The Devil’s Violin#
Variants around classic gypsy’n’fiddler folk tales…
The invention of the violin#
One of my favourite category and Devil and violin tales relates to the invention of the violin:
THE FIDDLE
In Journal of the Gypsy Lore Society, Volume 2, April 1890, p65-66:
I.— GYPSY ANECDOTES FROM HUNGARY.
I. — THE FIDDLE.
[The first and second of these tales are extremely close variants of DU Erschaffung der Geige and Die Erschaffung der Welt in Dr. Von Wlisocki's "Marchen und Sagen der Transsilvanischen Zigeuner," Berlin, 1886,]
[TH: the second tale referred to is “HOW THE DEVIL ASSISTED GOD IN THE CREATION OF THE WORLD”.]
(Related to me at Guta, and also at Almas.)
In a small hut on a high mountain, near the edge of a beautiful wood, dwelt a lovely maiden with her parents and four little brothers. The young girl fell in love with a handsome and rich young huntsman, who often visited the forest in pursuit of game. The huntsman, however, rarely noticed her, or spoke to her. Marika became greatly distressed as the young man had not spoken to her for some time, and she wept day and nîght. In order to attract the attention of the hunter, she sang the following song: — “In the shade of the forest the bird is twittering, — seeking love, flying about without rest or peace: for winter have I no stockîngs, no home; come, then, beautiful rose, be thou my wife.” But the hunter was indifferent, and went past Marika without noticing her. One day, quite despairing, the maiden cried: “Devil; help me!” The Devil appeared holding a small mirror in his hand, and Marika told him her sorrow, and what she desired.
“Oh, that is a trifle,” cried the Devil; “I can help you. Take this mirror, and when your beloved shall have looked into it, he will never leave you.”
Some days later, when the hunter went again into the wood, Marika placed herself in his way, holding the mirror towards him. The young man glanced involuntarily into it, exclaiming: “Ah, that is devilry; I have now seen the Evil One!” And without saying another Word, he fled into the Valley, and never agaîn visited the forest. Marika was more distressed than ever; and again she summoned the Devil to her assistance. He soon appeared, and asked the maiden what she desired. When Marika related to him what had happened, the Devil smiled cunningly, saying, “Do not trouble about the hunter, both of you belong to me, as you have both looked into the mirror, and whoever has done so is already my property; but I will help you notwithstanding, if you give me your four brothers. If you do not do my bidding, I cannot help you.” The Devil went his way; but in the night, when Marika’s brothers were asleep, he returned, and made of them four ropes, and out of these ropes four strîngs, a thick one, a thinner one, a still thinner one, and quite a thin one. After having done this, he said to Marika: “Give me thy father!” “Be it so,” answered Marika; “take him, only help me!” The Devil took Marika’s father, and transformed him into a box, and made out of this a fiddie. Then the Devil said: “Now, give me thy mother.” “Be it so,” answered Marika; “take her, but help me!” The Devil only smiled, and made out of Marika’s mother a small stick, and of her hair a long horse-hair. Then he fastened the horse-hair to either end of the little stick, and the fiddlestick was finished. Then the Devil played on the fiddle a tune which greatly pleased Marika; but when he continued playing she commenced crying. The Devil smiled, saying: “When your sweetheart cornes to the wood, play on this fiddie, and he will remain with you.” Marika took the fiddie from the Devil and played on it. The hunter heard the melody, and full of joy he hastened to her, and took her away with him.
After the lapse of nine days the Devil appeared, and said; “Now, come both with me, for I am your master.” The loving couple would not obey the command of the Devil, but he seized them and carried them to Hell. On this occasion Marika lost the fiddle in the wood, and a Gypsy who came along found it. Since that time the Gypsy plays so beautifuUy and so sweetly on the fiddie, that in all the towns and villages the people are enchanted, and laugh and cry for joy.
