The Bell of Atri part 2

With the beginning of the Nineteenth Century came the Romanticists, Manzoni, Foscolo and the rest. These were poets and novelists, to whom the Novela meant very little. Their influence extended far into the century, and only with the advent of the naturalist Verga was there a return to the short story. And then it had no relation whatsoever to the art practised by Boccaccio. With Verga, De Amicis, Serao, Fogazzaro, and D`Annunzio, we are in the midst of the modern European literary movement.

The notation “no title in the original,” made in several instances after the notes on Boccaccio, Ser Giovanni, Sacchetti, Masuccio, Bandello, Firenzuola, Grazzini, Cinthio, and Gozzi, means that the title given in this collection is furnished by the editors. The Italian editions usually offer a lengthy synopsis of the story.

The Bell of Atri (Anonymous: 13th or 14th Century)

The Hundred Ancient Tales is a collection of short stories containing the earliest examples of prose fiction in the Italian language. They originated, in all probability, in Southern France, where the Troubadours flourished who brought over into Italy the material that was used by the first Italian writers. When and by whom these tales were written is not known.

How short can a short story be? The Bell of Atri is, of course, not a highly developed work of art, yet it is complete and effective. Longfel-low used it in a rather long poem, but he added little that was essential to the narrative.

The present version is translated by Thomas Roscoe and reprinted from his Italian Novelists, London, no date. The full title of the story is Concerning an Alarm Bell Instituted in the Time of King Giovanni.

The Bell of Atri

In the reign of King Giovanni d`Atri, there was ordered to be erected a certain great bell for the especial use of individuals who might happen to meet with any grievous injuries, when they were to ring as loudly as they could, for the purpose of obtaining redress. Now it so fell out that the rope in the course of time was nearly worn away, on which a bunch of snakeweed had been fastened to it, for the convenience of the ringers.

One day a fine old courser belonging to a knight of Atri, which being no longer serviceable, had been turned out to run at large, was wandering near the place. Being hard pressed by famine, the poor steed seized hold of the snakeweed with his mouth, and sounded the bell pretty smartly. The council, on hearing the clamor, immediately assembled, as if to hear the petition of the horse, whose appearance seemed to declare that he required justice. Taking the case into consideration, it was soon decreed that the same cavalier whom the horse had so long served while he was young should be compelled to maintain him in his old age; and the king even imposed a fine in similar instances to the same effect.

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The Bell of Atri part 1

Gabriele D`annunzio (1863-1938)

D`annunzio was born at Pescara in the Abruzzi in 1863. His first literary work was a volume of verses, published when he was only sixteen. His first novel appeared in 1889, and he afterwards became famous also as a poet and dramatist. His short stories, of which he wrote a number, are memorable pictures of the half-savage peasant- folk in the mountains of his native district. He excelled in the description of vivid landscapes, and in the delineation of elemental types on the one hand, and of decadent overcivilized moderns on the other.

The present version is translated by Louis Lozowick. It appeared originally in the Pagan magazine, and is here reprinted by permission of the editor.

The Hero

The big banners of St. Gonselvo, brought upon the square, floated heavily in the wind. Men of herculean stature, with faces flushed and necks strained, carried them gingerly.

After the victory over the people of Radusa the population ol Mas- calico celebrated this September feast with unexampled splendor. In-tense religious fervor raised their souls to exaltation. The entire pop-ulation was sacrificing its rich autumnal harvest to the glory of their patron Saint. From window to window across the street, women stretched their nuptial veils. The men decorated the doors with green wreaths, and spread flowers on the threshold of their houses. A wind was flowing and everything swayed and sparkled in the street, producing an intoxicating effect on the mob.

The procession was coming from the church in a continuous stream, breaking up into groups at the square. Before the altar, from which Pantaleone has been so recently dethroned, stood eight men, chosen to the rare privilege of raising the statue of St. Gonselvo. They were: Giovanni Curo, l`Ummalido, Mattao, Vincenzio Guanno, Rocco di Ceuzo, Benedette Gallante, Biagio di Clisci, Giovanni Senzapaura. Speechless they stood, conscious of their important duty, and somewhat agitated.

They presented a powerful group, as they stood there, ears pierced by dangling gold earrings, and eyes bright with the gleam of religious fanaticism. Now and then they would feel their biceps and pulse as if to try their strength; and sometimes a faint smile would flit over their faces.

