Picturesque Romania

excerpts SULINA At dusk we get on a smaller boat and set off. Hardly do we lose sight of the windmills on the hills around Tulcea, when a third arm detaches itself from the Sulina arm – "Sfîntul Gheorghe", whose white line bends to the right and disappears among the reed plots. By this breaking and spreading of waves over the Dobrujan delta, the Danube seems to try and hide itself, to run away from the overwhelming power of the sea, towards which the river is drawn and lured by the noisy big waves. All around, as far as the eye can see, there's nothing but a marshy plain covered in reeds and willow trees. The Sulina arm, mostly channeled, with paved banks, stretches all white and straight, like a piece of linen, across this green, solitary, endless evenness. Here and there, you see a fisherman's cottage on the bank of the river, a long cellar covered with piles of reed. Every now and then a boat with spread sails appears on the silvery line of the water, just like a bird coming from another world. Horses roaming free stick out their heads from the thickets, shake their long manes, and stare at us in amazement and wonder. The solitude, the wilderness of these untrodden places, the large reed forests swaying their brownish crests in the wind, the deep silence dominating the entire landscape, they all give you the impression of being on a far-off, strange and uninhabited planet. Towards evening we spot, first of all, ahead of us, some traces of smoke dissolving softly in the transparent, clear blue sky, and then some pointed masts, more and more of them, with ropes hanging down from the top like spider webs, then some high chimneys, church towers, house roofs – a town coming out of the water and rising slowly, as if under a spell. The town is Sulina, the happy shore where all the ships coming by sea and by river throw their anchors – the wide gate through which all the riches from all continents are carried from one end of the world to another on the flat, dustless roads of the sea. Hotels, agencies, the Danubian Commission palace, and the rest of the town's more important buildings are lined up along the key, facing the sea. Two large stone jetties guide the waves of the canal into the sea. This is the end of the long and glorious journey of the Istros river. Here the pride and force of the mighty river crush into the sea's heavy waves, blending together the waters and noises of all the rivers the Danube gathered from the thighs of the mountains. A bell always swings above this quarrel of restless waters, above the terrifying whirlpool, its chime warning the sailors to be cautious in times of fog. It's night. Under the black, starless sky, the town is sleeping. I listen to the sleepy splashing of the waves – the eternal and vain agitation of the sea. In the distance, the two lighthouses at the end of the jetties glimmer in the dark, like two candles in a cemetery. Every now and then I think I hear plaintive voices crying on the waves. The bell sounds its rare and tender chime in the fierce kingdom of the night. TULCEA "Watch out!" – and the bridges are pulled up noisily. The wheel strikes forcefully the waves, the bank starts running away from us – the houses seem to start spinning. Further and further away, they disappear from sight on the quay full of people waving their handkerchiefs like the wings of a dove. To the left, a wall of clayey earth with no vegetation on it divides us from the endless mirror of Lake Brates; the old road going from Prut to Reni stretches white along the earthen wave. To the right, thickets of white willows and reed cover the bank of the river. From behind Dobruja Mountains, the sun comes out through the morning mist, like a fireball. The Danube diverts its course, as if wanting to take one more look – the last one – at Moldavia's plains, and following the wide bend the river makes on Dobruja's shore, we find ourselves passing by Galatzi once again. This time, we have a panoramic view of the entire town on the hill. A cold wind blows from the north – it's the icy northeast wind. The Prut river emerges from between shadowy banks, under the willow trees; the water is muddy and clayish, the last messenger the Danube receives from the Carpathians. From here on until the Ciatal crossing, the left bank is not ours. We get near to Isaccea mountains. Their bluish, bald peaks scrape the blue sky, their waists are wrapped in forests, and plains, fields, pastures and orchards lie down at their feet. A small arm detaches itself from the Danube. The small town of Isaccea, the old Noviodunum, can be seen on its dallied bank, surrounded by fields of wheat, and downstream, the fortress Eschi-cale, around which the Turks used to have many fights with the Russians… Darius came through Isaccea ford to fight against the Scythians, five hundred years before Christ; but he went back just as he came, because the Scythians retreated far away into the mountains, and Darius wasted his army's strength looking for them in vain. A little downstream, at the Ciatal crossing, the Danube splits into two large arms, which get further away from each other, circling a sparse growth of willow trees, and never meet again. The Chilia arm, steep and wild, flows to the left, washing our border with Russia all the way to the sea, where it discharges its waters through seven mouths. We turn right on Sulina arm, and in half an hour we are in front of Tulcea harbor. Here the Danube makes a wide turn towards the east, pushing the town between two dry, rocky hills, on top of which the windmills line up against the blue sky like beggars holding out their hands. The heat is suffocating. People and carriage horses look sad and tired and barely move their feet on the overheated pier. A nocturnal silence reigns all over the town. Houses are sleeping behind drawn curtains. In the absence of customers, merchants stretch and yawn at the back of their shops. I walk along the narrow streets starting from the market place and all I can see are high fences and closed gates, blackened by the rain and the passing of time. It feels like being in a monastery. The green church towers rise big and round above the shingle roofs. And a scent of chamomile stays with me permanently in the warm air… The three hours I spend here seem long, too long…


by Alexandru Vlahuţă (1858-1919)