The Princess has called the little volume in which she has rendered the
treasures of National Roumanian poetry in German “Roumanian Poetry,”
and has thus introduced it to her Fatherland. A collection of the poems
of O. Alecsandri, Bolintenu, Candianu, Popescu, Cretzanu, Eminescu,
Konaki, Negruzzi, Scherbanescu, and Torceanu are here rendered in their
own metre, and treated in a manner which brings out the characteristics
of each poet.
“I did not think of publishing my translations of Roumanian poetry
when I wrote them. It was Frau Mite Kremnitz who took them from me by
force years after. They appeared in a paper under the pseudonym of E.
Wedi, and later, in 1878, also in the magazine of Foreign Literature.
Still I cannot get over the dreadful feeling of being dragged before
the world even under the disguise of E. Wedi. That is the only thing
that spoils my pleasure.”
A ballad, “Virful cu Dor” (The Heights of Longing), was set to music
in 1876, and was performed on the stage of the National Theatre at
Bucharest, and afterwards at various other places. The Queen wrote to
her mother from Sinaia in September 1875:--
“I have written a libretto from the old legend of “Virful cu Dor,” for
which Lubitz has composed the music. It is a little ballad, which is
very effective with its choruses, solos, and duets, and it could be
represented with _tableaux vivants_ as well. It gives the songs of the
Spirits of the Mists in the third canto--the rushing of wind announces
the coming of Spring. The trees and the brooks awake from their
slumbers. Yesterday we finished arranging the “Song of the Wind” for
a bass voice, and it is so poetical that the poem is placed in a new
light. I write the words out for you, as they are a poem by themselves.
I have given the most beautiful ideas to my friend the West Wind--
“‘Come forth, all ye blossoms!
Start, seeds from the land;
Ye songs of birds, waken,
I, Spring, am at hand!
My touch on the fir boughs,
My kiss in the air,
Makes odours of Heaven
Spread sweet everywhere.
And the fragrance and splendour
Of meadow and grove
I give for a bride-wreath
In free gift to Love.
Come forth, then, blue violets!
Spring calleth on you,
Wake, leaflets and flowerets,
For Love’s coming too!’”
--_Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold._
Whilst still a Princess, Carmen Sylva had written a French comedy,
“Revenans et Revenus,” for the society of Bucharest. She also put
down many very deep and often very philosophical aphorisms in French
at that time. These were not intended for publication at first. When
the Queen was induced to put these pages in the hands of Herr Ulbach
she hesitated at first. But he kept looking up at her whilst he was
reading and repeated--“Oh! mais c’est très fort, mais c’est vraiment
très fort, celá!” and begged for a copy. Later they were published at
Paris with the title “Pensées d’une Reine,” with an introduction by
Ulbach. In the spring of 1888 a new, improved, and enlarged edition was
published there, to which the Academy accorded a prize. This consists
of a gold, a silver, and a bronze coin which bear the title of the work
thus crowned, “Les Pensées d’une Reine,” with the date of 1888. They
contain rich treasures of deep thought, as for instance--
“Les comètes et les grands hommes laissent une trainée de lumière dans
laquelle s’agite une foule d’atômes.”
“Beaucoup de gens ne critiquent que pour ne pas paraître ignorans. Ils
ignorent que l’indulgence est la marque de la plus haute culture.”
“La souffrance est une lourde charrue, conduite par une main de fer.
Plus le sol est ingrat et rebelle, plus elle le déchire, plus il est
riche, plus elle s’enfonce.”
“La nuit tout est de feu, les étoiles, les pensées et les larmes.”
On an occasion in Bucharest during which there was a display of
fireworks, this aphorism suddenly appeared in letters of flame, to the
great surprise of the Queen.
In years of deep sorrow the first chapters of “The Pilgrimage of
Sorrow,” “Sappho,” “Hammerstein,” “Over the Waters,” and “Shipwreck”
appeared. The four last mentioned poems were published together, and
called “Storms.” Carmen Sylva dedicates this work “To the unseen
heroism of women,” with the following poem--
“Unto you--who have courage and patience for woe,
Whose souls by earth’s fire are annealed;
Whose hearts the fierce furnace of passion aglow
Hath sanctified, purified, steeled.
Unto you--who in tempest of misery caught
Lift heads with an unabashed daring;
Unto you, who in solemn sereness of thought
The burdens of life are bearing!
Unto you--who like sunbeams, that palpitate, bring
Brightness and warmth--and those only!
Chief givers of grace and of gladdening
To the earth, else so frozen and lonely.
Unto you--who with brave lips set firm in a smile
Over mountains of trouble have wended;
Who, cheered by no clarions of glory erewhile,
Have in glorious battles contended.
Battles, where no hand the bright laurel twines,
But where tears fall, bitter and hidden--
To you--to the undeclared heroines,
This ‘Book of the Women’ is bidden.”
--_Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold._
“I was much hurried whilst writing ‘Hammerstein’ and ‘Sappho,’ for I
always thought that death would overtake me before their completion.
I wrote ‘Sappho’ because I was angry with Grillparzer, for I thought
that a noble and elevated feeling should act upon so grand a character
as that of Sappho. Instead of making a noble and elevated character out
of this struggling and suffering woman, the poet thought he had a right
to desecrate her. It seemed to me unworthy of her to throw herself into
the sea because she had been deceived. It was more natural and poetical
to sacrifice herself for her child. It is characteristic of me that I
cannot regard what is termed ‘Love’ as the motive power of all actions.
“Sappho lived in Sicily, surrounded by young girls, to whom she taught
the art of poetry. I have amused myself in making portraits of my maids
of honour.”
Carmen Sylva read the poem, in which she had depicted the sad trials of
the life of Sappho, to the young friends around her.
“Will ye the last of love-melodies hearken,
Which from the lips of the poetess flowed at the end of her singing?
Sappho her voice uplifted, and softly the music resounded,
Whilst round about stood listening intent her lovely companions.
‘Of the power I sing, world-mastering,
Which beauty to beauty enchains;
Whereto the gods bow, and the earth in her swing--
To which all that is born pertains.
I sing of the might that in flowers leaps to light,
What wakes the still seed from its rest;
Which glows on the cheek of the maiden bright,
And burns in her lover’s breast.
To that god sing I so, who with echoing bow
Sweet endless confusion brings;
Who conquers all hearts, for their weal or their woe,
Who startles--and stabs--and stings.’”
--_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._