TRANSYLVANIAN-GYPSY STORIES
NO. 37.—THE CREATION OF THE VIOLIN
In a hut on a mountain, in a fair forest, lived a girl with her four
brothers, her father, and her mother. The sister loved a handsome rich
huntsman, who often ranged the forest, but who would never speak to the
pretty girl. Mara wept day and night, because the handsome man never
came near her. She often spoke to him, but he never answered, and went
on his way. She sang the song:
‘Dear man from a far country,
Slip your hand into mine;
Clasp me, an you will, in your arms;
Lovingly will I kiss you.’
She sang it often and often, but he paid no heed. Knowing now no other
succour, she called the devil. ‘O devil, help me.’ The devil came,
holding a mirror in his hand, and asked what she wanted. Mara told him
her story and bemoaned to him her sorrow. ‘If that’s all,’ said the
devil, ‘I can help you. I’ll give you this. Show it to your beloved,
and you’ll entice him to you.’ Once again came the huntsman to the
forest, and Mara had the mirror in her hand and went to meet him. When
the huntsman saw himself in the mirror, he cried, ‘Oh! that’s the
devil, that is the devil’s doing; I see myself.’ And he ran away, and
came no more to the forest.
Mara wept now again day and night, for the handsome man never came near
her. Knowing now no other succour for her grief, she called again the
devil. ‘O devil, help me.’ The devil came and asked what she wanted.
Mara told how the huntsman had run away, when he saw himself in the
mirror. The devil laughed and said, ‘Let him run, I shall catch him;
like you, he belongs to me. For you both have looked in the mirror, and
whoso looks in the mirror is mine. And now I will help you, but you
must give me your four brothers, or help you I cannot.’ The devil went
away and came back at night, when the four brothers slept, and made
four strings of them, fiddle-strings—one thicker, then one thinner, the
third thinner still, and the thinnest the fourth. Then said the devil,
‘Give me also your father.’ Mara said, ‘Good, I give you my father,
only you must help me.’ Of the father the devil made a box: that was
the fiddle. Then he said, ‘Give me also your mother.’ Mara answered,
‘Good, I give you also my mother, only you must help me.’ The devil
smiled, and made of the mother a stick, and horsehair of her hair: this
was the fiddle-stick. Then the devil played, and Mara rejoiced. But the
devil played on and on, and Mara wept. Now laughed the devil and said,
‘When your beloved comes, play, and you will entice him to you.’ Mara
played, and the huntsman heard her playing and came to her. In nine
days came the devil and said, ‘Worship me, I am your lord.’ They would
not, and the devil carried them off. The fiddle remained in the forest
lying on the ground, and a poor Gypsy came by and saw it. He played,
and as he played in thorp and town they laughed and wept just as he
chose.
In the Gypsy Lore Journal for April 1890, pp. 65–66, Vladislav
Kornel, Ritter von Zielinski, published a very close
Hungarian-Gypsy variant, told to him both at Guta and at Almas. One
cannot but be reminded of the ballad of ‘Binnorie,’ whose story is
current in Scotland, Sweden, the Faroë Islands, Iceland, Denmark,
Sicily, Poland, Esthonia, and Lithuania, and which Reinhold Köhler
has ably discussed in ‘Die Ballade von der sprechenden Harfe’
(Aufsätze über Märchen und Volkslieder, pp. 79–98). Campbell’s
Santal Folk-tales, pp. 54, 104, furnish two remarkable analogues.
In the first a drowned girl grows up as a bamboo, out of which a
jugi makes a magic fiddle; in the second a princess, devoured by a
monkey, springs up after his death as a gourd, of whose shell a
jugi makes a wonderful banjo. In both tales there is mention of
Doms; and it is at least an odd coincidence that, while the Gypsy
word for devil is beng, in Santali a spirit is called bonga.