The Creation of the Violin, Gypsy folk-tales, Francis Hindes Groome, 1899
In Gypsy folk-tales, Francis Hindes Groome, 1899, p131-2:
CHAPTER IV TRANSYLVANIAN-GYPSY STORIES No. 37. — The Creation of the Violin
In a hut on a mountain, in a fair forest, lived a girl with her four brothers, her father, and her mother. The sister loved a handsome rich huntsman, who often ranged the forest, but who would never speak to the pretty girl. Mara wept day and night, because the handsome man never came near her. She often spoke to him, but he never answered, and went on his way. She sang the song:
‘Dear man from a far country,
Slip your hand into mine;
Clasp me, as you will, in your arms;
Lovingly will I kiss you.’
She sang it often and often, but he paid no heed. Knowing now no other succour, she called the devil. ‘O devil, help me.’ The devil came, holding a mirror in his hand, and asked what she wanted. Mara told him her story and bemoaned to him her sorrow. ‘If that’s all,’ said the devil, ‘I can help you. I’ll give you this. Show it to your beloved, and you’ll entice him to you.’ Once again came the huntsman to the forest, and Mara had the mirror in her hand and went to meet him. When the huntsman saw himself in the mirror, he cried, “Oh! that’s the devil, that is the devil’s doing; I see myself.” And he ran away, and came no more to the forest.
Mara wept now again day and night, for the handsome man never came near her. Knowing now no other succour for her grief, she called again the devil. ‘O devil, help me.’ The devil came and asked what she wanted. Mara told how the huntsman had run away, when he saw himself in the mirror. The devil laughed and said, ‘Let him run, I shall catch him; like you, he belongs to me. For you both have looked in the mirror, and whoso looks in the mirror is mine. And now I will help you, but you must give me your four brothers, or help you I cannot’. The devil went away and came back at night, when the four brothers slept, and made four strings of them, fiddle-strings — one thicker, then one thinner, the third thinner still, and the thinnest the fourth. Then said the devil, ‘Give me also your father.’ Mara said, ‘Good, I give you my father, only you must help me.’ Of the father the devil made a box: that was the fiddle. Then he said, ‘Give me also your mother.’ Mara answered, ‘Good, I give you also my mother, only you must help me.’ The devil smiled, and made of the mother a stick, and horsehair of her hair: this was the fiddle-stick. Then the devil played, and Mara rejoiced. But the devil played on and on, and Mara wept. Now laughed the devil and said, ‘When your beloved comes, play, and you will entice him to you.’ Mara played, and the huntsman heard her playing and came to her. In nine days came the devil and said, ‘Worship me, I am your lord.’ They would not, and the devil carried them off. The fiddle remained in the forest lying on the ground, and a poor Gypsy came by and saw it. He played, and as he played in thorp and town they laughed and wept just as he chose.
In the Gypsy Lore Journal for April 1890, pp. 65-66, Vladislav Komel, Ritter von Zielinski, published a very close Hungarian-Gypsy variant, told to him both at Guta and at Almas. One cannot but be reminded of the ballad of ‘Binnorie,’ whose story is current in Scotland, Sweden, the Faroe Islands, Iceland, Denmark, Sicily, Poland, Esthonia, and Lithuania, and which Reinhold Kohler has ably discussed in ‘Die Ballade von der sprechenden Harfe’ (Aufsätze über Märchen und Volkslieder pp. 79-98). Campbell’s Santal Folk-tales pp. 54, 104, furnish two remarkable analogues. In the first a drowned girl grows up as a bamboo, out of which a jugi makes a magic fiddle; in the second a princess, devoured by a monkey, springs up after his death as a gourd, of whose shell a jugi makes a wonderful banjo. In both tales there is mention of Doms; and it is at least an odd coincidence that, while the Gypsy word for devil is beng, in Santali a spirit is called bonga. Selling one’s self, or rather one’s blood, to the devil is a superstition still current amongst English Gypsies. I myself knew an elderly East Anglian Gypsy woman, who was supposed to have so sold her blood, and to have got in return a young, good-looking husband, her own nephew, whom she ‘kept like a gentleman.’ Cf. also pp. 297-9 of my In Gypsy Tents.
