# The Soul Of A Century/A Gypsy's violin

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.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.