Holy my long
captivity
!
Krasinski - The Undivine Comedy
1 am no murderer ! No parricide !
I have not killed my father, nor my mother !
I'm no assassin, but the constant foe
Of him who is the assassin of us all !
Look ! this way look ! I stretch my arms toward you !
Great God ! in pity turn their eyes on me !
To me ! To me ! Here ! Here ! this is my cell !
I strive to reach you, — this chain holds me back 1
Oh, wait one moment ! Let me try again !
With my thin hands I strive to wrench my fetters !
Strain every nerve to break them if I can !
Blood covers them ! Alas ! they do not yield !
Do you not hear my shrieks of harrowing anguish?
Stop in tlie name of God 1 One moment stay 1 . . .
I'll try again to break away this chain !
O grant me but one single second more 1
******
41*
482 THE LAST.
O hour of bliss! . . . Of utmost agony! . . .
My God, they turn away ! they spur their steeds !
Do you not hear me, O my countrymen,
My Brothers, and my only friends on earth ?
See ! I am here ! buried within this vault!
Return ! Return ! I supplicate ! Return !
* * 5); :)i >); :(:
My senses reel ! A fog envelops all !
It drifts between my consciousness and me !
My eyes no longer pierce the walls . . .
XXXI.
God ! My God ! Again I hear a sound, —
The galloping of horses o'er the snow, —
Crackling of ice under their iron hoofs!
Do they return to find a Brother here ? . . .
Farther and farther — ever less distinct —
Diminishing with every step from me —
Forever and forever die away
The blessed footfalls o'er the waste of snow !
Now I hear nothing more !
They have forsaken me !
******
Is it a wretched dream? No, it is truth !
They have been here ! My Brothers have been here !
They have abandoned me ! left me to die
In the midst of murderers and parricides,
In the hour of Resurrection |
XXXII.
Do I not hear the neigh of horses still?
1 am deceived, and there may yet be time!
But I am chained within my coffin's vault!
Can I not wrench the clamp? tear it awav
From these damp walls? break but one single link?
On ! on ! my breast ! Forward, my skeleton arms !
All that is man within me strive ! On ! on !
Ah ! that is well ! flow fast, my crimson blood !
Perhaps there yet is time ! Aid me, O God !
n* * 'F SP 5|C ^ 5jC
THE LAST. '•^__:_l . ; 483
Ah ! useless efforts ! I am growing Aveak,
My sight is reeling and my blood flows fast,
My chains clash without brealciRg ! No one comes !
No one in all the world will ^t/^r "come to aid me !
Silence and immobility return
To float forever o'er this dark, still hell !
Where are you? Where? . . . Ah ! can it really be,
They have been here, my Brothers have been here,
And have abandoned me, — left me to rot
With felons, murderers, and parricides.
In the very hour of national Resurrection !
XXXIII.
Are you my. Brothers ? . . . No ! My exeeutioners !
You've robbed me of my poor remains of life !
But who can say ? . . . Perhaps in younger days
I did indeed commit some dreadful crime;
Murdered my father, mother, brother, sister,
And now have quite forgot it in this grave?
Bat they, my Brothers, knew it all too well,
And so have left me in perdition's gulf!
Nay, none of those were crimes by me committed ;
We'll seek some other possible offense !
Who is it driving daggers in my head ?
Who rakes my brains with talons, pincers, hooks?
Nothing is left me but to drag myself
Over these stones, and gnash and grind my teeth
As grinds my chain into my naked bones !
What horror grapples thus my inmost being?
I know ! I understand ! I feel it now !
My senses leave me ! I am growing mad !
XXXIV.
Where am I ? . . . In my cell ? . . . Yes . . . the same
lamp
Casts the same sickly light . . . round the dim flame.
Naught save the eternal Dark of the Sepulchre !
Here the same sleepless bed, . . . and nothing, nothing
more I
And Thou ! Where art Thoii, God? I do not know !
484 THE LAST.
I look . . . but cannot find Thee in this gloom !