A fantastic version of this tale is give by Sara Liisa Wilkinson, as The Devil’s Violin [MP3], which combines elements of singing bones style tales.
This variant plays with the idea of the girl both selling her soul to the devil for a man, and the devil creating the violin as the means by which she can seduce him — and the rest. We might also see the girl as selling her soul in order to learn to play the instrument and benefit from it, and/or the sacrifices families make when a child is driven (could we twist it also to have the parent drive the child, and suffer the consequences?).
How the gypsy cheated the devil#
Another variant of devil’n’gypsy fiddler tales involves the Devil obtaining the fiddle, but not the ability to play it.
HOW A GYPSY CHEATED THE DEVIL
In Journal of the Gypsy Lore Society, Ser. 5, 1891, p70-73:
V. HOW A GYPSY CHEATED THE DEVIL.
(Related to me at Kis-Almas, Aranyos, and ErdÔd-Szada.)
Once, when the Gypsy went into the Csarda (an inn in the pushta), he played on his fiddle such a sad, plaintive, and melancholy tune, that the blades of grass and the bulrushes were covered with tears as with dew. ‘Twas thus he sang —
“As a prisoner I am guarded;
At my right hand stalks my shadow,
And my thoughts drag close behind me
Like some harsh and cruel warder!”
pondering the while why he was condemned to poverty, scorn, loathing, and unceasing travel. The strains of the sweet but sad melody sounded far and near, carried on the wings of the playful zephyr, losing themselves among the bulrushes, and makmg an echo that seemed to pîty the Gypsy’s lot. The Devil, who lived in an old willow on the banks of a bog, heard this lament, and, seized with compassion for the Gypsy, he resolved to help him. As the Gypsy pursued his way, playing and singing, he saw a Suabian leap out of the dry grass, clothed in a short frockcoat, a pipe in his mouth, and a velvet cap on his head. The Gypsy, astonished to see a stranger so far from the Csarda (inn), stopped.
“Eh! what is the matter?” said the Devil, surveying him from head to foot; “have I frightened you, that you cease playing and singing?”
“Ah! why should I be frightened, Mr. German?” replied the Gypsy, smiling cunningly as he perceived on his head two horns, which the cap did not cover entirely.
“Very well, but if I were the Devil would you be afraid of me?”
“Oh,” replied the Gypsy, scratching his head, “is the Devil more terrible than a German? To tell the truth, just now, I would prefer to meet the Devil, as he might help me in my misfortune and my need!”
“Excellent,” replied the Devil, “if this is the case, speak. I am he whom you want; I will help you!”
“Indeed!” said the Gypsy; “for what purpose have you assumed this garb? If you are really the Devil, you must be aware that every Gypsy and every Hungarian would rather have intercourse with a devil than with a German. Besides it is a matter of indifference to me whether you are a devil or a Suabian — only help me.”
“All right,” replied the Devil, “but you must give me what is dearest to you!”
“Yes; but what do I possess that is dearest to me, unless it is this fiddle?”
“That is it,” answered the Devil, “you will give me your fiddle!”
“But what shall I do without it?”
“You shall be rich; I will give you heaps of gold.”
“Ahem!” said the Gypsy, deep in thought. After a while he replied, smiling unperceived, “And what will you, Mr. Devil, do with the fiddle?”
“I shall play on it, and everybody will follow me wherever I wish.”
“Very well, then, but first carry out your promise!”
“With pleasure; but remember that your fiddle belongs to me, otherwise you will fare badly! Now, bestride this bulrush, as if it were a horse, and follow me.”
The Gypsy obeyed the bidding of the Devil, and in one moment both flew through the air towards the East.
The Sun was about setting, when the Devil and the Gypsy alighted from their airy steeds, by the Szamos-between-the-Mountains. The Devil took bold of the Gypsy’s hand, leading him to a waterfall, and took out of the shallow bed of the river a handful of gravel, givîng it to the Gypsy.