The statue of the patron Saint was of great size and enormous weight; the body was cast from dark bronze, the hands and head from silver.

“Forward!” came Mattao`s order.

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The Peasant`s Will part 4

The sons were white with rage, the witnesses shrunk away in terror, and mother and daughter glared at one another with a look of hatred and menace, but no one dared utter a word as X furiously tore the will into fragments.

All of a sudden the daughter started forward, and without hindrance from any one went straight to where the dying man lay, and put the babe down by his side.

“Pare!” she cried. “Pare! do you want me to die of hunger? At least leave me a bowl of`polenta` for my child!” A scowl passed over the face of the old man, and unable to show any other sign of hostility he closed his one remaining eye.

I shall never forget the picture of the two heads on the pillow: the beginning and the end of life. One with the laughing eyes and dimpled rosy cheeks of the “bambino,” and the other a dying man`s contracted features, with hollow face darkened by the shadow of death. The idea that the evil spirit was hovering above both, ready to claim one of the two as his victim, caused me to shudder at this point the village priest appeared, a simple, kind-hearted man whom I had met once before. He saw the child on the bed and thought a reconciliation had been effected.

“So at last all is well. God be praised!” he said, feelingly. He leaned over and felt the pulse of the dying man.

The child began to cry, and its mother made a move to take it in her arms, but the priest would not permit.

“Leave the `bambino` there,” he said. “Matteo`s time has come. Let him pass to the other world with an angel to guide him,” and he commenced to recite the prayers for the dying.

X, with little liking for such scenes, preferred to risk the descent of the ladder, and I hastened to assist him, but before going down myself, I turned to satisfy my curiosity with one last look.

Worthy of attention

Sons and witnesses had disappeared, I could not tell where. The young mother had taken her babe and was busy trying to quiet it with kisses and caresses, as if the child alone was worthy of attention; and the old woman, faithful to the last to the man whom she had slaved for with a brutish devotion, was kneeling by his side, praying.

I descended the ladder and with X wandered back to the town along fields of ripening grain, across meadows gay with flowers, and under rows of poplar trees joined together by festoons of vines from which hung clusters of already darkening grapes; and as we went along I wondered how all this innocence of nature, this beauty of flower and this blessing of fruit, could nourish in the human heart such despicable greed and bitter hatred.

“I cannot understand,” I said to X; “it seems to me there must be something wrong in the methods which man employs for making use of all the glorious gifts of God. `

“I fear that is true,” he replied, “and that the mistake arises from the. worst and most original of all sins—the sin of selfishness. But let us leave its solution to the Creator and to mankind. Together they will surely some time find a remedy.”

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The Peasant`s Will part 3

While she seemed agitated and spoke in an excited manner, she was to all appearances telling the truth, and had no intention of deceiving the lawyer in her answers to his questions concerning the heirs and the amount of property. According to her statements there were only the t hree children, the sons now present, and the property consisted of about fifty acres of good farm land, part at Polegge and part in Rettorgole, another house, live-stock, farm implements, and numerous small articles.

What the old woman had said was confirmed by her sons, and also by the other witnesses. The lawyer suggested that the estate be divided in some general manner among the heirs, but this was objected to by all: wife, sons and witnesses as well. They insisted that it was the wish of the old man to assign everything specifically.

One of the witnesses, a man of rather better appearance and manners than the rest, came forward, and offering his snuff-box to the lawyer with an evident air of commiseration for the ignorance of his fellows, and of satisfaction at his own superior knowledge said:

“Matteo is near his end, and there is no time to settle the distribution in a strictly legal manner.”

X there upon concluded to let the matter go, and when I had made ready to write down from his dictation, he began his questioning, and by means of nods and shakes, of the head there passed to the ownership of Gigio, Tita and Ghecco, the three sons of the testator, the houses, the land, cattle, horses, pigs, etc., even to the broken-down cart.

“And your wife,” exclaimed X. “Do you not wish to leave nomething to your wife?” 

The old man shook his head, and all, including the wife herself, agreed that this was his recognized wish.

“But,” said X, “the law particularly provides for cases such as this, and we must not disregard it.”

“Sior,” said the old woman, stoically, “law or no law, I will not touch anything. I will go hungry now and starve in the future sooner than do so.”