I only know I must die here alone;
Die like a dog ! Nay, it may be, far worse !
To whom do I owe thanks in this blank world?
I've lived, and I must die, in the Czar's House 1 —
Other protection I have never known !
God ! Must I hate all I once loved and trusted ?
My will no longer o'er my body rules.
My eyelids press my eyes so heavily !
XXXV.
Remember, God, after such earthly woes,
I do not wish to keep my soul alive
For other, it may be, eternal pangs !
There is no love within, without, this world;
But irony immense as immensity !
God is no Father 1 Nor the angels. Brothers !
On earth, in Heaven, the same deceptions rule !
God ! I renounce my immortality !
What can it do but change my present grief
Into another woe ! And I am tired ! . . .
I've had enough of anguish, misery !
Give me annihilation ; for I seek
Deliverance ! Forget me, my Creator !
After long years, which were for me a hell,
Hearken the only prayer I breathe at death :
Let me not go where universal life
Blazes with glory !
Let my soul lose itself
Without a trace in Thy eternity.
As they have lost all memory of me !
Alas ! in Poland they will never know
The horrors of this living sepulchre,
My agonies, deserted by my Brothers,
That no fraternal clasp e'er came to press
My dying hand, bid me a last Farewell !
xxxvi.
Poland ! . . . What, Poland risen from the grave ?
Oh, is it true, my God? My country now
No longer waits death still enchained, like me?
THE LAST. 485
Father ! Pardon all a child's despair,
Who, wrung to sudden madness, dared blaspheme !
It was not love of self inflamed my soul ;
No, I loved Thee and Poland ! Pardon, my God !
She lives on earth ; as Thou dost in the skies !
And with her name and Thine upon the lips
So soon to be forever mute — I die !
Holy Thy will !
Holy my long captivity !
Holy the horrors of my lonely death, —
Since as I die, my fathers' land is free !
XXXVII.
1 thank Thee, that in vision I have seen
My happy country, Lord ! I give Thee thanks,
That Thou hast shown me those who serve her cause I
Thou deignest to permit I here should close
The endless vaults of Polish cemeteries !
Tliai I . should be-tlie/^i:/ of Polish corpses
Buried alive in dungeons of the Czars 1
I bless Tliee, Lord ! Alas ! I cannot rise !
This skeleton body has no strength to kneel 1
But my heart kneels ! I fold my trembling hands
In symbol of Thy Cross upon my breast 1
On which side is the sky? It is so dark,
So long since I came here, I cannot tell.
Ha ! sudden inspiration wakes my heart !
I must pray, pray, pray ever for my Poland !
XXXVIII.
Since Thou hast to thy martyr given, O Lord,
The sceptre of true power, aid her to conquer that
Which has been still invincible on earth !
That which no Rulers ever have accomplished.
Nor emperors, nor kings, nor nobles, nor
The middle classes, nor the various Peoples, —
All tyrants differing only in their names.
But the same despots when possessed of power, —
Lord, let Thy martyr conquer it for all !
Floating aloft on archangelic wings,
Above the temptations and the snares of pride.
Above the abysses which corrupt our times, —
486 THE LAST.
Let her bring back to man, drunk with his brother's blood,
Holy Fraternity ! The strength of Love,
Which is immortal, cannot be exhausted /
And as triumjihant she has left tlie grave,
So grant her, Lord, to triumph over death !
No, she will not go out in smoke and ashes.
As stolen states kneaded of dust and blood ;
For in her breast she'll bear Thy Virtue, Wisdom,
The elements of Victory and Power !
May all the nations of the earth still bless her,
Because she joys in all the nations' bliss !
Oh, may Thy Christ be glorified in her.
And manifest Himself in every human act !
And may through her Thy Kingdom come on earth !
My forces sink ! . . . Perhaps this may be Death !
Thanks, Lord !
XXXIX.
A white light scintillates before my eyes !
Licffable well-being fills my breast !
All painful recollections, one by one,
Of my sad life fade from my memory !