“Hère is what I promised. The bottom of this river and the cave behind the waterfall are covered with gold. It is ail yours; but give me your fiddle.”
The Gypsy stared astonished at the gravel, which glittered like gold. After a while, as if distrusting what he saw, he went and took up some gravel and sand; they were pure gold. “Indeed you have kept your word,” said the Gypsy; “it is now my turn; only permit me to take leave of my fiddle.” And so wonderfuUy did the Gypsy play, that not only the Devil, but heaven also wept.
The Gypsy kissed the fiddle at the last plaintive tone, placed his lips to one of the openinigs, sucked the air out of it, and reached it to the Devil, who disappeared with it like mist.
The Gypsy filled his pipe, lighted it, and commenced taking the gold out of the bed of the Szamos.
After the lapse of three days the Gypsy was very rich, but his longing for his fiddle was still greater. Tired and heartsore, he sat down on one of the heaps of gold, saying, “Devil, thou art clever, but I am not stupid; I gave thee my fiddle, but not my soul which plays on its strings.”
Then suddenly the Devil appeared, and returning the fiddle to the Gypsy, he said, “I have made a bad bargain; thou hast the gold, but instead of alluring men with the Sound of thy fiddle, I have frightened them away. Take back therefore thy fiddle, for though I am a devil, I cannot play like thee. But, before parting, how comes it that when thou playest the fiddle sings ao wonderfully?”
“Well,” replied the Gypsy, taking the instrument out of the Devil’s hand, “it is but natural. I gave thee the fiddle as promised, but kept the soul for myself!”
And the Gypsy placed his lips to one of the openings of the fiddle, breathed into it, and played such a paasionate csardas, that the Devil skîpped about like one possessed, and the Gypsy himself was greatly astonished at his own playing — he thought he had never played like this.
“Ah; I see now,” said the Devil, when the Gypsy had finished playing, “I was a great fool to let myself be cheated by a Gypsy. Thou gavest me the fiddle, but without thy soul. Well, it is done, and cannot be helped; thou hast my gold and the fîddle, but thy playing will allure men into my net!”
From that time onwards the devils in hell no longer dance the valse but the csardas. And the Gypsy receives money for the csardas, which he alone can play so wonderfully. And the Devil, though he had been cheated by the Gypsy, lost nothing by it, as men are still flying înto his net the same as before.
Vladislav Kornel, Ritter von Zielinski.
Here’s another take on the tale, heavily influenced by a version I heard Daniel Morden tell, but it’s also a tale I’ve heard told widely elsewhere.
Once, there was a fiddler. A gypsy fiddler. He used to make his way from village to town, playing for his living. When he turned up, people turned out. When he played the fast, and happy tunes, they danced and wheeled and generally misbehaved themselves in all sorts of joyful ways; and when he played the sad songs, he tugged at their heart strings. One day, as he was walking from one place to another, through a forest, no doubt, he came to a crossroads. Where a man appeared to be waiting for him. Smartly dressed. Tapping his… foot? Or his… cloven hoof?
I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve seen what you can do. You can bend people to your will, make them do things I can only dream of making them do. So sell me your fiddle, and let me play with them, like you play with them.
As any musician will tell you, your instrument is a part of you. Not something you would part with lightly. “It’s not for sale.”
“I will pay you well for it…” Now the devil, for it was, indeed the devil, is not someone you necessarily want to cross. So the gypsy thought hard, and thought that if he asked for a riduculous amount of money for the fiddle, the Devil would balk at the price, and then that would be that, and he could carry on his way. “It is worth more to me than my pockets full of of gold. Worth more even than my bag full of gold.” “Then I will pay you more than that.” And the gypsy felt his pockets sag. And his bag was suddenly very heavy indeed. And his hat, he suddenly noticed the weight of his hat. Just as a gold coin slipped from underneath it. And even though the gypsy felt as if he had been tricked, he handed over his fiddle. Because the devil is the devil, after all. And not someone you want to make an enemy of.