Selling one’s self, or rather one’s blood, to the devil is a
superstition still current amongst English Gypsies. I myself knew
an elderly East Anglian Gypsy woman, who was supposed to have so
sold her blood, and to have got in return a young, good-looking
husband, her own nephew, whom she ‘kept like a gentleman.’ Cf. also
pp. 297–9 of my In Gypsy Tents.
NO. 38.—THE THREE GOLDEN HAIRS OF THE SUN-KING
A rich, mighty king once went hunting, and wandered himself in a great
forest. Towards evening he came to a hut, in which lived a poor
charcoal-burner. The king asked the poor man his way to the city.
The charcoal-burner answered, ‘Sir, the way to the city you could not
find by yourself, and to-day I cannot go with you for my wife lies
sick, and this very night will bring a child into the world. Lie down
here then in the side room, and to-morrow I will guide you to the
city.’
The king took the offer, and lay down in the side room; but he could
not close an eye for the moaning of the charcoal-burner’s wife. Towards
midnight she bore a beautiful boy, and now it was quiet in the hut. Yet
still the king could not sleep. He got up from his couch, drew near the
door, and looked through a chink into the room where the sick woman
lay. He could see her sleeping in her bed; her man, fast asleep too,
lay behind the stove; and in its cradle was the new-born child, with
three ladies in white standing round it.
The king heard one say, ‘I wish this boy a misfortune.’
The second said, ‘And I grant him a means to turn this misfortune to
good.’
The third said, ‘I will bring to pass his marriage with the daughter of
the king who is now in the next room. At this very moment his wife is
bringing into the world a girl of marvellous beauty.’
Thereupon the three ladies departed; and the king thought and thought
how to destroy this boy. Early next morning the charcoal-burner came
into the side room and said, weeping, to the king, ‘My poor wife is
dead. What can I do with the little child?’
The king answered, quite rejoiced, ‘I am the king, and will care for
the child. Only show me the way to the city, and I will send one of my
servants to fetch the child.’
And so it was. The charcoal-burner guided his king to the city and was
richly rewarded; and the king sent a servant back with secret
instructions to fling the boy into the river and let him drown. When
now the servant was returning from the forest with the child, he flung
it, basket and all, into the river, and told the king, ‘Most gracious
king, I have done as thou hast commanded me.’ The king rewarded him,
and went now to his wife, who the night before had borne a girl of
marvellous beauty.
The basket with the boy went floating about a long time on the water,
and at last was seen by a fisherman who drew it out, and took the child
home to his wife. They both rejoiced greatly at the sight of this
pretty boy; and as they had no children they kept him and brought him
up.
Twenty years went by; and the boy, whom his parents called Nameless,
grew up a wonderfully pretty lad. Once the king passed the fisherman’s
hut, and saw the fair youngster. He entered the hut and asked the
fisherman, ‘Is this pretty youngster your son?’
‘No,’ said the fisherman, ‘twenty years ago I fished him out of the
water.’
Then the king was exceeding terrified, and said presently, ‘I will
write a letter to the queen, and this lad shall take it to her.’
So he wrote this letter: ‘Dear wife, have this lad put forthwith to
death, else he will undo us all.’
Nameless set out with the letter for the queen, but on his way to the
city lost himself in a forest, and there met a lady in white who said
to him, ‘You have lost yourself. Come to my hut, and rest a bit; then
I’ll soon bring you to the queen.’
She led Nameless to her hut, and there he fell fast asleep. The old
lady took the letter from his pocket, burnt it, and put another in its
stead. When the lad awoke, to his great amazement he found himself in
front of the king’s house. So he went in to the queen and gave her the
letter, in which stood written: ‘Dear wife, at once call the pope, and
let him plight this lad to our daughter. I wish him to marry her, else
a great ill will befall us.’
The queen did as her husband, the king, desired. She bade call the
pope, and Nameless and the king’s fair daughter became man and wife.