Principal thereupon

My principal thereupon allowed the woman to have her way, and began to read the items of the will in a loud voice. I had given him my seat and was standing beside him while he read.

Just then a cock flew through the opening of the loft and began to crow, and turning in the direction of the sound I saw a young peasant woman, flushed and out of breath, with a babe in her arms.

“What are they doing here?” she cried out, fixing upon me two flashing eyes, “are they robbing me and my child?”

At this remark confusion ensued, and the old woman and all three of her sons sprang up and rushed upon the newcomer.

X rose to his feet and commanded them all to be still.

“Who is this woman?” he asked, authoritatively. The mother hastily replied:

“I will tell you, Sior, who she is. She is our daughter, but she is good- for-nothing. I want you to understand that her father will not give her a single thing”

“What, you too, mother?” interrupted the girl bitterly. “I can stand my brothers treating me like a dog, but you, mother—I don`t care for them, but you—you are my own mother, and yet you would betray me. What can you say against me, and what against my husband?”

“Enough, enough,” cried X. “Shame on you all. The very first who opens his mouth I will have arrested for perjury.”

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The Peasant`s Will part 2

X immediately flew in a passion at the idea of such indignity, and declared it preposterous to expect him to mount a ladder of that sort; he said he would rather return to town. The young peasant who was holding the ladder below kept assuring him that it was entirely safe, and another peasant who, attracted by the talk, had come to the opening into the loft, also took hold of the ladder, and shouted— “Come up, Signore, don`t be afraid! It`s strong.”

Being younger, and accustomed to feats of mountain climbing, besides being urged on by curiosity, I determined upon the ascent, and moving cautiously, succeeded in reaching the loft without mishap. X, emboldened by my success, finally changed his mind and followed.

In the loft was a miserable and filthy straw bed, and lying upon it was an old man in rags, with features like wrinkled parchment, one eye entirely closed, and the other almost devoid of life. Though he breathed with difficulty, he did not appear to be suffering. Two men stood near him, one on either side, both lean and crafty-looking, and with cleanly shaven faces. One had a branch in his hand and was engaged in fanning away the flies from the face of the old man, while the other kept putting in the toothless mouth dry bread and small bits of cheese.

“Magne, pare; eat, father!” he said in his peasant dialect.

Understood everything

A little distance off on a bundle of hay sat an old woman holding her face in her hands, and farther away still were several peasants, evidently witnesses, talking in a low voice. A table, chair and inkstand stood ready for our use. We were told that the dying man had received absolution early the same morning, and that while he was unable to speak he understood everything, and would make his wishes known by signs.

As X hesitated, under the circumstances, to proceed with the making of the will, the sons volunteered to put their father to the proof brought us.

“To Gigio; is that what you mean .”

Again he nodded.

“Now you see, Sior,” the son concluded, turning to X , “I am not mistaken.”

The latter, however, was not yet satisfied and began to question the wife, the old woman crouching in the hay. With a sudden outburst of words she confirmed what had been said in regard to her husband, and insisted that he was in full possession of all his faculties, since only half an hour before he had objected to the veterinary bleeding one of the oxen which had fallen sick. She added that she knew exactly his intentions as to the distribution of the property.

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The Peasant`s Will part 1

Antonio Fogazzaro (1842-1911)

Born at Vicenza in northern Italy, Fogazzaro led a very active life, both as senator and writer. Though he studied at first for the law, he was soon able to devote himself largely to writing. His novels (and in particular The Saint) brought him international fame. During his most prolific period he wrote a few volumes of exquisite short stories, among which one of the best is The Peasant`s Will. It is wholly representative of this writer`s art, serene, sympathetic, natural.

The present version is translated by Walter Brooks, and is reprinted from his volume, Retold in English. Copyright, 1905, by Brentano s, by whose permission it is here included.

The Peasant`s Will

In my earlier days I was the assistant of Lawyer X, of Vincenza, when one day in August, about ten o`clock in the morning, a young peasant of Rettorgole came into the office and begged the lawyer to go with him to his home for the purpose of drawing up the will of his father who was, as he expressed it, “mal da morte.”

