Downstream on the wide
Argesh River’s side
Negru Voda’s riding;
Ten men go beside him:
Masons, craftsmen fine,
Masterbuilders – nine;
Manoli makes ten,
The greatest craftsman.
Down this dale, they’re bound
To erect and found
A monastery hall,
A memorial.
There, as they passed on,
Soon they came upon
A poor shepherd’s lad
Piping doinas, sad.
Stopping to behold him,
Negru Voda told him:
“Worthy shepherd lad,
Piping doinas, sad,
Up the Argesh where
You drove your flocks there,
Down the Argesh, too,
Where flocks went with you –
Have you, wandering there,
Noticed anywhere
An unfinished wall
Ruined, shunned by all,
Near a hazel copse
On a green hill’s slopes?”
“Yes, my Lord, it’s true;
I saw, passing through,
An unfinished wall
Ruined, shunned by all.
Soon as my dogs see it,
They draw back and flee it,
Bark at it with dread,
Howl as at the dead.”
When he’d heard the lad,
The voivode felt glad
And, turning straightway,
Set his steps that way
With the masons, fine,
Masterbuilders – nine;
And Manole, ten,
The greatest craftsman.
“Here’s my wall, you see!
This site I decree
My monastery hall, my memorial.
You stone-masons, then,
Masters, journeymen,
Set at once to work;
Let no man here shirk;
One and all must build
The great shrine I’ve willed
My monastery hall,
My memorial.
I’ll make you rich, then –
Boyars, landed men.
But if not, I swear
I’ll seal you up there
In the cloister’s wall
Living, one and all!”
The men, hurrying,
Stretched their measuring string,
Marked out all the grounds,
Dug deep trenches down,
Working without pause
So the great wall rose.
Yet all they set upright
Crumbles that same night.
Second day the same,
Then third day the same,
And fourth day the same,
They worked on in vain!
Negru Voda wandered,
Scowling black as thunder;
He would rage and scold them,
Then once more he told them
He would seal them all,
Living, in the wall!
The great builders, then,
Masons and craftsmen
Shivering, worrying,
Went on working, hurrying
The whole summer’s day
Till the dusk fell, gray;
Manole drew aside,
Let his labors bide,
Laid down near the stream
Where he dreamt a dream;
When at last he woke
This is what he spoke:
“Masons, craftsmen fine,
Masterbuilders nine,
Would you hear the dream
I’ve dreamt by this stream?
A breath from on high
Warned me – I won’t lie –
Build the best we might,
It would fall each night
Till we swear, one and all,
To seal in this wall
Any sister, dear,
Who may first appear
The next morning here
Bringing bread and meat
For her man to eat.
So if you believe
We must now achieve
This monastery hall,
This memorial,
We must then prepare,
One and all, to swear
Each will keep his oath,
Keep this secret close,
And the sister, dear,
Or that wife, most dear,
Who appears next morning
Must be, without warning,
Sacrificed by us all,
Sealed up in the wall!”
See, when the day breaks
Then Manole wakes
And climbs up the stakes
Of the wattled fence;
On the scaffold thence,
Scans the field below
And the road also.
Now, what might appear?
What was coming near?
His own wife so dear,
The flower of the field,
Bringing him his meal,
Wine to drink and meat
For her man to eat.
She was drawing near;
Seeing her so clear,
His heart beat with fear;
He knelt down with dread
Then, weeping, he said:
“Grant, Lord, to the world
Fierce rain, foaming, swirled
Into small streams gushing
Till great torrents, rushing,
Swell the waters so
My love stops below.
Down the valley, force
My love off her course!”
In mercy, the Lord
Heard Manole’s word,
Gathered clouds on high,
Darkening the sky;
Suddenly, down hurled
Fierce rain, foaming, swirled
Into small streams gushing
Till great torrents, rushing,
Made the waters swell.
Yet, though torrents fell,
No rainfall could force
His love off her course.
Closer still she crept.
Where Manole kept
Watch, his poor heart wept.
And he bowed down then
To pray once again:
“Dear Lord, let winds blow
On this earth below;
Uproot the great firs,
Bend the sycamores,
Turn the mountains over
But turn back my lover;
Down the valley, force
My love off her course.”
