Roumanian Stories, Translated from the Original Roumanian

by Unknown

In a few hours the inhabitants of Saraceni were rather too rich in water. This occurred nearly every year. When the crops in the valley appeared to be most favourable, the Dry Valley belied its name and washed away all that lay in its path.

It would have been rather better if this invasion had lasted only a short time, but the water remained in the valley, and in many places formed refuges for the frog family. And instead of corn, osiers and interlacing willows grew by the side of its pools.

Was it any wonder that in consequence of this the people of Saraceni had become in time the most idle of men? He is a fool who sows where he cannot reap, or where he does not know whether he will be able to reap or not. The Fatza was a sandy spot; the corn grew a few inches high and the maize a yard; on Rîpoasa one could not grow blackberries even, for at the bottom the water spoilt the fruit. Where there is no hope of reward there is no incentive to work. Whoever works wants to earn, but the people of Saraceni had given up all thoughts of gain, and therefore no one felt inspired to work. Those who could afford it passed their time lying out of doors; those who could not, spent their day working in the neighbouring villages. When the winter came life was hard and bitter.

But whoever has got used to the bad does not think of better things; the people of Saraceni appeared to think that things could not be better than they were. Fish in the water, birds in the air, moles in the ground, and the people of Saraceni in poverty!

Saraceni? One can imagine what a village like Saraceni must have been; here a house, there a house—all alike. Hedges were superfluous, seeing there was nothing to enclose; the street was the whole village. It would have been absurd to put a chimney on the house—the smoke found its way out through the roof. There would have been no sense in putting plaster on the walls either, as that dropped off in time. Some of the buildings were made of bits of wood knocked together, a roof of straw mixed with hay, an oven of clay, an old-fashioned veranda outside, a bed with four posts built into the ground, a door made out of three boards held together by two stakes placed crosswise—quickly made and well made—whoever was not pleased with it, let him make something he liked better.

At the top of the village, that is to say on the highest point, was a sort of building which the Saracenese called the “church.” It was a heap of old tree trunks piled one on the top of the other in the form of walls. In the old days—when, one does not know—these kind of walls were open to the sky; later, one does not know when, the walls had been made to converge in one place, to support what was supposed to do duty for a tower. This—owing to the fact that the supports of the facade had perished through the buffeting of a very strong wind—had fallen towards the patient earth, dragging the entire structure after it. And there it had remained ever since, for the church counted for little in Saraceni; it was superfluous.

Priest? They say there is no village without a priest. Probably whoever said this did not know about Saraceni. Saraceni was a village without a priest. That is to say, it was a village with a priest—only this priest was a priest without a village. Saraceni was unique in one way. There had never been a priest who stayed more than three days in Saraceni; he came one day, stayed the next, and left on the third. Many guilty priests passed through Saraceni; whoever had stayed there long would have expiated all his sins.

Then Father Trandafir reached this penitential spot. He could not expect to do as the others had done, come one day, stay the next, and depart the third. He was too much out of favour with the archdeacon to imagine that he would send him to another village. He could not remain without a village: a priest without a village—a cart without a wheel, a yoke without oxen, a hat on the top of a wig. He began to think what he must do; he must take things as they were, and stay gladly in Saraceni. It was only a village in name, but no one could say he was a priest without a village. But really a more suitable priest for a more suitable village you could not have found. The poverty of the priest corresponded to the poverty in the homes of his parishioners. From the beginning Trandafir realized one thing: it was much nicer in Butucani than in Saraceni. There the people all had something, and you could always have some of it. In Saraceni all the latches were made of wood. Then the Father reflected: the priest did all the business of the town, but the town took care of the priest’s purse. Before long the Father began to feel sure that the people who started by being charitable and hospitable were not born fools. “It is a wise thing when men meet together to comfort and cheer each other. Even our Redeemer began with almsgiving, and the wedding at Cana of Galilee.” Thus thought Father Trandafir; but in Saraceni there was neither almsgiving nor hospitality.

“There is one thing,” said the Father to himself a little later on, “in a poor village there is no corn for the priest to gather. As long as the people of Saraceni are lazy, so long shall I be hungry!” And he began to think how he was going to make his parishioners industrious. The industrious man eats the stones, makes soup out of the stagnant water, and reaps corn where the hemlock used to grow. “Then”—concluded the priest—“when the cow has fodder she is no longer dry!”

Thus he spoke, and he set to work to put it in practice. A man who has nothing to eat busies himself with other people’s affairs. He does no good that way! The blind man cannot aid the cripple; the hungry don’t improve their village; when the geese keep watch among the vegetables, little remains for the gardener: but Father Trandafir was obstinate; when he started, he went on—and he got there, or he died by the way.