Part 4

I have never been able to discover if always the same gipsies live in these places, or if, after a time, they move on, leaving their nameless hovels to other wanderers, who for a time settle down and then depart, making place for those who still will come.

I am inclined to think that in some cases these settlements are refuges where the wandering hordes seek shelter in winter, when snow-drifts and bitter frosts make the high-roads impracticable. Yet also in summer have I seen families grovelling about in these sordid suburbs.

Infinitely more picturesque are the gipsy-camps. These strange people will pitch their tents in all sorts of places. On large fields used for pasture, on the edge of streams, sometimes on islands in the midst of river-beds, or on the border of woods.

Along the road they come, not in covered vans as we see them in tamer countries, but in dilapidated carts, drawn by lean, half-starved horses, sometimes by mules or patient grey donkeys.

On these carts, amidst an indescribable jumble of poles, carpets, tent-covers, pots, pans, and other implements, whole families find place--mothers and children, old grannies and greybeards, little boys and bigger youths, regardless of the unfortunate animals that half succumb beneath the burden.

They stop where they can, sometimes where they must--for many places are prohibited, and no one desires to have the thieving rascals too near their home.

To me these camps have always been an unending source of interest. Whenever, from afar, I have perceived the silhouettes of gipsy-tents, I have never failed to go there, and no end of impressions have I gathered amongst these wandering aliens. Often have I watched the carts being unloaded; with much noise and strife the tent-poles are fixed in the ground, discoloured rags of every description are spread over them, each family erecting the roof beneath which it will shelter for awhile its eternal unrest.

Many and many a time have I roamed about amidst the tents of these jabbering, squabbling hordes of beggars, beset by hundreds of brown hands asking for pennies, surrounded by dark faces with brilliant eyes and snow-white teeth. Half cringing, half haughty, they would demand money, laughing the while and shrugging their shoulders, fingering my clothes, slipping their fingers into my pockets; sometimes I have almost had the sensation of being assailed by a troop of apes.

When on horseback they have nearly pulled me from the saddle, overwhelming me with strange blessings that often sounded more like curses or imprecations.

But one wish that they cried after me was always gratefully accepted by my heart; it was the wish of "Good luck" to my horse. Being nomads, they appreciate the value of a good mount, and as from all time my horse has been my friend, such an invocation could not leave me unmoved; on those days, the pennies I scattered amongst them were given with a readier hand.

The most beautiful types have I discovered amongst these people; at all ages they are inconceivably picturesque, so much so indeed that occasionally they seemed to have got themselves up with a view to effect.

Old hags have I seen crouching beneath their tents, bending over steaming pots, stirring mysterious messes with pieces of broken sticks. No old witch out of Andersen's fairy-tales or the "Arabian Nights" could be compared to these weird old beings draped in faded rags that once had been bright, but that now were as sordid and ancient as the old creatures they only half clothed.

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 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, well grown, with narrow hips and delicate hands and feet. Whatever rag they twist about their graceful limbs turns into a becoming apparel. They will deck themselves 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 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 beginning nor end....

The men are no less picturesque than the women; they are covered with filthy rags, and are mostly barefooted. 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 prosperous 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 tent-poles are pulled out of the ground, the miserable horses that have been seeking scarce nourishment from the withered wayside grass are caught by the screeching children, who have easy work, as the unfortunate creatures are hobbled and cannot escape. Resignedly 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 baggage, 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--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 checks 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 marriages, funerals, or on feast-days.

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 wandering 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 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 wooden vessels filled with snow-white flowers, the purity of the lilies strangely in contrast with their sun-tanned faces. In long, fragrant bunches they sell these flowers to the passers-by. At every corner one meets them, either crouching in picturesque 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 showerso sorely needed--but the cloud passed and gave not the rain it promised; years 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 waiting 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 extraordinary conquest over the earth.

In groups 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 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 children 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 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 faithfully 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 gathering 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 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 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 fields--lovingly 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 courtyards, 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 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 homes--a veil of dust 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, notwithstanding what had befallen Belgium, Serbia and Montenegro; 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 Times_.

_December 1916._

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD., LONDON AND AYLESBURY.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE