What cloud appears on the horizon?
It is not a cloud, a black cloud,
But a young man
On a yellow charger.
The saddle glitters like gold;
The stirrups shine like silver;
The whip with a beautiful handle;
And bells tinkling on his reins.
He is gone to hunt--
To hunt, to woo.
He met a beautiful maid,
The like of whom there is not in the world.
It was the queen of the fairies--
Iana, the sister of the Sun.
He met her,
He took hold of her,
And in his cellar he hid her--
In the cellar of the peacocks.
The Sun, as soon as he got wind of it,
Sent immediately after her
The morning dawn to search,
The twilight stars to seek.
But the young man,
What did he say?
"For what are you searching,
Dawn of the morning?
And what are you seeking,
Stars of the evening?
Go into every nook,
But beware of the cellar.
If a peacock will escape,
I will take one of the sun's steeds instead.
And if a hen will escape,
I will wed his sister.
For I have found her,
I have taken her,
And into my house I brought her."
This the young man--
May he keep in good health,
With his brother,
And his parents,
And with all of us together.
This belongs to the series of the sun myths, curiously connected
here also with the peacock. I am not aware of any parallel to this
legend. Here a young man tries to woo the sister of the sun. In
the lark stories it is the young girl who wishes to marry the sun,
represented as a young man. They all belong to the same cycle, into
which apparently so far the Christian element is absent. The remarkable
part of it is, that this and the other songs are Christmas carols,
connected probably with the Festival of the Sun with which Christmas
was originally connected. It is the time of the winter solstice and
the birth of the new sun. This probably explains the part which the
sun legend plays in so many Rumanian Christmas carols.
LXXXII.
THE WOOING OF A FAIRY.
A Christmas Carol.
Here, O Lord; there, O Lord,
In these houses, in these palaces and yards,
There have grown, O Lord,
Grown two tall apple trees.
Wonderful they are,
Joined in their roots,
United and entwined in their tops
The tree reaches up to the sky,
The bark is of silver,
And the fruit of gold.
But the fruit
Could not be plucked,
Through the threat of the Black Sea,
For the Sea was boasting,
And with its mouth saying:
"Who is here in the world
Who would dare to shoot at my apples?"
No one was found;
No one dares.
But when he heard the boast of the Sea,
Went home quickly to his house,
Went up the stairs,
Took the bow from the nail--
The bow with the arrows--
Placed them in his bosom,
And riding on his black charger,
He came to the Sea.
Arrived at the Sea,
He put his hand into his bosom,
Drew forth
The bow with the arrows,
And pointed the arrow to the tree.
The tops of the apple-tree--
The wonderful apples--
Thus spake to him:
"Stop. Do not shoot,
For we will give thee
The sister of the sun,
The niece of the fairies, the beauty among the beauties,"
He was persuaded,
And did not shoot the apples.
He mounted his charger,
Took his bow and arrow,
And turned back.
He had not gone a long way,
When he looked back,
And what he saw filled him with wonderment;
For there came,
There ran a pale-faced damsel.
She neither laughed
Nor rejoiced,
But wept bitterly, tearing her golden hair,
Scratching her white face.
But the knight said to her:
"Stop, O Princess.
Stop, O Queen.
I do not take thee
For a slave to me,
But my mistress shalt thou be,
A good mistress of the house,
A good ruler
Of the household,
A niece
To uncles,
A sister-in-law to brothers,
A daughter-in-law to parents,
Dispenser at the treasury,
Mistress of my wealth."
The girl, hearing his words,
Ceased from crying,
And joined him joyfully.
And ... the brave man, may he live in health with his brothers,
With his parents,
And with all of us together.
We have here again the intertwined trees of the Tristram and Isolde
legend; the special golden apples of Hesperides fame, and even since
of the fairy tales. In the latter, the golden apple represents often
the palace of the giant, with all the treasures that it contains,
and the possession of the apple brings with it the possession of the
princess. The Black Sea plays here a part, which reminds one of the
raging sea in the pilgrimage of the soul. But what is of importance
here is that the princess is called "the sister of the sun."
LXXXIII.
WHERE DID THE SWAN COME FROM?
The Story of the Swan Maiden and the King.