The air vibrates with the full tones of harps :
The human ear ne'er heard such harmonies !
Ah ! Yes ! These are the angels ! They announce
The good, good news !
Each moment, less of sadness — less of pain !
O Poland, my Beloved ! . . . My raptured soul,
Delivered from all evil, rushes on
To the Infinite ! Hosanna ! O Hosanna,
Forever and forever ! . . .
TEMPTATION.
FKrasinski published a short tale in Paris under this title, at the close
of which is found the " sole cry' which he ever suffered to escape his lips
on his own situation. It is also believed a real event is figured therein : a
meetinsT between the Poet and the Emperor Nicholas. , . , ^ , . , .
The students of Lithuania resolved to reprint the tale, which had indeed
appeared in a journal of that countrv, stamped with the vupnmaUir ol the
censor who had not understood the manuscript. But information soon
came from St. Petersburg, and several hundred young men were thereupon
exiled to Siberia i Thev were the flower of young manhood, and heart-
rending was the grief of the bereaved families. Imagine the despair of
the tortured Poet. — Tr. ]
Thick, crimsoned with blood, and swollen with tears ever falling,
Our life-waves run gloomily on I .
From the whirlpools and depths of the stormful and gathering currents,
Rises the moan of anguish eternal !
Behind, roars the abvss, fathomless, heavily shrouded
In black mists, tossed and piled, streaming up from the pangs of the \ ast !
Before, lies the far-off Heaven ; its blue blazing with flames red as blood ;
Around, struggle onward the swimmers, in surges so cold, hopeless, murky,
That fierce agony wrenches from each as ho floats the wild cry :
" Woe I Woe ! the old curse is uroN me 1"
Mother, many times murdered! Unhappy mother!
with the long and countless blades of thy ever green
grasses, Avith "the waving stems of thy grain-fields, thou
wilt bind our undying memories closely to thee, but hence-
forth must thy sons wander and suffer, as they love thee.
Behind them, from sea to sea, is the Grave; before them,
wheresoever they may roam, the sunset; while monarchs
and merchants curse the endless progression !
The Living cannot understand those reared on the bosom
of the Dead— human faces grow pale at the approach of
the spectres— at the echo of their footsteps the home-fires
slimmer and flicker low on the hearthstone— the mother
^ 487
488 TEMPTA TION.
hides her child — the wife leads away the husband that he
may not clasp hands with the wandering exile,-^the even-
ing star alone, the star of graves, smiles from Heaven on
them !
*******
Was not the silence of the forests holy? When the
wind swept over the pines, did not the mystic murmurs,
sacred as the prayers of the priest, say to you: "Nowhere
th€7-e will you find your God "? The spaces are filled with
the giant skeletons torn from the dim woods; they are
chained and clamped with iron and fed with steam; the
eagles soar not in the air above them, nor do the glad
birds twitter in the swaying branches; none among you
may mount the strong horse of the desert and fly aflir over
the boundless steppes, rejoicing in his arrowy swiftness; —
you are alone in the midst of the world!
******:)£
As you wander on, poor exiles, your very gratitude is
half disdain! When they lead you into cities without
castles or temples, where trade and commerce rule; among
whitewashed houses where the spirit of Beauty is not, and
the green window-shutters are the sole adornment — mur-
mur ye: The Dead!
*******
On the shores of the seas when you dwell with Jews,
Armenians, and Greeks, quarreling forever over their vile
profits; seeing not the heavens, nor hearing the thunder
as it booms over the waves — murmur ye: The Dead!
*******
When women in rich attire move around you, and you
feel that the faint fluttering of the silken robe is far more
spiritual than the life-breath of their souls — murmur ye:
The Dead !
*******
Float on, then, like the sacred whispers from the un-
hewn forests! The world will not know you, because you
are of the race sprung from coffins; born and cradled in
coffins; but as you rise from the grave, strew upon the
ground beneath your feet the mouldering rags of your
TEMPTA TION.
