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My Country

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 THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
PRESENTED BY
PROF, CHARLES A. KOFOID AND
MRS, PRUDENCE W. KOFOID
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

MY COUNTRY
BY

MARIE
QUEEN OF RUMANIA

ALL PROFITS FROM THE SALE OF THIS

BOOK WILL BE PAID TO THE BRITISH RED
CROSS SOCIETY FOR WORK IN RUMANIA

Published for '^^t %imtS

BY
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO
 3>;

A7S

ILLUSTRATIONS
The thatched
in the sun "..........
roofs are replaced by roofs of shingle that shine like silver

.......
Very different are the mountain villages from those of the plain.
The cottages are less miserable
Many a hearty welcome has been given me in these little villages " .

Square, high buildings with an open gallery round the top " .

It

It
is

together"
had kept the
..........
especially in the Dobruiija that these different nationalities jostle

delightful appearance of having been modelled by

10

a potter's thumb " . . . . . . . . .14

Primitive strongholds, half tower, half peasant-house "
Richer and more varied are the peasants' costumes
With an open gallery round the top formed by stout short columns
"
"... . 14
14
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
There lies a tiny wee church "...
monks "

Tall and upright, with the pale, ascetic face of a saint

"
. 30
30
30
Creatures so old and decrepit that they seem to have gathered moss

When
like stones lying for ever in the same place
found in such numbers they are mostly hewn out of wood "
"... 30
31

ivi31 041^
 " "

ILLUSTRATIONS
PAQE
These strange old crosses they stand by the wayside "
. . . . .31
Mostly they stand beside wells " . . . . . . .34
Quaint of shape, they attract the eye from f ar " . . . .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

The
altar
painted screen
is shut
".........
off

roofs are always of shmgle "

from the rest of the building

. . . .
by a carved and

. . .42
39

'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 . . . white-
washed 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 Ihave met them, be it on the mountains or in the plains,

On
. . .

cation of solitude ........

these silent shepherds have seemed to me the very personifi-

the burning plains of the Dobrudja where for miles around no

55

tree is to be seen " . .58

"..........
. . . . . . .

Stifled by the overwhelming temperature, they had massed themselves

together 58
Mothers and children, and old grannies " . . . . .62
.62
Small bronze statues with curly, tousled heads "
Occasionally a torn shirt barely covers them
"
....
. . .

62
Most beautiful of all are the young gu-ls "
Inconceivably picturesque
These are the respected members of the tribes "
....... , . . .63
63
63

'

Ihave 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 ; there-

fore 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

 !

6 MY COUNTRY
plains, of waving corn, of deep forests, of rocky moun-
tains, 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 sliall 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 1
S^IT'"'
•THE THATCHED ROOFS ARE REPLACED BY ROOFS OF SHINGLE
THAT SHINE LIKE SILVER IN THE SUN " (p. 13).

"VERY DIFFERENT ARE THE JIOUNTAIN VILLAGES FROM THOSE OF

UW THE PLAIN. THE COTTAGES ARE LESS MISERABLE (p. 13).
'MANY A HEARTY WELCOME HAS BEEN GIVEN ME IN THESE LITTLE VILLAGES" (p. 13).

'SQUAHK, HIGH 13LILUINGS WITH A\ OPEN GALLERY ROUND THE TOP " (P- 21).
 ;

MY COUNTRY 7

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 accom-

8 MY COUNTRY
panying 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 evei- 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
 MY COUNTRY 9

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 Jendowner, 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,

 ;

10 MY COUNTRY
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 alwaj'^s 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.
- Never was I able to understand how such large families,
IT IS ESPECIALLY IN THE DOBRUDJA THAT THESE DIFFERENT NATIONALITIES
JOSTLE TOGETHER " (p. 16).
 MY COUNTRY 11

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 limit-

less 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.
12 MY COUNTRY
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, some-

thing 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, tlie carts are drawn up beside the ditch, till

the rising dawn reminds them tliat 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

 MY COUNTRY 13

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 sun-
sets 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
14 MY COUNTRY
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 chil-

dren stare at one with grave faces and huge, impressive

eyes.

