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Master Manole Between history and myth, set against a definite time and place and soaring up towards timeless heights to express eternal truths of the spirit and its works, The Ballad of the Argesh Monastery or of Master Manole is endowed with that strange and fruitful ambiguity of the great creations handed down to us by the ancient world. A production of the peoples' voice, as Herder would have said, it explains, for the remote time of traditional wisdoms, in art images, the truths of creative process; it sets, like an impressive model, valid for the whole Balkan area, the archetypal impulses of those participating in the noble game of construction. What was a bridge with the Greeks or the Serbians, the object of construction in the Romanian version of the ballad is a monastery, a masterpiece of architecture, erected for pure worship or to the memory eternal of the patron, he himself the legendary founder of the country. It deals with the feudal competition between the one who orders and patronizes the building ad majorem Dei gratiam, but also meant to enhance his glory and sometimes even his vainglory, and the one who, more often than not anonymous and forgotten, fulfils the actual ritual of construction. Who can yet remember now the forgotten artist of those unforgettable arks, in whose pious minds were engraved the compelling commands of the genius? Who can yet discern, beneath the rustling of that forest of hands which a French art historian could almost see and hear, in the proud structures of the medieval churches, the simple sound of the man who drew the plan? Paul Claudel, in the verses of his plaintive style like a litany, spoke of the sacrificial fate of the most outstanding masters who would wed suffering in order to carry on with endeavour the ruthless toil of achieving beauty. The Voivode of the ballad who commands, and flies into a rage, and mercilessly punishes the naive boasting of the masons is, as usual, identifiable. He is the patron and his name can be read on majestic inscriptions. He is the one who pays and therefore he can supplant the creation rights of the great master. On hearing him scolding and rejoicing, one recalls a cry like the one uttered by the holy-minded emperor Justinian who, through a hybris prevailing among most of the potentates of the world, thought himself to be in competition with another great founder of edifices in history. "I have defeated you, Solomon !" triumphantly cried the Byzantine despot before the giant church of St. Sophia in Constantinople; he believed that the excellence of the building ordered by him surpassed the richness and beauty of the temple in Jerusalem, erected by emperor Solomon, David's son. Following the Byzantine tradition, here is our Voivode evincing archetypal reactions. No one in the world should enjoy so much beauty and magnificence. The masterpiece made for him should indeed possess the absolute value of uniqueness. His insidious question addressed to the masons results, after their rash and foolhardy answer, in a death sentence which shall render impossible the reproduction of their work, therefore its devaluation. They and the master, the architect, Manole, will not share the same death; Manole's fate is a singular one. Although the Icarian idea which originally also derives from an architect's mind (Dædalus', the builder of the Labyrinth in Cnossos) belonged to him, Manole's death is not the same as the craftsmen's and journeymen's who spring from the roof to their deaths, as in an expressionist vision, with all of them lying split round the monastery. His agony quickened by the voice of remembrance makes his last moments even more bitter. But like all those loved by the gods, his death is not a common one; he undergoes a metamorphosis and is changed into a magic substance, the water of a fountain which will watch, as in the whole myth of Romanian construction, his masterpiece. The reward of creation and of supreme sacrifice is the eternal presence of the builder, like a guardian spirit, near his work. With his share of eternity earned not only through his genius and work, but also through the immolation of all that was dearest to him, his wife and his unborn baby, the master now belongs to another order which escapes time and decay. Now, how had Manole lived and how can his exceptional destiny be accounted for? As the ancients understood it, the destiny of any creator, embodied especially in that of the architect, was one also consisting of a few archetypal elements. Like Homer's heroes, like the prophets, like the poeta vates, the artist would receive inspiration in his sleep. Manole also has a dream-vision:
A sacrifice is demanded from him, as from them. And it seems significant to me that in some of the variants the craftsmen's oath is broken by them, but not by Manole. He follows his destiny to the bitter end, without cheating. The sacrifice demanded from him is carried out unhesitatingly, in a gradation accompanying the erection of the building, in a kind of necessary analogy with the parts of the body, as in a ritual amplified by the rhythm and incantatory values of the exquisite musical legato of the poetic diction. From now on the conflict between the prince and the builders no longer touches him. Manole has gone out of time and has attained, through sacrifice and achievement, to the stage where the dialogue with men ceases and death becomes transfiguration. The hero has reached the inmost depth of suffering at that magic point which suddenly becomes the apex. A myth of such beauty engenders numberless translations, lyric, epic or dramatic (from Goga to Blaga and Labis), as well as more or less specialized glosses. In no work or exegesis inspired by the myth, however, can one hear those matchless levels which are implicit in the simple Romanian ballad. It is there like Mioriþa, at the crepuscular, mysterious doorstep of ancient truths. ZOE DUMITRESCU-BUªULENGA |
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I Down the Argesh lea, II Those craftsmen amain |
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But Manole shirked, He no longer worked, To his bed he went And a dream he dreamt. Ere the night was spent, For his men he sent, Told them his intent: "Ye nine great craftsmen, Masons, journeymen, What a dream I dreamed: In my sleep meseemed A whisper from high, A voice from the ski, Told me verily That whatever we In daytime have wrought Shall nights come to naught, Crumble down like rot; Till we, one and all, Make an oath to wall Whose bonny wife erst, Whose dear sister first, Haps to come this way At the break of day, Bringing meat and drink To husband or kin. Therefore if we will Our high task fulfill And build here a shrine, A cloister divine, Let's swear and be bound By dread oaths and sound Not a word to speak, Our counsel to keep: Whose bonny wife erst, Whose dear sister first, Haps to come this way At the break of day, Her we'll offer up, Her we shall build up!" |
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III When day from night parted |
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IV Those worthy craftsmen, |
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V Down the Argesh lea, |
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Long they stayed there thinking, Then they started linking Shingles thin and light Into wings for flight. And those wings they spread, And jumped far ahead, And dropped down like lead. Where the ground they hit, There their bodies split. Then poor, poor Manole, Good master Manole, As he brought himself To jump from a shelf, Hark, a voice came low From the wall below, A voice dear and lief, Muffled, sunk in grief, Mournful, woebegone, Moaning on and on, "Manole, Manole, Good master Manole, The wall weighs like lead, Tears my teats still shed, My babe is crushed dead, Away my life's fled!" As Manole heard His life-blood did curd, And his eyesight blurred, And the high clouds whirled, And the whole earth swirled; And from near the sky, From the roof on high, Down he fell to die! And, lo, where he fell There sprang up a well, A fountain so tiny Of scant water, briny, So gentle to hear, Wet with many a tear! |