In mercy, the Lord
Heard Manole’s word,
Made a great wind blow
On the earth below
Bending sycamores,
Uprooting great firs,
Turning mountains over,
But Anna, his lover,
Held fast to her track;
Still would not turn back.
Down the road she wavered,
Yet drew nearer, ever,
Till – grief and despair! –
See, at last she’s there.
The great builders, nine,
Masons, craftsmen fine,
Seeing her there, they were
Glad that it was her.
Manea, half insane,
Kissed her all the same,
In his arms embraced her,
Up the scaffold raised her,
On the wall he placed her
And joking, addressed her:
“Hold still, little love;
What are you scared of?
Just in fun, we’ll all
Build you in the wall.”
Trusting in him, she
Just laughed merrily.
Manea sighed hard,
But soon had to start
At his work and build
Till the dream’s fulfilled.
Now the wall was raised
Till she stood embraced
To her ankles, trim,
To her calves, so slim,
While she, the poor thing,
Her smile vanishing,
Kept on murmuring:
“Manole, Manole,
Good Master Manole!
It’s gone far enough;
This joke’s no good, love.
Manole, Manole,
Good Master Manole!
The wall’s hurting me,
Crushing my body!”
Manea just stood, stilled,
Then went on to build;
Now the wall was raised
Till she stood embraced
To her ankles, trim,
To her calves, so slim,
To her ribs and chest,
To her little breasts.
While she, the poor thing,
Weeping, sorrowing,
Kept on murmuring:
“Manole, Manole,
Good Master Manole!
The wall’s hurting me;
My breasts cry hopelessly;
It’s crushing my baby.”
Manole, half berserk,
Kept on at his work
So the wall was raised
Till she stood, embraced
To her ribs and chest,
To her little breasts,
Then up to her lips,
And to her eyelids,
So, poor thing, the man
Saw her no more then
Yet they always heard
From the wall, those words:
“Manole, Manole,
Good Master Manole!
The wall’s crushing me;
Life’s snuffed out of me.”
Downstream on the wide
Argesh River’s side,
Negru Voda rides
To pray, to kneel down
In this cloister’s ground,
By this splendid, tall,
Monastery hall,
Stateliest of all.
Viewing this fine sight,
The Prince felt delight
And he spoke this, then,
“You masons, craftsmen,
Masterbuilders ten,
Speak up truthfully,
Hand on heart, tell me
Whether you’re so skilled
That you might yet build
One more cloister hall,
A memorial,
Of still greater height,
More splendid, more bright?”
The great builders, then,
Masons, journeymen,
Who were standing by
On the roof-beam, high,
One and all replied,
Joyous, full of pride,
“Such master craftsmen,
Masons, journeymen,
Builders of our worth
Can’t be found on earth.
Know this: we are skilled
So that we can build
Anything that’s willed –
One more cloister’s hall,
A memorial
Stateliest of all.”
Negru Voda heard,
Thought about their words,
Then he gave commands:
“Pull the scaffold stands
And ladders down, then.
And as for the ten
Builders and craftsmen,
Let them stay, forgotten
Till they’re dead and rotten
Where the roof-beam, high,
Juts against the sky.”
The builders thought, afraid,
Then designed and made
Out of shingles, light,
Wings to give them flight.
They stretched these out, there,
Leaped out in thin air,
But they fell like rock
And where each man struck
There his body broke.
Meantime, poor Manole,
Good Master Manole,
When finally he tried
To hurl himself wide,
Heard a voice that sighed,
A voice from the wall,
A voice muffled, small,
Well loved and well known,
Echoing a moan,
Murmuring on and on:
“Manole, Manole,
Good Master Manole!
The wall’s crushing me;
My breasts cry hopelessly;
It’s crushing my baby;
Life’s snuffed out of me!”
When he’d heard her speak
Manole sank, weak;
All his sight spun, twirling,
The great clouds were swirling
And the world turned, whirling;
From there, where the high
Roof juts in the sky,
Dead, Manole fell;
But what else, as well,
In that place befell?
A small fountain keeping
Peaceful waters seeping,
Calm salt waters steeping,
A spring fed by weeping!
English version by W. D. SNODGRASS
from Five Folk Ballads
The Romanian Cultural Foundation Publishing House, 1999