489
shrouds, — and he, seated on the verge of the abyss, on the
steep and slippery declivity ; he, robed in the royal purple
of power, will not survive your Resurrection — but must
himself descend into the coffin!
I saw imaged before me, as in a wondrous vision, the
varied scenes and changes, as it were, of a long life, —
rising, progressing, and vanishing, as if bound in a single
day, beginning with the morning and fleeting away with
the evening shadows.
It seemed to me in my vision that the morning was
strangely transparent. No clouds dulled the ether above.
Far over the wide green space rose the sun, and in front
of the House on the Hill stood a horse already saddled,
impatiently wounding the velvety grass with his iron hoofs,
and snuffing with wide nostrils the fresh breeze from the
valley. Near him stood his young master. The light in
his blue eye was bright as the young beam of the day.
He had one foot in the stirrup, and the- other on the soft
home-turf; with one hand caressing the long waving mane
of the steed, and the other clasped in the grasp of the
man from whom he was taking leave — they knew not for
how long, but yet felt it was not forever. Words were
pouring from the heart of the one into the heart of the
other. The elder, he who stood on the ground and was
to move on on foot, kept his gaze steadily fixed on the
rocks and forests lying beyond the smooth green turf.
The younger, with raised eyes, gazed into the sky, as if
absorbing its light in the lustrous pupils; and when he
spoke his voice was like the fresh breath of spring. The
elder spoke more slowly, almost sternly, as though ad-
vising, warning, beseeching, — as if he loved deeply, yet
doubted, feared; but the younger had no fear, no doubts,
— he pledged himself and vowed — threw himself first into
the arms of his friend, then leaped into his saddle. He
pushed his horse rapidly on, swift as the arrow skims the
plain, or the mountain stream plunges below. A cloud
of servants poured forth from the halls of the ancient
House, and followed their young Lord.
He who remained behind, knelt; and fragments of his
prayer were brought me by the wind. "O Heavenly
42
49©
TEMPTATION.
Father! let not that' blooming soul wither away upon
this arid ear{h ! Lead it not into the tem])tation of
human servitude; remove from it all sinful stain! Let
it serve Thee alone! Thee and the many times murdered
Mother! "
He continued kneeling, although sunk in silence, as if
wrapped in deep meditation, scarcely knowing whether to
indulge in the dim prophecies then surging his soul, or to
prolong his prayers. Then I saW him start, clasp his
hands forcibly together — and again his words were borne
to me by the wind.
"O Heavenly Father! I ask Thee not to sweeten the
bitter cup of life for my friend; I know that all who live
must suffer; but, O merciful God, spare him the blush of
shame, the infamy of weakness! "
Then 1 saw the Wanderer rise from his knees, descend
the hill, and make his way on foot through the forest to
the distant rocks.
*******
About high noon of the same day they met again before
the gate of a great city. The young man was still on his
horse, his fair brow already darkened by the heat of the
sun ; the dew from the fresh home-turf was quite dry upon
his stirrups, and the glitter of the steel dimmed with rust.
The horse gladly stopped, as if wearied with his rapid
flight through the distant space, but the blue eye of the
youth still si)arklcd with its early fire.
The elder, gray from head to foot with the dust of the
road, seated himself on a stone by the wayside. The
youth jumped lightly to the earth, and threw himself into
the arms of his friend. I saw him give his horse in charge
to his servants, take the arm of his companion, enter the
gate of the great city, and lead him to the imperial Palace.
In one of the inner chambers they sat down together to
rest. They conversed, however, in whispers, as if they
feared the ear of the enemy even through the massive
stone walls. Stretching himself on the soft Persian carpet,
the younger raised the cup of wrought silver to his thirsty
lip. But when he handed it to the elder he refused to
taste the wine from the rich goblet. Nor would he look
upon the tapestried walls, nor the objects of luxury lying
TEMPTATION.
