The Soul Of A Century/A Gypsy's violin

by Jaroslav Vrchlický

A GYPSY’S VIOLIN

 

All is jolly in the castle
Cymbals and the bagpipe whine
For the young, the master ordered
Barrels full of sparkling wine.

Noisy din in the halls and chambers
In the court yard the dancers sway
And in golden goblets, sparkles
Blood red wine from far Tokay.

Ah, a Gypsy! Welcome brother!
Fear not that your coat is torn
For the dogs and whips are sleeping,
Play a dance tune until morn.

And he plays . . . a piercing torrent
He pours out in the tones keen darts
Every tone a spark of fire
Every spark burns in the heart.

And it sounds as wild complainings
Crackles like a flame of blue.
You’d expect that any moment
His taut string must break in two.

And it moans like winds o'er hillsides
Followed by a storm in Spring
From the depth it clambers upwards
As he plucks the second string.

Wildly and in streams unbounded
Now it plays and rings full speed
Thus with winds across the prairies
Rides a brave’s unfettered steed.

And now softly, as if bated,
Like a snake betwixt the grass
Prolonged baying as if wolves had
Gathered for a deadly clash.

List . . . A knife is being sharpened
And another plaintive sound
Strangely humming, flock of buzzards
Flying low above the ground.

Do you hear their wings aflapping,
Fighting for the lifeless form?
Suddenly as if touched by magic
Something cuts the hellish storm.

And the third string sounds and echoes
Tenderly like bells above,
Passing as a flash of lightning
Gleaming from an eye of love.

Like a nightingale lamenting,
Burning like a cup of wine,
Like a gypsy fallen wildly
In his loved one’s mad entwine.

And it sounds with sudden longing,
Cheeks aglow and burning bones,
Futile yearning, searing pleasures,
And with jealousies wild tones.

Now it trinkles like a goblet,
Rising to a maddened flare,
Followed by a heart-sent wailing,
As if someone tore his hair.

And the fourth string answers sadly
To the crying, sighing spell,
With a heavy bell-like clanging,
Mournful, as a final knell.

And it howls like winds and flurries,
Racing through the restless night,
Then it whispers, lonely deathlike,
Like a dying man’s last plight.

Then a scream . . . and every string now
Screams with gladness, quivers, cries,
And the gypsy hugs his fiddle,
Fire gleaming in his eyes.

Finis! Midnight! All in stupor,
Just the master is awake.
“What quaint music, tell me brother
What does each string indicate?”

And the gypsy looks about him
Where each drunken servant sleeps,
Something like his fiddle’s echo
Into his soft voice now creeps.

“Master, you will not believe me
That a string can have a soul.
Anger, gladness, all I thought of
Somehow in my fiddle stole.

Yes I had a bent old mother,
Good God knows her love for me,
Just to still our endless hunger,
She told fortunes for a fee.

She was caught, and for a pastime,
She was stuck on roasting spits.
Any wonder that my fiddle,
Weeps for her in angered fits?

Then I had an older brother,
Tramping as all gypsies free,
I know not why on the gallows
He swings now beneath a tree.

Served him well, I keep repeating,
Often when I sit up late,
But this foolish string keeps sighing
As if it bemoaned his fate.

And a wife I had, still see her,
Blushing, struggling, angered, grim,
She was stripped to dance the czardas
For her master’s passing whim.

For the blush upon her features,
He gave silks and shining gold,
All old fables, my dear master,
Fables best be left untold.”

Thus he finished, stroked his fiddle
Smiled and neared the open door,
“Wait there, tell me” the master shouted
“Meaning of string number four.”

Then the gypsy paused and grimaced
Looked out at the crimson sky,
“You won’t need it, worthy master,
No I need not tell you why.”

And he vanished. The haughty master
Frightened in his black insides,
Could not wake the sleeping servants,
While flames rose on all four sides.