guarding, but could perceive no grave at all! The yellow little taper
was humbly standing beside a bunch of anemones. All that once had been
a tomb had long since been trodden into the ground.
The cloth round the old woman's head was white, white as the blossoming
cherry-trees that made gay this little garden of God; white were also
the flowers that grew beside the old woman's offering of love.
"Who is buried there?" I asked.
"One of my own," was her answer. "She was my daughter's little
daughter; now she is at rest."
"Why is the grave no more to be seen?" was my next inquiry.
For all answer a shrug of the shoulders, and the dim eyes looked into
mine; complete resignation was what I read in their depths.
"What is the use of keeping a grave tidy if the priest of the village
allows his oxen to graze about amidst the tombs?"
I looked at her in astonishment. "Could not such disorder be put a stop
to?"
Again a shrug of the shoulders. "Who is there to put a stop to it? The
cattle must have somewhere to feed!"
I saw that she considered it quite natural, and that which lay beneath
the ground could verily be indifferent to those passing hoofs, as long
as on Good Friday some one remembered to burn a taper over her heart!
On Good Friday night, long services are celebrated in every church or
chapel in the land.
Full of mystical charm are those peasant gatherings round their humble
houses of prayer. Men, women, and children flock together, each one
bearing a light. Those who find no place within stand outside in
patient crowds.
A lovely picture indeed.
From each church window the light streams forth, whilst weird chants
float out to those waiting beyond. In front of the sanctuary hundreds
of wavering little flames, lighting up the visages of those who, with
ecstatic faces, are hearkening for sounds of the service that is being
celebrated within.
Custom will have it that, on Good Friday nights, flowers shall be
brought by the worshippers--flowers that are reverently laid upon an
embroidered effigy of the crucified Christ which is placed on a table
in the centre of the church.
[Illustration: "QUAINT OF SHAPE, THEY ATTRACT THE EYE FROM FAR" (p.
34).]
[Illustration: "SOMETIMES THEY ARE OF QUAINTLY CARVED STONE" (p. 33).]
[Illustration: "STRANGE OLD CROSSES THAT ON ALL ROADS I HAVE COME UPON"
(p. 33).]
[Illustration: "THEIR FORMS AND SIZES ARE VARIED" (p. 34).]
[Illustration: "NONE OF THE GREATER BUILDINGS ATTRACT ME SO STRONGLY AS
THOSE LITTLE VILLAGE CHURCHES" (p. 40).]
[Illustration: "THE ALTAR IS SHUT OFF FROM THE REST OF THE BUILDING BY
A CARVED AND PAINTED SCREEN" (p. 42).]
Each believer brings what he can: a scrap of green, a branch of
blossoms, a handful of hyacinths, making the night sweet with their
perfume, or a bunch of simple violets gathered along the wayside--first
dear messengers of spring.
When the service is over, in long processions the worshippers return to
their homes, one and all carefully shading the tapers, for it is lucky
to bring them lighted back to the house.
No more light shines now from the church windows; all is swathed in
darkness; the church itself stands out a huge mass of shade against the
sky.
But the graveyard beyond is a garden of light! Have all the stars
fallen from the heavens to console those lying beneath the sod? or is
it only the tiny tapers still bravely burning, burning for the dead?...
* * * * *
There are some wonderful old churches in the country, stately
buildings, rich and venerable, full of treasures carefully preserved
from out the past.
I have visited all these churches, inquiring into their history,
admiring their perfect proportions, closely examining their costly
embroideries, their carvings, their silver lamps, their enamelled
crosses, their Bibles bound in gold.
But, in spite of their beauty, none of the greater buildings attract me
so strongly as those little village churches I have hunted up in the
far-away corners of the land.
One part of the country is especially rich in these quaint little
buildings: it is a part I dearly love. No railway desecrates its
tranquil valleys, no modern improvement has destroyed its simple
charm. Here the hand of civilisation has marred no original beauty;
no well-meaning painter has touched up the faded frescoes on ancient
walls. A corner of the earth that has preserved its personality; being
difficult to reach, it has remained unchanged, unspoilt.
The axe has not felled its glorious forests, the enterprising
speculator has built no hideous hotels, no places of entertainment;
no monstrous advertisements disfigure its green meadows, its fertile
inclines.
