Part 14

--_Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold._

Laïs, the daughter of Sappho, loves Memnon, the man to whom Sappho has given her heart. This tragic circumstance hastens her end. The death of her daughter puts an end to Sappho’s love to Memnon. By moonshine she wanders to the sea, and raising her lyre high above her head, breaks it, and throws the pieces into the foaming waters. Memnon calls to her--

“‘Break not thy lyre, for much is yet thine own, Thy tuneful art and the undying love That I have vowed thee.’

‘Peace,’ answered Sappho, ‘peace between us lies, For aye the shadow of my slumbering child, Who died for love of Memnon.’”

Sappho leaves Sicily. In Lesbos, where Memnon reigns, she intends to throw herself into the sea.

‘All unseen then she climbed the rock, that rose from the ocean, There she uplifted her voice in song as though she would send him One farewell yet, the last e’er from earth she departed. Softly at first she sang, then the cadence uprising, Swelled like breakers afar, till slowly it sank into silence.

“Weep thou not, because the gods have sent thee, And my fate, my life here ended lie. All that words could tell, my songs declare, All that could be borne, ’twas mine to bear; Thanks be to the gods--the end is nigh!

Weep thou not! this life is dust and folly, Let me pass into the eternal light! All that once was mine has fled from me; Let me grasp the perfect whole and see Thus at last its radiance infinite.

Weep thou not! whene’er my songs thou singest, Shall my spirit fly with thine to meet. Links of harmony join soul to soul! Now, where ocean’s billows softly roll, Tired of life, I’ll sink to slumber sweet.”

The poetic narrative ends with this poem.

The story of Hammerstein lies in Germany, in the Middle Ages, during the war between Henry IV. and his son Henry.

Since her earliest youth the Queen had carried about with her the idea of a poem about Hammerstein. “Many hours,” she writes, “have I spent dreaming amongst the ruins and gazing over the Rhine. Then I seem to hear the old Kaiser knocking at the door, and see the gloomy Count who cursed his beautiful daughters.” Some lovely songs, such as the following, for instance, are interwoven in the narrative:--

“Through the forest there fluttered a song Upborne upon airy gay wings; As the breeze lisps the beech-leaves among, So softly it came to my strings, And the harp told the green Rhine again; So the trees and the birds knew the strain, And the river’s low whisperings.

Through the forest came wandering Love-- There was budding and blooming at this-- The birds woke to music the grove, And the flowers and the springs felt his kiss; And they sang it and sighed it to Rhine, So the trees knew, and so the sunshine, And the wavelets that whisper and hiss.

Through the forest a tempest did roar, Song and Love in its fury it caught, And both to the far sea it bore, Then an end to all blossoms was brought! And silently dreaming glides Rhine, Strings are hushed, and the little birds pine, And twitter of joys come to nought.”

--_Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold._

“To publish my own writings,” says the Queen, “would never have entered into my head, had they not passed from one to another and been copied endlessly. So I came to the conclusion at last that if they are worth such tedious work as copying, they were worthy of being printed. Whether my writings are praised or criticised in the world is of as little moment to me as if it did not concern myself. But when I read my poems to others, I am pleased if they produce the impression I desire. This is also a very safe criterion as to their truth and clearness. I should be delighted if my poems were sung without any one knowing whose composition they are.”

The Queen now made up her mind to give way to the entreaties of those around her, and to let her poems “Sappho” and “Hammerstein” be privately printed. In 1882 “The Enchantress” appeared, to which a statue of Carl Caner had inspired her. “My fundamental idea,” writes the Queen, “is that purity overcomes passion or the demon, but it costs her her life. It is death to fight against the forces of nature!” The poetess, with her rich fancy, has made the statue seem alive.

