Must it then be
whispered
only?
Poland - 1915 - Poland, a Study in National Idealism - Monica Gardner
MTSTIC PILGRIMAGE IN SIBERIA 195
Will of God that within a few hours thou shalt
die: so be of more tranquil heart. '
"Hearing this, Anhelli bowed his head, and
submitted to the Divine Will. And the angels
departed. And when he remained alone, Anhelli
cried out with a sorrowful voice: 'This, then, is
already the end ! What have I done on earth?
Was it a dream? '
"And while Anhelli pondered upon the hidden
things of the future, the sky reddened and the
glorious sun burst forth; and, halting on the
horizon, it arose no further, crimson as fire. Then
the birds of the air and the white mews, which
God had bidden flee before the darkness, availed
them of the short day, and flew in great crowds,
wailing. Then Anhelli looked on them, and said:
'Whither do you fly ? ' And it seemed to him that
in the plaint of the birds he heard a voice answer-
ing him: 'We are flying to thy native land. Dost
thou bid us greet anyone there? Or, as we sit on
some roof dear to thee, shall we sing in the night
the song of sorrow, so that thy mother shall wake,
or one of thy kin, and weep in the darkness for
fear, thinking of the son whom the land of the
grave hath swallowed, and the brother whom
sorrow hath consumed? '
"Such was the voice of the birds; and Anhelli's
heart broke within him, and he fell. And the sun
sank under the earth, and there were only the
birds flying ever higher, shining on the sapphire
sky like wreaths of white roses, flying to the south.
"Anhelli was dead.
"In the darkness that then befell, there shone
a great dawn from the south, and a fire of clouds.
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? 196
POLAND
And the tired moon sank into the flame of the
skies, like a white dove falling at eventide on a hut
red with the setting of the sun.
"Eloe sat by the body of the dead Anhelli.
And lo! on a sudden a knight on a horse, all in
Srmour, came forth from the fiery dawn, and he
ed with a terrible rattle of hoofs. The snow ran
before him and before the breast of the horse, like
the foam of the waves before a boat. And in the
hand of the knight was a banner, and on it burned
three letters of fire. * And the knight reached in
his flight Anhelli's dead body, and he cried out
with a voice of thunder: 'Here is one who was a
soldier. Let him rise! Let him mount on my
horse, and I will carry him swifter than the storm.
Lo, the nations are rising from the dead ! Lo, the
streets of cities are paved with dead bodies! He
who hath a soul let him arise, let him live, for it
is the hour for strong men to live. '
"Thus spoke the knight; and Eloe, rising from
the dead body, said: 'Knight, wake him not, for
he sleeps. He was predestined to sacrifice, even
the sacrifice of his heart. Knight, ride on, wake
him not. This body belongs to me, and this heart
was mine. Knight, thy horse stamps on his hoofs.
Ride on! '
"And the fiery knight fled away with the sound
of a mighty storm; and Eloe sat near Anhelli's
dead body. And she was glad that his heart did
not wake at the voice of the knight, and that he
still slept. "
So ends this strange and painful poem on that
? L U D, the Polish for Nation, People.
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? MTSTIC PILGRIMAGE IN SIBERIA 197
lieved setting of the whole work. He who has
been the chosen victim for his nation may not
even arise to behold her resurrection. In this
figure of Anhelli, Krasinski sees the "generation
which is languishing away in tears, in sorrow, in
vain desires; and which will die on the day pre-
ceding the day in which those desires of theirs
* Letters of Zygmunt Krasinski. Vol. I. To Coostantine
Gaszyniki, Nov. 18th, 1838.
same deep note
are to be fulfilled. "*
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? CHAPTER VI
THE SPIRIT OF THE STEPPE
THE patriotic mysticism of Bohdan Zaleski,
whom Mickiewicz termed the nightingale
of Polish literature, takes a different tone
to that of Messianism.
He was born in the Ukraine; the land whose
immense, flower-strewn plains, sighing to the
winds, inspire those who visit her as strangers
with an intense melancholy, but those to whom she
gives birth with an eternal nostalgia when parted
from her. Zaleski, brought up in the steppes as a
child, drew in the Ukrainian poetry and legends
with the air he breathed. The Rising of 1830, in
which he took part, drove him like so many
others from his country: and he lived out half
a century of exile in that incessant yearning for
his native Ukraine that gives its wild and mournful
music to his verse. He survived by thirty years
his beloved friend, Adam Mickiewicz. Unlike the
great trio of Polish poets who all died in their
prime, he reached the extremity of bereaved and
infirm old age. It was only in 1886 that he closed
a singularly devout and pure life. *
Polish literature offers nothing quite similar
to that one poem of Bohdan Zaleski's that stands
distinct from all the rest of his work: the Spirit
of the Steppe (1836). Obscure as it is, its beauty is
* S. Zdziarski, Bohdan Zaleski. Lw6w (Polish)~ *
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? THE SPIRIT OF THE STEPPE 199
mystical, ethereal,-elusive. It is imbued with the
magic and mystery of the steppes. The Ukraine
lures her nursling back, as flesh of her flesh, after
he has lost her for ever, to gaze on the successive
pageants, sweeping over her plains and skies, of
nations chosen by God and faithless to their
calling. Then he beholds his own country, Poland,
not in the triumph foretold to her by Messianism,
but rather as one who has sinned, entering at
last the everlasting gates.
A bald English rendering can but feebly reflect
the exquisite opening of the poem. I only
venture to offer it to the reader to whom the
Polish language is not accessible by way of giving
him some idea of its general drift.
"And my mother, mother Ukraine,
And the mother, me, her son,
Cradled singing at her bosom.
Oh, the enchantress! in the aerial
Dawn, she saw the winged life
For her son, and, pitying, cried:
'Nurse this child of mine, oh, Naiad!
With songs' milk and flowers' marrow
Nourish for flight this tender body.
Give him pictures in his dreams,
The centuries of my fair glory.
Let the folksongs of my people,
In hues of gold and hues of azure,
In a rainbow, flower about him. '
"Sweet she was to me, oh, sweet!