It is only the galloping riders who become loud in

their joy.
 '

IT HAD KEPT THE DELIGHTFUL APPEARANCE OF HAVING BEEN

MODELLED BY A POTTER'S THUMB" (p. 21).

••
PRIMITIVE STRONGHOLDS, HALF TOWER, " RICHER AND MORE VARIED ARE THE
HALF PEASANT-HOUSE" (p. 21). PEASANTS' COSTUMES " (p. 13).
U]
'WITH AN OPEN GALLERY ROUND THE TOP F0R:MED BY STOUT SHORT COLUMNS" (p. 21).

COMPOSED OF A DOUBLE COLONNADE. . BEHIND THESE COLONNADES ARE THE

. .

NUNS' SMALL CELLS: TINY DOMES, LITTLE CHAMBERS" (p. 26).

_
 MY COUNTRY 15

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, fertihty,

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 Avater before one's feet, always
because of that strange superstition, that water is abund-
ance, 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
w^ere 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
16 MY COUNTRY
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 sea-

shores 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, Bul-

garians, 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.
 MY COUNTRY 17

I went from one side to another, visiting many a cottage,

entering eacli 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 sur-

rounded 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.
 ;

18 MY COUNTRY
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 gener-

ally 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

A CONVENT . . WHITE AND LONELY. HIDDEN AWAY IN WOODED REGIONS GREENER
.

AND SWEETER THAN ANY OTHER IN THE LAND " (p. 25).
 MY COUNTRY 19

assailants, so as to steal into a tiny hut of which the door

stood wide open.
Irresistibly attracted by its mysterious shade, I pene-
trated 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.
 ;

20 MY COUNTRY
From the beginning of time Rumania Avas 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 amuse-

ments are seldom boisterous, rarely are their voices loud.

On festive days they don their gayest apparel and, croAvded

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,
withovit 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 habita-

tions if any day the enemy might sweep over the country
and burn everything to the ground?
 MY COUNTRY 21

One or two strange old constructions have been pre-

served 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 strong-
holds, 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 some-
thing 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
 !

22 MY COUNTRY
the spell that they throw over me, almost inexplicable the
delight with which they fill my soul
As many other countries, the Rumanian monks and
in

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

••THIS PORCH IS DECORATED AI,L OVER WITH FRESCOES" (p. 26).
^^
W£
DOJ
n
.05
en o
 !

MY COUNTRY 23

hold of my hands or part of my garment, which they

kissed, whilst they cried and murmured, mumbling many
a prayer.
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 beautifvd, 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 long-

drawn, 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
 a

24 MY COUNTRY
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, some-
thing 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. . . .

INIore pompous were the receptions I received in the

larger monasteries.

Here all the monks would file out to meet me —

procession of black-robed, long-bearded beings, austere of
appearance, sombre of face.
me by the arm, the Father Superior would
Taking
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

 MY COUNTRY 25

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 colon-
nades 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 touch-

ing 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,
 —

26 MY COUNTRY
built one above the other, the upper one forming an open
gallery running round the whole. Behind these colon-
nades 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. . . .

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
AN INDESCRIBABLE HARMONY MAKES ITS LINES BEAUTIFUL" (p. 25>.
 MY COUNTRY 27

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 inter-

esting, equally qviaint.

I remember a small monastery, nesthng 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 repose-
ful as a dream of rest.

Strange old monks inhabited it — silent recluses, buried

away from the world, shadowy spectres, almost sinister
 —

28 MY COUNTRY
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.

 MY COUNTRY 29

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
 ;

30 MY COUNTRY
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 svicli 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 Avas dxilty 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.
 I.ONKLV l.ITTLE CEMETERY, KILLED WITH 'ON LONELY MOUNTAIN-SIDES" (p. 35).
CROSSES or WOO.J " (p. 29).

T.IWRDEI) BY A EEW HOARY OLD MONKS' THERE LIES A TINY WEE CHURCH" (p. 28).
(p. 20).

