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As the old-time poet Georgi T. Peshakov* from the town of Vidin said in his renowned ode to Venelina*:
Depressed in all aspects,
And under that rule
Full of, alas, so many pests
Of a great variety…
I was suffering, groaning, frowning, and pouting, and like Dobri Chintulov*, the devout, patriotic, and plump man from the town of Sliven, as well as the great author of "The Wind is Echoing, The Balkan is Moaning", one morning I suddenly:
So I slipped out of my winter den, and allured by the spring weather, I left the town and went to the neighboring heights. They were bathing in the sunlight and looked like a baking dish of boiled wheat on St. Andrew's Day,* with yellow crocuses instead of candles stuck in them. I stepped onto the highest spot, and I could see the length and breadth of the beautiful Rose Valley*, just awakening from its hibernation. I took a long time over contemplating the beauties of the universe, and I was listening to the blessed song of eternal existence. After I had breathed in deeply a couple of times, following the wise yoga principles, I exclaimed with the words of Elena Muteva*, our first poetess:
Oh, God! Oh, God!
My Greatest Lord!
Who can reach
Thee, My Lord?
So, I exclaimed in rhymes, and … I stopped. I couldn't continue because I had forgotten the song lyrics. I ceased, thus taking the chance to make an exhibition of myself before the multitudinous audience I had. It consisted of seventeen sparrows perched on the blackberry bush near me, three goats grazing as they were tied to the bushes, an indefinite quantity of male and female frogs occupying the "stalls" in the gully on my left, as well as two amorous doves in the tree opposite. And due to my yoga breathing, my bosom had devoured a good deal of spring intoxication and infinite exaltation, as I had forgotten about "so many pests of a great variety…". My poor heart started thumping quickly and rhythmically, and my mouth - which had been so blasphemous thus far - took to reciting the famous spring eulogies written by the affectionate Old Petko Slaveikov*:
The spring's already breathing,
And blooming, and seething.
Every blade of grass, ev'ry flower
All around us at this very hour.
Birds are singing,
Chirruping of love,
Flies are humming
And cooing above.
Tom cats and tabbies
Are running on porches,
Ogling and purring,
Meowing and hugging…
I then stopped again. Now I did that on purpose, so that I could have a look at my respected spectators and enjoy the effect of the poem.
The sparrows immediately started scuffling, going for one another and making too much noise, and some feathers flew over the bushes. The goats bleated approvingly as they were drawing back and forth, intending to get rid of the ropes, which prevented them from expressing their spring exaltation more clearly. The frogs began to croak franticly as though they had been acknowledged the right to vote, and the two doves continued to exchange sweet caresses and kisses.
Make love, you, two white doves! Caress and kiss each other! I am not angry with you that you didn't hear my spring raptures. Those in love never err. They never wish ill, either. Old Slaveikov shared this very opinion of mine, and he inspiredly said somewhere else:
They say true love
Is God knows what,
Misfortune or evil lot…
It's all so untruthful!
Love is not at all an art
But a feeling of the heart;
A cordial attraction
And eternal affection.
It's not only of human beings,
Even animals have feelings.
Yet all living sprites,
Even those little mites
Which eat, and grow and run,
Do wait for love to come.
A she-frog thus croaks because
She wants her mate to get close…
"Therefore, make love, you, two white doves! Kiss each other!" I cried out again as loud as I could and I then kept silent. Sweat had dewed my forehead, and my head was steaming. I took off my coat and I made for the grove nearby. As I was walking under the tree with the two doves, they seemed to be convincing me that love is blind, as they didn't look at me again. They noticed neither me nor the blossoming crocuses, neither the sun nor the fields abundant in damp. They could see neither the birds nor the bushes thick with leaves, neither the earth nor the sky. They just kept kissing and kissing.
For the last time I turned around to cast an envious glance at the amorous couple, and a deep sigh escaped my innermost part of my soul. Then I put my hat on and I headed for town, quietly uttering the sorrowful words of Ivancho Bogorov*, the eminent interpreter of human nature, as well as the devoted custodian of our language: "Where are you, Love, and why did you forsake me?"
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* Georgi T. Peshakov (1785-1854) - Bulgarian translator and poet who wrote both in Bulgarian and Rumanian.
* Yuri Venelin (1802-1839) - Pen name of Georgi Khutza, Russian historian and Slavophile.
* Dobri Chintulov (1822-1886) - Bulgarian poet, born in the Town of Sliven. He was famous for his patriotic songs. His poetry, too, reflects the patriotic uplift of the Bulgarians during the Crimean War (1853-1856). He took part in the struggle against the Greek ecclesiastical domination.
* St. Andrew's Day - November 30. St. Andrew was one of the 12 apostles of Jesus Christ and the brother of Simon (later the apostle Peter). A Galilean fisher, Andrew was originally a disciple of John the Baptist. According to tradition, Andrew was crucified at Patras, in Achaia, on an X-shaped cross. He is the patron saint of Russia, Greece, and Scotland.
* The Rose Valley - A valley of central Bulgaria where different varieties of roses are grown.
* Elena Muteva (1825-1854) - The first Bulgarian poetess. She wrote only several poems and was better known as a translator: "Raina, the Bulgarian Princess" (1852) by A.F.Veltman.
* Petko Slaveikov (1827-1895) - Bulgarian poet, political journalist, folklorist and publisher. He was born in the town of Veliko Tarnovo. He went to monastic schools as he did not have enough money to support himself. He started working as a teacher at the age of 16. He published the first Bulgarian satirical newspaper - the Bagpipe (1863-67), as well as the Little Bee - the first magazine for children (1871).
*Ivan Bogorov (1820-1892) - Bulgarian scholar, journalist and linguist, born in the town of Karlovo. He published the first Bulgarian newspaper /the Bulgarian Eagle (1846)/ in Leipzig, Germany. In 1844 he wrote "The First Bulgarian Grammar". He was one of the first national folkloristics experts.
Translated by
Yavor Dimitrov.
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