When the king came home and learnt of this wedding, he had the letter
brought, and saw it was his own handwriting. Then he asked his
son-in-law where he had been and whom he had spoken with; and when
Nameless told him about the lady in white, the king knew that the fairy
[96] had aided him. Nameless was not at all the son-in-law he wanted,
and he sought to make away with him, so said, ‘Go into the world and
fetch me three golden hairs from the head of the Sun-King, then shall
you be king along with me.’
Sorrowfully Nameless set out, for he loved his young wife, and she too
loved him dearly. As he wandered on he came to a great black lake, and
saw a white boat floating on the water. He cried to the old man in it,
‘Boat ahoy! come and ferry me over.’
The old man answered, ‘I will take you across if you’ll promise to
bring me word how to escape out of this boat, for only then can I die.’
Nameless promised, and the old man ferried him over the black water.
Soon after Nameless came to a great city, where an old man asked him,
‘Whither away?’
‘To the Sun-King,’ said Nameless.
‘Couldn’t be better. Come, I’ll bring you to our king, who’ll have
something to say to you.’
The king, when Nameless stood before him, said, ‘Twenty years ago there
was in our city a spring whose water made every one that drank of it
grow young. The spring has vanished, and only the Sun-King knows where
it is gone to. You are journeying to him, so ask him where it is gone
to, and bring us word.’
Nameless promised him to bring word on his return, and departed. Some
days after he came to another city, and there another old man met him
and asked, ‘Whither away?’
‘To the Sun-King,’ said Nameless.
‘That’s capital. Come, I’ll bring you to our king, who’ll have
something to say to you.’
When they came to the king, the king said, ‘Twenty years ago a tree in
this city bore golden apples; whoso ate of those apples grew strong and
healthy, and died not. But now for twenty years this tree has put forth
no more fruit, and only the Sun-King knows the reason why. So when you
come to him, ask him about it, and bring us word.’
Nameless promised him to bring word on his return, and departed. Some
days after he reached a great mountain, and there saw an old lady in
white sitting in front of a beautiful house. She asked him, ‘Whither
away?’
‘I seek the Sun-King,’ said Nameless.
‘Come in then,’ said the old lady. ‘I am the mother of the Sun-King,
who daily flies out of this house as a little child, at mid-day becomes
a man, and returns of an evening a greybeard.’
She brought Nameless into the house, and made him tell her his story.
He told her of the man on the black lake, of the spring, and of the
tree that used to bear golden apples.
Then said the old lady, ‘I will ask my son all about that. But come,
let me hide you; for if my son finds you here he’ll burn you up.’
She hid Nameless in a great vessel of water, and bade him keep quiet.
At evening the Sun-King came home, a feeble old man with golden head,
and got victuals and drink from his mother. When he had eaten and
drunk, he laid his golden head in his mother’s lap and fell fast
asleep. Then the old lady twitched out a golden hair, and he cried,
‘Mother, why won’t you let me sleep?’
The old lady answered, ‘I saw in a dream a city with a tree which used
to bear golden apples, and whoso ate of them grew well and healthy, and
died not. For twenty years now the tree has put forth no more fruit,
and the people know not what they ought to do.’
The Sun-King said, ‘They should kill the serpent that gnaws at the root
of the tree.’
Again he slept, and after a while his mother twitched out a second
hair. Then cried the Sun-King, ‘Mother, what’s the meaning of this? why
can’t you let me sleep?’
The old lady answered, ‘My dear son, I dreamed of a city with a spring,
and whoso drank of it grew young again. Twenty years has this spring
ceased to flow, and the people know not what they should do.’
The Sun-King said, ‘A great toad is blocking the source of the spring.
They should kill the toad, then the spring will flow as before.’
Again he slept, and after a while the old lady in white twitched out a
third hair. Then cried the Sun-King, ‘Mother, do let me sleep.’
The old lady answered, ‘I saw in a dream a great black lake with an old
man rowing about it in a boat, and he doesn’t know how to escape from
the boat, for only then can he die.’
The Sun-King said, ‘Next time he takes any one over, let him hand him
the oars and jump ashore himself; then the other must stop in the boat,
and the old man can die.’
Again he slept.