T.\LL AND UPRIGHT, WITH THE P.VLE, ASCETIC CREATURES SO OLD AND DECRHI'IT THAT THEY SEEM
••

FACE OF A SAINT" (p. 28). TO HAVE GATHERED MOSS LIKE STONES LYING FOR
EVER IN THE SAME PLACE" (p. 29).
30]
'WHEN FOUND IN SUCH NUMBERS THEY ARE MOSTLY
HEWN OUT OF WOOD " (p. 34).

'THESE STRANGE OLD CROSSES. . . . THF.Y STAND BY

THE WAY-SIDE " (p. 33).

[31
 !

MY COUNTRY 31

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
32 MY COUNTRY
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 rela-

tives, 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

 MY COUNTRY 33

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. Monu-
mental, 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 some-
what melancholy character of the land.
Generally they stand by the way-side, 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. , , .
34 MY COUNTRY
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 discovcicd them in all sorts of places ; some are
of rare beauty, covered with inscriptions entangled in
wonderful designs.
I have come upon them on bare fields, on the edges
MOSTLY THEY STAND BESIDE WELLS " (p. 34).
 —

MY COUNTRY 36

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 tranquillii y ; 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

36 MY COUNTRY
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 won-

dering 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
 !

MY COUNTRY 37

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.

Approaching her, I looked to see of what size was the

grave she was 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.
 !

88 MY COUNTRY
" 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 ather 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

 " Ql'AINT OK SHAPK. THEY ATTRACT THE EYE •SOMETIMES THEY ARE OF QUAINTLY
I'HOM I'AH
••
(p. 34). CARVED STONE" (p. 33).

"STRANGE OLD CROSSES THAT ON ALL ROADS " THEIR FORMS AND SIZES ARE VARIED '

I HAVE COME IPON" (p. 33). (p. .34).

38J
.J^
 MY COUNTRY 39

reverently laid upon an embroidered effigy of the crucified

Christ which is placed on a table in the centre of the

church.
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 wor-

shippers 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

40 MY COUNTRY
history, admiring their perfect proportions, closely examin-
ing 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 build-

ings 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 civilisa-

tion 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 enter-

prising 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
 MY COUNTRY 41

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 some-
times silver. Green moss often pads the chinks between
42 MY COUNTRY
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 for-

saken little churches, carried there no doubt from greater
ones when so-called improvements banished from their

renovated walls the old-time treasures forthwith con-

sidered 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
 !

MY COUNTRY 48

sound of a bell reached me, tolling its greeting into the

evening air.

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 Ht many
hghts, 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

44 MY COUNTRY
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 chm-chcs.

When they are not of wood, like those I have just described,
they are mostly whitewashed, their principal featm'c

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 beauti-
ful 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.

Ihe roof had fallen in, the walls were cracked, in places
crumbling away, tall sunflowers peeped in at its panelcss

windows, and the birds built their nests amongst the

beams of its ruined vaults. Pitiable it was, indeed, to
 MY COUNTRY 45

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

 ;

46 MY COUNTRY
of prayer ; again and again I made the round of it, absorb-
ing 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.
46|
BUT WITH SOJIE THE BELFRY STANDS •THE COH'.MXS HAVE BEAUTIFUL CARVED
BY ITSELF" (p. 41). CAPITALS OF RAREST DESIGN . WHirE-
. .

WASHED LIKE THE REST OF THE CI unci 1" I

"QUAINT INDEED AH1-; IHl'. Hill. DINGS THAT SOME

SIMPLE-HEARTED ARTIST HAS PAINTED" (p. 44).
'47
 .

MY COUNTRY 47

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 daj^s of impene-
trable 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
 —

48 MY COUNTRY
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 pin-
nacles, 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
 MY COUNTRY 49

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 vipon 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 ad-
vance ! Nothing was to be seen but a series of ilat, 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.
 !