No one, ever, anywhere,
Tenderer mother has caressed.
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? 200
POLAND
Those short years and days unknown,
Wrapped in miracle and secret,
Lie within my soul ensealed.
There my memory ever turneth,
Ever are my senses seeking
What has passed, a distant dream.
"Oh, the naiads of my mother,
With their kiss that rang in song,
Fired my blood for evermore.
To-day amid my country's torments,
Sad my heart and soul to death,
Still that blood forbids me sleep.
"And the mother, mother Ukraine,
When the star from heaven signalled,
Me, her son, her winged son,
Took she from the naiad's hand:
Stripped she off my down and feathers,
Bade my wings rise from the nest,
Tender omens and entreaties
Wailed she on her nestling's trail.
"' I the handmaid of the Lord,
Day by day my dearest children,
By the will of the earth's Father,
Send I as the snowdrift's plaything.
Now again my loved one flieth,
Knowing not as yet his cross.
Free his thought, and swift as wind,
To marvels clings and thirsts for song.
May he his life dream in the steppes,
The steppes, the world's destroyers' road.
There the wrath of God passed by. '"
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? THE SPIRIT OF THE STEPPE 201
She is seen no more, and only the enchant-
ment of her memory remains to her son. "The
moment eternally great and holy sweetens, with a
breath of Paradise," his tears and sufferings
under the cross. "Blessed be he who remembereth,
somewhere in the years gone by, the sweet,
strange, pure, and winged life, his first beginning.
He who, in the torment of fleshly fetters, lifts his
hands to heaven daily, yearneth to his ghostly
memories. "
These "ghostly memories" of the "winged
life" on the steppes veil the whole poem with
an atmosphere of mystery that enhances at once
its romance and its charm. The mother of
the poet's fancy has gone. But, ere he descends
to the turmoil of life, he is caught up on his
wings to the skies, "God's tent of molten gold. "
He is among the choirs who sing Hosanna before
the throne. The angels are praying for him whose
trial on earth is about to begin. He spreads his
wings for the flight to the highest things; but,
for the first time, his thought knows bewilderment,
and he returns " sad, to the abyss " of earth.
Then succeeds the poetical description of
Bohdan's orphan boyhood and of his youth till the
cry resounds from afar: "Poland, thy country! "
With tears, he, who " with each breath draws in
the music of the steppe," says farewell to his
family and to those same steppes. He is swept by
the Rising into exile and into the tempest of the
world. Poverty, temptation, sadness surround
him. Toiling for his daily bread, he finds himself
following in the secret of his thoughts the flight
of the crane, living the life of the birds in the
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? 202 POLAND
free, untrammelled steppes. Ghosts of ages pass
dimly before him. He feels called to praise God
in a new song. An angelic voice summons him, as
with a blast of thunder, from on high : " Return,
oh, exile, to thy country. " He wakes, weeping.
To which country, that on earth or the one in
heaven? He returns to the land he loves; but
not in the flesh, only in a vision.
Once more, then, his is the " winged life. "
"Breath of God, eternal breathing,
Wind of steppes, blowing light and dry,
Spreadeth as a couch beneath me,
Blows the down about my shoulders,
Swaddles me in its warm bosom. "
It rocks him above the graves of those fallen in
the Ukraine, which was for centuries the scene of
border warfare in Polish history. He sees the
Black Sea, glittering as a counterfeit of the splen-
dours of dawn. " I see marvels, I hear marvels. "
In a burst of light and music, the wizard-singer,
Bojan, the patriarchal poet of the Slav peoples,
sings to his golden- stringed zither his country's
welcome. Its sounds ring high and low over the
steppes, and the buried ages wake, till the fire and
the song alike fade into mist.
Floating on the wind, the poet then has a series
of visions, unrolling themselves over the steppes,
of the nations that have risen and fallen since the
beginning of the world. He begins with Eden and
the fall of man, reaches the Crucifixion, the
mission of the apostles, the ruin of Israel.
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? THE SPIRIT OF THE STEPPE 203
"Slept my spirit. I dreamed sweetly
In a light, blest spirit dream.
Shoreless time and time in space
Shineth by the word of God,
Singeth out the mighty epic.
Million lights and million shadows,
Worlds in flowers--the world's history--
Blow in incense to the Lord. "
He thus prefaces each stage of the chronicle
of the world that he passes in review. Hoofs
thunder in the steppes across which the hordes
sweep to the destruction of Rome. The wind
whispers mysterious messages to the forefathers
of his race. Rome falls, and the Rome of the
Papacy rises in her stead. The poet gives a rapid
summary of the centuries that follow, coloured
by his deep religious sense. Men sin repeatedly,
and the penalty ever descends afresh upon human-
ity. Then his spirit sleeps, and in his dream struggles
to escape as though to home. The voice of an
angel sighs in his ear: "The time of thy trial is
fulfilled. Behold this country, thine own land";
and with the eyes, not of the body:
"I see, I see a lovely land,
Spaces stretching of broad meads,
Mountains, forests, and two seas;
And a loved and mighty race,
Sad and yearning, gaze through tears. "
"Their great mother is in mourning. The
Poland of the Piasts, of the Jagiellos, once mistress
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? 204
POLAND
of Lithuania, Ruthenia, Silesia, has now no corner
of her soil free. "
"Silent everywhere our language,
Language in our hearts beloved.
As the instrument of angels,
? Even so fair its melodies.
Must it then be whispered only?
Hear, oh, Lord, our little children
Wailing from a hiding place.
Saddest fate! they learn to fear
Their foe before they fear their God.
1 And our women, weak and fainting,
For long years weep in the dust.
Their sons, their brothers, lie in graves,
Or wander at the world's far ends. "
And the prophet-poets cry aloud with all their
strength the Polish songs: their voices are as
the wailing of the orphaned.
The singer is carried again on the wings of the
wind of the steppe, and swept to the Tatry--the
Carpathians--into the vision up to which the
whole poem has been leading. He sees on the summit
C i of the Polish mountains his mother Poland, but
| I a figure far removed from that under which
Mickiewicz and Krasinski delighted to symbolize
her. Here she is the beautiful repentant sinner.
