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. 40-59.
SONG OF THE BLOOD.
The blood, the blood that flows through the veins of men,
As the rivers through meadows flow,
The blood was jealous of all the birds’ sweet songs,
And said: “How I shall sing!”
The blood was jealous of all the wild wind’s songs,
And said: “How I shall sing!”
THE MAIDEN’S BLOOD.
UPON an evening in the month of May,
When from the heavens like a burning tear
The sun dropped down,
Then did the blood awaken in the veins
Of the young maiden wand’ring through the fields.
Then the blood cried to her,
And the blood burned in her,
And as it burned within her, thus it spake:
“What art thou making, maiden, of thy youth?”
What wilt thou make of me?
I tire of this light tripping to and fro,
This idle running through thy strong young frame.
Now would I fain stand still and do my work;
And mark, when thou shalt see
This work of thine own flesh, thy blood renewed,
Then shalt thou thank the blood that gave thee this.”
So the blood burned within her,
And thus it cried to her.
And there, beside the maize-field,
The other one was waiting,
He — the mysterious one.
In the Month of May, at even,
The sun drops down from heaven
Heavily, like a tear.
THE SOLDIER’S BLOOD.
The blood that is spilt on the ground turns black,
The blood turns black that is spilt;
But the blood is red in the hero’s veins,
As red as ripe red berry,
As red as the lips of a maiden,
As red as her Sunday girdle.
ON the eve of the battle the hero sleeps,
But his blood sleeps not, that he soon shall shed
As the storm-clouds shed the rain.
Red is the blood in the hero’s breast,
And he hears it speak in his sleep;
And the blood speaks thus:
”I shall out to-morrow
Like wine from the cask,
And bright will I paint him,
With burning crimson,
The noble boy.
Ha! what joy to come forth
To the glorious daylight,
I, captive so long!
Shall I paint him a wreath,
A gay red wreath,
43
On his radiant brow?
Nay, for his fur-cap
Lies close on his brow;
No stain will I cast
On the cap of the hero.
Nor from his shoulder
Will I spring forth,
When the enemy’s bullet shall call,
For the hero’s shoulder
Beareth his weapon,
And thus hath it honour enough!
Nay, there will I forth,
Where thy young heart is beating,
My hero, thy bold brave heart.
With me shall thy life
Ebb as gently away
As a flower that floats on the stream;
Yea, all thy desires shall fade,
But the name of the hero shall fade not,
And thy heart shall be garlanded round
With a garland of blood.
When thy mother beside thee stands
Weeping, with folded hands,
The stain on thy heart,
The blood-red stain,
Shall be softer than all her prayers.
And when thy bride
Warms thee with tears,
44
The stain on thy heart,
The blood-red stain,
Shall be warmer than all her tears.
And when the flowers
Bloom on thy grave,
The stain on thy heart,
The small, red stain,
Shall be fairer than all the flowers.
When the old folk tell
Of the young who fell,
Then the stain on thy heart
Shall think of thee,
More proudly than all their songs.
The blood that is spilt on the ground turns black,
The blood turns black that is spilt;
But the blood is red in the hero’s veins,
As red as ripe red berry,
As red as the lips of a maiden,
As red as her Sunday girdle.
THE OLD MAN’S BLOOD.
Ah me! how sober I am and old!
Ah me! how poor and how icy cold!
Cold as the mountain ’neath snow-drifts hoar,
Cold as the sword that is drawn no more.
45
AH me! how sober I have grown and sad,
And naught can give me rosy youth again;
Neither the songs of the young,
Nay, nor the foam of the wine.
For I have now past over
Into the veins of the young.
Nor can I die
As long as there are men begot of me.
Yet cold I am and wearily I flow,
Even as a weary river,
Flowing through wide, flat plains.
Wilt thou not warm me, spade, with thy hard toil?
Nay, but thou canst not warm me.
Wilt thou not warm me, steed, with thy wild galop?
Nay, but thou canst not warm me.
And even were I called forth through a wound,
I should but thinly trickle,
Poor coward, that I have grown!
For many generations took of me,
And I am born anew in them once more.
The while I die.
But ah! how cold I am!
Warm thou me, Sun!
Then the Sun answers: “But when thou were young,
Didst need me not to warm thee.”
And he is right, the Sun!
Yet ah! how cold am I!
Cold as a widow’s heart,
46
As the last penny in a spendthrift’s purse.
The trees feel no compassion for me,
They have their fresh young sap;
The maidens feel no pity for me,
They have their chains of silver.