This is in its essence the well-known story of the swan-maidens,
but with a very marked difference. It is here used more or less to
describe the origin of the swan, whilst the tale of the swan-maiden
presupposes the existence and knowledge of such birds.
The version, which I have been able to find is, however, not complete;
still it is clear enough for our purpose. It runs as follows:
Once upon a time a king went out hunting, and after he had been
hunting in the forest for a long time without finding anything, he
found himself suddenly in an open plain, in which there was a huge
lake, and in the midst of the lake he saw there a bird swimming about,
the like of which he had never seen before. It was a swan.
Drawing his bow, he wanted to shoot it. To his surprise it spoke to
him in a human voice, and said, "Do not kill me." So he tried his
best to catch it, and succeeded. Pleased with the capture of the bird,
he carried it home alive, and gave it to the cook to kill it to make
a meal of it for him. The cook was a Gipsy. She whetted her knife
and went to the bird to cut its throat, when, to her astonishment,
the bird turned three somersaults, and there stood before her a most
beautiful maiden, more beautiful than she had ever seen before. So
she ran to the king and told him what had happened.
The king, who first thought that the cook was trying to play some
trickery with him, did not listen to her, but when she persisted
in her tale, the king, driven by curiosity, went into the kitchen,
and there he saw a girl more beautiful than any that he had ever yet
set his eyes upon.
He asked her who she was, and she said she was the swan who was
swimming on the lake, that she had wilfully gone away from her mother,
who lived in the land of fairies, and that she had left two sisters
behind. So the king took her into the palace and married her. The
Gipsy, who was a pretty wench, had thought that the king would marry
her, and when she saw what had happened, she was very angry. But she
managed to conceal her anger, and tried to be kind to the new queen,
biding her time all the while.
The king and queen lived on for a while in complete happiness, and
after a time a child was born unto her.
It so happened that the king had to go on a long journey, leaving the
wife and child in the care of the Gipsy. One day the Gipsy came to the
queen, and said to her, "Why do you always sit in the palace? come,
let us walk a little in the garden, to hear the birds singing,
and to see the beautiful flowers." The queen, who had no suspicion,
took the advice of the Gipsy, and went with her for a walk into the
garden. In the middle of the garden there was a deep well, and the
Gipsy said artfully to the young queen, "Just bend over the well,
and look into the water below, and see whether your face has remained
so beautiful as it was on the first day when you turned into a maiden
from being a swan."
The queen bent over the well to look down into the depths, and that
was what the Gipsy was waiting for, for no sooner did the queen bend
over the well, than, getting hold of her by her legs, she threw her
down head foremost into the well and drowned her. When the king came
home and did not find the queen, he asked what had happened, and where
she was. The Gipsy, who had meanwhile taken charge of the child, and
looked after it very carefully, said to the king that the young queen,
pining for her old home, had turned again into a swan and flown away.
The king was deeply grieved when he heard this, but believing what
the Gipsy had told him, he thought that nothing could be done, and
resigned himself to the loss of his wife.
The Gipsy woman looked after the child with great care, hoping
thereby that she might win the king's love, and that he would marry
her. A month, a year passed, and nothing was heard of the wife. And
the king, seeing the apparent affection of the Gipsy for the child,
decided at last to marry her, and fixed the day of the wedding. Out
of the fountain into which the queen had been thrown, there grew
a willow tree with three branches, one stem in the middle and two
branching out right and left. Not far from the garden there lived a
man who had a large flock of sheep. One day he sent his boy to lead
the sheep to the field. On his way the boy passed the king's garden
with the well in the middle of it.
As the boy had left his flute at home, when he saw the willow he
thought he would cut one of the branches and make a flute.
Going into the garden, he cut the middle stem, and made a flute of
it. When he put it to his lips, the flute by itself began to play as
follows: "O boy, do not blow too hard, for my heart is aching for
my little babe which I left behind in the cradle, and to suckle at
the black breast of a Gipsy." When the boy heard what the flute was
playing, not understanding what it meant, he was greatly astonished,
and ran home to tell his father what had happened with the flute.