"She has loved and she has wandered. She has
knelt for years in ashes. " Her hair streams in
grief and penitence, dishevelled, to the wind.
Her cheek has faded for mourning. Beside her sit
her sisters who have shared her fate: Lithuania,
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? THE SPIRIT OF THE STEPPE 205
taking refuge in her bosom, the Ukraine, "beauti-
ful, incarnate song," who weeps, and through her
tears looks upon "me, her son. " The procession
of Poland's dead heroes gathers about her: and
her sisters, kneeling, cry to heaven the word so
beloved by Zaleski:
"Great her sins, but surely, Lord,
Greater still Thy mercy is. "
Rainbows flash from heaven, and ever louder
is the song of the angels and of the apostles of
Slavonia: "Honour and glory to the Magdalen.
We carry the absolution of the Lord. Raise the
penitent's head. The Lord is arming the arch-
angel. The time of the Holy Ghost draws nigh.
The world shall gather strength in the grace of
the cross. From the seed of repentant Poland the
future generations shall flower in fruit to the
Lord. The archangel himself at their head shall
lead them to the last battle with evil. " Amidst
the hosannas of numberless multitudes of the
saints, the poet beholds his nation arise from the
dust of her repentance, her youth given back to
her. "I see marvels, I hear marvels. " In this
supreme moment he returns to the mystic note of
the Ukraine. The same light and music that
flashed around the steppe when he returned there
in spirit from his exile, now beat from the heavenly
fires. Once more the voice of the wizard and the
sound of his zither peal over the Ukraine. "Glory,
honour! She shall rise! " is the song of Bojan.
He stretches his instrument over all the countries
of Slavonia; and the sweet melody streams
forth.
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? 206
POLAND
"The flock, the snow-white flock, is floating,
The wizard-singer's swan-like song
Sounds one long prophetic word
To the future, hope in song.
Still that word rings in my ear,
Ever dwells within my heart,
In my heart for ever fondled.
14 Let our Poland rise for ever!
At the day of the great banquet,
In the choir I will, Slavonia,
Repeat to you the song of Bojan.
Suffering in one flash shall pass. "
Again, on the " wind of the steppe, the breath
of God, his aerial couch," he is carried in the mists
that are gathering about him. Through the
whistle of the winds, he hears a sad, wild melody.
The third cock crows. Voices of the dead un-
baptized children who, in the Ukrainian legends,
wander through the snow and storm, crying for
baptism and Paradise, wail in the tempest. Like
them the poet, a son of earth, hungers too early
for the " angelic bread" he may not touch yet.
Like them, he is unable to enter heaven, for he is
fettered by the vesture of flesh. He returns to his
own place in a hard world. He sees no more the
vision, the memory of which wakes eternal sad-
ness in his soul.
"Where that flight, that far, wide flight?
Where heard I that mighty epic?
Worlds in flowers, the world's history?
- Where that golden-stringed singer f"
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? THE SPIRIT OF THE STEPPE 207
He has gazed on the miracles of the universe,
and they cannot perish from his eyes or heart.
Man may call what the poet saw a dream. "Are
the tears of my life a dream? Poland, the
Ukraine, a dream ? " he asks, with the mingled
passion of the patriot and the mystic who, in the
body or out of the body, had beheld things unseen
by mortal eyes. "Blessed be he who remembereth
somewhere in the years gone by, the sweet, strange,
pure, and winged life, his first beginning. He
who, in the torment of fleshly fetters, lifts his
hands to heaven daily, yearneth to his ghostly
memories. "
"According to Zaleski," said Mickiewicz in
the College de France, "it is not the desire to
sing the exploits of some celebrated chief, it is
not the love of popularity, it is not the love of art
that can form a poet. You must have been pre-
destined, you must have been attached by myster-
ious bonds to the country that you are to sing
one day: and to sing is nothing else than to reveal
the thought of God, which rests on that country
and on the people to which the poet belongs. "*
* Adam Mickiewicz, Lts Slaves,
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? CHAPTER VII
THE IDEALS OF KORNEL UJEJSKI
BY the year i860, the great triad of Polish
poets, Mickiewicz, KrasinsH, and Slowacki,
had passed from the world. But, in a
certain measure, their mantle may be said to have
fallen upon a poet of the succeeding generation,
whose poetry has appealed so strongly to the
hearts of his countrymen that his famous Chorale
has passed into the treasury of Polish national
songs. Kornel Ujejski--born in 1823, dead in
1897--can scarcely, in point of birth, be considered
as belonging to a younger generation than Zygmunt
Krasinski, who was only eleven years his senior;
but he survived him by nearly forty years, wrote
under different conditions, and had been,
moreover, a mere child during those disasters of
the thirties that changed the lives of Mickiewicz,
; Krasinski, and Slowacki. Thus his work, from a
literary and moral standpoint, reads as that of
one who came later.
He was the son of a noble house in Austrian
Poland. The poet's private life, with the exception
of the year of massacre in 1846, was outwardly
prosperous, and experienced none of the afflictions
which fell to the lot of Mickiewicz and Krasinski.
And yet over the greater part of his poetry, and
especially over its finest portion, hangs a not less,
perhaps even deeper, sadness than that stamped
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? THE IDEALS OF KORNEL UJEJSKI 209
on the writings of his predecessors. So terrible
was the ordeal through which every devout son
of Poland passed in the early years of her mourn-
ing, the thirties of the nineteenth century, that
an inheritance of profound melancholy was the
inevitable birthright even of those Polish poets
who were only children at the time. The Polish
child was of necessity not only brought up on a
chronicle of sorrow, but those sorrows were living,
were present to him. Dismembered Poland was
harassed by oppression. Ujejski said of himself
that from his early childhood an atmosphere of
tragedy enveloped him; that his first impres-
sions of the world were such as to banish from his
heart all childish joy, and to make his poetry a
song of grief. * "Bitter is the condition of the Pole
in every part of the wide earth," wrote Krasinski.