50 MY COUNTRY
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, seek-

ing 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 personifica-

tion 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 !

f^ In autumn and early spring the shepherds lead their

*
flocks back from the mountains. One meets them trudging
^Jf^^^ '

^^y
"
^ slowly along the high-roads —a silent mass with a weather-
beaten leader at their head, man and beast the colour

of dust ; footsore, weary, passive, knowing that their

way is not yet at an end.

"THESE LONELY MOUNTAIN-DWELLERS" (p. 47).
 — ;

MY COUNTRY 51

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

52 MY COUNTRY
dug-outs, half-naked, surrounded by squabbling children
and savage dogs. Their hovels are covered with what-
ever 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 settle-

ments 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.
 MY COUNTRY 63

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

54 MY COUNTRY
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.

Gaudy bands of stuff were wound turban-wise round

their heads, from beneath which strands of grey hair
hung in dishevelled disorder over their eyes. Generally
a white-clay pipe was stuck in the corner of their mouths,
for both the men and women smoke ; in fact, smoke
pervades the atmosphere about them, fumes of tobacco
THESE SHAGGY GAUMKNTS GIVE THEM A WILD "THEIR ONLY REFUGES ARE DUG-OUTS" (p. 47).
APPEARANCE" (p. 47).

EVEN TINV HOYS WEAR THESE EXTKAORUINARY •HERE, IN COMPANY WITH THEIR DOGS, THEY SPEND
COATS" {p. 47). THE LONG SU.M.MER MONTHS" (p. 47).
 ON JUICY PASTURES NEAR CLEAR-FLOWING STREAM" (p. 48>.

SILENT WATCHEHS LEANINC. ON THEIR STAFFS" (p. 4tii.

'WHEREVER I HAVE MET THEM, BE IT ON THE MOUNTAINS OR IN THE PLAINS, THESE SILENT
. . .

SHEPHERDS HAVE SEEMED TO ME THE VERY PERSON IFIC.\TION OF SOLITUDE" (p. 50).
' ~
[35
 MY COUNTRY 55

mixing with the more pungent smell of the fires lighted

all over the camp.

These old crones are the respected members of the
tribes. Their loud curses call order to the young ones,
throw a certain awe amongst the rowdy quarrelling
children, who run about almost naked clamouring for

alms, turning summersaults in the dust, tumbling about

between one's feet. A sore trial to one's patience are
these scamps, but at the same time a source of infinite
delight to the eye, for extraordinarily beautiful are some
of these grinning, screeching little savages, one with the

colour of the earth ; small bronze statues with curly,

tousled heads, large eyes bordered by indescribable lashes,
sometimes so long and curling that they appear to be
black feathers at their lids.

Occasionally a torn shirt barely covers them, or their

arms have been thrust into coats much too large, the
sleeves dangling limply over their hands, giving them
the appearance of small scarecrows come to life. Never
more enchanting are they than when gambolling about
as God made them, for all attire a string of bright beads

round their necks !

These earth-coloured little waifs will run for miles

beside one's carriage or horse, begging for coins with
extended palms, whining over and over again the same
complaint.
Most beautiful of all are the young girls : upright.
56 MY COUNTRY
well grown, with narrow hips and dehcate hands and
feet. Whatever rag they twist about their graceful limbs

turns into a becoming apparel. They will deck them-

selves with any discarded finery they may pick up by
the way. Sometimes valuable old pieces of embroidery
will end their days upon the bodies of these attractive
creatures, enhancing their charm, giving them the air

of beggared queens. Bright girdles wound round hips

and waist keep all these rags in place, giving the wearer

the look of Egyptians such as we see painted on the frescoes

of temple-walls.
Beneath the gaudy scarves which they tie on their
heads plaits of hair hang down on both sides of their faces
—plaits that are decorated with every sort of coin, with
little splinters of coloured glass or metal, or strange-shaped

charms or holy medals that jingle as they move about.