The father, angry that he had left the sheep alone, scolded him, and
took away the flute. Then he tried to see whether the boy had told the
truth. As soon as he put it to his mouth the flute started playing
the same tune as when the boy had tried to play it. The father said
nothing, and wondering at the meaning of the words he hid the flute
away in a cupboard.
When the king's wedding-day drew near, all the musicians of the kingdom
were invited to come and play at the banquet. Some of them passed
the old man's house, and hearing from them that they were going to
play at the king's banquet, he remembered the marvellous flute, and
he asked whether he could not go also, as he could play the flute so
wonderfully well. His son--the young boy--had meanwhile gone into the
garden in the hope of getting another flute, as the willow had three
branches. So he cut one of the branches and made a flute of it. Now
this flute did not play at all.
When the old man came to the palace, there was much rejoicing and
singing. At last his turn came to play. As soon as he put the flute
to his lips, the flute sang: "O man, do not blow so hard, for my
heart aches for my little babe left in the cradle to be suckled by
a black Gipsy."
The Gipsy, who was the king's bride and sat at the head of the table,
at once understood the saying of the flute, although she did not know
what the flute had to do with the queen whom she had killed.
The king, who marvelled greatly at the flute and at the tune which it
was singing, took a gold piece and gave it to the man for the flute,
and when he started blowing it, the flute began to sing: "O my dear
husband, do not blow so hard, for my heart aches for our little babe
whom I left in the cradle to be suckled by the black Gipsy. Quickly,
quickly, do away with this cruel Gipsy, as otherwise thou wilt lose
thy wife."
The guests who were present marvelled at the song, and no one
understood its meaning. The Gipsy, however, who understood full well
what it meant, turning to the king, said, "Illustrious king, do not
blow this flute and make thyself ridiculous before thy guests, throw
it into the fire." But the king, who felt offended by the words of
the Gipsy, made her take up the flute and blow. With great difficulty
she submitted to the order of the king, and she was quite justified
in refusing to play it, for no sooner had she put the flute to her
lips when it sang: "You enemy of mine, do not blow hard, for my heart
aches for my little babe left in the cradle to be suckled by thee,
thou evil-minded Gipsy. Thou hast thrown me into the well, and there
put an end to my life, but God had pity on me, and he has preserved
me to be again the true wife of this illustrious king."
Furious at these words, the Gipsy threw the flute away with so much
force that she thought it would break into thousands of splinters. But
it was not to be as she thought, for by this very throw the flute was
changed into a beautiful woman, more beautiful, indeed, than any had
ever seen before. She was the very queen whom the Gipsy had thrown
into the well.
When the king saw her, he embraced her and kissed her, and asked her
where she had been such a long time. She told him that she had slept
at the bottom of the well into which she had been thrown by the Gipsy,
who had hoped to become the queen, and this would have come to pass
had it not been for the boy cutting a flute out of the stem of the
willow-tree. "And now, punish the Gipsy as she deserves, otherwise
thy wife must leave thee."
When the king heard these words, he called the boy and asked him
whether he had cut himself a flute from the stem of the willow tree
which had grown out of the well in the garden.
"It is so, O illustrious king;" said the boy, "and may I be forgiven
for the audacity of going into the king's garden. I went and cut for
myself a flute from the stem of the willow tree, and when I began
to blow it, it played, 'Do not blow so hard, O boy, for my heart is
aching within me,' etc." Then he told him he had gone back to his
father, who instead of praising him for the marvellous flute, gave
him a good shaking. He had then gone a second time into the garden,
and had cut off one of the branches to make a flute; but this did
not play like the first one. The king gave the boy a very rich gift,
and he ordered the Gipsy to be killed.
Some time afterwards, the queen came to the king and asked leave to
go to her mother to tell her all that had happened to her, and to
say good-bye for ever now, as she henceforth would live among human
beings. The king reluctantly gave way. She then made three somersaults,
and again became a swan, as she had been when the king found her for
the first time on the waters of the lake.