Therefore, also, have the tiniest little churches been preserved.
They lie scattered about in quite unlikely places; perched on steep
hill-tops, hidden in wooded valleys, often reflecting their quaint
silhouettes in rivers flowing at their base.
Seen from afar, tall fir-trees, planted like sentinels before their
porches, are the sign-posts marking the sites where they stand. The
churches behind are so diminutive that from a distance the trees alone
are to be seen.
These fir-trees seemed to beckon to me, promising that I should find
treasures hidden at their feet--they stand out darkly distinct in the
landscape, for it is a region where the forests are of beeches, not of
pines.
Often I wandered miles to reach them, over stony paths, over muddy
ground, through turbulent little streams and endless inclines, and
never was I disappointed; the dark sentinels never called me in vain.
The most lovely little buildings have I discovered in these far-away
places.
Some were all of wood, warm in colour, like newly baked brown bread,
their enormous roofs giving them the appearance of giant mushrooms
growing in fertile ground.
There is generally a belfry on the top, but with some the belfry stands
by itself in front of the church, and is mostly deliciously quaint of
shape.
Indescribable is the colour the old wood takes on. It is always in
harmony with its background, with its surroundings; be it on a green
meadow, or against dark pines, be it in spring-time half concealed
behind apple-trees in full bloom, be it in autumn when the trees that
enclose it are all golden and russet and red.
The wood is dark-brown, with grey lights that are sometimes silver.
Green moss often pads the chinks between the beams, giving the whole a
soft velvety appearance that satisfies the eye.
Within, these rustic sanctuaries are toy copies of larger models;
everything is tiny, but disposed in the same way. In orthodox churches
the altar is shut off from the rest of the building by a carved and
painted screen that nearly touches the roof, and is generally crowned
by an enormous cross. At the lower part of these separations are the
pictures of the most venerated saints. There are three small doors in
these screens; during part of the service these doors remain closed.
Women have no right to penetrate within the Holy of Holies behind the
screen.
Beautiful icons have I sometimes found in these forsaken little
churches, carried there no doubt from greater ones when so-called
improvements banished from their renovated walls the old-time treasures
forthwith considered too shabby or too defaced.
Well do I remember one evening, after having climbed an endless way,
I came at last to the foot of the pine-trees that had beckoned to me
from afar, and how I reached the open door of the sanctuary at the very
moment when the sun was going down.
The day had been wet, but this last hour before dusk was trying by its
beauty to make up for earlier frowns.
The villagers, having guessed my intentions, had sent an old peasant
to open the church. As I approached, the sound of a bell reached me,
tolling its greeting into the evening air.
[Illustration: "THE ROOFS ARE ALWAYS OF SHINGLE" (p. 44).]
The last rays of the sun were lying golden on the building as I reached
the door. Like dancing flames they had penetrated inside, spreading
their glorious light over the humble interior, surrounding the saints'
painted effigies with luminous haloes.
It was a wondrous sight!
On the threshold stood an old peasant, all in white, his hands full of
flowering cherry-branches, which he offered me as he bent down to kiss
the hem of my gown.
Within, the old man's loving fingers had lit many lights, and the same
blossoms had been piously laid around the holiest of the icons, the one
that each believer must kiss on entering the church.
The sunlight outshone the little tapers, but they seemed to promise to
continue its glory to the best of their ability when the great parent
should have gone to rest.... Sitting down in a shadowy corner, I let
the marvellous peace of the place penetrate my soul, let the charm of
this holy house envelop me like a veil of rest.
The sun had disappeared; now the little lights stood out, sharp points
of brightness against the invading dusk.
Hard it was indeed to tear myself away; but time, being no respecter of
human emotions, moves on!
Outside the door an enormous stone cross stood like a ghost, its head
lost amongst the snowy branches of a tree in full bloom. This cross was
almost as high as the church....
Varied indeed are the shapes of these peasant churches. When they
are not of wood, like those I have just described, they are mostly
whitewashed, their principal feature being the stout columns that
support the porch in front. There is hardly a Rumanian church without
this front porch; it gives character to the whole; it is the principal
source of decoration. Sometimes the columns have beautiful carved
capitals of rarest design; sometimes they are but solid pillars,
whitewashed like the rest of the church.