Early next morning the Sun-King arose as a lovely child, and flew out
of the window. The old lady gave Nameless the three hairs and said,
‘Now go to your wife, and give the king the three hairs. I have done
for you all that at your birth I promised my sisters. And now
farewell.’
She kissed Nameless, and led him outside, and he started off homewards.
When he came to the city where the spring had ceased to flow, he told
the people to kill the great toad that blocked up the source. They
looked, found the toad, and killed it; then the spring flowed again,
and the king rewarded him richly. When Nameless came to the city where
for twenty years the tree had ceased to bear golden apples, he told the
people to kill the serpent that was gnawing the roots of the tree. The
people dug down, found the serpent, and killed it. Then the tree again
bore golden fruit, and the king rewarded him richly. When Nameless
reached the black lake, the old man would not take him across. But
Nameless said if he would he would tell him the secret then, so the old
man took him across the black water. When he was out of the boat he
told the old man to hand his oars to the next passenger and then jump
ashore himself; so he would be free and at last could die, but the
other would have to go rowing about on the lake.
Nameless soon got back home, and gave the king the three golden hairs;
his wife rejoiced greatly, but her father was beside himself for rage.
But when Nameless told of the spring and the golden apples, the king
cried quite delighted, ‘I too must drink of this spring; I too must eat
of these golden apples.’ He set out instantly, but when he reached the
black lake, the old man handed him the oars and jumped ashore. And the
king could not leave the boat, and had to stop there on the water. As
he never came home, Nameless became king of the country, and lived
henceforth with his beautiful bride in peace and prosperity.
Identical with Wratislaw’s Bohemian story of ‘The Three Golden
Hairs of Grandfather Allknow’ (Sixty Slavonic Folk-tales, pp.
16–25), and with Grimm’s No. 29, ‘The Devil with the Three Golden
Hairs’ (i. 119–125, 377–378), only the German tale opens
defectively. Wlislocki’s opening, however, meets us again in
Bernhard Schmidt’s ‘Der Spruch der Moeren’ (Griechische Märchen,
No. 2, p. 67), where, as elsewhere, the part of the fairies is
taken by the three Moirai or fates. The whole question of fairy
mythology requires to be carefully re-studied in the light of our
copious stock of Greek and Indian folk-tales, of which Leyden and
Grimm could know nothing. In his Deutsche Mythologie (i. 382) Grimm
expresses himself as in doubt whether fata came to mean ‘fairies’
owing to Celtic or to Teutonic influences; probably fata was a
conscious translation of the Greek moirai, and is an indication
that the fairy mythology of Western Europe was largely, if not
wholly, derived from Greek-speaking Levantine sources.
NO. 39.—THE DOG AND THE MAIDEN
There was once a poor Gypsy with a very beautiful daughter, whom he
guarded like the apple of his eye, for he wanted to marry her to a
chieftain. So he always kept her in the tent when the lads and lasses
sat of an evening by the fire and told stories, or beguiled the time
with play and dance. Only a dog was the constant companion of this poor
maiden. No one knew whom the dog belonged to, or where he came from. He
had joined the band once, and thenceforth continued the trusty
companion of the poor beautiful maiden.
It befell once that her father must go to a far city, to sell there his
besoms, baskets, spoons, and troughs. He left his daughter with the
other women in the tents on the heath, and set out with the men for the
city. This troubled the poor girl greatly, for no one would speak to
her, as all the women envied her for her beauty and avoided her; in a
word, they hated the sight of her. Only the dog remained true to her;
and once, as she sat sorrowfully in front of the tent, he said, ‘Come,
let us go out on the heath; there I will tell you who I really am.’ The
girl was terrified, for she had never heard of a dog being able to
speak like a man; but when the dog repeated his request, she got up and
went with him out on the heath. There the dog said, ‘Kiss me, and I
shall become a man.’ The girl kissed him, and lo! before her stood a
man of wondrous beauty. He sat down beside her in the grass, and told
how a fairy had turned him into a dog for trying to steal her golden
apples, and how he could resume his human shape for but one night in
the year, and only then if a girl had kissed him first. Much more had
the two to tell, and they toyed in the long grass all the livelong
night. When day dawned, the girl slipped back with the dog to her tent;
and the two henceforth were the very best of friends.
