From The Bard of the Dimbovitza, Roumanian Folk-Songs Collected from the Peasants by Hélène Vacaresco, translated by Carmen Sylva and Alma Strettel; London: James R. Osgood, McIlvaine & Co., 1897; pp. 3-19.
THE YOUNG HEIDUCK.1
Yea, the night knows my song, —
And she has told it to the stars in heaven,
The little stars, to whom it seems so sweet,
That every evening they return, and listen
To hear my song from me.
CANST thou perceive, when the green corn is springing,
How it comes forth from out the brown earth’s breast?
Nay, but thou canst not see the green corn growing,
Yet doth it grow the while. And young Love groweth
In young hearts even so.
The Heiduck bore the kiss of his belovèd
Upon his lips — and first the wind would steal it
To carry it with autumn leaves away;
And the wind spake: “Give me the kiss, O comrade,
And I will make thereof a little flower.”
Then the night spake: “Give me the kiss, O comrade,
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And I will make thereof a little star.”
“Nay!” he replied, “the kiss of my belovèd
Hath mingled with the currents of my blood;
Here on my lips it lies, and I will give it
To none, but keep it safe for ever more!”
O’er the whole earth the Heiduck roved and wandered;
And kept the kiss.
He roamed through villages, and saw at even
The fair young maidens dancing in the ring.
Bridges he saw, that watch the rivers flowing.
Through sun and moonlight still he kept his course,
Until he came upon a snow-white meadow,
White as though turtle-doves had rained their feathers
Thick on the sward.
And on that meadow the white woman met him,
Took from his lips the kiss of his belovèd,
And thrust it in her girdle, like a flower.
Then down upon the earth the Heiduck laid him,
Since the white woman on the snow-white meadow
Took from his lips the kiss of his belovèd.
Yea, the night knows my song, —
And she has told it to the stars in heaven,
The little stars, to whom it seems so sweet,
That every evening they return, and listen
To hear my song from me.
Footnotes
1 Note 1. The Heiduck is the traditional hero of the Roumanian peasantry; he is the patriot who figures in all the old legends as fighting in the first rank for the freedom of his country; he is the bold, brave outlaw, ever warring against restraint, whose exploits are shrouded in fascinating mystery. A dark fate pursues him, yet he is the gayest and most reckless of beings: the handsomest among men, too, the best singer, the most intrepid rider, happiest when the boundless plains or the mountain gorges lie open before him. He is indeed the most bewitching of lovers, but woe to the maiden who feels his charm too deeply, for he is of those who “love and ride away.”
THE LUTEPLAYER’S HOUSE.
I took the beads of her necklace all,
To thread them for her, but they did fall
From my trembling hand, and a hundred ways
They rolled through the young green maize.
COME to the luteplayer’s house, come in,
’Tis always open, the birds therein
Build nests, as though the wood it were;
and all day long the sun dwells there
As if it were the sky — though still
He shines in heaven with right good-will
For all to see,
Yet in the luteplayer’s cottage, he
Is of the household, verily.
There stands by the door a well of stone,
Wherein the water comes up alone.
When to the luteplayer’s cottage there
The moon goes in, a maiden fair
She doth become, and full of grace,
With smiling face.
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When at the luteplayer’s cottage-gate
Grief enters, she becometh straight
The loveliest woman ever seen,
Gentle, yet ah! so sad of mien.
There in his house on the ground sits he,
Nor will he rise, if thou shouldst come,
But through the window show to thee
His sky’s blue dome.
If thou art thirsty, he will ne’er
Give thee a drink, but show thee where
His well doth stand.
And if thou weep, with kindly hand
He will not wipe thy tears away,
But he will sing thee many a lay,
The live-long day.
The little storks, they love it well,
The luteplayer’s house the swallows know,
And while yet far away, they tell
Each other, they will thither go,
Because there’s singing there.
And sometimes, too, a woman fair
Leans from a window down, and she
Doth watch the luteplayer’s house and see
How he sits singing there.