“Sits upon the splintered summit Swathed in storm, beside a black gulf, Heavenly beautiful, a woman. Wonderful her body’s curves are As she leans upon her hand, Lightly swaying on the crag’s edge, One knee rests across the other, Balanced one limb back is folded: In her hand she grasps a serpent, Careless how the creature struggles, Twines and bends and shoots its tongue forth, Helpless that white grip to loosen, Helpless to escape those fingers. Red her hair is; like to flame-tongues Ruddy ’mid the storm it swayeth, Floats unto the clouds, and catches The forked lightning as it falls, Drawing through its threads the flashes Which glide down that woman’s body, And, beneath her, splits a pine tree From the topmost bough to root. And the eyes of that fair woman-- In the lurid light which blazes Bright from stem to stem--do glitter Green, beneath great brows of black.

* * * * *

Gladsome-looking, head high-lifted, Up that crag a young man marches; Strength and peace are on his visage, In his blue eyes innocence.”

--_Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold._

He sings the song which has so often been set to music:--

“’Tis with me as the wild brook By summer-rains swelled, Which carries rocks, tree-trunks, All headlong impelled.

’Tis with me as the tempest Which knows not its mind, But something must shatter, Such might is behind!

’Tis with me as the gold sun Whose beams are so bland; Full fain I’d kiss Heaven, And ocean, and land.

’Tis with me as with sweet songs Which soft music spread, And bring living echoes From rocks that were dead.

’Tis with me as with high God Who pardons above; All life is so lovely, I am love-sick for Love!”

--_Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold._

Dämona, the enchantress, is gifted with a beauty which kills and destroys. A youth beholds her suddenly as she appears on a lonely height, and falls desperately in love with her. Lightning flashes from her shining golden hair, but the idea of being loved by an innocent being charms her fancy. The hunter has tracked her to her winter palace of ice by the sea. She is overcome by his passionate love for her, and sinks into his arms. At that moment the icy building gives way and falls to pieces, and they are buried in the deep.

In “Jehovah” Carmen Sylva has endeavoured to represent the doubt, Does God exist or not? which is for ever struggling in the mind of man. Ahasuerus desires to trace all things to their origin. He regards eternal life as a curse. His vocation is accomplished if he can attain to knowledge.

“Show me the God who all has made, And Him will I adore; Show me the God who guides the sun, And Him will I adore; Show Him whose voice sounds like the storm, Who mows the trees as they were grass, And Him will I adore.”

He seeks God in art, in his own restless activity, in the passion of love, in the desire of possession, &c. But everywhere the answer comes, “God is not here.” At last he realises God in the eternal laws of nature. Then death comes and releases the believer.

“Jehovah” was translated into French verse in 1887 by Hélène Vacaresco, a youthful poetess.

“The Pilgrimage of Sorrow,” a cycle of fairy tales, also appeared in 1882. The poetic fancy of Carmen Sylva has here treated the question, “Whence and for what reason do sorrow and suffering come?” symbolically, and placed it in fairy tales. “To live is to suffer, but two faithful comforters remain at your side during the fight and help you to endure. They are termed Patience and Labour.” This is the leading idea of this poem. The royal lady possesses a wonderful power of representing the deepest feelings of the heart, which only those can do who have gone through all phases of suffering. She has a fellow-feeling for all who strive and struggle, and can realise and deeply sympathise with the sufferings of humanity.

When Queen Elizabeth began to write the “Fairy Tales of the Pelesch,” she wrote the following poem in her journal:--

“On every wave, in every flower A shining fairy tale I see; I gather them from stream and bower, And tell them as they’re told to me.

From mossy banks and woodlands glancing, They come like visions golden bright; On every spray I watch them dancing, And hear their whispers soft and light.

They come like sunbeams many-tinted, But with what radiance, glowing, fair, They’re on my memory imprinted I never can in words declare.”

These “Fairy Tales” were published in 1883, entitled “From Carmen Sylva’s Kingdom,” and were given to the school children as a prize book in their Roumanian translation.

In the introduction the authoress addresses the people of her Roumanian kingdom in her character of mother of her country, and says to her children--

“Where crags the ancient forest crown, Where mountain streams dance wild adown, And countless blossoms spread, And odours sweet are shed; There lies the land--all glad and green-- Where I am Queen!