Quaint indeed are the buildings that some simple-hearted artist has
painted all over with emaciated, brightly robed saints. I have seen
the strangest decorations of this sort: whole processions of archaic
figures in stiff attitudes illustrating events out of their holy lives.
Then the front columns are also painted, often with quite lovely
designs, closely resembling Persian patterns in old blues and reds and
browns.
The roofs are always of shingle, with broad advancing eaves of most
characteristic shape.
A church have I seen in the middle of a maize field. The roof had
fallen in, the walls were cracked, in places crumbling away, tall
sunflowers peeped in at its paneless windows, and the birds built their
nests amongst the beams of its ruined vaults. Pitiable it was, indeed,
to contemplate such desolation; yet never had I seen a more magical
sight.
The walls were still covered with frescoes, the colours almost
unspoilt; the richly carved altar-screen still showed signs of gilding;
hardly defaced were its many little pictures of saints. The stalwart
pillars separating one part from the other stood strong and untouched
except that in parts their plaster coating had crumbled away.
Quite unique was the charm of that ruin. The blue sky above was its
roof, and the solemn saints stared down from the walls as if demanding
why no kindly hand was raised to protect their fragile beauty from
storm and rain.
I know not why such a treasure was allowed to fall to pieces--perchance
there is no time to look after old ruins in a country where so much
has still to be done! Indeed, the church was rarely fascinating, thus
exposed to the light of the day, yet distressing was the thought that,
if not soon covered in, the lovely frescoes would entirely fall away.
There was a figure of the Holy Virgin that especially attracted my
attention; she stared at me from her golden background with large,
pathetic eyes. Upon her knees the Child Christ sat, stiffly upright,
one hand raised in blessing; the child was tiny, with a strange pale
countenance and eyes much too large for its face.
I could not tear myself away from this forsaken place of prayer; again
and again I made the round of it, absorbing into my soul the picture it
made.
At last I left it, but many times did I turn round to have a last look.
The sunflowers stood in tall groups, their heads bent towards the
church as though trying to look inside; a flight of snow-white doves
circled about it, their spotless wings flashing in the light. It was
the last I saw of it--the ruined walls, and, floating above them, those
snow-white doves.
* * * * *
Much more would I delight to relate about these little churches. For me
the topic is full of unending charm; but there are many things that I
must still talk about, so regretfully I turn away to other scenes.
The most lonely inhabitants of Rumania are the shepherds--more lonely
even than the monks in their cells, for the monks are gathered together
in congregations, whilst the shepherds spend whole months alone with
their dogs upon desolate mountain-tops.
Often when roaming on horseback on the summits have I come upon these
silent watchers leaning on their staffs, standing so still that they
might have been figures carved out of stone.
[Illustration: "VARIED INDEED ARE THE SHAPES OF THESE PEASANT CHURCHES"
(p. 44).]
[Illustration: "THEIR PRINCIPAL FEATURE BEING THE STOUT COLUMNS THAT
SUPPORT THE PORCH IN FRONT" (p. 44).]
[Illustration: "BUT WITH SOME THE BELFRY STANDS BY ITSELF" (p. 41).]
[Illustration: "THE COLUMNS HAVE BEAUTIFUL CARVED CAPITALS OF RAREST
DESIGN ... WHITEWASHED LIKE THE REST OF THE CHURCH" (p. 44).]
[Illustration: "QUAINT INDEED ARE THE BUILDINGS THAT SOME
SIMPLE-HEARTED ARTIST HAS PAINTED" (p. 44).]
The great blue sky was theirs, and the marvellous view over limitless
horizons; theirs were the shifting clouds, floating sometimes above
their heads, sometimes rising like steam out of the chasms at their
feet; theirs were also the silence and the sunsets, the sunrise and the
little mountain flowers with their marvellous tints. But also the storm
was theirs, and the rain, and the days of impenetrable mist; theirs was
the wordless solitude unrelieved by human voice.
These lonely mountain-dwellers become almost one in colour with the
rocks and earth by which they are surrounded.
