CHAPTER XVI

English nurses introduce the bath-tub--Matutinal ablutions in a country house--Abstinence from ablutions a proof of holiness--The funeral of a Metropolitan: dead prelate in the procession--Afternoon tea’s equivalent in a tomb.

It is a very pretty sight to see a Roumanian baby of the élite start for his daily airing. He is of course most beautifully dressed, although the little face often looks very pinched and yellow in the midst of all the finery. The nurse who wheels the perambulator is usually in costume, consisting of a long cloak with a hood, a head-dress made entirely of ribbon, with long streamers a quarter of a yard in width hanging down behind. If her charge be a boy, the nurse wears red; if a girl, blue.

It is very rare indeed for a Roumanian lady to nurse her own child. A wet nurse is always engaged, who has the entire charge of the little one till it is weaned. It caused quite a sensation when the present Queen of Roumania proposed to nurse one of her children.

Children are not often troubled with baths; the washing of the hands and face and an occasional rubbing with vinegar over the whole body being considered quite sufficient.

Of late years, many families have engaged English nurses, and although at first the innovation of open windows and plenty of cold water was regarded with fear and trembling, people now seem to be growing accustomed to it.

Washing was never greatly in favour, even with grown-ups, and there are difficulties in the way of a successful toilet, especially when one pays a visit to the country.

On entering the bedroom, you wonder where you can perform your ablutions, as no washing stand is to be seen, but next morning the mystery is solved. About eight o’clock a knock is heard at the door, and a maid enters with a wash-basin and a small jug of water. The basin being placed on a chair, you are instructed to hold out your hands, into which the maid gravely pours some water. If you are clever enough to catch some of it, you give a kind of wash to your face, then you hold out your hands for a fresh supply for the hands themselves. This done, the maid gathers up her appliances, takes her leave, and you hear her knocking at the next door to repeat the performance.

I was paying a visit to the country some years ago, and my hostess announced one morning, with every indication of grief, that the Bishop had just died. “Oh, he was such a holy man,” she said; and she so insisted on his holiness, that at length I was driven to inquire what proofs she had of it. “Oh,” she replied, “we _know_ he was a holy man; just fancy, he never washed since he was appointed Bishop ten years ago!”

Immunity from washing is not the only advantage over ordinary mortals which the higher clergy possess. The Metropolitan, for example, is never buried. His body after death is placed on a sort of throne and lowered into the crypt of the monastery. After some months have passed, the dead prelate, throne and all, is built into a wall.

I have a vivid recollection of the funeral of an Archbishop which I attended. Indeed, I cannot conceive of anybody ever forgetting such an experience. The ceremony was of a most imposing character. Enormous crowds gathered to witness the passing of the procession through the streets. A detachment of cavalry headed the procession, and was followed by infantry accompanied by a band. Next came the bier. This was a sort of platform drawn by six horses. The platform was completely covered with flowers, and in the centre, arrayed in ceremonial robes and mitre, sat the dead Metropolitan. The body was supported on each side by an attendant, but in spite of their care the dead head with its ghastly face waggled horribly. I felt terrified lest the body should topple over altogether.

Behind the bier came officials of the Court, ministers, deputies, etc. Then more soldiers and police. But for me the procession contained only one figure, and that was the dead man sitting in his chair.

Until a quite recent date, it was the custom to carry open coffins, with the face of the dead exposed, in funeral processions.

As a rule, when a person is at the point of death, a candle is placed in each hand, in order, it is said, to light the spirit into the next world.

A terrible accident was once caused by this practice. A widow lady living in the Calea Victoire was lying dangerously ill; the doctors had given her up. The servants by whom she was attended, thinking her last hour had come, placed, as was the custom, a candle in each hand, and then left the house (the sick are generally left to die alone, even by their nearest and dearest, Roumanians having such a dread of witnessing death). The candles unhappily fell from the poor nerveless hands and set fire to the bed-clothes, the flames rapidly spreading, as no check was placed upon them, till, when help from outside finally arrived, the whole room and all its contents were entirely consumed. It was dreadful for me to view even the outside of the ruined house and to think what scenes may have occurred within. For long after I was haunted by the idea that the poor lady might have recovered if she had been well attended and not left alone as she was.

The regulations with regard to deaths which may call for an inquiry offer an extraordinary example of red tape. Should a person fall dead in the street, the body may on no account be touched until full reports have been made to a variety of functionaries and a great number of forms have been signed. The tedious proceedings may occupy the whole day. I have seen more than once a corpse lying for many hours in the middle of a busy thoroughfare, necessitating a diversion of the traffic. On one occasion the relatives had placed candles round the body. It was a strange street spectacle.

This is not a cheerful subject, but before leaving it I must refer to some curious tombs in the cemetery just outside Bucarest.

The most interesting is that of a young girl who died some years ago. Her body has never been buried in the strict sense of the term, but remains in a large vault which is always open. This vault, to which one descends by six or seven marble steps, is furnished as a reception room. The girl had some reputation as a poetess, and her favourite books are placed upon shelves on the wall. Amongst other things in the room, or vault, is a large globe which she used in her geographical studies. The hands of the clock on the wall point to the hour at which she died. Behind a curtain the coffin rests upon a marble stand. A lamp placed before it is always alight. The bereaved father spends hours at a time in the vault. He declares that he has constant communication with his daughter’s spirit.

On the anniversary of her “names-day,” relatives and friends are bidden to the vault, where they are entertained with black coffee and dulceata.

Another curious monument is the lifesize effigy of a lady whose body lies beneath. The figure stands on a flat tombstone and holds a fan in its hands. A fan does seem an incongruity in a graveyard. Attached to nearly every tombstone is the photograph of the person who rests beneath.