Part 17

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:--

"I AM CONTENT."

_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,

N or 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.

THE OUTCAST.

_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, called _suratas_, 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:--

HE THAT TOOK NOTHING.

_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.

SPINNING SONG.

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.