Enormous mantles do they wear, made of skins taken from sheep of their
flock, fallen by the way. These shaggy garments give them a wild
appearance resembling nothing I have ever seen; even tiny boys wear
these extraordinary coats that cover them from head to foot, sheltering
them from rain and storm, and even from the too ardent rays of the sun.
Their only refuges are dug-outs, half beneath the earth, of which the
roofs are covered with turf, so that even at a short distance they can
hardly be seen. Here, in company with their dogs, they spend the long
summer months, till the frosts of autumn send them and their flocks
back to the plains.
Fierce-looking creatures are these shepherds, almost as unkempt as
their dogs. Solitude seems to have crept into their eyes, that look at
you without sympathy, as though they had lost the habit of focusing
them to the faces of men.
A sore danger to the wanderer are those savage dogs, and often will
their masters look on at the attacks they make upon the unfortunate
intruder, without moving a finger in his defence.
No doubt sometimes a poet's soul is to be found amongst these
highland-watchers. He will then tell tales worth listening to, for
Nature will have been his teacher, the voices of the wilds have entered
his heart.
Less unsociable is the shepherd tending his flock in greener pastures.
He is less lonely; even when not living with a companion he receives
the visits of passers-by--his expression is less grim, his eyes less
hard, and the tunes he plays on his flute have a softer note.
Here the great-coat is discarded, but the "cioban's" attitude is always
the same: be he on bare mountain pinnacles, or on juicy pastures near
clear-flowing stream, or on the burning plains of the Dobrudja where
for miles around no tree is to be seen, the "cioban" stands, for hours
at a time, both hands under his chin, leaning on his staff. He keeps no
record of time; he stares before him, and slowly the hours pass over
his head.
Once I had a curious impression. I was riding over some endless
downs near the sea. Nothing could be flatter than the landscape that
stretched before me; the sea was a dead calm, resembling a mirror of
spangled blue; the sand was white and dazzling; waves of heat rose
from the ground, scorching my face; the entire world seemed to be
gasping for breath. I alone was moving upon this immensity; sky, sea,
and sand belonged to me.
In spite of the suffocating temperature, my horse was galloping
briskly, happy to feel the soft sand beneath his hoofs. I had the
sensation of moving through the desert.
All at once the animal became restive; he snorted through dilated
nostrils, I felt him tremble beneath me; sweat broke out all over his
body; suddenly he stopped short, and, swerving round unexpectedly,
refused to advance! Nothing was to be seen but a series of flat,
curving sand-hills, with here and there a tuft of hard grass, or sprays
of sea-lavender, bending beneath the overpowering heat, yet I also had
an uncanny sensation, the curious feeling that something was breathing,
as though the ground itself were throbbing beneath our feet. In a way I
shared my horse's apprehension. What could it be?
In spite of his reluctance, I pushed him forward, keeping a firm grip
on the reins, as at each moment he tried to swing round.
Then I saw something strange appear on the horizon; a mysterious line
undulating across one of the mounds, something that was alive. I had
the keen perception that it was breathing, that it was even gasping for
breath.
All at once a man rose from somewhere and stood, a dark splotch,
against the brooding heat of the sky. The man was a shepherd! Then I
understood the meaning of that weirdly palpitating line--it was his
flock of sheep!
Stifled by the overwhelming temperature, they had massed themselves
together, heads turned inwards, seeking shelter one from the other.
Finding no relief, they were panting out their silent distress.
The "cioban" stood quite still, staring at me with stupefied
indifference.
I think that never before and never since have I had an acuter
sensation of intolerable heat....
Wherever I have met them, be it on the mountains or in the plains, on
green pastures or on arid wastes, these silent shepherds have seemed to
me the very personification of solitude, of mystery, of things unsaid.
Because of their lonely vigils amongst voiceless wilds, they have
surely returned to a nearer comprehension of nature; perchance they
have discovered strange secrets that none of us know!
In autumn and early spring the shepherds lead their flocks back from
the mountains. One meets them trudging slowly along the high-roads--a
silent mass with a weather-beaten leader at their head, man and beast
the colour of dust; foot-sore, weary, passive, knowing that their way
is not yet at an end.
[Illustration: "THESE LONELY MOUNTAIN-DWELLERS" (p. 47).]
