THE TRIP TO THE COUNTRY
On Tuesday of the following week Jonitza, his mother, and the maid
Maritza, after a short trip on the train, were being driven over the
vast level and wonderfully fertile plains of Roumania, that stretched
before them like a great green sea. There were already signs that the
short spring that Roumania has would soon change into summer. Wild
flowers were to be seen here and there and birds twittered and flew
about.
The way lay among thatched farm-houses whose gleaming walls showed that
they had been freshly whitewashed at Easter. Now and then a peasant
seated in a rude wagon, drawn by beautiful, creamy, short-legged oxen
with wide-spreading horns, saluted them gravely.
At a little elevation in the road they passed a group of dug-outs
called _bordei_, with turf-covered roofs and shapeless clay chimneys.
The windows in these _bordei_ were merely irregular holes in the mud
walls. At the door leading down into one of these primitive houses
stood an attractive looking woman, with a bright yellow kerchief over
her head, and another around her neck. She was busily spinning while
she crooned a lullaby to a baby who lay blinking its eyes in an oval
wooden box swinging from the branches of a tree near by.
Not far from these _bordei_ was a cemetery filled with crosses of the
oddest possible shapes. It really seemed as if the people had tried to
find a new design for each new grave.
They passed wayside crosses also, before some of which peasants were
kneeling in prayer.
But, despite these interesting things, there was something tiring in
the long journey over the monotonously level plains, and Jonitza grew
more and more restless. His pretty mother noticed it and drawing him to
her she began to tell him the most interesting stories. First of all
about Trajan, the great Roman Emperor, who came to their country so
many centuries ago and conquered the people who then inhabited it. She
described to him the great column in Rome commemorating his victory,
and told him how proud every Roumanian was that he was descended from
the soldiers that the Emperor left to guard the new possessions.
"Is that why we call the thunder Trajan's voice?" asked Jonitza.
"Perhaps," his mother answered. "We certainly love to call things by
his name."
"The Milky Way is Trajan's Road, isn't it?" again inquired Jonitza.
His mother nodded.
"The boys call the ditch by the lumber mill Trajan's Moat," Jonitza
continued.
His mother smiled. "Roumania is full of Trajan's moats; it would be
hard to find a village that hasn't one. There are many interesting
stories," continued his mother, "connected with our history. You know,
from your tutor, that the section of Roumania in which we live is
called Moldavia. Would you like to hear the old legend as to how it got
its name?"
"Please tell it to me," her son answered eagerly, his eyes sparkling
with interest.
"Once upon a time," began his mother, "a Prince called Bogdan lived in
this part of the world. Now, Bogdan had a dog whom he valued above all
the other dogs that he owned.
"One day, while out hunting, this dog, whose name was Molda, caught
sight of a buffalo and chased it to the very brink of a river. When
the terrified buffalo waded into the water the dog in his excitement
followed, was caught in the current and drowned.
"When his followers saw how deeply affected by the dog's death Bogdan
was, they pursued the buffalo, killed it, and taking its head back with
them, nailed it over the entrance to the Palace.
"But this did not lessen the Prince's grief. Whenever possible he would
go to the river's banks to mourn. The people, seeing him there, would
repeat the story, so that after a while the river became associated
with the name of the dog and was spoken of as the Moldava. Gradually
the name, slightly modified, was applied also to all of the surrounding
country."
"Please tell me more stories about Moldavia," begged Jonitza, when his
mother had been silent for some time.
"Listen then to the story of Movila," again began his mother, glad to
see that the restless look had left her son's face. "This is a story
of King Stephen who was great in mind but very small in body. Once in
a battle with Hungarians his horse was killed under him. As the horse
fell, the King was caught by one of his heralds, a man as large as
Stephen was small. After assisting him to his feet, the herald offered
Stephen his own horse. The King looked up at the big animal with a
frown, but the herald, kneeling before him, placed Stephen's foot on
his shoulder and exclaimed: 'Oh, Prince, allow me to serve you as a
mole-hill.'
"'Mole-hill,' returned Stephen, getting on the horse, 'I will make a
mountain of you.'
"Then Fortune favored Stephen and soon the victory was his. No sooner
was he back in camp than he sent for the herald. When the latter came,
he found Stephen surrounded by his court. 'Herald,' said Stephen, 'thou
hast served me as a mole-hill. In return I give thee the name of Movila
(little mountain). Thou shalt have no other. Thou gavest me thy horse
in my need. In return, I give thee five full domains over which thou
shalt rule.'"
The carriage here stopped before a tiny tavern in a little vineyard
surrounded town. They were disappointed in finding that they could get
nothing for lunch except raw onions with salt and _mamaliga_, the cold
corn meal mush that is eaten everywhere throughout peasant Roumania. At
first Mrs. Popescu thought they would eat from their own well-filled
lunch basket, but when Maritza remarked that _mamaliga_ was really very
good, she changed her mind. Then, as they seated themselves before a
table on the vine-covered veranda, she asked Maritza to tell them how
the _mamaliga_ is prepared.
"The water must be hot," said the maid, "before the meal is stirred
into it. You continue stirring until it is almost done, then you can
add a little grated cheese. At our house, when it is well cooked, we
put it into a cloth and tie it up."
Here some dried fish which the owner of the tavern had perhaps not
intended to serve at first, were laid on the table.
"These fish have a nice flavor," remarked Mrs. Popescu.
"I know how they also are prepared," said Maritza, "for my brother has
helped get them ready."
"Suppose you tell us about it, Maritza," said Mrs. Popescu, evidently
not wishing the party to hurry.
"Very well, ma'am," consented the maid. "First, a kind of basket work
of osiers is built up. This is covered with walnut leaves in which the
fish are wrapped. The building is then filled with smoke for several
days, or until the fish look yellow and smell good. They are then taken
down, made into bundles and surrounded by pine-tree branches, which add
a new flavor to them that most people like."
Here the tavern-keeper again appeared with a bottle of the damson plum
brandy for which Roumania is famous. But Mrs. Popescu shook her head.
"Not this time," she said smiling.
From this little town the journey was a steady climb upward amid oak,
beech and lime-trees. There were more crosses along the roadside. In
one spot there was a large group of them, all brightly painted and
roofed over.
It was not until late in the afternoon that they came in sight of the
village near which the farm lay where they were to stay for a while.
Full of expectations of a good supper, they drove past it and on to a
pleasant and prosperous looking dwelling. In the front of the broad
veranda an interesting group stood waiting to welcome them.