Where all that in old legends lies Is read enshrined in tender eyes Deep with the blue of truth, And bright with loving youth; There, soft as spring, that land is seen Where I rule, Queen.

All the world over, in deep grove Wherever ring bird-songs of love, Where gathering mists veil all, And splashes the waterfall, ’Mid those waved boughs my ways have been, There I am Queen!

From shooting leaf and budding flower, From each new beam of heavenly power, In growing and beholding, In being and enfolding, The realm grows--(Children! when was such wealth seen?) Where I am Queen!”

--_Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold._

“Through the Centuries” is the name of the second volume of “From Carmen Sylva’s Kingdom” (1887). They are fairy tales and ballads told in prose, and taken from the Roumanian national poetry. “They are history, legends, ballads, and novels (but all true ones) together,” writes the Queen. “It begins with the fall of Decebal, and ends with the taking of Widdin.”

Heroes and heroic deeds are here brought before us in disconnected tales. We read of the fall of the Datian Prince Decebal, of times when the Roman influence was also felt in Roumania, which still lives among the Roumanian people in songs and traditions. We gaze into the Middle Ages and hear of Stephen the Great, as well as the Legend of Manole, the architect of the Cathedral of Curtea de Arges, which is told with such marvellous simplicity, and others. We meet with figures of heroic women, such as the Mother of Stephen the Great, Decebal’s daughter, Andrada, Fausta, Neaga. The ballads also describe later episodes, which, being on elevating or touching subjects, have been taken up by the people.

“When I let all my characters die,” writes the Queen, “I am only like nature, in which everything ends with death. There is nothing in this world which has any other ending than death. It is such a peaceful feeling when they have ceased to struggle, and the poor soul is at rest. Decebal’s end is as historically true as most histories.

“The third volume will contain legends of birds or flowers, amongst which ‘Jochen Spatz’ belongs to Roumania. I was asked to write a page in the album which is dedicated to the memory of Fritz Reuter, and sent this fairy tale of the people.”

Later the royal lady composed a highly poetical libretto for the opera. It treats of an episode in the life of the Roumanian people, and is called Neaga. The Swedish composer Hallström has set it to music. The subject of the poem, “A Prayer,” was also taken from life, having occurred to a priest.

The Queen writes French poetry with ease. In the spring of 1883 the “Félibres,” an alliance of authors and learned men in the South of France which had in view the resuscitation of Provence and its poetry, induced the Queen to answer in the same strain. The royal pair were spending a few weeks at Sestri Ponente at that time. Thither the Félibres de Lar sent her Majesty a sonnet in the old language of Provence, containing the poetic invitation to visit them in the sunny land of the Troubadours. Without much reflection Queen Elizabeth answered them in the following poem, which we give here as a proof of the wide range of her talent:--

RÉPONSE DE S. M. LA REINE ELISABETH DE ROUMANIE AU CAPISCOL.

MONSIEUR J. B. GANT, POUR LES FÉLIBRES DE LAR.

“De gracieux noms suis appelée, Venir ne puis, Par tems et devoir enchaînée, Oiseau ne suis.

Si, comme la pensée moult radieuse, Ailes j’avais, A votre source mystérieuse Je renaîtrais.

Je baignerais dans l’harmonie De la chanson, Cherchant des froideurs de la vie La guérison.

Au grand soleil qui vous innonde De son amour, Oyez--je volerais une onde, Beau troubadour.

Je cueillerais de vos pensées La fraîche fleur, Vos harpes au cœur accordées Me diraient: Sœur!

Le Mistral même s’est fait caresse! Venir ne puis A votre source enchanteresse; Oiseau ne suis!”

ELISABETH.

SESTRI PONENTE, _le 11 Avril 1883_.