491
profusely scattered around the room, even when pointed
out to him by his young companion. At. hist he rose,
and, taking the hand of the youth, led him to a window,
from which the entire city was seen lying below, with the
moving crowds of the populous nation. The immense
city, wonderfully monotonous in its whitewashed walls!
the immense nation, wonderfully monotonous in its black
garments! The young man looked on curiously; the
Wanderer sighed, and said: "When they shall lead you
into cities without castles or temples, where the spirit of
freedom is chained, murmur ye: The Dead! "
But the younger continued to gaze with ever-growing
interest. Carriages filled witli women dressed in brilliant
hues were rapidly driving by, drawn by strong, fleet horses.
He saw one drive aside from the throng, the snowy veil
and white draperies of the fair one within fluttering and
floating far on the breeze, as if the flying chariot were
borne onward by the outspread sails. The Wanderer
sighed, and said: "When women in rich attire move
around you, and you feel that the faint fluttering of the
snowy robe is more spiritual than the life-breath of their
souls — murmur ye: The Dead! "
The young man seemed not to hear the words of his
friend. Heavy masses of lurid clouds gathered from every
direction, and obscured the face of the sky. How differ-
ent ths hour of the gloomy noon from that of the fresh,
transparent morning!
Tlie men before whom the People of the Black Nation
kneel and prostrate themselves, now began to move through
the streets. Their garments glittered with gold, and were
richly embroidered in gorgeous colors. Tiiey wore long
thin swords at their sides, and thick tufts of plumes on
their heads. Shouting with harsh voices, they passed on
in power, striking the children who were lingering in the
road as they moved forward. The children cried and
wept; the crowd drew back and fled; and they remained
alone upon the Great Square. More and more of them
were ever thronging there; more and more courteously
they ever bowed to one another, and lower and lower
grew their salutes, until at last One rode forward on a
steed richly caparisoned, — and then they all fell down with
492
TEMPTATION.
their faces upon the ground — as if he were the Lord of
Life and Death.
Then said the Wanderer: "He is already on the verge
of the abyss, on the slope of the steep and slippery de-
clivity; he, robed in the purple of power, must himself
descend into the coffin! "
But the young man riveted his gaze on the mngnifi-
cence of the rider, as if absorbing the diamond glitter
into the lustrous pupils of his eyes, as in the morning
they had absorbed and reflected the clear blue of the
skies. He seemed not to hear the words of his friend.
When they were earnestly repeated to him, he covered his
face with his hands, and tenderly uttered the holy name
of the murdered Mother, as if the love of childhood
were upon his heart. The Wanderer pressed him to his
breast, and said: "Look not upon them ! Look not upon
them! "
"Never! never! " he replied, as he again threw himself
down to rest upon the Persian carpet.
As the Wanderer rose to depart, I heard the prayer
again rising to God from his divining soul:
"O Heavenly Father ! even at the burning noon of
this bitter trial, I implore Thee for him whom I love! O
God ! I now entreat Thee to work a miracle in his behalf,
— to sweeten the bitter cup of life for this young, eager,
thirsting soul ! Deliver it from the temptations witli, which
Thou hast seen good to surround the strong on tliis earth,
led like him into these snares! Let him not fall, I beseech
Thee, as did even the mighty and beautiful angels round
Thy Throne, when the thirst for power was upon them.
Save him, O God! "
The young man remained alone, utterly alone, in the
midst of the great city, and was soon forced to seek com-
panionship with his fellow-beings. It was strange, mean-
while, how black the heavens grew, as if the whole sky
were sheeted with a curtain of lead. I saw him now
constantly in the streets, the rooms, and in the midst of
the people: he fascinated my gaze as if I saw only him.
Under the calm of a tranquil face, he concealed bitter
torment, intense suffering. Evil thoughts are winding
through him like swarms of black and poisonous worms,
TEMPTATION.
493
while the good are also thronging near him like clouds of
bright fireflies. The worms crawl over his heart, boring
and bleeding it as they writhe; the fireflies would burn
out the black congested gore, and cure the festering
wounds, but new swarms of reptiles are forever sliming
into life, and ever deeper and more gangrened are the
wounds they make. Everywhere danger, everywhere tor-
ment; there is no human being whom he may trust! He
too must learn to deceive in turn, to betray even women
and children; must learn to lie as the masterpiece of art.
