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. 20-39.
THE COMFORTERS.
He who sleeps by the fire doth dream,
Doth dream that his heart is warm,
But when he awakes, his heart
Is afraid for the bitter cold.
Didst thou mark how the swallows flew, how they flew away
from hence?
MY father is dead — and his cap is mine,
His cap of fur and his leathern belt —
Mine, too, his knives.
When I fall asleep, when I slumb’ring lie,
Then the knives spring forth, from their sheaths they fly,
And roam the fields.
I know not whither the knives have strayed —
But when morning dawns, at my window-pane
I hear a tapping — I fling it wide,
And there are my knives come home again.
“Where have ye been?” I ask them then,
And they make reply: “In the hearts of men!
There was one so sick for love, and torn —
We healed its wound;
And another was weary and travel-worn —
We gave it rest.
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For dear to us are the hearts of men.
And dear their blood;
We drink it as furrows drink the rain,
Then, tapping, come to thy window-pane:
Make way for thy knives — they have done their work.
Now wipe the blood with thy sleeve away —
Thy sleeve with the dusk-red broidered flowers —
And wash the sleeve in the river clean,
Then thrust us once more our sheaths between,
The sheaths on the leathern belt.”
He who sleeps by the fire doth dream,
Doth dream that his heart is warm,
But when he awakes, his heart
Is afraid for the bitter cold.
Didst thou mark how the swallows flew, so swiftly away
from hence?
AT A GRAVE.
Look not upon the sky at eventide,
For that makes sorrowful the heart of man;
Look rather here into my heart, and joyful
Shalt thou then always be.
TO yonder grave there ofttimes came a woman,
And said to it: “Hast thou forgiven me?”
“Avaunt!” the grave made answer.
Then weeping she would go her way, but going
She ever plucked a flower from the sward.
Yet still the grave would grant her no forgiveness.
Then said the woman: “Take at least my tears.”
“Avaunt! The grave made answer.
But, as she, weeping, turned away and went,
Behold, the grave-stone would uplift itself,
And the dead man gaze forth,
Sending a long look after her, that woman
Who weeping went her way.
Look not upon the sky at eventide,
For that makes sorrowful the heart of man;
Look rather here into my heart, and joyful
Shalt thou then always be.
“I AM CONTENT.”
A spindle of hazel-wood had I;
Into the mill-stream it fell one day —
The water has brought it me back no more.
AS he lay a-dying, the soldier spake:
“I am content!
Let my mother be told, in the village there,
And my bride in the hut be told,
That they must pray with folded hands,
With folded hands for me.”
The soldier is dead — and with folded hands
His bride and his mother pray.
On the field of battle they dug his grave,
And red with his life-blood the earth was dyed,
The earth they laid him in.
The sun looked down on him there and spake:
“I am content.”
And flowers bloomed thickly upon his grave,
And were glad they blossomed there.
And when the wind in the tree-tops roared,
The soldier asked from the deep, dark grave:
“Did the banner flutter then?”
“Not so, my hero,” the wind replied.
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“The fight is done, but the banner won,
Thy comrades of old have borne it hence,
Have borne it in triumph hence.”
Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave:
“I am content.”
And again, he heard the shepherds pass
And the flocks go wand’ring by,
And the soldier asked: “Is the sound I hear,
The sound of the battle’s roar?”
And they all replied: “My hero, nay!
Thou art dead, and the fight is o’er,
Our country is joyful and free.”
Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave:
“I am content.”
Then he heareth the lovers laughing pass,
And the soldier asks once more:
“Are these not the voices of them I love,
That love — and remember me?”
“Not so, my hero,” the lovers say,
“We are those that remember not;
For the spring has come and the earth has smiled,
And the dead must be forgot.”
Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave:
“I am content.”
A spindle of hazel-wood had I;
Into the mill-stream it fell one day —
The water has brought it me back no more.
THE HEIDUCK’S SONG.
I tell the forest the wonders I see in my dreams,
And the forest loves to hear the tale of my dreaming,
More than the song of birds,
More than the murmur of leaves.
THE huts had wellnigh beguiled me to stay, for the windows
Stood wide, and the smiles of the maidens shone out from within,
But the Heiduck am I — and I love the far-stretching roads,
And the plains, and my galloping steed!
My mother gave birth to me, sure, on a sunshiny morning,
And had I but never known love, ah, how happy were I!
I sing at the hour when the moon climbs above the horizon;
The tales that the agèd folk know, I can tell, every one,
And I make the young dance, when I sing, to the tune of my ballads.
For I a strange woman have loved;
She comes every night to me now and she kisses my forehead,
And asks if I love her still.
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She carries a knife in her girdle — her eyes have a glitter
Like daggers — her hand is as white as the veil of a bride.
But her voice I have never heard — and yet know I full surely,
She asks if I love her still.
In token thereof I have given her up my girdle,
My cap with its feathers gay,
My mantle with ’broidery brave and my glitt’ring daggers;
And my songs, I have given them all to her, one by one;
Yet the gayest bring no smile to her face, and the saddest
Are powerless to make her sad.
