Largely presented by Prince Dimitrie Cantemir (1673-1723) in Descriptio Moldaviae, the world in which legends and superstitions intertwine with real historical facts is the birthplace of numerous creators in the history of Romanian literature. Among these, the poet Mihai Eminescu (1850-1889) and the storyteller Ion Creangă (1837-1889) stand out as the most significant figures. While, next to the former, only one other master of words is mentioned, Tudor Arghezi (1880-1967), next to the latter can stand only the prolific novelist, Mihail Sadoveanu (1880-1961).
The charm with which Creangă describes the joys of a simple and peaceful peasant life, in his autobiographical work Childhood Memories, is savored by readers of all ages. The profound wit of the Harap Alb’s Tale recounts the ordeals of a prince who, alongside his brothers in arms—all endowed with exceptional abilities and magical powers—is subjected to a series of trials that prove his royal qualities. Therefore, it is not surprising that young and old readers of the 21st century, just like those in the 19th century, are delighted by Creangă’s stories. The simple fact that the most important publisher of books for children in Romania bears his name speaks for itself.
Just as is the case for Cervantes, Rabelais, or Chaucer, the golden key to Creangă’s creations is humor—a humor that does not just sting the ridicule of various characters and situations, but also probes those solemn themes that have always disturbed the fallen mankind: the vanity of this passing life and its ineluctable shadow, death. Tempered by compassion, Creangă’s humor is not only a form of irony directed toward others, but also a form of auto-irony that reveals the struggles of a vagrant modern soul. Inspired by the folk wisdom of his ancestors, he wields the powerful weapon of words to denounce the evanescence of evil. In two of his most flavorful stories, Ivan Turbinca and Dănilă Prepeleac, the protagonists confront the dark armies of demons with a good dose of common sense, using it to provoke laughter by exposing the ridiculous mediocrity of evil.
Much has been written about Ion Creangă and his works, and often, it has been written well. Alongside the ethno-folkloric exegesis, whose leading figure was the erudite Ovidiu Bârlea (Creangă’s Tales, 1966), Vasile Lovinescu (1905-1984) even developed a line of ‘esoteric’ interpretation, inspired by the traditionalist thinkers René Guénon and Ananda K. Coomaraswamy. Yet, despite the impressive volume of commentaries and analyses, few critics have noticed that Ion Creangă is a modern spirit who constructs his stories by unwittingly secularizing the values of Christian faith. This process of transforming rituals, myths, and sacred ideas into stories for adults, described by authors like Vladimir Jakovlevič Propp (1895-1970) and Mircea Eliade (1907-1986), can be observed by following the bizarre adventures of Ivan Turbinca.
The character after whom the novel is named is a perpetual vagrant, reminding us of the spiritual category of the pilgrim, often encountered in the traditional Slavic culture. Leaving the army after a life of obedience in the service of the Tsar, Ivan sets out through the wide world, “wandering from one roadside to another, without knowing where he is going.” Despite the somewhat vulgar appearances—our hero was a little tipsy after a farewell drink with his brothers in arms—he possesses spiritual qualities that bring him close to the measure of the mystical wanderer described in the 19th-century anonymous The Pilgrim’s Tale. Yet unlike this autobiographical piece of work, Creangă’s story practices that intertwining between ‘this world’ and the ‘other world’—the world of people and the world of the spirits—that is characteristic of fantastic fairy tales.
Tested by God and Saint Peter, who appear to him as beggars, Ivan proves himself not only merry but also compassionate. Here we can already see how the author echoes Saint John Chrysostom, who teaches in his famous Homilies on Matthew that this virtue is the only one accessible to those who, burdened by vices, still hesitate to begin a life of penance. Impressed, the Creator himself emphasizes the qualities of the traveler: “This soldier is kind-hearted and compassionate.” Eager to reward his generosity royally, God reveals Himself, offering him the possibility to fulfill one wish. Just one, not three—as in other fairy tales. Ivan requests something that probably no contemporary author would think of: the power of an exorcist. For what he requests from the Almighty for his soldier’s pouch is the power to capture any demon through the mere utterance of an improvised invocation, Paşol na turbinca, ciorti! Thus, that religious practice well-known in the Christian tradition, by which the power of God’s enemy spirits is annihilated, is transformed into a subject of the story.