Spreading her wings she flew far away until she reached the house of
her mother, who was quite alone. Her two sisters were not there. They
had left her some time ago and no one knew whither they had gone. The
young queen did not go into the house, she was probably afraid lest her
mother would not let her go back again, so she settled on the roof,
and there she sang: "Remain in health, good mother mine, as the joy
is no longer granted thee to have me with thee in thine house, for
thou wilt only see me again when I lose my kingdom, dear mother mine,
not before, and not till then." And without waiting for the answer
of her mother she returned back again to her husband. Sitting on the
window sill, she sung again: "Rise up, O husband, open the doors, wake
up the servants and let them be a witness of my faithfulness to thee,
for since I have married thee I have left my mother, and my sisters
have gone away from me, and from a swan I have become a true wife to
live in happiness with thee. Henceforth I shall no longer be a swan,
but thou must take care of me that I do not go hence from thee. I
do not know whether my fate will be a better one by being a queen in
this world. O sweet water, how I long to bathe in thee! And my white
feathers, they will belong to my sisters. Since I am to leave them
for ever, and my mother with them, O Lord, what have I done? Shall I
be able to live upon the earth, and shall I keep the kingdom? Thou, O
Lord, O merciful, hearken unto me and grant that this kingdom may not
be in vain." And turning again head over heels, she became a woman as
before, and entering the palace she lived there with her husband--the
king--and if they have not died since they are still alive.
Here we have the origin of the swans, for since that time the swans
have come to this world.
It is a remarkable tale, in which the element of the swan-maiden
story has been mixed up with the type of the false wife. It claims,
however, special attention, for we have here what I believe to be
"the song of the dying swan." It is practically the song of the swan
before her death as a swan, and her rebirth as a fairy maiden, which
is contained in the concluding portion.
I am not aware of any other parallel to this peculiar song, although
the fable that the swan sings a very beautiful song before his death
is well known from antiquity.
Here follows another version of the swan legend in the form of
a ballad.
LXXXIV.
THE SWAN MAIDEN, THE BIRD OF HEAVEN AND THE CROWN OF PARADISE.
A Christmas Carol.
High up on the top of the mountains,
On the brow of the rocks,
At the gates of the fairies,
On the land of Neculea,
Appeared a white swan
Sent by God,
Selected by God.
She has been flying under the heavens,
And settled on the rock.
She turned off from her flight,
And fell near the brave,
For he is to wed
The little white swan.
The king's son, as soon as he saw her,
Was wounded at his heart,
And spake as follows:
"O thou white fairy,
O thou beautiful swan,
I will bathe thee in a bath of white milk,
So that thou shouldst not be able to depart."
The swan replied, and said:
"Young son of kings,
I will not be bathed,
For I am not a white swan,
But the fairy from heaven,
From the gate of Paradise."
The prince, when he heard her,
His love burned in him fiercely
And what did he say with his mouth?
"O thou white little swan,
O thou beautiful fairy,
Stay here and be my wife."
The swan answered and replied,
And thus spake with her mouth:
"I will wed thee,
And remain as wife to thee,
If thou wilt go,
If thou wilt bring me
The bird of heaven
And the crown of Paradise.
The bird which sings in heaven with sweet and beautiful speech,
To which God Almighty and the angels listen constantly,
Singing among the trees in bloom,
And some laden with ripe fruit;
And the crown of Paradise,
Of the Paradise of God,
Woven of jasmine,
With the fruits of virginity."
When the prince heard her words,
He went to his stable-yard of stone,
Brought forth his whole stud--a great company--
And he started on his journey
On the road
Where the sun rises.
Nine horses he made lame,
Other nine horses he broke ere he arrived at the mansion of
the Lord,
At the gate of Paradise.
Who came there to meet him?
St. Basile came to meet him,
Came to try him, and to ask him
What might be his wish?
What might be in his mind?
The prince replied and said:
"The Holy God has selected for me,
The Holy God has sent to me
A wonderful swan to wed me,
But she will not marry me
Until she wears
The crown of Paradise,
The crown of our Lord,
Woven with jasmine,
With fruits of virgin maidens.
She will not marry me,
Unless at our wedding sings
The bird of heaven and the Lord's bird,
Which discourses here in Paradise,
With such sweet and charming speech,
In between the blooming trees--
Some decked with flowers,
Others laden with fruit--
And the Lord
And the angels listen constantly."
Thus spake the Prince,
Praying very deeply,
And shed tears all the while.
St. Basile had mercy on him.
He gave him the bird
And the crown.
