Una

Historian The National Village Museum in Bucharest is the kind of museum in which the traditional exhibition halls are replaced by authentic households, consisting of dwellings and their extensions, technical devices, churches and triptychs transplanted from their places

The experimental artist Grigorescu Ion has forged himself some time ago out of the painter Ion Grigorescu. Indeed, in Romanian it is rather unusual for an adult to put his family name before the forename. Customarily, this happens in official documents or in school registers,

Emil Popescu was an architect. His specialty was the oil factories and we can say, without any exaggeration, that wherever in the country an oil factory had been built in the last five or six years, one could easily tell it was the work of architect Popescu's skilled

 Mr. Popescu, a brave citizen of Bucharest, abode on a street in the slums, where a coach driving past every other day would make a sensation. Cots would vanish into the vast grounds, enabling each of their landlords to bellow to their heart's content, commit murder

After the last act, with the collar of the raincoat raised, hiding the flowers picked up from the stage by the flyman, he was the last to go out in the street. The doors were closing on the dark halls. The square was empty. The light bulbs threw a bluish and so sad a light

excerpt After Lica's departure, Mrs. Vera had vainly peeked from behind the curtains, trying to see whether they turned their heads one after the other. Lica hadn't turned his head, so Mrs. Vera reached the banal conclusion that all men deride women, and that

Once there was a man who whilst in the world could not be in tune with it – a twisted fellow. His mother fancied she would deliver him precisely at Lenten Shrovetide, when a terrible sleet had struck. That year Easter was due in the dead of winter. His father took his

IBeyond the Stone Cross brothel district, on the left of Vitan Road, there rises the HolyRoadAltarChurch. And a mighty proud church that is! Such paintings, inside and outside, are seldom to be seen but in the abodes of old. If you listen to its parishioners, especially

excerpt Nobody listened to him or did so intermittently, the Russian mumbled something, excited by the other's mumbling, Mr. A. V. Emilian was drinking, capitalizing on the exaggerated attention the strange guest was receiving from the little old lady. This one-nighter,

excerpts The carriage was hardly making any progress along the muddy road. The field was oozing with water. Night was creeping down and the cold turned the clods numb and stiff, while the small pools of water around gained a thin crust of ice, which made it even more difficult

excerptsVWhile all this was happening under the alder trees, three men were riding slowly down the hill, keeping close to the brook where they were hidden by the row of willows and osiers. The dogs, who'd felt them from a distance, had started towards them barking ever

excerpts ITHE TOMB The bells of the royal church of Bucharest tolled wailing and gradually; and from above, from up the opposite hill, answered the small round spire of Bucur's church. It was towards the end of February, in the year 1560, and recently the body of