Round their necks hang long strings of gaudy beads that

shine and glisten on their bronze-tinted skins.
Little modesty do these maidens show. They are
loud and forward, shameless beggars, quite indifferent

if their torn shirts leave neck and bosom half naked to

the rays of the sun.
With flashing white teeth they will smile at you, arms
akimbo, head thrown back, a white pipe impudently
stuck at the corner of their mouths.
Indescribably graceful are these girls coming back
to the camp at evening, carrying large wooden water-pots
 ;

MY COUNTRY 57

on their heads. Over the distance they advance, upright,

with swinging stride, whilst the water splashes in large

drops over their cheeks. The sinking sun behind them

gives them the appearance of shadows coming from very

far out of the desert where the paths have neither begin-
ning nor end. . . .

The men are no less picturesque than the women

they are covered with filthy rags, and are mostly bare-
footed. But tribes have I encountered less sordid, where
the men wore high boots, baggy trousers, and shirts with
wide-hanging sleeves. These belonged to more pros-
perous clans, the men particularly good-looking, with
long curling hair hanging on both sides of their faces.
Evil-looking creatures no doubt, but uncannily handsome
nevertheless.

Most gipsies are tinkers by profession, by instinct

they are thieves. Leaving their women-folk to look after
the tents, the men will set out towards the villages, there
to patch up pots and pans ; often one meets them several
in file carrying bright copper vessels on their backs.
They grin at you, and never forget to stretch out a begging
hand.
Others have studied the gipsies' habits, morals, and
ways I have only looked upon them with an artist's eye,
;

and in that way they are an unending source of joy.

Inconceivable is the bustle and noise when a camp
breaks up. The tcnt-polcs are pulled out of the ground,
 —

58 MY COUNTRY
the miserable horses that have been seeking scarce nourish-
ment from the withered wayside grass are caught by
the screecliing children, who have easy work, as the unfor-
tunate creatures are hobbled and cannot escape. Re-
signedly they let themselves be attached to the carts,
the tent-poles, carpets, pots and pans are once more
transferred from the ground to the vehicles that will

transport them to another place, and thus onwards . . .

without end. . . .

The old crones are stowed away beneath all this bag-
gage, and with them the children too small to walk, the

feeble old men, the invalids, and those too foot-sore to

tramp the weary way.
A delightful picture did I once perceive. Upon the
back of a patient donkey numerous tent-poles had been
tied ; how so small a beast could carry them remains a
mystery. Between these poles several small naked babies
had been fastened, their black eyes staring at me from
beneath mops of tousled, unkempt curls.

The donkey moved from place to place, grazing, the

heavy poles bobbed about, one or the other touching

the ground, raising little clouds of dust like smoke.
No concern was to be read on the faces of the babies ;

this mode of transport was no doubt the usual thing.

They looked like little brown monkeys brought from

warmer climes. . . .

I have often met old couples wandering together

 <*^i-^ *,m

.'a .,
'.!>.> V, I'-'

'ON THE BURNING PLAINS OF THE DOBRUDJA WHETIE FOR MILES

AROUND NO TREE IS TO BE SEEN" (p. 48).

'!»
;^ •*'-«4li'^4lA

•^ra*
^"^^illm&tt

'
STIFLED BY THE OVERWHELMING TEMPERATURE, THEY HAD
MASSED THEMSELVES TOGETHER" (p. 50).

58]
 ;

MY COUNTRY 59

men and women bent with age, weary, dusty, covered

with rags, with pipes in their mouths ; wretched vagrants,
but always perfectly picturesque. No doubt they were
going to tinker in some villages, for the men carried on

their backs the inevitable copper pots, whilst the old hags

had heavy sacks slung over their shoulders, a thick staff

in their hands. Along the sides of their earth-coloured

cheeks grey plaits of hair hung limply down, swinging
as they went. It was to me as though I had often met
them before ; I seemed to recognise their eyes, their weary
look, even the shell, sign of the fortune-teller, that the

women wore hanging from a string at their girdles; yet

no doubt they were but samples of the many wanderers
among this people who, homeless and foot- sore, are for
ever roaming over the earth. . . .