The gypsy walked on. He had money for food, he had money for drink, but he would rather be making his way the way he always had done. So he bought another fiddle. But it wasn’t the same. He could still play a tune, he could still entertain a crowd, but it felt as if a part of him was missing.
One day, he was walking back through the forest when he came again to the crossroads. Where someone was waiting for him. Tapping his cloven hoof. “I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve been waiting for you to come back this way. You sold me a dud…” and he waved the fiddle in his hand. “How did you do it? Whenever I play this, this thing, people don’t follow me the way they followed you? What did you do to it? Is that it?” and he pointed to the fiddle strung across the gypsy’s back. “Did you swap it?”
The gypsy reached out for his old fiddle, took it in his hands, started to play it. It was like being reunited with a long lost friend, a long lost lover. He played as he had always managed to play, and even the devil fell under his magic for a moment.
“How? How did you do that? WHy can’t I do that?”
And the Gypsy looked at him. “I may have sold you my fiddle”, he said, “but the fiddle does not make the real music. For that you need something more. Something I would not sell to anyone, not even to you.”
And the devil looked at him.
“My soul.”
Entertaining the Devil#
Another set of tales involve a fiddler entertaining the devil, or the devil’s friends.
The following doesn’t actually involve a fiddler — it’s a piper — but it could easily be told as a fiddler tale…
SSWANDA, THE PIPER, Laboulaye’s fairy book, 1866
In Laboulaye’s fairy book; fairy tales of all nations, 1866, p122-126:
SSWANDA, THE PIPER.
A BOHEMIAN TALE.
Sswanda, the Piper, was a jolly companion. Like every true musician, he was born with an unquenchable thirst; besides, he was madly fond of play, and would have risked his soul at strajak, the favorite game at cards in Bohemia. When he had earned a little money, he would throw aside his pipes, and drink and play with the first comer till he returned to his home as light in pocket as when he had left it. But he was always so merry, witty, and good-natured that not a drinker ever left the table while the piper was there, and his name still lives in Bohemia as the prince of good fellows.
One day there was a festival at Mokran, and no merry- making was ever complete without the piper. Sswanda, after blowing his pipe till midnight and earning twenty zwanzigers, determined to amuse himself on his own account. Neither prayers nor promises could persuade him to go on with his music; he was determined to drink his fill and to shuffle the cards at his ease; but, for the first time in his life, he found no one to play with him.
Sswanda was not the man to quit the inn so long as he had a kreutzer in his pocket, and on that day he had many of them. By dint of talking, laughing, and drinking, he took one of those fixed ideas which are not uncommon among those who look too often in the bottom of their glass, and de- termined to play at any price; but all his neighbors refused his challenge. Furious at finding no partner, he rose with an unsteady step, paid for what he had drank, and left the inn.
“I will go to Drazic,” said he; “the schoolmaster and the bailiff there are honest peo pie who are not afraid of play, and I shall find part ners. Hurrah!”
The night was clear, and the moon shone like a fish’s eye. On reaching a cross road, Sswanda raised his eyes by chance, and stop ped mute and motionless A flock of ravens were croaking over his head, and in front of him rose four posts, standing like pillars, and connected at the top by cross-beams, from each of which swung a half de voured corpse. It was a robbers’ gallows, a spectacle by no means amusmg to a less stoical spirit than that of Sswanda.
He had not recovered from the first shudder when suddenly there appeared before him a man dressed in black, with pale and hollow cheeks, and eyes that glittered like carbuncles.
“Where are you going so late, friend Piper?” asked he, in a soft voice.
“To Drazic, Mr. Black Coat,” answered the intrepid Sswanda.
“Would you like to earn something by your music?”
“I am tired of blowing,” returned Sswanda. “I have some silver in my pocket, and wish to amuse myself.”
“Who talks to you of silver? It is with gold that we pay.”
Saying this, the stranger flashed before his eyes a handful of shining ducats. The piper was the son of a thrifty mother; he knew not how to resist such an invitation, and followed the black man and his gold.