This of itself alone would suffice to explain the
general tone of Ujejski's work; and when we
remember that, after he had reached manhood, he
beheld the calamities of 1846 and of the sixties
overwhelm his nation, it is little wonder that his 1
poems are among the saddest in Polish literature.
Like the other great poets of his race, Ujejski's
poetical ideal, early conceived and put into
practice equally early, was that of a moral and
national teacher. We have seen how Poland looked
to her poets for help and guidance. Ujejski, then,
chose his calling, and remained faithful to it all
his life. His prayer was, so he sings in his poem on
the death of Mickiewicz, to follow in the latter's
footsteps, and speak to his people of the same
national faith that Mickiewicz taught^ albeit he
* A. Mazanowski, Kornel Ujtjtki (Polish). '
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? 2IO
POLAND
confesses he cannot do so with a power like to
that of the greater poet; to use the Polish lyre,
however heavy the burden to himself, as an
instrument of blessing, and never of evil, to his
nation.
His love for his country soon found its way
into verse. In one of his first poems--The Song of
the Grain (1843)--the never-dying hopes of
nature can teach him and his nation, for all their
weary hearts, the moral of a new life to be born
again. The sun sets, and with it the symbol of
liberty. But the stars rising remind him that there
are other stars, the stars, that is, of the faith and
homely virtue of the peasants tilling the fields,
that shall be as guiding fifes to all Poland.
"And our grief grows lighter, our hearts ache
less, knowing that the flame trembles in every
little spark," and that great luminaries may be
fashioned in time out of united stars.
Then, going out into the meadows at daybreak
to sow the grain, when " all the air is singing like
a lark," he learns the lesson of the wheat. The
reader will remember how in Frank Norris' noble
novel The Octopus: The Epic of the Wheat, after
long anguish Vanamee, wandering through the
night, sees the dawn flaming over ranchos once
bare, now white with wheat, and reads therein
that life springs from death, immortality from
corruption, joy from pain, even as the seed
fructifies out of dark places. To the young Pole,
writing half a century earlier, the wheat speaks in
like manner and, as he watches the peasants
sowing the grain, he consoles himself in his heavy
sorrow by the thought that the sons will reap
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? THE IDEALS OF KORNEL UJEJSK1 zn
where the fathers sowed. The sower will pass to
the grave with the words on his lips:
"41 die, but the seed will not die. ' Oh, it
were sweet to dream thus in the hour preceding
death! "
And another will take his place who can sow in
his turn, and who will not spare his toil. Storms
may beat upon the furrows; but Mother Earth
shields the seed in her bosom, and slowly the spirit
breathes and gives it life. And at last the poet
beholds the fields golden with the harvest while
the reapers load the waggons, singing songs of
joy and freedom.
A year after he had written this poem, Ujejski
saw Warsaw for the first time. This visit to the
capital of his country, then groaning beneath the
heel of Nicholas I. , had a far reaching influence
on the young poet's subsequent life as a writer.
Not only did it lay the foundations of the poem
Marathon by which he made his name, but it was
in Warsaw, with the spectacle of the nation's
suffering before him, that he was inspired with
the clear comprehension of his particular vocation.
He tells us in the poem The Lyre of Jeremias,
which he wrote in Warsaw, that now he casts his
old lyre underfoot:
"For I can sing no longer for myself. I stretch
my hand to Jeremias' lyre to string it to the wail-
ing of my brothers. I renounce myself. I cast all
my own sorrows to the bottom of my heart; let
them perish without echo. My whole nation is my
family. Mine are the tears from her eyes, mine
the blood from her wounds. Suffering her pain,
I will sing. Ah, I suffer! "
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? 212
POLAND
He sits sorrowing and alone, with a city in
mourning about him. His friends are gone, slain,
or in the living graves of Siberia; and, as he
watches at night,
"I hear the subterranean hollow drag of chains.
I hear far off the beating of the hammer. It is my
brothers toiling in the mines. "
He sees his people in the snowy deserts, perish-
ing of hunger and cold, dying with no memory
left of them. And, likening the tears of Poland
to those of Jerusalem, the poet, falling on his face
for grief, cries upon the spirit of Jeremias, his
favourite type of a national inspirer and prophet,
to give him of his strength, for he sinks beneath
his sorrow.
We shall see later with what deep psychological
significance this figure of Jeremias is invested in
Ujejski's eyes.
Up to the year of Ujejski's visit to Warsaw, his
name was scarcely known. Then, after his return
to Austrian Poland, as he was taking part one
evening in a literary gathering in a friend's house,
the boy of twenty-two read aloud a poem that he
had just finished writing, entitled Marathon. Such
was the patriotic power, the finished artistic
beauty, of these lines that the audience sat spell-
bound in silent wonder and admiration. From
that hour, UjejsH took his place among the great
poets of his nation.
His purpose in writing Marathon may be gath-
ered from the words of stinging reproach to his
countrymen which form the preface, and from
the quotation out of Byron which he chooses as his
motto:
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? 'THE IDEALS OF KORNEL UJEJSKI 213
"The mountains look on Marathon,
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dream'd that Greece might still be free,
For standing on the Persian's grave,
I could not deem myself a slave. "
"You ask a song," so Ujejski flings his poem
forth into the world, "of charm and sweetness
for your ears; but, my compatriots, my only
song for you is one that shall remind you of the
clanking of your chains. You ask a song as a flower
in a garland to give you honour at the banquet;
but I would fain steel your enervated souls in
a blush of fire like armour in the flame. "
Then he laments that to him, a youth, has
fallen the task of spreading this language of
sarcasm and upbraiding instead of that of love.
He has long sought for some means by which he
can infuse manhood into the hearts of men who
are growing weak in bondage; and now he will
raise the heroes of ancient history to point the
way.
And so he sings the story of Marathon; in
other words, of the victory of a few routing, by
the strength of one common bond of devotion to
their fatherland, the hosts of Persia. The poem
opens with the burning of Sardis.