My principal assented, and, wishing me to accompany him, we all three started off, squeezed into a rickety country cart without springs and drawn by a sorry nag of uneven gait. The seat which we occupied was cushionless and hardly added to the comfort of two not over-stout

individuals, each accustomed to his own easy-chair. X`s face wore an expression of agony, and he cried oui at every jolt. I suffered in silence, and the peasant imperturbably described the illness of his father, a certain Matteo Cucco, nicknamed “L`orbo da Rettorgole,” because he had only one eye. “But he can see more with that one than most people could with three,” remarked the afflicted and respectful son.

We were hardly outside the city when we left the main road and turned into a narrow and muddy lane running through a succession of low-lying meadows, where the cart jolted even more than ever, but fortunately we were not long in arriving at our destination. We found there a miserable tumble-down house planted in the midst of mud and mire. A stable, open below and with a hay-loft above, was built against one end of it, and combined to provide shelter under the same roof for man and beast.

X and I were about to enter the kitchen when our conductor informed us that the sick man was not in the house. The heat and filth of his room had become such as to make it necessary to remove him to the hay-loft. Entrance to this was to be had only by climbing a ladder made of a single pole with pegs driven through it at intervals to serve as primitive rungs.

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The Last Lesson part 4

Then he opened a grammar and read us our lesson. I was amazed to see how well I understood it. All he said seemed so easy, so easy! I think, too, that I had never listened so carefully, and that he had never explained everything with so much patience. It seemed almost as if the poor man wanted to give us all he knew before going away, and to put it all into our heads at one stroke.

After the grammar, we had a lesson in writing. That day M. Hamel had new copies for us, written in a beautiful round hand: France, Alsace, France, Alsace. They looked like little flags floating everywhere in the school-room, hung from the rod at the top of our desks.

You ought to have seen how every one set to work, and how quiet it was! The only sound was the scratching of the pens over the paper. Once some beetles flew in; but nobody paid any attention to them, not even the littlest ones, who worked right on tracing their fish-hooks, as if that was French, too. On the roof the pigeons cooed very low, and I thought to myself:

“Will they make them sing in German, even the pigeons?”

Whenever I looked up from my writing I saw M. Hamel sitting motionless in his chair and gazing first at one thing, then at another, as if he wanted to fix in his mind just how everything looked in that little school-room. Fancy! For forty years he had been there in the same place, with his garden outside the window and his class in front of him, just like that.

Only the desks and benches had been worn smooth; the walnut-trees in the garden were taller, and the hop- vine that he had planted himself twined about the windows to the roof. How it must have broken his heart to leave it all, poor man; to hear his sister moving about in the room above, packing their trunks! For they must leave the country next day.

But he had the courage to hear every lesson to the very last. After the writing, we had a lesson in history, and then the babies chanted their ba, be bi, bo, bu. Down there at the back of the room old Hauser had put on his spectacles and, holding his primer in both hands, spel-led the letters with them. You could see that he, too, was crying; his voice trembled with emotion, and it was so funny to hear him that we all wanted to laugh and cry. Ah, how well I remember it, that last lesson!

Returning from drill

All at once the church-clock struck twelve. Then the Angelus. At the same moment the trumpets of the Prussians, returning from drill, sounded under our windows. M. Hamel stood up, very pale, in his chair. I never saw him look so tall.

“My friends,” said he, “I—I—” But something choked him. He could not go on.

Then he turned to the blackboard, took a piece of chalk, and, bear¬ing on with all his might, he wrote as large as he could:

“Vive La France!”

Then he stopped and leaned his head against the wall, and, without a word, he made a gesture to us with his hand:

“School is dismissed—you may go.”

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The Last Lesson part 3

Poor man! It was in honor of this last lesson that he had put on his fine Sunday clothes, and now I understood why the old men of the village were sitting there in the back of the room. It was because they were sorry, too, that they had not gone to school more. It was their way of thanking our master for his forty years of faithful service and of showing their respect for the country that was theirs no more.

Heart beating

While I was thinking of all this, I heard my name called. It was my turn to recite. What would I not have, given to be able to say that dreadful rule for the participle all through, very loud and clear, and without one mistake? But I got mixed up on the first words and stood there, holding on to my desk, my heart beating, and not daring to look up. I heard M. Hamel say to me:

“I won`t scold you, little Franz; you must feel bad enough. See how it is! Every day we have said to ourselves: `Bah! I`ve plenty of time. I`ll learn it to-morrow.` And now you see where we`ve come out. Ah, that`s the great trouble with Alsace; she puts off learning till to-mor¬row. Now those fellows out there will have the right to say to you: `How is it; you pretend to be Frenchmen, and yet you can neither speak nor write your own language?` But you are not the worst, poor little Franz. We`ve all a great deal to reproach ourselves with.

