The Splendid Stags
A matriarchal tale from Transylvania: an English performing script for Béla Bartók's Cantata Profana
THERE WAS once an old man
treasuring, treasuring
nine sons, splendid offspring,
blooms of his proud manhood,
splendid offspring, nine sons.
And he failed to teach them
skills to earn a living
from the land and livestock:
ploughing, sowing, reaping,
horse and cattle breeding.
He brought up his children
for the savage mountains,
trained them in hunting skills.
AND ROAMING through mountains and valleys,
they spent their time hunting,
nine sons, splendid offspring,
they spent their time hunting -
So long did they wander,
wander and hunt the deer,
so far, so long, till they,
they found a graceful bridge
showing magic deertracks.
They pursued the magic
till they lost their bearings;
now the splendid hunters
thus became the hunted:
turned to stags, the splendid offspring
in the forest thicket.
BUT THEIR father grew impatient
waiting, waiting, waiting,
and he loaded his old rifle
and set out on a search
for his splendid offspring.
Thus he found the graceful footbridge,
on the bridge he found the deertracks,
magic tracks that led the old man
to a cool spring in the forest
where the splendid stags were grazing.
CAREFULLY KNEELING, silent
(Hey!) the man raised his rifle.
But a splendid stag, the largest,
oh, the very dearest offspring,
gravely spoke to his old parent:
Our beloved father,
do not raise your rifle!
Our antlers will pierce you
our antlers impale you
and throw you and hurl you
hurl you beyond the clearings,
hurl you beyond the valleys,
hurl you beyond the mountains -
from streams to hilltops,
from peaks to valleys,
from rocks to clearings -
and we shall smash your body,
smash you on a dreadful rockface,
treat you with no mercy,
our beloved father,
treat you with no mercy!
AND THEIR loving father
thus addressed his offspring
and thus he called them
with sweet words begging them to go back:
Oh, my sweet, beloved,
my beloved offspring,
come home, come home with me,
come back from the forest
to your loving mother!
Eagerly, your mother
waits for you, cries for you.
All is ready for you,
torches, cups and table,
ready for your welcome.
Goblets on the table,
your mother suffering -
goblets full of wine but
grief has filled her household.
All is ready for you,
torches, cups and table,
ready for your welcome...
BUT THE stag, the largest
and the dearest of the offspring,
gravely gave his father
this address in answer:
Our beloved father,
go home, go home from the forest,
go back to our loving mother -
but we shall remain!
(Why --
Why --
Why?)
But we shall remain:
look at our antlers,
wider than your doorway,
they must travel through the sky;
our slender bodies
cannot hide in clothing,
they must hide among the leaves;
we must make our tracks not
in your hearth's warm ashes
but on the forest floor;
we must drink our fill not
from your silver goblets
but from cool mountain springs,
mountain springs.
THERE WAS once an old man
treasuring, treasuring
nine sons, splendid offspring.
And he failed to teach them
skills to earn a living,
instead he brought them up,
trained them in hunting skills.
And hunting, searching
in the forest thicket,
one day the splendid sons
turned into splendid stags.
LOOK AT their antlers,
wider than your doorway,
they must travel through the sky;
their slender bodies
cannot hide in clothing,
they must hide among the leaves;
they make their tracks not
in your hearth's warm ashes
but along the forest floor;
they drink their fill not
from your silver goblets
but from cool mountain springs,
mountain springs.