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And in the luteplayer’s house, beside,
Are flowers and daggers, only those
He never shows;
But empty all the house would seem,
Save for the blessèd sunshine’s gleam,
And songs that there abide.
Windows there are on every side,
That one may see the heavens wide,
And grass, and grass so green.
Yea, at the luteplayer’s cottage there,
Grass grows indoors, I could declare;
So much of it is seen!
I took the beads of her necklace all,
To thread them for her, but they did fall
From my trembling hand, and a hundred ways
They rolled through the young green maize.
DEATH FOR LOVE.
Take the flower from my breast, I pray thee,
Take the flower, too, from out my tresses;
And then go hence, for see, the night is fair.
The stars rejoice to watch thee on thy way.
A WHILE ago, there came a man at even
Into the village, and the people asked him:
“What seekest thou?”
Yet would the man not tell them what he sought,
But went and took his stand before each hut
That bore upon its wall a painted flower.2
At ev’ry one such hut he halted, asking:
“O little hut, wherein a maiden slumbers,
Where is the maiden that will die of love?”
But all the huts were silent.
Then at the smallest hut and last, he halted;
There on the threshold lay a broken spindle,
By the old well lay broken, too, a pitcher.
When at this house he asked
Whether it held the maiden whom he sought,
The maiden threw her window wide, and answered:
”Yea, I will die of love.”
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Then the man blessed her, and he kissed her lips.
And lo! when morning broke, the maid was dead.
Take the flower from my breast, I pray thee,
Take the flower, too, from out my tresses;
And then go hence, for see, the night is fair.
The stars rejoice to watch thee on thy way.
Footnotes
2 Note 2. It is the custom in Roumanian villages to paint a flower on the wall of a house in which a maiden lives; but if she is known to have behaved ill, the village youths come and efface the painting from the wall.
SONG OF THE FIRE.
I CONSUMED the deep, green forest,
With all its songs;
And now the songs of the forest,
All sing aloud in me.
I watched the maiden spinning;
I love a maiden’s distaff,
I love her spindle,
That ceaseless flieth, still to be caught back,
For every flying, and yet never free.
Then said I: Maiden, why dost watch me so,
and not thy dancing spindle?
Why dost thou hearken only to my songs,
And never sing thine own?
Out there, the day has wedded with the night.
And the moon slyly smiled to see that wedding.
Whereat the birds grew dumb.
The maiden looks at me.
Instead of looking out, and wondering
At the great wedding of the day and night.
Child, child, now hear my song!
I dearly love dear love!
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And thou, too, lovest love;
Wouldst sing thyself, and never hear my songs
But that thou lovest love.
The deep green forest, that I did consume,
He told me that a lovely thing was love,
There in the deep green forest.
Yet he said likewise, for he is not jealous,
That on the river banks,
And beneath the cottage roofs,
Most lovely, too, is love,
And that in maidens’ hearts it makes its dwelling,
Wherein it is much warmer, warmer far,
Than thou art, here by me,
Or than mine own soul, that is warmth itself!
The forest thinks, too, that the laughing spring,
Who is his all-in-all,
Is nobody and naught compared with love;
And that he were to blame for growing green
In spring, except love asked him to grow green.
The forest thinks that tears would die away,
If all had love, as ev’ry nest hath eggs,
And ev’ry head of maize its feathery cap.
All this the forest told me
And bade me tell it thee;
The forest I consumed, and who the while,
Struggling in death-throes, sang the price of love.
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Maiden, that sendest flying
and callest back thy spindle,
I have consumed the forest,
With all its songs,
And all the songs of the forest
Now sing in me.
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HOPELESS.
(GIPSY SONG.)
Into the mist I gazed, and fear came on me.
Then said the mist: “I weep for the lost sun.”
WE sat beneath our tent;
Then he that hath no hope drew near us there,
And sat him down by us.
We asked him: “Hast thou seen the plains, the moun-
tains?”