“Your parents were not anxious enough to have you learn. They preferred to put you to work on a farm or at the mills, so as to have a little more money. And I? I`ve been to blame also. Have I not often sent you to water my flowers instead of learning your lessons? And when I wanted to go fishing, did I not just give you a holiday?”

Then, from one thing to another, M. Hamel went on to talk of the French language, saying that it was the most beautiful language in the world—the clearest, the most logical; that we must guard it among us and never forget it, because when a people are enslaved, as long as they hold fast to their language it is as if they had the key to their prison.

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The Last Lesson part 2

I had counted on the commotion to get to my desk without being seen; but, of course, that day everything had to be as quiet as Sunday morning. Through the window I saw my classmates, already in their places, and M. Hamel walking up and down with his terrible iron ruler under his arm. I had to open the door and go in before everybody. You can imagine how I blushed and how frightened I was.

But nothing happened. M. Hamel saw me and said very kindly: “Go to your place quickly, little Franz. We were beginning without you.”

I jumped over the bench and sat down at my desk. Not till then, when I had got a little over my fright, did I see that our teacher had on his beautiful green coat, his frilled shirt, and the little black silk cap, all embroidered, that he never wore except on inspection and prize days. Besides, the whole school seemed so strange and solemn.

But the thing that surprised me most was to see, on the back benches that were always empty, the village people sitting quietly like our¬selves; old Hauser, with his three-cornered hat, the former mayor, the former postmaster, and several others besides. Everybody looked sad; and Hauser had brought an old primer, thumbed at the edges, and he held it open on his knees with his great spectacles lying across the pages.

Alsace and Lorraine

While I was wondering about it all, M. Hamel mounted his chair, and, in the same grave and gentle tone which he had used to me, said: “My children, this is the last lesson I shall give you. The order has come from Berlin to teach only German in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. The new master comes to-morrow. This is your last French lesson. I want you to be very attentive.”

What a thunderclap these words were to me!

Oh, the wretches; that was what they had put up at the town-hall! My last French lesson! Why, I hardly knew how to write! I should never learn any more! I must stop there, then! Oh, how sorry I was for not learning my lessons, for seeking birds` eggs, or going sliding on the Saar!

My books, that had seemed such a nuisance a while ago, so heavy to carry, my grammar, and my history of the saints, were old friends now that I couldn`t give up. And M. Hamel, too; the idea that he was going away, that I should never see him again, made me forget all about his ruler and how cranky he was.

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The Last Lesson part 1

Alphonse Daudet (1840-1897)

Alphonse Daudet, one of the masters of the Naturalistic School of modern France, was bom at Nimes in 1840. He made his literary debut in 1858 with a volume of verse. He was both novelist and short story writer, but the Contes du Lundi and Lettres de mon Moulin are now read in preference to Sappho and Jack. The Tartarin books are perhaps an exception: they are little masterpieces of humour and observation. The Contes du Lundi (1873) contain some of Daudet`s most delicate and appealing stories. In The Last Lesson there is a spontaneity and feeling which is characteristic of all his best work.

The present version, anonymously translated, is reprinted from Great Short Stories, P. F. Collier Sons, New York, 1909. Copyright, 1909, by the Frank A. Munsey Co., by whose permission it is here used.

The Last Lesson

I started for school very late that morning and was in great dread of a scolding, especially because M. Hamel had said that he would question us on participles, and I did not know the first word about them. For a moment I thought of running away and spending the day out of doors. It was so warm, so bright! The birds were chirp¬ing at the edge of the woods; and in the open field back of the saw¬mill the Prussian soldiers were drilling. It was all much more tempting than the rule for participles, but I had the strength to resist, and hurried off to school.

When I passed the town hall there was a crowd in front of the bulletin-board. For the last two years all our bad news had come from there—the lost battles, the draft, the orders of the commanding officer —and I thought to myself, without stopping:

“What can be the matter now?”

Then, as I hurried by as fast as I could go, the blacksmith, Wachter, who was there, with his apprentice, reading the bulletin, called after me:

“Don`t go so fast, bub; you`ll get to your school in plenty of time!” I thought he was making fun of me, and reached M. Hamel`s little garden all out of breath.