How the time passed he never could remember. It is true that his head was a little heavy. The only thing that he recollected was that the black man warned him to accept whatever was offered him, whether gold or wine, but never to return thanks except by saying “Good luck, brother!”
Without knowing how he had entered, he found himself in a dark room where three men, dressed in black like his guide, were playing at strajak by no other light than their glittering eyes. On the table were piles of gold, and a jug from which each one drank in his turn.
“Brothers,” said the black man, “I bring you friend Sswan- da, whom you have long known by reputation. I thought to please you on this feast-day by giving you a little music.”
“A good idea!” said one of the players. Then, taking the jug, he handed it to Sswanda, saying, “Here, piper, drink and play.”
Sswanda had some scruples; but, after all, it is impossible to have charcoal without putting your fingerp into the ashes. The wine, though rather warm, was not bad. He replaced the jug on the table, and, raising his hat, said, “Good luck, brother!” as he had been advised.
He began to play, and never had his music produced such an effect. Each note made the players leap for joy. Their eyes shot forth flames; they moved about uneasily in their chairs; they staked the ducats by handfuls; they shouted and burst into loud fits of laughter without stirring a muscle of their palhd faces. The jug passed from hand to hand, always full, though replenished by no one.
As soon as Sswanda finished an air, they handed him the jug, from which he never failed to drink deeply, and threw handfuls of gold into his hat. “Good luck, brother!” he repeated, astounded at his fortune — “good luck!”
The feast lasted a long time. At last, the piper having struck up a polka, the black men, in a transport of mirth, quitted the table, and danced and waltzed with an ardor and frenzy which ill accorded with their icy faces. One of the dancers gathered up all the gold that was heaped on the table, and, pouring it into Sswanda’s hat, “Here,” said he, “take this for the pleasure that you have given us.”
“God bless you, my good lords!” said the dazzled piper. Scarcely had he spoken when men, room, and cards vanished.
In the morning a peasant on his way to the fields heard the sound of a pipe as he approached the cross-road. “It is Sswanda,” said he. But where was the piper? Seated on a corner of the gallows, he was blowing with all his might, while the corpses of the robbers danced in the wind to his music.
“Halloo, comrade!” cried the peasant, “how long have you been playing the cuckoo up there?”
Sswanda started, dropped his pipe, opened his eyes, and glided, bewildered, down the gallows. His first thought, however, was for his ducats. He rummaged his pockets, and turned his hat inside out, but all in vain; there was not even a kreutzer!
“My friend,” said the peasant, making the sign of the cross, “God has punished you by giving you the devil for a partner; you love cards too well.”
“You are right,” said Sswanda, trembling; “I will never touch them again in my life.”
He kept his word; and, to thank Heaven for having preserved him from such peril, he took the fatal pipe to which the devil had danced, and suspended it as a votive offering in the church of Strakonic, his birth-place, where it may be seen to this day. The pipe of Strakonic has become a proverb, and it is even said that its sound is heard every year at the day and hour when Sswanda played for Satan and his friends.
I also heard a variant of this tale told by Joe Baele, at Beyond the Border in 2023, in which a gypsy fiddler entertains a captive crowd on behalf of Death:
Death and the fiddler, Joe Baele, Beyond the Border, 2023
A gypsy fiddler, who has found an old violin on a market stall that adds something to his playing is stopped by death, who asks for a favour: will he entertain ten thousand souls he has backed up?
The Gypsy agrees, plays, and sees one woman who stares fixedly at him; it turns out that Death was cheated by the luthier, who put his soul into the fiddle, so Death took his daughter instead, before her time.
To release her from waiting, the violin must be broken.
If the Gypsy breaks the violin, can he have the girl? She would have died hundreds of years ago.
A deal is struck…
[I then forget the actual ending? Maybe this?]
A young woman is found who was dying; the fiddler says he may be able to cure her. He breaks the fiddle, the soul is released, the dying woman is infused with the girl’s soul and they live happily ever after.