"A slave ran out from the burning town, and
behind him ran in pursuit the wails of the dying
that rang in his ears. And he fled, veiled by the
darkness of night. Oft he cast backward his terrified
eyes, and behind him the wind breathed fire on
the heights, and carried clamour upon it. He stood
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Will of God that within a few hours thou shalt
die: so be of more tranquil heart. '
"Hearing this, Anhelli bowed his head, and
submitted to the Divine Will. And the angels
departed. And when he remained alone, Anhelli
cried out with a sorrowful voice: 'This, then, is
already the end ! What have I done on earth?
Was it a dream? '
"And while Anhelli pondered upon the hidden
things of the future, the sky reddened and the
glorious sun burst forth; and, halting on the
horizon, it arose no further, crimson as fire. Then
the birds of the air and the white mews, which
God had bidden flee before the darkness, availed
them of the short day, and flew in great crowds,
wailing. Then Anhelli looked on them, and said:
'Whither do you fly ? ' And it seemed to him that
in the plaint of the birds he heard a voice answer-
ing him: 'We are flying to thy native land. Dost
thou bid us greet anyone there? Or, as we sit on
some roof dear to thee, shall we sing in the night
the song of sorrow, so that thy mother shall wake,
or one of thy kin, and weep in the darkness for
fear, thinking of the son whom the land of the
grave hath swallowed, and the brother whom
sorrow hath consumed? '
"Such was the voice of the birds; and Anhelli's
heart broke within him, and he fell. And the sun
sank under the earth, and there were only the
birds flying ever higher, shining on the sapphire
sky like wreaths of white roses, flying to the south.
"Anhelli was dead.
"In the darkness that then befell, there shone
a great dawn from the south, and a fire of clouds.
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? 196
POLAND
And the tired moon sank into the flame of the
skies, like a white dove falling at eventide on a hut
red with the setting of the sun.
"Eloe sat by the body of the dead Anhelli.
And lo! on a sudden a knight on a horse, all in
Srmour, came forth from the fiery dawn, and he
ed with a terrible rattle of hoofs. The snow ran
before him and before the breast of the horse, like
the foam of the waves before a boat. And in the
hand of the knight was a banner, and on it burned
three letters of fire. * And the knight reached in
his flight Anhelli's dead body, and he cried out
with a voice of thunder: 'Here is one who was a
soldier. Let him rise! Let him mount on my
horse, and I will carry him swifter than the storm.
Lo, the nations are rising from the dead ! Lo, the
streets of cities are paved with dead bodies! He
who hath a soul let him arise, let him live, for it
is the hour for strong men to live. '
"Thus spoke the knight; and Eloe, rising from
the dead body, said: 'Knight, wake him not, for
he sleeps. He was predestined to sacrifice, even
the sacrifice of his heart. Knight, ride on, wake
him not. This body belongs to me, and this heart
was mine. Knight, thy horse stamps on his hoofs.
Ride on! '
"And the fiery knight fled away with the sound
of a mighty storm; and Eloe sat near Anhelli's
dead body. And she was glad that his heart did
not wake at the voice of the knight, and that he
still slept. "
So ends this strange and painful poem on that
? L U D, the Polish for Nation, People.
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? MTSTIC PILGRIMAGE IN SIBERIA 197
lieved setting of the whole work. He who has
been the chosen victim for his nation may not
even arise to behold her resurrection. In this
figure of Anhelli, Krasinski sees the "generation
which is languishing away in tears, in sorrow, in
vain desires; and which will die on the day pre-
ceding the day in which those desires of theirs
* Letters of Zygmunt Krasinski. Vol. I. To Coostantine
Gaszyniki, Nov. 18th, 1838.
same deep note
are to be fulfilled. "*
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? CHAPTER VI
THE SPIRIT OF THE STEPPE
THE patriotic mysticism of Bohdan Zaleski,
whom Mickiewicz termed the nightingale
of Polish literature, takes a different tone
to that of Messianism.
He was born in the Ukraine; the land whose
immense, flower-strewn plains, sighing to the
winds, inspire those who visit her as strangers
with an intense melancholy, but those to whom she
gives birth with an eternal nostalgia when parted
from her. Zaleski, brought up in the steppes as a
child, drew in the Ukrainian poetry and legends
with the air he breathed. The Rising of 1830, in
which he took part, drove him like so many
others from his country: and he lived out half
a century of exile in that incessant yearning for
his native Ukraine that gives its wild and mournful
music to his verse. He survived by thirty years
his beloved friend, Adam Mickiewicz. Unlike the
great trio of Polish poets who all died in their
prime, he reached the extremity of bereaved and
infirm old age. It was only in 1886 that he closed
a singularly devout and pure life. *
Polish literature offers nothing quite similar
to that one poem of Bohdan Zaleski's that stands
distinct from all the rest of his work: the Spirit
of the Steppe (1836). Obscure as it is, its beauty is
* S. Zdziarski, Bohdan Zaleski. Lw6w (Polish)~ *
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? THE SPIRIT OF THE STEPPE 199
mystical, ethereal,-elusive. It is imbued with the
magic and mystery of the steppes. The Ukraine
lures her nursling back, as flesh of her flesh, after
he has lost her for ever, to gaze on the successive
pageants, sweeping over her plains and skies, of
nations chosen by God and faithless to their
calling. Then he beholds his own country, Poland,
not in the triumph foretold to her by Messianism,
but rather as one who has sinned, entering at
last the everlasting gates.
A bald English rendering can but feebly reflect
the exquisite opening of the poem. I only
venture to offer it to the reader to whom the
Polish language is not accessible by way of giving
him some idea of its general drift.
"And my mother, mother Ukraine,
And the mother, me, her son,
Cradled singing at her bosom.
Oh, the enchantress! in the aerial
Dawn, she saw the winged life
For her son, and, pitying, cried:
'Nurse this child of mine, oh, Naiad!
With songs' milk and flowers' marrow
Nourish for flight this tender body.
Give him pictures in his dreams,
The centuries of my fair glory.
Let the folksongs of my people,
In hues of gold and hues of azure,
In a rainbow, flower about him. '
"Sweet she was to me, oh, sweet!
No one, ever, anywhere,
Tenderer mother has caressed.