Saints Basil the Great and Benedict of Nursia transmitted to the Apostolic Church of both the East and the West the famous exorcisms for the expulsion of demons. Their formulas are developed, all of them stemming from the words spoken by Jesus Christ during His encounter with the spirit of deception—Vade retro me Satana (“Go behind me, Satan”)—and recorded in the Gospel according to Mark (8:33). Inspired by such biblical texts and collections of saints’ lives, Creangă enciphers references to famous episodes from the anthology of Sayings of the Desert Fathers, known in Eastern Christianity as the Paterikon, into the fabric of the story.
When lodged in the demon-filled abode of a stingy nobleman, Ivan captures in his blessed pouch the armies of darkness, displaying a courage worthy of the Egyptian and Syrian ancient desert monks: “Then he lies down with his head upon them (i.e., the demons), and no longer being bothered by anyone, Ivan falls into a deep sleep.” Such a courageous deed immediately brings to mind an episode featuring Saint Macarius the Egyptian. Also lying down in a haunted place—a pagan tomb—he is awakened by the commotion of spirits who wished to drive him away at any cost. Hearing a demon speaking from inside the skull he was using as a pillow, Macarius strikes it, shouting at him to go into the wilderness. Faced with such a manifestation of the virtue of masculinity, the spirits become invisible.
In contrast to the old stories of the Christian hagiographies, Creangă sketches a much more ambiguous portrait of his main character, composed of lights accompanied by dense shadows. For he is described not only as a good Christian, full of mercy toward his neighbor, but also as a sinner subject to various “all too human” weaknesses (as Nietzsche might say). Regarding his bright side, Ivan is guided by the aspiration to serve his Creator in a perfect manner. This genuine decision, repeated several times, represents the main axis of his actions: “I’m going to serve God, the supreme King of all.” On his journey, he astounds his interlocutors by asking “from man to man, where does God dwell?” Once again, we are reminded of the Russian pilgrim who, likewise, embarks on a pilgrimage tormented by a similar question to Ivan’s: how can you pray unceasingly to meet God directly, face to face?
Despite his noble and saintly aspirations, the bearer of the mischievous pouch becomes ensnared in the web of worldly passions that generate a distorted and corrupting vision in his imagination. Heaven seems dull to him, while hell, on the contrary, appears dynamic and full of tempting allurements. (It is hard to find a more significant perversion in contemporary popular culture.) Descending into Hades, in a posture entirely different from that of Orpheus, he carouses with demons and demonesses until he becomes tired “of musicians, and tobacco, and vodka, and everything.” Exasperated by the gargantuan scale of his vices, even the dark spirits wish to be rid of the terrible visitor. Utilizing all their infernal imagination, they eventually manage to drive him away with the noises they provoke outside. Convinced that a war has broken out demanding his immediate intervention, Ivan will eventually depart from hell. Very happy to be rid of the intruder, “the devils closed the doors behind him.”
Deciding to dedicate himself perpetually to the service of God, Ivan faces the ultimate trial of his life: death. Like any man aware of the limitations of this current condition, he first expresses his natural aversion towards the bearer of the scythe: “If I had more power, I’m telling you, I’d gouge out your eyes and roast you on the spit … because of you, so much bitterness in the world has perished, from Adam to today.” Afterward, using the power granted to him by the One who “can destroy both soul and body in hell” (Matthew 10:28), he captures death in his pouch to finally lock it in a coffin. Alerted to the dire consequences of His unruly servant’s actions, God intervenes to punish the one who has jeopardized the order of fallen nature. With the same metaphysical humor that elicits laughter from the contemplative, Creangă devises for Ivan the most unusual punishment possible: that of remaining, immortal and carnal, in this transient world. What else could his character do to face the boredom of a life devoid of the horizon of eternity and the beatific vision described by Dante? “And they say that, even then, he took up, despite Death, the pulling of dice and the chilling of brandy and ruckus, as if fire consumed him.”
Reflecting in his literary creations his own dilemmas stemming from a crisis of faith that accompanied him throughout his entire life, Ion Creangă immortalizes the human condition, secularizing even the post-mortem existence of Adam and Eve’s descendants. As often happens with certain poetic or fictional works, I must admit that I have more questions than answers. I cannot say whether his profound struggles conceal or reveal the light that was flickering in his soul. The only thing I know for certain is that even now, almost 50 years since I first heard the story of Ivan Turbinca, I still laugh wholeheartedly every time I reread it to my children and grandchildren.
