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.”