Alecu Russo

Alecu Russo

Alecu Russo (17 March 1819 – 5 February 1859) was a Romanian writer, literary critic and publicist

Quotes

Soveja

Journal of a Political Exile in 1846
March 10.
… I spent the morning listening to the Oltenian songs of the village w:lăutari… I tested them all attentively. Tomorrow they will come to recount everything to me in greater detail.

Here is the program of the concert: Variations on the w:ro:fluier, improvised by a local performer… He is a proud and sturdy fellow, one of those people called w:mocani, that is, mountain folk, who seem to make a certain distinction between their kind and the people of the lowlands. His speech, which is neither Moldavian nor Wallachian, has a heavy tone, resembling that of the Transylvanians. He plays all kinds of songs – Moldavian, mocan, Transylvanian — and, finally, he knows how to strike the string of that poem, so simple and innocent, so sweet and full of longing and tenderness, which is called the doina. Here is its story, in brief:

"Once upon a time, there was a shepherd who had grown grey tending his sheep in the mountains and, through much toil and hardship, had managed to gather some twenty sheep and as many goats, which he watched over day and night with the care that a poor Christian shows for the good earned through the sweat of his brow.

He would drive them to the lushest meadows, water them at the clearest springs, and while the flock grazed and drank, he would play the fluier.

(Here the mocan pauses his story and plays a song on the fluier, slow and drawn-out in rhythm; then he resumes the tale.)

One day, weary from walking and trouble, the shepherd lies down under a tree and falls into a deep sleep, so deep that he doesn’t even notice when his flock, grazing here and there, wanders into distant ravines.

Along comes a passerby, and seeing the shepherd fast asleep and snoring in the sun, wakes him up…

First, the shepherd looks around for his flock; then he picks up his fluier and, full of sorrow, plays a song of longing from Transylvania.

(Here the storyteller plays again.)

Then the shepherd gets up and, gazing in all directions to spot his sheep, says to himself: “God is good!… He gave them to me… He will return them to me – or grant me others instead!”

And so he begins to play again, wandering sadly along desolate paths. (The mocan plays again and laughs heartily while recounting this.)

Suddenly, it seems to him he sees his sheep and goats on a mountain, and he hurries to catch up with them, playing a dance melody on the flute – like this!

(Here my storyteller plays a cheerful tune.)

But in vain! For it was only a mirage; there were no sheep, no goats — only white and reddish stones glowing in the sun…

Now he mourns again, and again plays with longing (as does the mocan), until he climbs to the crest of a mountain and sees, in a distant ravine, the sheep grazing. Then the shepherd plays joyfully on his fluier and starts to dance."

The storyteller didn’t actually dance, but almost — his fingers moved swiftly over the fluier, and his shoulders and elbows lifted with the lively, leaping motion of the tune.