The poor Gypsy came back from the city to the heath, merry because he
had made a good bit of money. When again he must go to the city to sell
his besoms and spoons, the girl remained behind with the dog in the
camp, and one night she brought forth a little white puppy. In her
terror and anguish she ran to the great river, and jumped into the
water. When the people sought to draw her out of the water, they could
not find her corpse; and the old Gypsy, her father, would have thrown
himself in too, when a handsome strange gentleman came up, and said,
‘I’ll soon get you the body.’ He took a bit of bread, kissed it, and
threw it into the water. The dead girl straightway emerged from the
water. The people drew the corpse to land, and bore it back to the
tents, in three days’ time to bury it. But the strange gentleman said,
‘I will bring my sweetheart to life.’ And he took the little white
puppy, the dead girl’s son, and laid it on the bosom of the corpse. The
puppy began to suck, and when it had sucked its full, the dead girl
awoke, and, on seeing the handsome man, started up and flew into his
arms, for he was her lover who had lived with her as a white dog.
All greatly rejoiced when they heard this marvellous story, and nobody
thought of the little white puppy, the son of the beautiful Gypsy girl.
All of a sudden they heard a baby cry; and when they looked round, they
saw a little child lying in the grass. Then was the joy great indeed.
The little puppy had vanished and taken human shape. So they celebrated
marriage and baptism together, and lived in wealth and prosperity till
their happy end.
This finding a drowned body by casting one’s bread on the waters
has been practised in England by non-Gypsies not so many years ago.
Gypsies may have brought the method with them from the Continent.
NO. 40.—DEATH THE SWEETHEART
There was once a pretty young girl with no husband, no father, no
mother, no brothers, no kinsfolk: they were all dead and gone. She
lived alone in a hut at the end of the village; and no one came near
her, and she never went near any one. One evening a goodly wanderer
came to her, opened the door, and cried, ‘I am a wanderer, and have
been far in the world. Here will I rest; I can no further go.’ The
maiden said, ‘Stay here, I will give thee a mattress to sleep on, and,
if thou wilt, victuals and drink too.’ The goodly wanderer soon lay
down and said, ‘Now once again I sleep; it is long since I slept last.’
‘How long?’ asked the girl; and he answered, ‘Dear maid, I sleep but
one week in a thousand years.’ The girl laughed and said, ‘Thou
jestest, surely? thou art a roguish fellow.’ But the wanderer was sound
asleep.
Early next morning he arose and said, ‘Thou art a pretty young girl. If
thou wilt, I will tarry here a whole week longer.’ She gladly agreed,
for already she loved the goodly wanderer. So once they were sleeping,
and she roused him and said, ‘Dear man, I dreamt such an evil dream. I
dreamt thou hadst grown cold and white, and we drove in a beautiful
carriage, drawn by six white birds. Thou didst blow on a mighty horn;
then dead folk came up and went with us—thou wert their king.’ Then
answered the goodly wanderer, ‘That was an evil dream.’ Straightway he
arose and said, ‘Beloved, I must go, for not a soul has died this long
while in all the world. I must off, let me go.’ But the girl wept and
said, ‘Go not away; bide with me.’ ‘I must go,’ he answered, ‘God keep
thee.’ But, as he reached her his hand, she said sobbing, ‘Tell me,
dear man, who thou art then.’ ‘Who knows that dies,’ said the wanderer,
‘thou askest vainly; I tell thee not who I am.’ Then the girl wept and
said, ‘I will suffer everything, only do tell me who thou art.’ ‘Good,’
said the man, ‘then thou comest with me. I am Death.’ The girl
shuddered and died.
The one beautiful story of the whole collection. And yet—I doubt.