We will also mention the two newest works of Carmen Sylva that were published at Christmas 1883. First we will tell of a little book of novelettes, termed “Etchings.” It contains sketches and pictures from life, which bear the technical titles of the work of the artist, such as Engravings, Chalk Drawings, Wood Engravings, &c. “In my eyes,” says the royal lady, “novelettes are for the poet what studies of heads are for the artist, and the aphorisms are the slight sketches in the sketch-book.” Almost at the same time the large collection of poems termed ‘My Rest’ appeared.

Amongst them are poetic idylls reverting to the twelve months of the year. A collection of poems belong to each of these, some of which are written in the form of epic poems or romances, others in lyric, epigrammatic, or didactic form. Most of the ballads are taken from life. In these forms the poetic genius and intellectual power of Carmen Sylva appear to their greatest advantage, and we find many cheerful songs in this rich collection. “The Post,” a Roumanian picture, vivid with life and colour, is particularly charming. It runs thus:--

“Swift, swift as the wind drives the great Russian Czar, But we of Roumania are swifter by far-- Eight horses we harness for every day speed, But I’ve driven a team of a dozen at need. Then over the bridges we hurry along, Through village and hamlet, with shouting and song, With a hip-hip-hurrah! swiftly onwards we go, The birds fly above and our horses below.

When the sun burns at noon and the dust whirls on high, Like the leaves of the forest, grown withered and dry, We hasten along, never slacking the rein-- The wild mountain riders come down to the plain. Their hair and their cloaks flutter free in the wind-- The sheep and the buffaloes gallop behind, And hip-hip-hurrah! boys, with horse and with man, Like the tempest we pass--let him follow who can.

When winter is here and the storm-sprite’s abroad, Swift glideth the sledge o’er the snow-covered road-- Great drifts hide the inn and the sign-post from sight, ’Tis an ocean of snow lying waveless and white. The wolves and the ravens’ wild greetings we hear As we pass the ravine, and the precipice drear, With a hip-hip-hurrah! From the road though we stray, No matter, the horses will find out the way.

The rain falls in torrents--the stream, grown a flood, Has shattered the bridge on our passage that stood. The waters have risen--are rising yet more-- ’Tis foolhardy daring to swim to the shore. Ten pieces of gold and I’ll venture my neck-- The carriage is floating--the box-seat’s the deck; But hip-hip-hurrah! boys, so loud are our cheers, That the water flows back, for our shouting it fears.

A jest to the lad and a kiss to the lass We throw, while they linger to watch as we pass; His laugh still resounds and her cheek is still red, When already our bells jingle far on ahead. Right well does our team know their silvery chime, And we scarce slacken speed as the mountain we climb. Then hip-hip-hurrah! boys, nay! slowly, beware, For steep’s the descent, we must make it with care.

How sweetly the peal from the convent rings out, The nuns scatter flowers around and about, Black-stoled and black-wimpled, they bloom like the rose, Their eyes ev’n have veils, that too often they close, Of long silken lashes, now raised with a smile-- A cordial the long, weary way to beguile: But hip-hip-hurrah! we have passed from their ken, While they wish us good speed over hill, vale, and fen.

At midnight, the streets of the town to the tread Of our horses resound--all the sky’s glowing red, For crowds gather round us with torches alight, And pine-boughs all blazing, to stare at the sight. A crack of the whip and a cheer and a song, Through a circle of fire, we clatter along; And hip-hip-hurrah! through the glow and the glare, Through flowers and folk, e’er a halt we declare.

’Twas when I was driving my king that I broke Both my legs at one fall--why, a saint ’twould provoke! But when in three weeks he returned o’er the plain, Thank the Lord! I was sound in the saddle again. ‘What, it’s you back again!’ was his greeting to me. ‘Yes, sire,’ I replied, ‘for Roumanians are we, And hip-hip-hurrah! a postillion as well. Seven lives are my birthright, I’ve often heard tell.’

Even if I were dead, I could never lie still-- I should hasten afield over valley and hill. I’d take the eight reins and the whip in my hand, And scarce in the saddle I’d fly through the land. No dull, droning chant and procession for me, I’d turn in my coffin such doings to see; And hip-hip-hurrah! from the bier and its gloom I’d leap to the saddle and drive to my tomb.”

