Nikola Tesla Books
unselfish efforts to nourish the enthusiasm of Serbian youth. During his stay in Budapest he founded the literary society Preodnica, of which he was president, and to which he devoted a large portion of his energies. In 1864 he started his famous satirical journal, "Zmai" (THE DRAGON), which was so popular that the name became a part of his own. In 1866 his comic play "Sharan "was given with great success. In 1872 he had the great pain of losing his wife and, shortly after, his only child. How much these misfortunes affected him is plainly perceptible from the deeply sad tone of the poems which immediately followed. In 1873 he started another comic journal, the "ZIZA" During the year 1977 he began an illustrated chronicle of the Russo-Turkish war, and in 1878 appeared his popular comic journal, "Starmali." During all this period, he wrote not only poems, but much prose, including short novels, often under an assumed name. The best of these is probably "Vidosava Brankovicheva." In recent years he has published a great many charming little poems for children. Since 1870 Zmai has pursued his profession as a physician. He is an earnest advocate of cremation, and has devoted. much time to the furtherance of that cause. Until recently he was a resident of Vienna, but now he is domiciled in Belgrade. There he lives the life of a true poet, loving all and beloved by everybody. In recognition of his merit, the nation has voted him a subvention. The poems of Zmai are so essentially Serbian that to translate them into another tongue appears next to impossible. In keen satire free from Volitarian venom, in good-hearted and spontaneous humor, in delicacy and depth of expression, they are remarkable. Mr. Johnson has undertaken the task of versifying a few of the shorter ones after my literal and inadequate readings. Close translation being often out of the question, he has had to paraphrase, following as nearly as possible the original motives and ideas. In some instances he has expanded in order to complete a picture or to add a touch of his own. The poems which follow will give some idea of the versatility of the Serbian poet, but come far short of indicating his range. PARAPHRASES FROM THE SERBIAN after Zmai lovan lovanovich MYSTERIOUS LOVE Into the air I breathed a sigh; She, afar, another breathed Sighs that, like a butterfly, each went wandering low and high Till the air with sighs was wreathed. When each other long they sought, On a star-o'er-twinkled hill Jasmine, trembling with the thought, Both within her chalice caught, A lover's potion to distil. Drank of this a nightingale, Guided by the starlight wan Drank and sang from dale to dale, Till every streamlet did exhale Incense to the waking dawn. Like the dawn, the maiden heard; While, afar, I felt the fire In the bosom of the bird; Forth our sighs again were stirred With a sevenfold desire. These we followed till we learned Where they trysted; there erelong Their fond nightingale returned. Deeper then our longings burned, Deeper the delights of song. Now, when at the wakening hour, Sigh to sigh, we greet his lay, Well we know its mystic power. Feeling dawn and bird and flower Pouring meaning into May. Jasmine, perfume every grove! Nightingale, forever sing To the brightening dawn above Of the mystery of love In the mystery of spring! TWO DREAMS Deep on the bosom of Jeel-Begzad (Darling daughter of stern Bidar) Sleeps the rose of her lover lad. It brings this word: Then the zenith-star Melts in the full moon's rising light, Then shall her Giaour come to-night. What is the odor that fills her room? To feel his lips near its velvet bloom Ah! 't is the dream of the sleeping rose: In the secret shadow no moonbeam knows, Till the maiden passion within her breast Kindles to flame where the kisses rest. By the stealthy fingers of old Bidar (savage father of Jeel-Begzad) Never bloodess in peace or war Was a handjar sheathed; and each one had Graved on its handle a Koran prayer He can feel it now, in his ambush there! The moon rides pale in the quiet night; It puts out the stars, but never the gleam Of the waiting blade's foreboding light, Astir in its sheath in a horrid dream Of pain, of blood, and of gasping breath, Of the thirst of vengeance drenched in death. The dawn did the dream of the rose undo, But the dream of the sleeping blade came true. ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON Reprinted from the Serb World, 1 (6): 18-19, February/March 1980, with gratefully acknowledged permission from the Editors. 13