And he made answer: “I have seen them all.”
And then his cloak he showed us, and his shirt,
Torn was the shirt, there, close above the heart,
Pierced was the breast, there, close above the heart —
The heart was gone.
And yet he trembled not, the while we looked,
And sought the heart, the heart that was not there.
He let us look. And he that had no hope
Smiled, that we grew so pale, and sang us songs.
Then we did envy him, that he could sing,
Without a heart to suffer what he sang.
And when he went, he cast his cloak about him.
And those that met him, they could never guess
How that his shirt was torn above the heart,
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And that his breast was pierced above the heart,
And that the heart was gone.
I gazed into the mist, and fear came on me.
Then said the mist: “I weep for the lost sun.”
GIPSY SONG.
THERE where the path to the plain goes by,
Where deep in the thicket my hut doth lie,
Where corn stands green in the garden-plot —
The brook ripples by so clearly there,
The way is so open, so white and fair —
My heart’s best belovèd, he takes it not.
There where I sit by my door and spin,
While morning winds that blow out and in
With scent of roses enfold the spot,
Where at evening I softly sing my lay,
That the wand’rer hears as he goes his way —
My heart’s best belovèd, he hears it not.
There, where on Sundays I go alone,
To the old, old well with the milk-white stone,
Where by the fence, in a nook forgot,
Rises a spring in the daisied grass,
That makes whoso drinks of it love — alas!
My heart’s best belovèd, he drinks it not.
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There, by my window, where day by day,
When the sunbeams first brighten the morning’s grey,
I lean and dream of my weary lot,
And wait his coming, and softly cry
Because of my love’s longing, that makes one die ——
My heart’s best belovèd, he dieth not.
SONG OF THE SHROUD
(WHILE SPINNING IT).
THOU snow-white apple-blossom,
Unto the ground art fallen,
Down to the earth art fallen,
Thou snow-white apple-blossom.
Snow-white as thou art, so shall be my shroud;
Yea, white as apple-blossoms,
White as a bridal wreath.
Thou wilt be soft for me, my gentle shroud,
Say, wilt thou not? nor chafe my limbs, when I
Have fallen asleep, and know of nothing more;
Whilst in the village houses, round about,
They light the fire without me, and draw near
To tell their tales and spin?
But whilst I sit and spin thee, winding-sheet,
Shall I not tell thee, too, some fairy-tale?
Thou snow-white apple-blossom,
Unto the ground art fallen,
Down to the earth art fallen,
Thou snow-white apple-blossom.
Dear winding sheet of mine,
Well shalt thou cover me
When cold my heart shall be!
But now upon my heart, while yet ’tis so warm,
I clasp thee tenderly;
And since thou art to sleep
There in the grave with me,
Then look thy fill once more at this fair earth
That in the grave thou mayst remember her,
And down in that deep grave mayst gladden me.
With telling of the earth.
But when thou speakest to me in my grave,
O shroud, O little shroud,
Tell me not of my home,
Nor of my casement, swinging in the wind,
Nor of the moon, that loves
To steal in through that casement;
Nor of the brook, where silver moonbeams bathe,
And where I used to drink.
Tell me not of my mother — tell me not
Of him, the bridegroom chosen out for me.
For then I should be sorry that I slept
Low in the grave with thee, my winding-sheet.
Yet speak to me
As though thou knewest naught of all these things —
Somewhat on this wise:
How that the world is not worth longing for,
For it is always winter there;
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How that the moon for sweetheart hath the cloud,
And that my mother mourned me scarce an hour,
And that my bridegroom came not
To lay his fur-cap down upon my grave
That so the soul might think it was her nest.
Speak thus, my shroud,
And soundly will I sleep and heavily
Deep in my grave with thee,
And love thee as the wand’rer loves the well.
Wouldst have me love thee so, speak thus to me.
Thou snow-white apple-blossom,
Unto the ground art fallen,
Down to the earth art fallen,
Thou snow-white apple-blossom.