Fleeting visions of the wilds, wraiths come back from solitudes of
which we know naught. The men with brooding faces and far-seeing eyes,
the animals with hanging heads, come towards one out of the distance,
pass, move away, and are gone ... leaving behind them on the road
thousands and thousands of tiny traces that wind or rain soon efface....
* * * * *
There is a wandering people known in every land--a people surrounded by
mystery, whose origin has never been clearly established, a people that
even in our days are nomads, moving, always moving from place to place.
Wherever they stray, the gipsies are looked upon with mistrust and
suspicion; they are known to be thieves; their dark faces and flashing
teeth at once attract and repel. There is a nameless charm about them,
and yet aliens they are wherever they go. Every man's hand is against
them; nowhere are they welcome, ever must they move on and on homeless,
despised, and restless, wanderers indeed on the face of the earth.
Yet there are places in Rumania where those gipsies have settled down
on the outskirts of villages or towns.
There, in the midst of indescribable filth and disorder, they are
massed together in tumble-down huts and dug-outs, half-naked,
surrounded by squabbling children and savage dogs. Their hovels are
covered with whatever they can lay hand upon: old tins, broken boards,
rags, clods of earth, torn strips of carpets; no words can render the
squalor that surrounds them, the abject misery in which they swarm.
I have never been able to discover if always the same gipsies live in
these places, or if, after a time, they move on, leaving their nameless
hovels to other wanderers, who for a time settle down and then depart,
making place for those who still will come.
I am inclined to think that in some cases these settlements are refuges
where the wandering hordes seek shelter in winter, when snow-drifts and
bitter frosts make the high-roads impracticable. Yet also in summer
have I seen families grovelling about in these sordid suburbs.
Infinitely more picturesque are the gipsy-camps. These strange people
will pitch their tents in all sorts of places. On large fields used for
pasture, on the edge of streams, sometimes on islands in the midst of
river-beds, or on the border of woods.
Along the road they come, not in covered vans as we see them in tamer
countries, but in dilapidated carts, drawn by lean, half-starved
horses, sometimes by mules or patient grey donkeys.
On these carts, amidst an indescribable jumble of poles, carpets,
tent-covers, pots, pans, and other implements, whole families find
place--mothers and children, old grannies and greybeards, little boys
and bigger youths, regardless of the unfortunate animals that half
succumb beneath the burden.
They stop where they can, sometimes where they must--for many places
are prohibited, and no one desires to have the thieving rascals too
near their home.
To me these camps have always been an unending source of interest.
Whenever, from afar, I have perceived the silhouettes of gipsy-tents,
I have never failed to go there, and no end of impressions have I
gathered amongst these wandering aliens. Often have I watched the carts
being unloaded; with much noise and strife the tent-poles are fixed in
the ground, discoloured rags of every description are spread over them,
each family erecting the roof beneath which it will shelter for awhile
its eternal unrest.
Many and many a time have I roamed about amidst the tents of these
jabbering, squabbling hordes of beggars, beset by hundreds of brown
hands asking for pennies, surrounded by dark faces with brilliant eyes
and snow-white teeth. Half cringing, half haughty, they would demand
money, laughing the while and shrugging their shoulders, fingering
my clothes, slipping their fingers into my pockets; sometimes I have
almost had the sensation of being assailed by a troop of apes.
When on horseback they have nearly pulled me from the saddle,
overwhelming me with strange blessings that often sounded more like
curses or imprecations.
But one wish that they cried after me was always gratefully accepted
by my heart; it was the wish of "Good luck" to my horse. Being nomads,
they appreciate the value of a good mount, and as from all time my
horse has been my friend, such an invocation could not leave me
unmoved; on those days, the pennies I scattered amongst them were given
with a readier hand.
The most beautiful types have I discovered amongst these people; at
all ages they are inconceivably picturesque, so much so indeed that
occasionally they seemed to have got themselves up with a view to
effect.
Old hags have I seen crouching beneath their tents, bending over
steaming pots, stirring mysterious messes with pieces of broken sticks.
No old witch out of Andersen's fairy-tales or the "Arabian Nights"
could be compared to these weird old beings draped in faded rags that
once had been bright, but that now were as sordid and ancient as the
old creatures they only half clothed.