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POLAND
Those short years and days unknown,
Wrapped in miracle and secret,
Lie within my soul ensealed.
There my memory ever turneth,
Ever are my senses seeking
What has passed, a distant dream.
"Oh, the naiads of my mother,
With their kiss that rang in song,
Fired my blood for evermore.
To-day amid my country's torments,
Sad my heart and soul to death,
Still that blood forbids me sleep.
"And the mother, mother Ukraine,
When the star from heaven signalled,
Me, her son, her winged son,
Took she from the naiad's hand:
Stripped she off my down and feathers,
Bade my wings rise from the nest,
Tender omens and entreaties
Wailed she on her nestling's trail.
"' I the handmaid of the Lord,
Day by day my dearest children,
By the will of the earth's Father,
Send I as the snowdrift's plaything.
Now again my loved one flieth,
Knowing not as yet his cross.
Free his thought, and swift as wind,
To marvels clings and thirsts for song.
May he his life dream in the steppes,
The steppes, the world's destroyers' road.
There the wrath of God passed by. '"
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? THE SPIRIT OF THE STEPPE 201
She is seen no more, and only the enchant-
ment of her memory remains to her son. "The
moment eternally great and holy sweetens, with a
breath of Paradise," his tears and sufferings
under the cross. "Blessed be he who remembereth,
somewhere in the years gone by, the sweet,
strange, pure, and winged life, his first beginning.
He who, in the torment of fleshly fetters, lifts his
hands to heaven daily, yearneth to his ghostly
memories. "
These "ghostly memories" of the "winged
life" on the steppes veil the whole poem with
an atmosphere of mystery that enhances at once
its romance and its charm. The mother of
the poet's fancy has gone. But, ere he descends
to the turmoil of life, he is caught up on his
wings to the skies, "God's tent of molten gold. "
He is among the choirs who sing Hosanna before
the throne. The angels are praying for him whose
trial on earth is about to begin. He spreads his
wings for the flight to the highest things; but,
for the first time, his thought knows bewilderment,
and he returns " sad, to the abyss " of earth.
Then succeeds the poetical description of
Bohdan's orphan boyhood and of his youth till the
cry resounds from afar: "Poland, thy country! "
With tears, he, who " with each breath draws in
the music of the steppe," says farewell to his
family and to those same steppes. He is swept by
the Rising into exile and into the tempest of the
world. Poverty, temptation, sadness surround
him. Toiling for his daily bread, he finds himself
following in the secret of his thoughts the flight
of the crane, living the life of the birds in the
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? 202 POLAND
free, untrammelled steppes. Ghosts of ages pass
dimly before him. He feels called to praise God
in a new song. An angelic voice summons him, as
with a blast of thunder, from on high : " Return,
oh, exile, to thy country. " He wakes, weeping.
To which country, that on earth or the one in
heaven? He returns to the land he loves; but
not in the flesh, only in a vision.
Once more, then, his is the " winged life. "
"Breath of God, eternal breathing,
Wind of steppes, blowing light and dry,
Spreadeth as a couch beneath me,
Blows the down about my shoulders,
Swaddles me in its warm bosom. "
It rocks him above the graves of those fallen in
the Ukraine, which was for centuries the scene of
border warfare in Polish history. He sees the
Black Sea, glittering as a counterfeit of the splen-
dours of dawn. " I see marvels, I hear marvels. "
In a burst of light and music, the wizard-singer,
Bojan, the patriarchal poet of the Slav peoples,
sings to his golden- stringed zither his country's
welcome. Its sounds ring high and low over the
steppes, and the buried ages wake, till the fire and
the song alike fade into mist.
Floating on the wind, the poet then has a series
of visions, unrolling themselves over the steppes,
of the nations that have risen and fallen since the
beginning of the world. He begins with Eden and
the fall of man, reaches the Crucifixion, the
mission of the apostles, the ruin of Israel.
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? THE SPIRIT OF THE STEPPE 203
"Slept my spirit. I dreamed sweetly
In a light, blest spirit dream.
Shoreless time and time in space
Shineth by the word of God,
Singeth out the mighty epic.
Million lights and million shadows,
Worlds in flowers--the world's history--
Blow in incense to the Lord. "
He thus prefaces each stage of the chronicle
of the world that he passes in review. Hoofs
thunder in the steppes across which the hordes
sweep to the destruction of Rome. The wind
whispers mysterious messages to the forefathers
of his race. Rome falls, and the Rome of the
Papacy rises in her stead. The poet gives a rapid
summary of the centuries that follow, coloured
by his deep religious sense. Men sin repeatedly,
and the penalty ever descends afresh upon human-
ity. Then his spirit sleeps, and in his dream struggles
to escape as though to home. The voice of an
angel sighs in his ear: "The time of thy trial is
fulfilled. Behold this country, thine own land";
and with the eyes, not of the body:
"I see, I see a lovely land,
Spaces stretching of broad meads,
Mountains, forests, and two seas;
And a loved and mighty race,
Sad and yearning, gaze through tears. "
"Their great mother is in mourning. The
Poland of the Piasts, of the Jagiellos, once mistress
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? 204
POLAND
of Lithuania, Ruthenia, Silesia, has now no corner
of her soil free. "
"Silent everywhere our language,
Language in our hearts beloved.
As the instrument of angels,
? Even so fair its melodies.
Must it then be whispered only?
Hear, oh, Lord, our little children
Wailing from a hiding place.
Saddest fate! they learn to fear
Their foe before they fear their God.
1 And our women, weak and fainting,
For long years weep in the dust.
Their sons, their brothers, lie in graves,
Or wander at the world's far ends. "
And the prophet-poets cry aloud with all their
strength the Polish songs: their voices are as
the wailing of the orphaned.
The singer is carried again on the wings of the
wind of the steppe, and swept to the Tatry--the
Carpathians--into the vision up to which the
whole poem has been leading. He sees on the summit
C i of the Polish mountains his mother Poland, but
| I a figure far removed from that under which
Mickiewicz and Krasinski delighted to symbolize
her. Here she is the beautiful repentant sinner.