And also this poem--

BETRAYED.

“A rock had chosen a pine for his bride, In his rugged arms he bore her, And vowed, as he cradled her early growth, For ever he’d keep and adore her.

She was his; who should tear her away from his side? So deep her roots had she driven; She clasped him firmly with loving embrace, That his stony heart was riven.

But the west wind rose, and with angry breath, He cried ‘Let her go, she is mine!’ So the stormy blast and the love-lorn rock Strove each with each for the pine.

Till, poised for a moment, as if in doubt, The pine fell trembling over, And tore herself loose from the rock’s caress, And took the storm for her lover.

But little recked he of the pine laid low As he blustered in mirth down the valley, Through rocks and forests cleaving his way With many another to dally.

She clutched with powerless arms at space, But might not arrest her ruin; Headlong she fell and abandoned lay Far from the place she grew in.

And the rock, forlorn, gazed down the abyss Where she lay at the foot of the mountain, While, swollen with tears, from his stony side, Burst forth a perennial fountain.

It shall pour down his side, a ceaseless flood, In search of the pine for ages; Time healeth not the gaping wound Nor the depth of his woe assuages.

And a thousand trees crowd round his crest, Waving their maiden tresses; In vain! he careth for none of these, Still true to his lost caresses.”

We have only been able to give a few leaves from the forest of Carmen Sylva’s songs. We will now close the picture of the surprising creative power of our authoress with the last verses of her poem “Carmen.” She here addresses her readers and says--

“And all which here I have been singing It is your very own! From your deep heart its music bringing, To sad chords of your sorrows ringing, Winning for you the crown!

Yours were the thoughts for ever ranging, You made the folk-tales true! In this earth-day of chance and changing, Of lives unfolding, deaths estranging, Look, Soul! there, too, are you!

Perchance, when Death shall bring sad leisure, And these pale lips are dumb, Then you my words may better measure, And in my true love take new pleasure; Then will my meaning come!”

--_Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold._

In the second edition “My Rest” appeared in small single volumes, _i.e._--1. “Heights and Depths;” 2. “Worldly Wisdom;” 3. “Mother and Child;” 4. “Ballads and Romances.”

“My Rhine” was new poetry. Under this title Carmen Sylva brought out in 1884 a poetical description of the towns and castles of her native Rhine. Artistic illustrations and etchings of the landscapes adorn each poem.

“It Knocks.” “Between whiles I have written a little novel of 100 pages,” writes the Queen, “because a poor boy came to beg me to give his father some editing to do. They were so badly off, he said, and he wished to surprise his parents with a manuscript of mine. I think it is the best thing I have written, all the more as it is quite true, and I have only created the framework. If one is not too discreet, real life offers more than the creatures of one’s imagination.

“I do not think it makes a difference in the work if the _donnée_ is true or not. All is true which is true inwardly, for all has happened, and the novelist has only to disentangle the thread and show why it has happened. It is tremendously hard work for body and mind.”

“My Book.” An Egyptian picture-book with drawings from Egypt round the borders, and facsimile poems of Carmen Sylva (1885).

“From Two Worlds.” A novel by Carmen Sylva, written in joint authorship with Frau Mite Kemnitz, _née_ Bardeleben, and brought out in 1885 under the pseudonym of “Ditto” and “Idem.” In the form of letters and journals a love story is here developed between two persons of different social standing. The young Princess Ulrike von Grosreichenstein takes a fancy to a Professor of History in Greifswald, whose principal work she has read. She writes to him of her passionate admiration. The correspondence leads to a personal meeting and deep love. Thereupon follows a scene, a love match, a terrible catastrophe, and at last the noble family, so proud of its descent, is conciliated to the unalterable facts. It is not the description of real life, but the different manner of thinking and looking at things, in which the interest of “In Two Worlds” is centred. The letters of Princess Ulrike are by “Ditto” (Carmen Sylva), while “Idem” (Mite Kremnitz) originated the Professor.