Andrei Pleșu: The Romanian Independent

In the tradition of modern Romania, a real man—that is, a fellow ripe for throwing himself into the conjugal and parliamentary struggle—is, above all, “an independent man.” In other words, a man standing on his own feet, with autonomous income, ideas of his own, and a position. Being “independent” is a civic virtue. Newspapers pride themselves on being independent, while more respectable party members occasionally declare, with a flourish, that they intend to preserve a certain independence of thought. The judiciary wants to be independent too (but cannot), and at the level of the country, independence is a “centuries-old ideal,” an ancestral dream. In the past, this ideal was called “unattachment,” which would suggest that independence is a kind of levitation, a way of floating, freed from all constraining attachments and commitments. From this perspective, independence is the expression of complete freedom, the refusal to acknowledge any authority beyond one’s own.

With such a portrait, independence is a highly effective rhetorical ornament. Cațavencu is “the president of the independent group,” “an independent man,” active in the “Committee of the independent group,” that is, the “young, intelligent, independent” group (and “insolent”—Farfuridi adds resentfully, for whom independence is “treason” and “nihilism”). But Tipătescu too is, at least in Trahanache’s view, “an independent man,” a quality also appreciated by the independent Joițica. Once it has been established as a merit, independence is put to work: civic virtue takes a pragmatic direction. What does an independent man do, according to Trahanache’s eternal doctrine? He performs services “for the party, the county, the country... and for me, as a friend....” Thus, the Romanian independent is trapped in a network of favors. He acquires his independence only in order to sacrifice it opportunistically: to the party, the homeland, friends (and their wives). Why? “Because the welfare of the country depends on the entire party, and our welfare depends on the welfare of the country....” Once meaning “unattachment,” independence thus comes to mean, according to local wisdom, the ability to depend on the right people, without foolish matters of conscience, false consistency, or loyalties. In short, being independent means allowing oneself the luxury of being unfaithful.

In matters of foreign (but also domestic) policy, the Romanian independent favors decentralization. In other words, he is a fervent anti-European. “Let Europe mind its own business. Do we meddle in its affairs? No.... It therefore has no right to meddle in ours....” Noninterference in internal affairs, the offended native’s defiant poise—these are Mioritic forms of the independent spirit. Animated by this spirit, Cațavencu founds in his provincial town “The Romanian Economic Dawn,” an “encyclopedic-cooperative society, independent of the one in Bucharest....” “We... I... do not recognize, I refuse to recognize, the guardianship of the Bucharest people, the capitalists, over us; for in our district we can do what they do in theirs.” This is, in the local vision, the height of the independent spirit: doing as you please in your own district. Obviously, when too many independents gather together, their interests come into conflict. It is no coincidence that Costăchel Gudurău is “attacked with hands and feet” precisely in the “independents’ square.” But the battle is brief. The “independents’ square” is also the space of universal reconciliation. “Kissed all around.” For the Romanian independent is not dogmatic. When necessary, he knows how to yield. He is realistic, flexible, free of fixed ideas. Since independent justice is absent, he takes philosophical refuge in solitude, seeking transcendent justice: “Prosecutor missing town, nuns’ monastery, fun.”