One art above all others belongs to the gipsies. They

are born musicians, and the violin is their instrument

even the smallest boy will be able to make it sing. Some

are musicians by profession. In groups of three and
four they will wander from village to village, always
where music is needed, patiently, tirelessly playing for
hours and hours, in sun or rain, night or day, at mar-
riages, funerals, or on feast-days.
60 MY COUNTRY
When in bands these wandering minstrels have other
instruments besides violins. Strange-shaped lutes, well

known in Rumanian literature as the " cobsa," and a

flute composed of several reeds, the classical flute used
in ages past by old father Pan.
Mostly they are bronze-coloured old vagrants with
melancholy eyes and bent backs, who are accustomed
to cringe, and whose lean brown hands are accustomed
to beg. Discarding their picturesque rags, these wander-
ing minstrels have adopted hideous old clothes that others
have cast off. Infinitely more mean-looking are they in

this accoutrement ; they have lost that indefinite charm

that generally surrounds them ; they are naught but sad
old men clothed in ugly tatters, and are no more a delight
to the eyes. Welcome they are, nevertheless, for their

music is both sweet and melancholy, strident and weird ;

there is a strange longing in every note, and the gayer

the tunes become the more is one inclined to weep !

An inexplicable cry of yearning lies in their every

melody — is it a remembrance of far-off lands that once
were theirs, and that they have never seen ? Or is it

only an expression of the eternal nostalgia that drives

them restlessly from place to place ?

One summer's evening I met a gipsy youth, coming

towards me from out of the dust of the road. Seated
with bare, dangling legs on the back of a donkey,
his violin under his chin, regardless of all else, he was
 aiY COUNTRY 61

playing . . . playing to the sky above, to the stars that

were coming out one by one, peeping down with pale
wonder upon this lonely vagabond to whom all the road
belonged. . . . Playing because it was his nature to play

. . . playing to his heart that had not yet awakened . . .

playing to his soul that he could not fathom.

In towns the gipsies are used as masons. One finds

them in groups wherever a house is being built, men,

women, and children bringing with them their nameless

disorder and their picturesque filth.

Of an evening, the work being done, they will prepare

their supper, when, seated round the steaming pot, their
many-coloured rags become radiant beneath the rays of
the setting sun.
Often a mangy donkey is attached not far off, and in

a basket, amidst a medley of metal pots of all sizes and

shapes, lies a sleeping infant wrapped in a torn cloth.
The donkey patiently bears his burden, flicking away
the flies with his meagre tail.

In the month of lilies handsome gipsy-girls will wander

through the streets, carrying Mooden vessels filled with

snow-white flowers, the purity of the lilies strangely in

contrast with their sun-tanned faces. In long, fragrant

62 MY COUNTRY
bunches they sell these flowers to the passers-by. At
every corner one meets them, either crouching in pic-
turesque attitudes on the pavement or standing upright
beneath the shadowy angle of a roof, beautiful creatures

with dark faces readily breaking into smiles that make

their black eyes glisten and their white teeth flash.

Figures full of unconscious pride, visages at which

one must look and always look again ... for they contain
all the mystery of the many roads their feet have left

behind !

It is the season of harvest that shows Rumania in

all her glory, that season when the labour of man meets
its reward, when, the earth having given her utmost, man,
woman, and child go forth to gather in the wealth that

makes this country what it is.

Sometimes, indeed, it is an hour of disappointment,

for rain, hail, or drought ofttimes undoes man's weary
work. Sometimes the earth has not responded to his

dearest hopes, has not been able to bring forth her

fruit.

Years have I known when, for months at a time, no

drop of rain has fallen, when, like the people of old, we
watched the sky in the ardent hope that the cloud as large
as a man's hand would spread and burst into the shower
 MDTIIHHS AND CI 1 II.DHHX, AND OLU GUANNIES" (p- 53).

• S.MALL nUUNZE STATL KS WITH CLHI V •

OCCASIONALLY A TORN SHIRT BARELY
TOLSLEU HEADS" (p. 55). COVERS THEXI" (p. 55).
62]
MOST BEAUTIFUL OF ALL ARE THE YOUNG •
INCONCEIVABLY PICTURESQUE" (p. 54).
GIRLS" (p. 55).