Then hence she goes, by the small plank over the river,
The plank that sways to her step,
The willows bow down their heads and bend as she passes. . . .
And morning cometh and findeth me poor, and trembling,
Since she hath taken my all from me, even my songs.
And yet is she not content, nor will cease from asking
Whether I love her still.
I tell the forest the wonders I see in my dreams,
And the forest loves to hear the tale of my dreaming,
More than the song of birds,
More than the murmur of leaves.
IF SHE WERE YET ALIVE.
In the courtyard there, the oxen are chewing the cud;
The oxen are weary, because of the long day’s toil.
My spindle is resting too — it hangeth down to my feet.
IF she I have lost had lived all the days whereof Death has bereft her,
How would she seem to-day, now that I have grown old?
For I was still young when Death took her, and cut off the days of her life.
To-day she would be a fair maiden, and I should have never a sorrow,
But rather, joy should I have, to see her sit by my hearth,
And the flames of the hearth would smile again to me then.
I would weary Heaven with prayers to give her gladness,
That the days of mine age might be glad.
But now I can only pray the earth to have pity upon her,
And to tell her that, when I weep, I am weeping for her,
For a fair young maid, who wandered by ways where the corn was springing.
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The furrows would greet her youth. I should see her appearing
Amid the trees and beside the river, and say:
“See what was born of my blood!”
My husband would say: “O wife! we are richly blessèd!”
I would never have shown her a grave, if the grave had not taken
My daughter from me;
But the whole day long would have sung her songs, that her dreaming
Might all be one song;
And I would have held her little heart in my hand,
That no one might touch it,
Whispering: “This is her heart that I hold in my hand.”
Yea, and her smile would even have adorned the forest,
So that oft would the forest have said: “Come, send us thy child.”
Ah, soul, little soul, dost thou nothing but sleep in the earth?
Then come, come back to me now, in the bright spring-days,
Come hither along the path where the willow-trees are embracing,
For none will meet thee there;
Come at the hour when the village is all at work;
Come as thou wouldst be now,
If thou indeed hadst lived all the days whereof Death has bereft thee,
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And spin thou off for me one single distaff, and say:
“See, mother, I have filled thy spindle.”
In the courtyard there, the oxen are chewing the cud;
The oxen are weary, because of the long day’s ploughing.
My spindle is resting too — it hangeth down to my feet.
GIPSY SONG.
WHEN at morn on my window thy knock sounds light,
I open it quick, that thy breath may waft nigh;
Straight into my chamber two suns shine bright!
Hast thou also, tell me, two suns, O sky?
The sky then laughs so contentedly —
It knows whom I love — and thou art he!
When the other draws near in the twilight dim,
The window is shut in his face outright,
Yet always he brings two nights with him!
Good lack! dost thou, sky, ever twice have night?
The sky pulls a roguish face above,
It knoweth that this one — I do not love!
My necklet of copper is dear to me,
It glitters like gold in the sunbeam bright,
But brighter than this in my heart shines he —
My love — with the glorious sun’s own light.
At morn when we go on our way, fresh green
And flowers spring up where his tent hath been.
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When he sings by the smouldering fire, the flame
Leaps up again, glowing with quickened life;
His very first shot bringeth down the game,
And the blood turns not black on his gleaming knife.
His hate doth scorch like the sun’s fierce beams,
His love giveth life like cooling streams.
His sweetheart grows fairer, her gay song rings,
The chains on her neck are as sunbeams bright,
The smouldering fire flames up when hs sings,
He shines in my heart with the sun’s own light.
At morn when we go on our way, fresh green
And flowers spring up where his tent hath been.
When at morn on my window thy knock sounds light,
I open it quick, that thy breath may waft nigh;
Straight into my chamber two suns shine bright.
Hast thou also, tell me, two suns, O sky?
The sky then laughs so contentedly;
It knows whom I love — and thou art he!
THE WAY TO HAPPINESS.
If thou shouldst come at evening, when the moon doth rise,
Thou wouldst see that the moon is very red, when she rises;
But thou lovest those evenings better, when she is very pale,
Like a dead woman,
And when she looks upon the earth with sadness
As though it were the sadness of the Earth
That made her pale.
THOU dost sit down upon my threshold;
And since the threshold is very narrow,
I sit me down upon the grass by the threshold,
And our spindles fly together;
And we do not know which of the two flies faster,
Thine or mine.
We watch the road,
Even as though something expected were coming down the road.
and we see a little horse pass by, that has broken loose.
Little horse, where goest thou?
If thou dost seek the plain, take the path that leadeth downward,
And thou wilt find the plain.
If thou dost seek the well,
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Pass beneath the poplars there, where the ravens build their nests,
And thou wilt find the well.
But if thou seekest happiness, go over all the earth,
With the pallor of the moon,
And thou shalt not find it.
And in watching the little horse that ran so fast
Beneath the pallor of the moon,
I felt that the little horse was carrying me away.
How glad we were!