He attains skill in the profession, and can command looks,
smiles, tears, emotions; but alas! the light in his clear
eve, once rivaling the young beam of day, no longer
flashes from his pupils. Pity him, O God! his very gar-
ments become a lie; he throws aside the costume of his
nation, in which he once rode so freely over the boundless
steppe. He mounts on his head the tall tufts of plumes;
he girds the thin sword to his side; and I saw in my
dream that the people began to fall back before him, and
bow as he drew near.
But I saw that the steed of the desert refused to recog-
nize his master when he entered the courtyard of the
Palace. In vain he jjats, vi'ith his own hand, the wavy
silken mane: no neigh of joy now answers his caress; he
strives to leap upon him as in the morning of this event-
ful day, but the haughty charger rears, stands erect upon
his hind legs, and refuses to be mounted. Enraged be-
yond control, he thrusts iiis long sword into the glossy
flanks. The startled animal breaks away, spurns the
biootl-sprinkled soil, and flies thundering ai'iir, rattling
and clashing his iron hoofs on the pavement, marking his
track with a long line of glittering sparks, flashing but to
die in the dying light of evening !
The hour of twilight is already on the earth !
^: * * ^ * * *
Again, for the third time in that day of life, met the
Wanderer and his friend. They stood together in a
Church, which was without the gates, and the cross on
its towers was different from those on the Basilicas within
the walls of the city. 'I'he altar was without adornment,
and, as well as the walls and ceilings, was shrouded in the
42*
494
TEMPTATION.
deepest mourning. Three tapers only were upon it, and
they struggled vainly with the surrounding gloom.
I saw the Wanderer take one of the lights, and gaze,
with a look of woe, ui)on the face of his friend. The young
man was silent, he found no utterance, he had lost the
secret of revealing, by honest words, the depths of the
soul. But the bitter truth was expressed in the long wild
cry which burst spasmodically from his lips. In it might
be read the seduction and destruction of a young spirit,
not consenting to its own shame and ruin !
He laid his head on the strong shoulder of his friend,
and closed his heavy eyelids, as if he dreamed, in this
trying moment, it would be possible for him thus to close
them forever. But the Wanderer, suddenly calling him
back to consciousness, said : " Follow me ! follow me, that
thou mayst remember forever the Form of the murdered
Mother! "
So saying, he led the young man to a low door which
opened behind the Great Altar. A whirlwind, as if from
plains of ice, blew upon them from the subterranean pas-
sages below, and the flame of the taper streamed upon the
blast, swaying and torn into a line of dying sparks. And
thus they commenced the plunge into the very bosom of
night, de. scending ever lower and lower, exploring depth
after depth, until at last they had worked their way
through the narrow and winding passages, and stood in
the sublime silence of the immensity of space.
Their taper had long ago gone out, but they needed
not its flickering light. The swamp-fires of the night,
the corpse-lights, the will-o'-the-wisps, sometimes fell like
falling stars ; sometimes rose like rising moons. Count-
less cemeteries seemed moving on in this weird light, one
solemnly following the other, and on the dark gate of
each glittered, as if graved in frosted silver, the name of
the Murdered Nation, and on the white crosses gleaming
within, the names of her martyreti children. Vast piles
of skeletons, of bones and skulls, lay in the path of the
young man, and as he advanced he read the glorious in-
scriptions.
It now seemed to him that the ghosts of the buried
were also moving on before him, increasing constantly in
TEMP TA TION. 49 5
number, and all moaning as they sped on, until at last
they seemed to condense into a murky vapor like a trail-
ing storm-cloud, growing ever more and more pervading,
and murmuring with myriad voices sad, but spirit-stirring
national songs. The air gleamed with the flashing of
sabres and wild waving of standards; conflagrations and
flames filled the intervening spaces, like vivid flashes of
restless lightning, now gleaming, now sinking into the
bosom of the cloud.