THESE ARE THE RESPECTED JIE.MBERS OF THE I HAVE OFTEN MET OLD COUPLES WANDERING
TRIBES" (p. 55). TOGETHER" (p. 58).

[03
 »IY COUNTRY 63

so sorely needed —but the cloud passed and gave not the
rain it promised ; yesn's when all that had been confided
to the bosom of the earth withered and dried away because
from April to September no drop had fallen, so that numbers
of wretched cattle died for want of pasturage upon which
to graze.

Terrible months of straining anxiety, of hopeless wait-

ing that seemed to dry up the blood in one's veins, as the

earth was parched from the want of rain.

The rivers had no more water ; the land of plenty
becomes a land of sighs, the dust covering all things as

with a shroud of failure. . . .

But grand indeed are the years of plenty, when man's

effort bears fruit.

In oceans of ripe gold the corn lies beneath the

immense face of the sun, proud of its plenty, a glorious

hope fulfilled !

And, from that vast plain of fertility, man's hand it

is that reaps the ripe ears, that binds the sheaves, that
gathers in the grain. Ever again and again must I marvel
at the patience of man's labour, marvel at his extra-
ordinary conquest over the earth.
In groujDs the peasants work from early dawn to sunset,
unaffected by the pulsing heat beating down upon their

heads. The men's snowy shirts contrast with the women's

coloured aprons that stain the tawny plain with vivid
spots of blue, red, or orange, for at the season of harvest
64 MY COUNTRY
no one remains idle —the very old and the disabled alone
are left behind to guard the house.

From hour to hour ceaselessly they toil, till midday

gathers them round their carts for frugal repast of polenta

and onions. Pictures of labour, of healthy effort, of

simple content ! How often have I contemplated them

with emotion, realising how dear this country had grown
to my heart.

Watchful dogs guard the carts and those of the chil-

dren too small to work ; beneath the shade of these vehicles

the labourers take a short hour's rest, alongside of their
grey bullocks that in placid content lie chewing the cud,
their enormous horns sending back the rays of the sun.
Lazily they swish their tails from side to side, keeping
off the too busy flies that gather on their lean flanks and
round their large, dreamy eyes. With slow turns of their

heads they follow their masters' movements, well aware

that their own effort must be taken up again at the
hour of sunset when the labourers go home.
Only on rich estates is machinery used, and then mostly
for threshing the corn; nearly all the cutting is done by
hand. Small gatherings of busy labourers crowd around
the iron monster, whose humming voice can be heard
from afar, and always rises the heap of grain till it

stands, a burnished pyramid of gold, beneath the great

blue sky.
At sunset the peasants return home, their scythes
 —

MY COUNTRY 65

over their shoulders, walking beside their carts heaped

up with bright yellow straw. Along the road they crawl,
those carts, in a haze of dust. On wind-still evenings
the dust remains suspended in the air, covering the world
with a silvery gauze, enveloping the dying day in a
haze of mystery that floats over man and beast, wiping

out the horizon, toning down all colours, softening every

outline.

Often the sinking sun sets this haze aflame ; then

the atmosphere becomes strangely luminous, as though
a tremendous fire were burning somewhere behind fumes
of smoke. Indescribable is that hour ; full of beauty,

full of peace, full of the infinite satisfaction of work faith-

fully accomplished, the hour when all feet are turned

homewards, turned towards rest.

In never-ending file the carts follow each other, drawn

by those grey-white oxen with the wondrous horns-
along the road they come as though moving in a dream,
that slowly passes in a cloud of dust and is gone ; . . . but
the dust remains suspended like a veil drawn over a vision
that is no more. . . .

The maize-harvest comes later in the year, much

later ; sometimes in October the peasants are still gather-
ing the ripe fruit. The days are short, and in the evening

dampness rises out of the vast plain, and hovers like smoke
beneath the glowing sky. An indescribable melancholy
floats over the world, the melancholy of things come to
66 MY COUNTRY
an end, A great effort seems completed, and now the
year has no more to do but to fall slowly to sleep. . . .