The villages were sleeping;
The hearts of weary men were sleeping too,
And their sleep wondered, thus to hear us pass.
The birds were sleeping, and their dreams
Wondered to hear us pass,
And we passed o’er all the earth, till the morning came, in pity,
To tell the moon to hide her sadness,
That saddened the sadness of the earth.
And I found myself upon my threshold once more,
And there our fallen spindles were asking each other
Which of the two went faster, thine or mine.
And I did not tell the spindles
That the little horse had gone much faster than they,
And that he had not taken the path that goes down to the plain,
To find the plain;
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Nor passed beneath the poplars where the ravens build their nests,
To find the well.
And the little horse will yet go on, over all the earth,
But I shall stay in the grass beside my threshold,
And watch him pass.
If thou shouldst come at evening, when the moon doth rise,
Thou wouldst see that the moon is very red, when she rises;
But thou lovest those evenings better, when she is very pale,
Like a dead woman,
And when she looks upon the earth with sadness
As though it were the sadness of the Earth
That made her pale.
THE DEAD WIFE’S KISS.
The flowers fear the hoar-frost;
And, save the stars, none see
The flowers die by night.
A MAN passed down the road — how sad was he!
My sister of the cross,1 who is yon man,
Who goes so sorrowfully on his way? ——
The other night, there rose up a dead woman
Out of her grave, because the night was fair.
She was so glad to see the earth again,
That she kissed all she found upon the way.
She kissed the flowers growing by the grave —
Beneath her kiss the flowers all drooped and faded.
She kissed the time-worn brink of the old well,
And the well felt as though a stone were sinking
Down to its depths, at the dead woman’s kiss.
Then the dead woman met yon man, who wandered
Abroad that night, because the night was fair;
And him the dead kissed also, on the lips.
When o’er the new-mown hay the light wind passeth,
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Each little blade doth sorrow that it stands not
To take the wind’s soft breath.
Down in the river-bed a stone is lying;
The river has flowed over it so long,
That now the stone has learnt them all by heart,
The river’s many songs.
When the grass stands full high,
It reaches up to all the maidens’ girdles.
And the dead kissed yon man upon the lips,
And he can eat no more, can drink no more,
Since the dead woman’s kiss.
Sleep lays her kiss no more upon his brow
Since the dead woman’s kiss.
And if he slept, no one would dare to watch him
Since the dead woman’s kiss.
And yet he never saith: “O thou dead woman,
Why hast thou laid thy kiss upon my lips,
That I can eat no more, and drink no more,
Since that thy kiss?”
But he saith: “Let the grass with softest murmurs
Grow o’er thy grave, as though birds sang therein.
And may’st thou in thy grave long keep remembrance
Of earth, and of thy house, and of the weeping
Of those that wept for thee;
Yea, of the mourning
Of those that mourned for thee.
Thy dust be fruitful as my mother’s womb,
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And let the earth rejoice to have thy dust.”
And yonder man
Bears the dead woman’s kiss upon his lips,
And he can eat no more, nor drink, since then.
The flowers fear the hoar-frost;
None, save the stars, see the flowers die by night.
Footnotes
1 Note 3. The phrase “sister of the cross” has been used by the translators to denote a sort of elective relationship which is common in Roumania, and is distinguished by the untranslatable word “surata” a mere variation of “sora,” a sister. It is usual there for two girls who may be no relation to each other, to choose each other out as sisters, and this choice is hallowed by a special service in church, during which their feet are chained together, to symbolize the bond that is henceforth to unite them. This is regarded as so real a one, that marriage with the brother of one’s elective sister is forbidden, nor can these two “sisters” marry two brothers.
THE SOLDIER’S TENT.
Across the mountains the mist hath drawn
A cov’ring of bridal white;
The plains afar make lament, and mourn
That the flutt’ring veil of the mist-wreaths born
Hath hidden the mountains from sight.
THE soldier lay smiling peacefully
Asleep in his tent on the sward,
The moon crept in and said: “Look at me,
A glance from thy sweetheart am I, for thee!”
But he answered: “I have my sword.”
Then the rustling wind drew softly near,
Played round him with whispers light:
“I am the sighs of thy mother dear,
The sighs of thy mother am I, dost hear?”
But he answered, “I have the fight.”
Then night sank down from the darkening sky
Round the sleeper, and murmured: “Rest,
Thy sweetheart’s veil o’er thy face doth lie!”
But he answered: “No need of it have I,
For the banner doth cover me best.”
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By his tent the river, clear and wide,
Rolled onward its silver flood,
And said: “I am water, the cleansing tide
More blessèd than aught in the world beside.”
But he answered: “I have my blood.”
The Sleep drew near to his tent, and low
She whispered with soothing breath:
“I am Sleep, the healer of ev’ry woe,
The dearest treasure of man below.”
But the soldier replied: “I have Death.”
Across the mountains the mist hath drawn
A cov’ring of bridal white;
The plains afar make lament, and mourn
That the flutt’ring veil of the mist-wreaths born
Hath hidden the mountains from sight.