"She has loved and she has wandered. She has
knelt for years in ashes. " Her hair streams in
grief and penitence, dishevelled, to the wind.
Her cheek has faded for mourning. Beside her sit
her sisters who have shared her fate: Lithuania,
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? THE SPIRIT OF THE STEPPE 205
taking refuge in her bosom, the Ukraine, "beauti-
ful, incarnate song," who weeps, and through her
tears looks upon "me, her son. " The procession
of Poland's dead heroes gathers about her: and
her sisters, kneeling, cry to heaven the word so
beloved by Zaleski:
"Great her sins, but surely, Lord,
Greater still Thy mercy is. "
Rainbows flash from heaven, and ever louder
is the song of the angels and of the apostles of
Slavonia: "Honour and glory to the Magdalen.
We carry the absolution of the Lord. Raise the
penitent's head. The Lord is arming the arch-
angel. The time of the Holy Ghost draws nigh.
The world shall gather strength in the grace of
the cross. From the seed of repentant Poland the
future generations shall flower in fruit to the
Lord. The archangel himself at their head shall
lead them to the last battle with evil. " Amidst
the hosannas of numberless multitudes of the
saints, the poet beholds his nation arise from the
dust of her repentance, her youth given back to
her. "I see marvels, I hear marvels. " In this
supreme moment he returns to the mystic note of
the Ukraine. The same light and music that
flashed around the steppe when he returned there
in spirit from his exile, now beat from the heavenly
fires. Once more the voice of the wizard and the
sound of his zither peal over the Ukraine. "Glory,
honour! She shall rise! " is the song of Bojan.
He stretches his instrument over all the countries
of Slavonia; and the sweet melody streams
forth.
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? 206
POLAND
"The flock, the snow-white flock, is floating,
The wizard-singer's swan-like song
Sounds one long prophetic word
To the future, hope in song.
Still that word rings in my ear,
Ever dwells within my heart,
In my heart for ever fondled.
14 Let our Poland rise for ever!
At the day of the great banquet,
In the choir I will, Slavonia,
Repeat to you the song of Bojan.
Suffering in one flash shall pass. "
Again, on the " wind of the steppe, the breath
of God, his aerial couch," he is carried in the mists
that are gathering about him. Through the
whistle of the winds, he hears a sad, wild melody.
The third cock crows. Voices of the dead un-
baptized children who, in the Ukrainian legends,
wander through the snow and storm, crying for
baptism and Paradise, wail in the tempest. Like
them the poet, a son of earth, hungers too early
for the " angelic bread" he may not touch yet.
Like them, he is unable to enter heaven, for he is
fettered by the vesture of flesh. He returns to his
own place in a hard world. He sees no more the
vision, the memory of which wakes eternal sad-
ness in his soul.
"Where that flight, that far, wide flight?
Where heard I that mighty epic?
Worlds in flowers, the world's history?
- Where that golden-stringed singer f"
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? THE SPIRIT OF THE STEPPE 207
He has gazed on the miracles of the universe,
and they cannot perish from his eyes or heart.
Man may call what the poet saw a dream. "Are
the tears of my life a dream? Poland, the
Ukraine, a dream ? " he asks, with the mingled
passion of the patriot and the mystic who, in the
body or out of the body, had beheld things unseen
by mortal eyes. "Blessed be he who remembereth
somewhere in the years gone by, the sweet, strange,
pure, and winged life, his first beginning. He
who, in the torment of fleshly fetters, lifts his
hands to heaven daily, yearneth to his ghostly
memories. "
"According to Zaleski," said Mickiewicz in
the College de France, "it is not the desire to
sing the exploits of some celebrated chief, it is
not the love of popularity, it is not the love of art
that can form a poet. You must have been pre-
destined, you must have been attached by myster-
ious bonds to the country that you are to sing
one day: and to sing is nothing else than to reveal
the thought of God, which rests on that country
and on the people to which the poet belongs. "*
* Adam Mickiewicz, Lts Slaves,
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? CHAPTER VII
THE IDEALS OF KORNEL UJEJSKI
BY the year i860, the great triad of Polish
poets, Mickiewicz, KrasinsH, and Slowacki,
had passed from the world. But, in a
certain measure, their mantle may be said to have
fallen upon a poet of the succeeding generation,
whose poetry has appealed so strongly to the
hearts of his countrymen that his famous Chorale
has passed into the treasury of Polish national
songs. Kornel Ujejski--born in 1823, dead in
1897--can scarcely, in point of birth, be considered
as belonging to a younger generation than Zygmunt
Krasinski, who was only eleven years his senior;
but he survived him by nearly forty years, wrote
under different conditions, and had been,
moreover, a mere child during those disasters of
the thirties that changed the lives of Mickiewicz,
; Krasinski, and Slowacki. Thus his work, from a
literary and moral standpoint, reads as that of
one who came later.
He was the son of a noble house in Austrian
Poland. The poet's private life, with the exception
of the year of massacre in 1846, was outwardly
prosperous, and experienced none of the afflictions
which fell to the lot of Mickiewicz and Krasinski.
And yet over the greater part of his poetry, and
especially over its finest portion, hangs a not less,
perhaps even deeper, sadness than that stamped
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? THE IDEALS OF KORNEL UJEJSKI 209
on the writings of his predecessors. So terrible
was the ordeal through which every devout son
of Poland passed in the early years of her mourn-
ing, the thirties of the nineteenth century, that
an inheritance of profound melancholy was the
inevitable birthright even of those Polish poets
who were only children at the time. The Polish
child was of necessity not only brought up on a
chronicle of sorrow, but those sorrows were living,
were present to him. Dismembered Poland was
harassed by oppression. Ujejski said of himself
that from his early childhood an atmosphere of
tragedy enveloped him; that his first impres-
sions of the world were such as to banish from his
heart all childish joy, and to make his poetry a
song of grief. * "Bitter is the condition of the Pole
in every part of the wide earth," wrote Krasinski.
This of itself alone would suffice to explain the
general tone of Ujejski's work; and when we
remember that, after he had reached manhood, he
beheld the calamities of 1846 and of the sixties
overwhelm his nation, it is little wonder that his 1
poems are among the saddest in Polish literature.
