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. 104-114.
I.
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. —
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Lovedst thou strawberries and raspberries,
Because they are as red as maidens’ lips?
Didst 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 although ’twere not thy Sunday bodice? —
— Thy father cometh home, leave the door open.
II.
WHAT dost thou seek in the wood by night?
I seek my youth, and I do not know
What path she took, for with footsteps light
She fled, and fast. I can see her go,
Yet never can reach her; and now again
I catch a glimpse through the forest trees
Of her white dress fluttering in the breeze,
I can hear the chink of her dancing chain,
And the ring of her laughter — and see her stay
By the brook to drink; and then I say:
“Dear Youth! Let me thy distaff touch,
And from thy pitcher drink with thee;
These berries take — thou lovest such!
And on the grass come dance with me.”
What dost thou seek in the wood by night? —
On his young brown horse, so light and fast;
I seek my love — yea, him that passed
On his young brown horse, so light and fast;
Rode through the twilight, and waited not
For the moon to give him her gentle light,
And waited not for the sun to rise,
Nor even until he had forgot
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My kiss, that on his lips yet lies.
The sound of his voice in the wind I heard,
And it spoke to the wind and the woodland bird,
But to me, not a single word.
I said; “Dear love, thy haste despite,
Say but one word to me, and I
Whate’er thou askest will reply!”
What dost thou seek in the wood by night?
III.
WHAT hath he done, the luckless fellow,
That thou wilt speak to him no more;
Are ye not of the self-same village?
Why wilt thou, sister, not sit down by me?
And what awaits thou, to stand so long?
Look down he way no longer,
Watch the old well no longer,
But rather hark to me, the while I sing.
What hath he done — the luckless fellow,
That thou wilt speak to him no more?
Are ye not of the self-same village? —
— Down to the river-side we went together.
He said: “Now hearken, hearken to the wind
That rustles through the leaves.”
I said: “Oh see, oh see the merry sunshine
That shineth through the wavelet.”
He said: “I love, I swear I love, a woman
Thou knowest not.”
I said: “I love, I swear I love, a lad
Of whom thou knowest naught.”
He said: “That woman ceaseless weeps for me.”
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And I replied: “That lad awaited me.”
Then from the river we went hence together.
And I, I knew full well he was my lad;
And he, he surely knew I was that woman.
But yet —
Because of all that sunshine in the water,
And of the wind that rustled through the leaves,
We bother were silent — we kept silence both. —
What hath he done, the luckless fellow,
That thou wilt speak to him no more,
Are ye not of the self-same village?
IV.
Lie down upon the earth,
then thou canst hear the sound of the seeds quickening.
NEIGHBOUR, what doth thy husband when he cometh
home from work? —
— He thinks of her he loved before he knew me.
She wore about her throat a necklace of red beads,
Her teeth were white, as white as a string of mock pearls,
And he loved her.
She went away with another.
And then he took me to wife,
Because I was strong to work.
Lie down upon the earth,
then thou canst hear the sound of the seeds quickening.
But his heart is with that other;
It went the way she went.
Then I talk to him of her, that his heart may stay with
me’
I ask what her face was like,
Although I know full well — he has told me a hundred
times;
I listen to him, and so the hours pass by.
And when I have pleased him, he says:
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“Thou art like her.”
But when I cross him, he says:
“But I, I am strong to work, thou knowest it, neighbour.
Lie down upon the earth,
then thou canst hear the sound of the seeds quickening.
As soon as I have a daughter, I will tell her:
“A necklace of red beats put around thy throat,
That man may love thee.”
And if I have a boy, I will say to him:
“Follow the woman whose teeth are like a string of mock
pearls.”
For my husband always speaks of her;
I feel as though I had known her,
As though she had been an elder sister of mine,
Who was dead.
And my husband always speaks to me of her.
Lie down upon the earth,
then thou canst hear the sound of the seeds quickening.
SONG V.
Look on the plain, look not upon my face,
The while I speak to thee.
ON winter evenings, when it snows, it snows.
My little sister asks me, wherefore now
The earth has such white hair,
Such cold, long hair, that wholly covers it?
I tell my sister: Earth has grown so old,
Puts no more flowers in her snow-white hair.
Nor may the lovers dare
To love each other any more, or speak
Of their bright youth, seeing the Earth so old.
The sun smiles down on Earth no more — he says:
“I loved thee whilst thou yet wert green, but now
What hast thou done with that thy spring?”
And Earth replies: ‘I gave it to the harvest,
But now the harvest’s reaped,
I gave it to the maiden; now the maiden
Hath veiled her head.”
Look on the plain, look not upon my face,
The while I speak to thee.
But spring will come again, and Earth remember
Her snow-white hair no more;
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And to the harvest she will give her spring
Again, that it may ripen.
And she will give thee somewhat too, my sister.
Look on the plain, look not upon my face,
The while I speak to thee.
Yes, she will give thee ev’ry night new dreams,
And fragrant basil she will give thee, too,
And crystal water from the thawing rivers.
Look on the plain, look not upon my face,
The while I speak to thee.
But me — what will she give me, by the time
Her snow-white hair is gone?
Only a little place far down beneath her,
That she will give to me — just long enough
To hold my little body;
And she will give me, too, sleep for my heart,
And on my heart
Three flowers, and on ev’ry flower three tears.
One will be thine, I think, my little sister,
And one my mother’s tear, and one my father’s;
Only the tear of him, my heart’s belovèd,
Will not be there.
And all the flowers will fade, despite those tears,
When Earth shall have her snow-white hair again.
Look on the plain, look not upon my face,
The while I speak to thee.