How gladly were the old man’s blood
To its last drop drained dry!
Ah me! how sober I am and old!
Ah me! how poor and how icy cold!
Cold as the mountain ’neath snow-drifts hoar,
Cold as the sword that is drawn no more.
TWO SOULS.
Now get thee down to the plain, and there
Thou shalt see the plum-trees blossoming,
And the plum-trees all, so white and fair,
Will tell thee how they love the spring.
MY love went hence at break of day,
And at eventide she returned no more
I asked each path and road I saw:
“Which is the way she went, which way?”
And a little child in her arms she bore!
I asked the people: “Have ye seen
A woman, in whose arms doth lie
A little child?” But they hurried by,
Too busy to answer me, I ween; —
And the people gave me no replay.
By the river I sat me down and said:
“What sings in thee, that dost onward roll?”
And the river answered: “The baby’s soul.”
I passed yon poplars, and overhead
Sang in their branches the mother’s soul.
47
Said the mother’s soul to the baby’s soul:
“Two together on earth were we.”
And both the souls had forgotten me.
Now get thee down to the plain, and there
Thou shalt see the plum-trees blossoming,
And the plum-trees all, so white and fair,
Will tell thee how they love the spring.
THE WELL OF TEARS.
The night is coming, let thy spindle be.
Those who went by this way
Spoke of their huts together, and the huts
Seemed far, so far away.
WHAT saw’st thou at the bottom of the well? —
I saw my face, my bodice, and my chain. —
Child, didst thou see naught else? —
I saw there at the bottom of the well
A man who wept.
My face, down there, was sore afraid of him;
And all the water in the well was naught
But this man’s tears.
I was afraid, and would not draw those tears.
Then came a woman, and I went aside,
But yet I saw, how she drew up those tears,
And how she drank them, looking all the while
Up at the sky.
Then with her apron she did wipe her lips,
And went from thence — and I, too, went my way.
The night is coming, let thy spindle be.
Those who went by this way
Spoke of their huts together, and the huts
Seemed far, so far away.
SONG OF THE DAGGER.
THE dagger at my belt it dances
Whene’er I dance;
But when I drink the foaming wine-cup,
Then it grows sad;
For it is thirsty too, the dagger
It thirsts for blood!
“Give, give me drink,” it saith, “O Master,
For if I wear no stain of crimson,
The sunshine is ashamed to glitter
Upon my blade.
The give, that I too my be drunken
With the warm blood that flows from wounds.
The maids will find thy kisses sweeter
When thou hast quenched my thirst,
And I shall dance, when thou art dancing,
More gaily at thy belt.”
Did I but heed my dagger, now at night-time,
I should go fine thee, love.
Beneath thy shift I should seek out so deftly
The spot where beats thy heart,
And pour thy blood’s red warmth out for my dagger,
51
Because thy kiss, O love, thou hast denied me,
And because I for that thy kiss have thirsted,
Even as the dagger thirsteth for thy blood.
Then will the sunshine sparkle and be merry,
Seeing thy red young blood,
Yea, and the merry sunbeams, they shall dry it,
Together with my tears.
My tears and thy blood shall flow together,
Mingling like rivers twain;
And though thy blood be hot, yet can it never
Be burning as my tears.
Nay, but thy blood will wonder when it feeleth
How burning are my tears.
The dagger at my belt it dances
Whene’er I dance;
But when I drink the foaming wine-cup,
Then it grows sad;
For it is thirsty too, the dagger
It thirsts for blood!
FALLEN.
Plant no more flowers, I tell thee, beside the cottage-wall,
Its shadow makes them wither — and flowers love the sun.
FOUR weeks it is, O sister, that not a single raindrop
Has fallen on our meadows,1 and for four weeks I weep.
Yes, I — who with my laughter could make those laugh
that wept.
I hate my girdle’s pearl-drops, the ducats of my necklace,
And as the Heiduck’s mantle, my bodice weighs me down.
For sin has crossed my threshold, and shut the door
behind it,
And I am left a prisoner, here with my sin alone.
The blessèd air of heaven can find me out no longer,
Since sin has shut the door.
And they, whom once I cherished, all tell me now: “We
leave thee
Here with thy sin alone.”
When that is born that comes of sin, how dare I
Say to it: “Thou art born.”
For, could it answer, it would surely answer:
“Far better had I died.”