Yet nothing is more glorious than the Rumanian

autumn; Nature desires to deck herself in a last mantle
of beauty before confessing herself vanquished by the
advancing of the winter season.
The sky becomes intensely blue; all that stands up
against it appears to acquire a new value. The trees

dress themselves in wondrous colours, sometimes golden,

sometimes russet, sometimes flaming red. Amongst the
man-high maize-plants, giant sunflowers stand bending
their heads, heavy with the weight of the seeded centres ;

like prodigious stars their saffron petals shine against

the azure vault.

Whole fields have I seen of these giant plants, real
armies of sun-shaped flowers, triumphantly yellow beneath
the rays of the great light they so bravely mimic. But
often it seems to me that ashamedly they turn their faces
away, sadly aware that they are but a sorry imitation
of the one whose name they bear. Oil is made out of

the seeds of these flowers ; therefore do the peasants

cultivate them in such numbers.
Often beneath the shade of those giant plants have
I seen peasants seated in circles round piles of maize,
separating the fruit from the leaves. In dwarf pyramids
of orange, the ripe cobs lie scattered about the wilting

fields, their glorious colour attracting the eye from

 I
*
•\

wf
'A BARB FIELD WHERE THE SOLDIERS EXERCISED"

66]
 ;

MY COUNTRY 67

afar ; often the women's kerchiefs are of the very same

tint.

I love these flaming touches of colour amongst the

arid immensities of reaped —lovingly
fields' the eye of

the artist lingers to look at them, only unwillingly turning

away.
A pretty sight is also that of the peasant meetings,

either in large barns or court -yards, to unsheathe the grain

of maize from its cob. These are occasions of great rejoicing,

when the young folk flock together, when laughter and
work mingle joyously, when long yarns are told and love-

songs are sung. The old crones sit around spinning or

weaving, their heads nodding together over delectable
gossip, one eye upon the youths and maidens, who,
dressed in their brightest, with a flaring flower stuck
behind the ear, ogle each other, and joke and kiss and
are happy.
The old gipsy " Lautar," or wander-minstrel, is never
absent from these meetings. From somewhere he is sure

to come limping along, shabby, disreputable, a sordid

figure with his violin or his " cobsa " under his arm
but his music is wonderful, making all hearts laugh, or
dance, or weep.

* *

Too many pictures would I evoke, too many visions

5
68 . MY COUNTRY
rise before my brain —both time and talent fail me —so
grudgingly must I turn away and leave these simple
people to their work and their play, to their joys and
their pains, their hopes and their fears. I leave them to
their peaceful liomes —a veil of dvist lying over.

THE END
 POSTSCRIPT

Rumania, like the other small nations, is paying a bloody

price for her vindication of the principles of Right —the
bedrock of the Allied cause.
Her plucky intervention in the Great War, notwith-
standing what had befallen Belgium, Serbia and Monte-
negro ; the implicit faith of her people in the righteousness
of the Allied cause ; and the gallantry of her troops excite

the admiration of all the Free Races.

The British Red Cross Society and Order of St. John
has rendered great assistance on the battlefields of Rumania
with hospitals well staffed and medical supplies.
We owe a debt to Rumania. Every copy of My
Country sold adds to The Times Fund for Sick and
Wounded, for which purpose this tribute by Queen Marie
to the little-known natural and architectural beauties of

her country is published. Should any reader, as a result

of this book, desire to send a further contribution, this

may be addressed to the publishers, Messrs. Hodder &

Stoughton, St. Paul's House, Warwick Square, London,
E.C., marked My Country, and will be duly acknowledged
in the columns of The Tim,es.

December 1916.
69
 PRINTED IN" GREAT BRITAIN
BY HAZELL, WATSON AND VUfBT, LD.,
LONDON AND ATIE3BUUT.
 14 DAY USE
RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED
LOAN DEPT.
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on the date to which renewed.
Renewed books are subject to immediate recall.

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