Usually, when school began, there was a great bustle, which could be heard out in the street, the opening and closing of desks, lessons re¬peated in unison, very loud, with our hands over our ears to under¬stand better, and the teacher`s great ruler rapping on the table. But now it was all so still!

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Zheravna Festival

Private tours Bulgaria. Bulgaria is no different from any other country in the world. It has its own history, heroes, legends. It surely had its falls and pinnacle. Bulgaria is inviting you on private tours Bulgaria to learn more about the country.

The country had difficult moments but it has always had its folklore. That folklore full of never ending energy which helped Bulgarians to survive through the centuries of wars. It also helped them to stay as a nation. What does folklore mean? It is the beliefs, traditions, stories of a community which are passed through the generations by word of mouth. Bulgarian folk songs, Bulgarian traditional costumes have these in them. The costume is one of the most typical elements of the Bulgarian folk culture.

It reflects the specificity, traditional culture and life of the Bulgarian people. According to ethnography, the origin of the costume is mainly Slavonic. However, it bears features of the clothes that Thracians and ancient Bulgarians used to wear. Also, features of other peoples’ can be noticed in the national costume. These are the nations that Bulgarians were in contact with – Turkish people, Greeks, Albanians, Vlachs. (private tour Istanbul)

A magic world of colours and patterns

The magic of private tours Bulgaria is endless. It reveals a magic world of different colours and motifs. These colours and motifs tell us stories of times long gone. Although Bulgaria is a Christian country, still paganism is alive. Pagan beliefs and legends are significant elements in the traditional costume.

In the past people used to have their traditional everyday clothing and such on festive occasions. Each region of Bulgaria has its own costume, which has typical motifs that make it unique. Diversity comes as a result of different factors: geographical, historical, socio-economic, cultural, religious, outside influence and of course, the personal taste.

Firstly, we need to say that costumes are male and female. Due to the many colours and motifs, the female clothing is more interesting than the men’s. However, male clothing can be attractive as well. Usually women’s clothes were the soukman, the one-apron, the two-apron costumes and the saya. Of course, they differed in the items included in the clothing. More or less, the main item in all of them was the chemise.

And secondly, what distinguishes both costumes is the outer clothes. For men`s costumes the shape and colour are the ones that matter, while for female it is the cut and wearing style.

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Rhodope Mountains – Legends and Reality

Today’s train of tour Bulgaria is leaving the capital of Bulgaria, Sofia (private tour Sofia), to travel to the Rhodope Mountains. It stops at stations that tell legends for the mountain. These are interesting just like everything else in the area. In all of them Rhodope is a young girl who everybody loved and wanted for themselves.

According to a Thracian legend, Rhodope was a mythological queen and Hemus – her brother. Their father was a sea god. The brother and the sister were very happy. They used to play a lot in the vast fields until one day when they decided to pretend being the oldest gods. In their game Rhodope and Hemus became husband and wife. Hemus made himself a big, white beard while Rhodope let her beautiful blonde hair down.

Tour Bulgaria

That made the gods, and especially the main god Zeus, angry. He was that annoyed that he turned Rhodope into a mountain. Seeing this, her brother, Hemus, got so scared that he calcified and became a mountain as well. Since then the brother and the sister became mountains. Hemus is the Thracian name of Stara Planina, and his sister – Rhodope Mountains. The two mountains are away from each other and there is the spacious Thracian Plain between them.

Or, another legend says that Rhodope and Hemus were young and in love with each other. That annoyed gods a lot and they turned them into rocks.

Tour Bulgaria – mystical reality

However, according to some sources, the name Rhodope has a Slavic origin. It has the Slav words ‘ruda’ and ‘ropa’ in it. That is ‘ruda’ (meaning ‘ore’) and ‘pit’. They characterize the ancient activities which were done in the past – ore output and casting.

Tour Bulgaria

The most famous legend says that the mythical singer Orpheus was born in the Rhodope mountain. He was enchanting people and animals with his magical music. When on tour Bulgaria train, one can visit many places in the mountains. Among the most interesting ones are the caves – the Yagodinska cave and the Devil`s Throat cave. Yagodinska cave is the third longest cave in the country and the longest in the Rhodopes. It is the most beautiful one in the mountain as well.

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