He then returned to
The crest of the mountains,
The valley of Neculea.
There he set the bird free,
And placed the crown upon the altar,
And he spake thus:
"Come forth, my beautiful swan,
Come forth, my wonderful fairy.
Behold the crown,
And listen to the bird;
For the crown is that of Paradise,
From the mansions of the Lord;
And the bird is the bird of heaven,
From among the trees of Paradise."
When the swan came forth, it turned into a maiden fair;
The crown leapt on to her head;
The bird began to sing,
With sweet and beautiful song,
The song of heaven.
They went to church,
And the priest married them.
Who was his sponsor?
Who but St. John,
Who stood sponsor to Jesus.
He blessed them,
And gave them,
To each one gifts,
To her a small cross,
As well as a small Ikon;
To him a staff of silver,
To rule over the whole world,
To have power upon earth.
And this young bride
With golden tresses
That shone like the sun's rays,
Together with her groom,
Young and brave,
May they live
For many years
With happy cheer and with health,
Together with their brothers
And with their parents.
Here we have a remarkable "carol," full of mystical lore, in which the
swan-like maiden in the tale is really a fairy in disguise. The bird
of heaven, and the crown of paradise, and all the rest stand here for
the tests which often are found in fairy tales. The hero must first
win these mythical beings before he can obtain the love of the maiden,
or probably before she can turn from a swan into a human being, and
remain as such. We have here thus a version of the large cycle of the
Swan Maiden (v. Cosquin, ii. 16; Saineanu, p. 264 ff.). Such miraculous
birds occur very often in Rumanian (v. Saineanu, p. 410 ff.).
LXXXV.
WHY DOES THE DUCK FEED ON REFUSE?
The Story of the Cannibal Innkeeper.
This is more or less a fairy tale, but of a very complicated
character. Various elements are combined in it. It begins as do many
tales, with the fact that a couple had a child after many years:
that child is a beautiful girl, who, left as an orphan, dresses up in
a man's clothes, works at the house of a rich man, where she after a
time resumes her character as a girl: the chieftain of robbers falls
in love with her, but when he asks his companions to go and steal
her away from her master, everyone refuses. He then goes himself,
disguised as a servant: he stays for some time in the same house:
when he asks her to marry him, she refuses. His attempts at stealing
her are frustrated by a little dog which she had received from her
parents. One night he succeeds in catching the dog, and, assisted by
some of his comrades whom he had summoned for the purpose, he is able
to carry her away to his house. There she refuses again to marry him,
and when he finds that neither good words, nor threats, nor beating
make her change her mind, he gets so furious that he decides to sell
her to a wild and cruel innkeeper who lives some distance away.
Now this innkeeper used to rob the travellers: then he used to kill
them, cut them in pieces, and, after having cooked them, he gave
their flesh to his customers to eat. When he received the girl he
took her first into a very large room, in which there was only a table
and chairs round it. That was the room where he used to feed all the
travellers who came to him. Then he took her into another apartment
which was full of gold and silver and vestments of silk, and round the
walls were hanging weapons of all kinds, all robbed from the people
who had lodged in that place, and whom he had murdered. Then he took
her into a third room. There was a pillar, and on it were hanging two
knives and an axe, with which he used to kill and cut up his victims;
and along the walls there were hooks, and on each hook a human head. He
showed all these things to the girl, who was greatly frightened,
and who expected now to be killed by this cruel man. But he somehow
seemed to have taken some pity on her, or perhaps he wanted to keep
her for some time longer; whatever the reason, he took her and pushed
her into another room, quite behind all these rooms, and locked the
door upon her; and he told her to wait until he came back, and she was
to do all that she was told. She had taken the little dog with her,
and that seemed to comfort her. Soon afterwards he brought in a boy
whom he had captured in the forest gathering berries, and taking him
into an inner apartment he cut his head off, and cut him in pieces,
and calling the girl in, he told her to take the meat and cook it and
get it ready for the customers whom he was expecting. When the people
came, he fed them in his usual way with human flesh. The people did
not know what manner of food it was they were getting, but they seemed
to like it; then he did with these guests what he had done with all
the others, and so it went on day after day, the poor girl was kept
there locked up and helping to prepare the food of the chopped-up men.