It gives one a strange idea of what treasures of primitive poetry and music may yet be found among the peasantry of Europe, when a volume like this—The Bard of the Dimbovitza, Roumanian Folk-Songs. Collected from the Peasants by Helene Yacaresco. Translated by Carmen Sylva and Alma Strettell—has been brought to light from the single district of Roumania. The preface by Carmen Sylva (the Queen of Roumania), herself an accomplished literary artist, says that these songs were collected from the lips of peasant girls, the lute players, the reapers, and the gypsies, by the young poetess Helene Yacaresco, in the district of Roumania, in which her father's domain is situated. She spent four years in collecting them, and even although her family has been known and honored for centuries by the people, she encountered many difficulties in endeavoring to induce the peasants to repeat their songs to her. "She was forced to affect a desire to learn spinning that she might join the girls at their spinning parties, and so overhear their songs more easily; she hid in the tall maize to hear the reapers crooning; she caught them from the lips of peasant women, of lute players Cobzars,' so called from the name of their instrument, the cobza, or lute, of gypsies, of fortune tellers; she listened for them by death-beds, by cradles, at the dance, and in the tavern with inexhaustible patience." The result is a volume which is not only equal in quality to that of the finest folk-song and poetry which any European nation possesses, and with a peculiar and original flavor of its own, revealing strong and original national characteristics, but, one is tempted to say, with more of the sublimated and naked essence of poetry than can be found in any work of modern civilized poets. There are times when the vivid strength of simple passions, expressed with the force of naked directness without any weakening refinement of language, the feelings of a people to whom love is a genuine and undisguised passion, in whom hatred burns the blood and finds relief in the shot or the stab, to whom death is an object of vital horror as the end of life and happiness, and to whom religion is an embodiment of direct supernatural power, produce a poetry, which reaches a force of expression and touches the heart with a power to which all modern refinements of thought and language are unable to attain. It is, in comparison, as if a cloud of unreality, the emanations of artificial thoughts and sentiments, or the dust, as it were, of ages, had fallen upon the native freshness of feeling and language, and that civilized men were no longer able to feel so deeply or to speak so clearly as those who had never been burdened with knowledge, or the strength of whose emotions had not been diluted by the restraints and refinements of civilization, transcendental religion, or artificial society. There is, of course, a power and subtlety of thought in minds which have inherited the world's wisdom and knowledge, and their thoughts have a scope and extent to which those of unlettered peasants are strangers, and their views of the problems of life and humanity are as those of a man to a child; but the strength of their feeling in simple passion is much diluted and their powers of expression are correspondingly less, so far as vividness and simplicity are concerned. As an illustration of the weakness of purely artistic literature, whatever its beauty and skill, to touch the depths of feeling like the purely unsophisticated language of the natural poets, who simply endeavored to express their emotions without thought of form or artistic melody, may be compared the closing aspiration of the famous and beautiful serenade in Maud,—
She is coining, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red,—
with the simple utterance of the Javanese lover in one of the natural flowers of folk-song,—
I do not know when I shall die,
I have seen at Badoer many that were dead,
They were dressed in white shrouds, and
Were buried in the earth;
If I die at Badoer and am buried beyond the
Village eastward against the hill,
Where the grass is high,
Then will Adinda pass by there, and the border
Of her sarong will sweep softly along the grass,—
I shall hear it.
There are times when the vitality of poetry seems to be lost as one feels the simple and direct power of some of these ancient songs which spring from the heart and not from the head, and all modern verse seems like the pale and artificial product of intellectuality, weakened feeling, and language refined until it has lost its strength, and one is almost tempted to believe that civilization is as fatal to poetry as it is to religious enthusiasm. Of course this is not the case. The human heart has not lost its strength of feeling nor its power of expression, and modern poetry is greater in its power and wider in its scope than folk-song. But it has lost some of the peculiar strength which comes from simplicity of feeling and overmastering power of passion; and its language, if it has many delicate shades of meaning, which that of a primitive people has not, has lost the clearness and vividness of expression of those whose words are few, but which are the creation of their hearts and not of their intellects.