53
Show me the churchyard road, that I may learn there
To trust the graves, and tell them of my sin;
The graves alone will not upbraid me with it,
For they still say to Love:
“Love, be thou blessed for all the fruits thou bearest.”
And never question, how those fruits are borne.
But all things living turn from me away.
The maidens spurn me: “We are pure,” they say.
The stars are all ashamed to look at me;
Our crops are long forsaken of the rain;
He whom I love, upbraids me that I loved him,
And fearfully his glance avoideth mine;
When at the sight of me the maidens redden,
He reddens too — my shame makes him ashamed.
The fountain gives me water as of yore.
But the cool draught refreshes me no more;
And if I should draw nigh, they would reproach it
For letting this my face be mirrored there;
The wand’rer is amazed
To see my spindle’s weariness, and asks,
“Who is yon wife, whose spindle is so listless?”
Then falt’ringly my sisters answer him:
“We know not whence her spindle’s weariness.”
Show me the churchyard road, that I may learn
To make the graves my friends,
Since from their homes and hearths men banish me,
Because my coming poisons all their joy,
Seeing I ever bring my curse with me.
The joy that once I tasted is like a dried-up river,
With naught but stones to fill it — the river is dried up.
For joy can cross my threshold no more, since sin hath
crossed it,
And shut the door so fast.
Plant no more flowers, I pray thee, so close around the
cottage,
Its shadow makes them wither — and flowers love the sun.
Footnotes
1 Note 4. This idea is kindred one to that explained in note 2; flowers cannot prosper near the house of a fallen maiden.
SONG
TWO birds flew into the sunset glow,
And one of them was my love, I know.
Ah, had it but flown to my heart, its nest!
Two maidens down to the harvest go,
And one of them is my own, I know.
Ah, had she but come to me here, it were best!
Two stars remembered the long ago —
And one of them was my heart’s great woe.
If it had but forgotten, and paled in the west!
Two children died in the hut below,
And one, my heart, to the grave doth go.
Ah, had it but taken me with it to rest!
THE RIVER OF TEARS.
I have full twenty ducats upon my Sunday necklace,
When I laugh, the birds all twitter: “How merrily she laughs.”
The nearest path to the village leads down along the brook.
THINK thou no more of that which thou hast seen;
For ever will thy brow be overcast
If thou dost think thereon.
The Heiduck hath two mantles;
And his courser is so fleet;
And all the maidens love him,
For his mantles and his courser,
And for his songs.
The Heiduck passed beside a grave at even,
And there he heard his dead love say to him:
“Give me thy mantle, for the grave is cold.”
But he sped on and gave her not his mantle.
And then again he heard his dead love saying:
“Give me a kiss, for oh, the grave is cold.”
But he sped on, and gave her not the kiss.
And then his dead love saith:
“Rein in thy courser fleet, for I am cold
Here in my grave.”
57
But he sped on, and reined not in his courser.
Again his dead love saith:
“Then sing thy songs to me, for I am cold,
Here in my grave.”
But he sped on, and sang her not his songs.
Then in her grave his dead love fell a-weeping —
Her tears did wet his mantle,
Her tears became a mighty flood, that checked
His fleet steed’s gallop,
And all his songs were silenced by her tears.
I have full twenty ducats upon my Sunday necklace,
When I laugh, the birds all twitter: “How merrily she laughs.”
The nearest path to the village leads down along the brook.
LAUGHTER
The leaf is loth to fall, while yet the sky is blue,
And saith unto the wind:
“Why hast thou made me fall, while yet the sky is blue?”
SHE ever laughed, that woman;
And whoso met that woman,
Her laughter made them weep.
They said: “Oh, laugh no more.”
And all she met upon her way grew sad
And told her of its sorrow.
The trees around her said:
“Where are our leaves and birds?”
The dried-up rivers mourned,
Lamenting for their streams.
Men showed her all their tears;
The maidens loosed their girdles,
That she might see how sorrowful their heart was;
And everything did tell her of its woe,
To stop that woman’s laughter.
The graves unclosed, and showed their dust to her,
Their doors the houses opened
To let her see the empty hearths within;
The childless women
Made plaint of their unfruitful wombs, accursed;
59
The plains stretched out their barrenness before her,
And men their sum of crime;
And one and all they said: “Behold our pain,”
To stop that woman’s laughter,
Yet went she laughing through a world of sorrows.
The leaf is loth to fall, while yet the sky is blue,
And saith unto the wind:
“Why hast thou made me fall, while yet the sky is blue?”