a day of
weird apparitions?
It was not without difficulty that I induced my horse to approach the
spot; verily, I think that sometimes horses see ghosts!...
On nearing, I perceived that what had frightened my mount was naught
but a tall stone cross. Monumental, moss-grown, and mysterious, it
stood all alone like a guardian keeping eternal watch over the road.
From its outstretched arms great drops were falling to the ground like
heavy tears....
Was the old cross weeping--weeping because a lovely funeral had passed
that way?...
* * * * *
I must talk a little about these strange old crosses that on all roads
I have come upon, that I have met with in every part of the country.
As yet I have not quite fathomed their meaning--but I love them, they
seem so well in keeping with the somewhat melancholy character of the
land.
Generally they stand by the wayside, sometimes in stately solitude,
sometimes in groups; sometimes they are of quaintly carved stone,
sometimes they are of wood, crudely painted with figures of archaic
saints.
No doubt these pious monuments have been raised to mark the places of
some event; perhaps the death of some hero, or only the murder of a
lonely traveller who was not destined to reach the end of his road....
Mostly they stand beside wells, bearing the names of those who, having
thought of the thirsty, erected these watering-places in far-away spots.
Quaint of shape, they attract the eye from far; the peasant uncovers
his head before them, murmuring a prayer for the dead.
At cross-roads I have sometimes come upon them ten in a row; when found
in such numbers they are mostly hewn out of wood. Their forms and sizes
are varied: some are immensely high and solid, covered by queer shingle
roofs; often their design is intricate, several crosses, growing one
out of another, forming a curious pattern, the whole painted in the
crudest colours that sun and rain soon tone down to pleasant harmony.
Protected by their greater companions, many little crosses crowd
alongside: round crosses and square crosses, crosses that are slim and
upright, crosses that seem humbly to bend towards the ground....
On lonely roads these rustic testimonies of Faith are curiously
fascinating. One wonders what vows were made when they were placed
there by pious hands and believing hearts.
But, above all, the carved crosses of stone attract me. I have
discovered them in all sorts of places; some are of rare beauty,
covered with inscriptions entangled in wonderful designs.
[Illustration: "MOSTLY THEY STAND BESIDE WELLS" (p. 34).]
I have come upon them on bare fields, on the edges of dusty roads, on
the borders of dark forests, on lonely mountain-sides. I have found
them on forsaken waters by the sea, where the gulls circled around them
caressing them gently with the tips of their wings.
Many a mile have I ridden so as to have another look at these
mysterious symbols, for always anew they fill my soul with an intense
desire for tranquillity; they are so solemnly impressive, so silent, so
still....
One especially was dear to my heart. It stood all alone in dignified
solitude upon a barren field, frowning down upon a tangle of thistles
that twisted their thorny stems beneath the shade of its arms.
I know not its history, nor why it was watching over so lonely a place;
it appeared to have been there from the beginning of time. Tired of its
useless vigil, it was leaning slightly on one side, and at dusk its
shadow strangely resembled the shadow of a man.
* * * * *
Nothing is more touchingly picturesque than the village cemeteries: the
humbler they are the more do they delight the artist's eye.
Often they are placed round the village church, but sometimes they lie
quite apart. I always seek them out, loving to wander through their
poetical desolation--feeling so far, so far from the noise and haste
of our turbulent world.
Certainly these little burial-grounds are not tended and cared for
as in tidier lands. The graves are scattered about amidst weeds and
nettles, sometimes thistles grow so thickly about the crosses that they
half hide them from sight. But in spring-time, before the grass is
high, I have found some of them nearly buried in daffodils and irises
running riot all over the place. The shadowy crosses look down upon all
that wealth of colour as though wondering if God Himself had adorned
their forsaken graves.
The Rumanian peasant is averse from any unnecessary effort. What must
happen happens, what must fall falls. Therefore, if a cross is broken,
why try to set it up again?--let it lie! the grass will cover it, the
flowers will cluster in its place.
On Good Friday morning I was roaming through one of these village
churchyards. To my astonishment I found that nearly every grave was
lighted with a tiny thin taper, the flame of which burnt palely,
incapable of vying with the light of the sun. Lying beside these
ghostly little lights were broken fragments of pottery filled with
smouldering ashes, that sent thin spirals of blue smoke into the
tranquil spring air. On this day of mourning the living come to do
honour to their dead according to their customs, according to their
Faith.
A strange sight indeed! all those wavering little flames amongst the
crumbling graves. Often did I find a candle standing on a spot where
all vestige of the grave itself had been entirely effaced; but it stood
there burning bravely--some one remembering that just beneath that very
inch of ground a heart had been laid to rest.
An old woman I found that morning standing quite still beside one of
those tapers--a taper so humble and thin that it could scarcely remain
upright--but with crossed arms the old mother was watching it, as
though silently accomplishing some rite.