These folk-songs of Roumania are full of the pathos and strength of simple passions, and they show a native poetical spirit and power of the imagination which is rare in any nation. Doubtless many of them are old, the inheritance of long tradition and familiar forms of expression, but it is indicated that many of them are new, and that the stock is being constantly added to by the force of a poetic inspiration, which is still in full life and flower. We are told that many of the spinning songs are improvisations, the girls all standing in a circle, the best spinner or singer in the centre, and that she begins to improvise a song, which is passed on for continuance with the distaff to any one whom she may select. Doubtless these are on familiar themes and with familiar forms of expression, like all folk-songs, but they show the vital spirit of poetry still existing, and the bulk of more elaborate compositions is probably still being added to. This fact confirms the belief, which intelligent observers have noted, that the Roumanians and the kindred peoples of this race have an intellectual power which is of an undecayed and still progressive people, very different from the effete Ottomans by whom they were so long oppressed, and that, if the future promised an opportunity for original development, instead of absorption into the Muscovite empire, they might produce a homogeneous and progressive nation with original features and an independent contribution to civilization. At any rate the volume gives evidence of remarkable intellectual power among the Roumanian peasantry, and it may be hoped that this treasure-trove will stimulate other researches, and the discovery of a larger bulk of native poetry, if none of finer value. Whether any touch of sentiment has been added in the translations with the higher poetic form in some instances cannot, of course, be apparent, but the internal evidence would indicate that essential faithfulness has been preserved and that the substance is as genuine as the poetry is original and powerful.
Some of the most striking songs in the collection are those of the gypsies, which have a wild and fiery tone like the gypsy music which has stirred the blood of refined civilization, as it has been performed by orchestras with all the effect of modern instrumentation, in a way that the most skillful composers have failed to do, and shows the element of poetry and passion in that strange and exotic race. What stronger beauty of expression or grace of feeling can be found than this?—
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 beloved, 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,
When at evening I softly sing my lay,
That the wand'rer hears, as he goes his way—
My heart's best beloved, he hears it not.
There, where on Sunday 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 drink of it love—alas!
My heart's best beloved, he drinks it not.
There, by my window, where day by day,
When the sunbeams first brighten the morning gray,
I lean and dream of my weary lot,
And wait his coming, and softly cry
Because of love's longing that makes one die—
My heart's best beloved, he dieth not.
A peculiar character in the Roumanian songs is that of the Heiduck, a sort of combination, it would seem, of the knight-errant and the brigand, with all the legendary attributes of beauty, strength, courage, and generosity of the half-fabulous popular heroes of all nations. The Song of the Heiduck has all the buoyant spirit and gayety appropriate to such a figure, but is overshadowed also by a sort of elfin sadness and the doom of a supernatural fate, which is chiefly to be found in those nations which have a tinge of oriental mysticism, and is a marked feature of the Roumanian folk-songs. The Celtic mysticism, where it exists, is more strictly religious.
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 well-nigh 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 plain, 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 aged 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.
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—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 broid'ry 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.
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.
Almost all the songs have the refrain, as in this example, which is not, necessarily, directly associated with the subject of the song, but is suggested by some incident, circumstance, or scene brought to the mind at the time of the recital. As often in the old Scotch ballads, it adds a weird and touching effect like a dominant note in music, or a symbolical background to a picture.
A marked feature in these folk-songs of Roumania, as in those of all other nations, is the place which fighting has in them, the songs of the soldiers who are going to battle for their native land, and the emotions of heroism, courage, and self-devotion; but as in all these songs there is an underlying element of melancholy, mysticism, and refined and delicate feeling, quite different from the savage ferocity, heartiness, and humor of more northern nations, and there is no trace whatever of the farcical rudeness and cunning which is attached to some of the heroes of the Scandinavian ballads. The sentiments expressed are those of singular refinement for a primitive people, and the general tone of the soldier songs is one of sadness and content in death, rather than of the fierce joy and hope of the conflict, as in the following characteristic specimen:—
A spindle of hazel-wood had I;
Into the mill-stream it fell one day
The water has brought it me lack 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 treetops roared,
The soldier asked from the deep, dark grave,
"Did the banner flutter then?"
"Not so, my hero," the wind replied,
"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 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 that 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.
As has been said, the underlying and predominant element of these Roumanian folk-songs is melancholy, and rarely, if ever, in those of any nation, is the sorrow of death and parting more vividly and powerfully expressed. The voices speak from beyond the grave, but they seem to intensify rather than lighten the grief, and the calm and beauty of nature bring no consolation to the stricken heart, but only deepen the agony. This dirge for a child will speak to every one who has known anguish, as with the voice of the wailing wind:—
The river went weeping, weeping,
Ah, me, how it did weep!