Like the other great poets of his race, Ujejski's
poetical ideal, early conceived and put into
practice equally early, was that of a moral and
national teacher. We have seen how Poland looked
to her poets for help and guidance. Ujejski, then,
chose his calling, and remained faithful to it all
his life. His prayer was, so he sings in his poem on
the death of Mickiewicz, to follow in the latter's
footsteps, and speak to his people of the same
national faith that Mickiewicz taught^ albeit he
* A. Mazanowski, Kornel Ujtjtki (Polish). '
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? 2IO
POLAND
confesses he cannot do so with a power like to
that of the greater poet; to use the Polish lyre,
however heavy the burden to himself, as an
instrument of blessing, and never of evil, to his
nation.
His love for his country soon found its way
into verse. In one of his first poems--The Song of
the Grain (1843)--the never-dying hopes of
nature can teach him and his nation, for all their
weary hearts, the moral of a new life to be born
again. The sun sets, and with it the symbol of
liberty. But the stars rising remind him that there
are other stars, the stars, that is, of the faith and
homely virtue of the peasants tilling the fields,
that shall be as guiding fifes to all Poland.
"And our grief grows lighter, our hearts ache
less, knowing that the flame trembles in every
little spark," and that great luminaries may be
fashioned in time out of united stars.
Then, going out into the meadows at daybreak
to sow the grain, when " all the air is singing like
a lark," he learns the lesson of the wheat. The
reader will remember how in Frank Norris' noble
novel The Octopus: The Epic of the Wheat, after
long anguish Vanamee, wandering through the
night, sees the dawn flaming over ranchos once
bare, now white with wheat, and reads therein
that life springs from death, immortality from
corruption, joy from pain, even as the seed
fructifies out of dark places. To the young Pole,
writing half a century earlier, the wheat speaks in
like manner and, as he watches the peasants
sowing the grain, he consoles himself in his heavy
sorrow by the thought that the sons will reap
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? THE IDEALS OF KORNEL UJEJSK1 zn
where the fathers sowed. The sower will pass to
the grave with the words on his lips:
"41 die, but the seed will not die. ' Oh, it
were sweet to dream thus in the hour preceding
death! "
And another will take his place who can sow in
his turn, and who will not spare his toil. Storms
may beat upon the furrows; but Mother Earth
shields the seed in her bosom, and slowly the spirit
breathes and gives it life. And at last the poet
beholds the fields golden with the harvest while
the reapers load the waggons, singing songs of
joy and freedom.
A year after he had written this poem, Ujejski
saw Warsaw for the first time. This visit to the
capital of his country, then groaning beneath the
heel of Nicholas I. , had a far reaching influence
on the young poet's subsequent life as a writer.
Not only did it lay the foundations of the poem
Marathon by which he made his name, but it was
in Warsaw, with the spectacle of the nation's
suffering before him, that he was inspired with
the clear comprehension of his particular vocation.
He tells us in the poem The Lyre of Jeremias,
which he wrote in Warsaw, that now he casts his
old lyre underfoot:
"For I can sing no longer for myself. I stretch
my hand to Jeremias' lyre to string it to the wail-
ing of my brothers. I renounce myself. I cast all
my own sorrows to the bottom of my heart; let
them perish without echo. My whole nation is my
family. Mine are the tears from her eyes, mine
the blood from her wounds. Suffering her pain,
I will sing. Ah, I suffer! "
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? 212
POLAND
He sits sorrowing and alone, with a city in
mourning about him. His friends are gone, slain,
or in the living graves of Siberia; and, as he
watches at night,
"I hear the subterranean hollow drag of chains.
I hear far off the beating of the hammer. It is my
brothers toiling in the mines. "
He sees his people in the snowy deserts, perish-
ing of hunger and cold, dying with no memory
left of them. And, likening the tears of Poland
to those of Jerusalem, the poet, falling on his face
for grief, cries upon the spirit of Jeremias, his
favourite type of a national inspirer and prophet,
to give him of his strength, for he sinks beneath
his sorrow.
We shall see later with what deep psychological
significance this figure of Jeremias is invested in
Ujejski's eyes.
Up to the year of Ujejski's visit to Warsaw, his
name was scarcely known. Then, after his return
to Austrian Poland, as he was taking part one
evening in a literary gathering in a friend's house,
the boy of twenty-two read aloud a poem that he
had just finished writing, entitled Marathon. Such
was the patriotic power, the finished artistic
beauty, of these lines that the audience sat spell-
bound in silent wonder and admiration. From
that hour, UjejsH took his place among the great
poets of his nation.
His purpose in writing Marathon may be gath-
ered from the words of stinging reproach to his
countrymen which form the preface, and from
the quotation out of Byron which he chooses as his
motto:
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? 'THE IDEALS OF KORNEL UJEJSKI 213
"The mountains look on Marathon,
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dream'd that Greece might still be free,
For standing on the Persian's grave,
I could not deem myself a slave. "
"You ask a song," so Ujejski flings his poem
forth into the world, "of charm and sweetness
for your ears; but, my compatriots, my only
song for you is one that shall remind you of the
clanking of your chains. You ask a song as a flower
in a garland to give you honour at the banquet;
but I would fain steel your enervated souls in
a blush of fire like armour in the flame. "
Then he laments that to him, a youth, has
fallen the task of spreading this language of
sarcasm and upbraiding instead of that of love.
He has long sought for some means by which he
can infuse manhood into the hearts of men who
are growing weak in bondage; and now he will
raise the heroes of ancient history to point the
way.
And so he sings the story of Marathon; in
other words, of the victory of a few routing, by
the strength of one common bond of devotion to
their fatherland, the hosts of Persia. The poem
opens with the burning of Sardis.
"A slave ran out from the burning town, and
behind him ran in pursuit the wails of the dying
that rang in his ears. And he fled, veiled by the
darkness of night. Oft he cast backward his terrified
eyes, and behind him the wind breathed fire on
the heights, and carried clamour upon it. He stood
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