But I would never heed it,
The weeping of the river,
Whilst thou were at my breast.
The stars—poor stars—were weeping,
But I would not hear their weeping,
Whilst yet I heard thy voice.
Unhappy men drew nigh, and told me of their woe,
They said: "We are the sorrow of all humanity."
But I had no compassion for human misery,.
Whilst thou wert with me still.
Then these, the river with its weeping,
The piteous stars, the miserable men,
All prayed the earth's dark depths to take thee from me,
That so my woe might understand their woe;
And now—I weep.
Yet weep I not for human misery,
Nor for the stars' complaining,
Nor for the river's wailing.
I weep for thee alone, most miserly,
Keep all my tears for thee!
Now I must rock forever empty arms,
That grieve they have no burden any more.
Now I must sing, and know, the while, no ears
Are there to hearken.
The birds will ask me, "To whom singest thou?"
The moon look down and ask, "Whom rockest thou?"
The grave will be right proud, while I am cursed,
That I did give her thee.
My womb upbraideth me because I gave
To Death the gift that once she gave to me,
The gift that sprung from her.
Now must I see thy sleep and never know
Whether this sleep be sweet.
Then do I ask of Earth
"Is the sleep sweet indeed
That in thy lap we sleep?"
But, ah! thou knowest Earth misliketh pity,
And loves to hold her peace!
Wilt thou then answer in her stead, and say,
"What do the birds, O mother,
Since I have gone to sleep?
And the river with its pebbles,
Since I have gone to sleep?
And thy broken heart, O mother,
Thy little heart, dear mother,
Since I. have gone to sleep!
Does my father guide the oxen
Walking beside the ploughshare.
Since I have gone to sleep?"
Oh, say all this to me!
Answer instead of Earth that knows no pity,
And loves to hold her peace.
The river went weeping, weeping,
Ah, me, how it did weep!
But I would never heed it,
The weeping of the river,
Whilst thou were at my breast.
The stars, poor stars, were weeping,
But I would not hear their weeping,
Whilst yet I heard thy voice.
And this other has a beautiful and touching sentiment:—
The river last night swept the bridge away,
And so we must wade through the river to-day.
The maidens sing as they wade, and are gay.
A little sister the dead child had,
Since it died little sister has grown more glad,
And saith to the mother: "Its own sweet smile
The one that is dead unto me did give,
And all the life that it might not live
Now lives in me." But the mother, the while
Fell a-weeping, and bowed her head,
And remembered the child that was dead.
The river last night swept the bridge away,
And so we must wade through the river to-day.
The maidens sing as they wade, and are gay.
There are other sources of grief than that of simple death, whose sorrow can weep itself away, the tragedies of crime and sin and the agonies of remorse. There is an occasional touch of that ferocity which rejoices in a bloody revenge, as would be natural to a passionate people, and which is manifested in the Song of the Dagger.
The dagger at my belt that 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.
But for the most part the songs which relate to violence and bloodshed are the expressions of the remorse that follows the crime, and with a touch of the prevailing mysticism in the reproach of natural objects. The water refuses to quench the thirst of the murderer, and the trees to give him shelter, and he wanders on an endless way haunted by the voice of his crime. The poem entitled The Outcast expresses this feeling of mysterious remorse and unending and unavailing expiation.
Go not over the little bridge,
It is too old.
The trees that have been felled to the earth
And the birds that still would perch upon their boughs,
Must fly very close to earth.
Why do they ask me, "Is it thou?"
Nay, nay, I know of nothing;
No one has told me aught, yet all are afraid of me,
The stones upon the road shrink from my footsteps,
But I am wearier far than if I had trodden them,
I am always left alone, and yet I hear voices always;
My sleep is never disturbed, and yet I feel
As though I had never slept.
Know ye why I am weary, so very weary,
That if the grave should say to me, "Lie down
Here in my lap and rest" I would bless the grave?
It is this: I carry one upon my shoulders,
I carry him onward ever, and feel his hands
About my throat, his breath upon my neck.
It is he that makes my step so heavy,
And drives me wild, too, with the sound of his voice,
It is he that drinks my sleep,
And when I ask him, "Whither shall I take thee
That I may carry thee no more?"
He points to the horizon.
He is as heavy as a widow's heart.
I know, too, all his thoughts, and his thoughts burn me,
Because he thinks upon my sorrow.
And when we pass some hut, I say,
"Let us linger here awhile, this hut seemeth pleasant to me,"
But he answers, "Never a hut may open its doors to thee,"
And when I ask him, "Friend, art thou not yet weary?"
He answers, "I? I rest in thy weariness,
Refresh myself in thy sweat."
Even on my own hearth
I can never set him down over against me,
He clings to my shoulders always—
I know not even his face.
Then I say to him, "Thou unknown one!"
And he answers me, "Thou accurst!"
Go not over the little bridge,
It is too old.
The trees that have been felled lie on the earth
And the birds that still would perch upon their boughs
Must fly very close to earth..
One of the peculiar customs of Roumania is that of two girls of different families choosing each other as sisters by affinity, calledsuratas, or "sisters of the cross," a relationship sanctioned by the church, and acting as the tie of blood in relation to family marriages. It is this custom which is alluded to in the charming ballad, which recalls the best of those of Spain on similar subjects, with its delicate feeling and graceful expressions:—
See how it raineth! and the com is cut upon the plain,
And I have left my sickle, too, forgotten 'mid the grain.
Now there it lies—ah, woe is me!—beneath the falling rain.
Of all the lads that joined the dance each took some sign
from me—
One took my girdle, and thou know'st full well which that
may be,
The one, my sister of the cross, I fashioned with thee.
My chain, sweet sister of the cross, another took; what needs
To tell thee which—the one which hath two strings of
golden beads.
Another took my flower from me—and which one dost thou
know?
It is, my sister of the cross, the floweret that doth blow
In autumn days among the grass, where thick the plum-trees
grow.
But only one took naught away, and know'st thou, sister, who?
He of whom I often spake of thee, when I most silent grew,
He, my little sister of the cross, it is I love so true.
Then quick run after him, he dwells beside the mill-pool deep,
And through his slumbers murmuring on, their watch the
waters keep,
O happy water, that may sing and lull him in his sleep.
Then quickly run thou after him, my sister, do not stay
To watch the flocks upon the hill, that browse the livelong
day;
Bring him a girdle, and a chain, yea, and a flower—and
say:
"I found them hard beside the mill, and all of them are
thine."
But stay not longer lest thou, too, should'st love him, sister
mine.
That we may both not have to weep together, oh, beware!
My tears could not love thy tears, not yet my care thy care,
They could not dwell within my hut, nor would be welcome
there.
See how it raineth! and the com is cut upon the plain,
And I have left my sickle, too, forgotten 'mid the grain,
Now there it lies—ah, woe to me! beneath the falling rain.
The spinning songs, which are absolutely improvisations, have, of course, all the inevitable character of abruptness and irregularity, but a charming grace of feeling is often visible through them, and their imagery is as effective as it is spontaneous and natural.
What didst thou, mother, when thou wert a maiden?—
I was young.—
Didst thou, like me, hark to the moon's soft footfalls,
Across the sky?
Or didst thou watch the little stars' betrothal?—
Thy father cometh home, leave the door open—
Down to the fountain didst thou go, and there
Thy wooden pitcher filled, didst thou yet linger
Another hour with the full pitcher by thee—
I was young,—
And did thy tears make glad thy countenance?
And did thy sleep bring gladness to the night?
And did thy dreams bring gladness to thy sleep?
And didst thou smile even by graves, despite
Thy pity for the dead?
Thy father cometh home, leave the door open—
Loved'st thou strawberries and raspberries,
Because they are as red as maidens' lips?
Didst thou love thy girdle for its many pearls,
The river and the wood, because they lie
So close behind the village?
Didst love the beating of thy heart,
There close beneath thy bodice,
Even though't were not thy Sunday bodice?
—Thy father cometh home, leave the door open.
These specimens will give an idea of the charm, the grace, the pathos, and the melody of these Roumanian songs, which are like the breath of wild mountain air, full of the voices of the birds and streams, the wailings of the wind, and the sad plaints of the human heart. There is scarce a page in the not very voluminous collection which is not marked with some untaught grace of thought or language, and which has not the charm and power of simple and strong emotion. However literal they may be, and the impression is very strongly conveyed of their absolute faithfulness, they also owe much to the fine grace and skill and to the melody of the verse into which they have been rendered in a foreign language, and the lovers of poetry owe a grateful debt to Carmen Sylva and Miss Alma Strettell, who had been already favorably known for her translations of Greek folksongs for the artistic quality of their translations. No richer treasury of primitive poetry has been disclosed for many years.