but by sadness is oppressed;
Although nothing seems to pain her, what tortures still her
breast?
Although nothing seems to pain her, what tortures still her
breast?
Poland - 1881 - Poets and Poetry of Poland
No one remem-
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? 346 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND.
A portico. Back in the distance a grove. Toward one side
a column, on which stands Beethoven's bust. In the
middle a small table, having on one side the column, and
on the other a chair. On the chair sits Beethoven, lean-
ing on the table, with his face covered by his hands. On
the table before him there is inkstand and pen and musical
note-paper. From the column side Music, in a classic
dress, with a laurel branch in her hands, approaches
Beethoven, and lays her hand on his shoulder.
Music.
Beethoven, awake! I would address thy soul.
Beethoven.
I am not sleeping.
Music.
Not sleeping? Commonly
Life seems one half a dream to be --
Until Inspiration with a high control
Awakens the soul to real life, pure and free.
Beethoven (raising his head).
Under the fondling of that heavenly hand
I feel . . . my spirit wakes from mists of sleep --
Oh, my dream 'mid people fearful was and deep!
I thank thee, Music, for thy influence bland;
It has awakened me. O seraph, stay!
Come, my own beloved, and- my soul possess,
I will follow thee even into endlessness.
I am forever thine!
bers such perfect stillness and such emotion during any concert
before.
One of the reportorial corps questioned the poetess why the
genius of Music did not crown Beethoven himself, but only his bust?
The poetess replied, in the words of Naruszewicz, the poet :
"True greatness is never crowned with glory during this life,
The crown is put on after they are gone -- upon their monuments. "
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? DEOTYMA. 347
Music.
All words that thou dost say
Music hears and changes into melodies --
As genius loves genius with spontaneous glow
Thus I love thee! I take thy soul and show
To thee Creation's marvelous mysteries --
For thee I came down from regions of the sun
Into this darkness.
Come with thy beloved into infinity.
What is it thy heart would solve to day? tell me,
For Music no secrets hath from thee -- not one !
Beethoven.
All to me is happiness when thou art near --
But amid the people tones discordant sound,
The stars revolve harmoniously around,
But a chaos still does human life appear.
Hearts are sobbing, and desolate spirits moan.
The songs of the world are fully known to me,
And thus sadly ask I why should Harmony
Ev'ry where exist, save in man's life alone?
Music.
Ah, thou'rt wrong! There's harmony thou must hear,
Voices of more worlds than one to comprehend --
Life is a symphony loud that rises clear --
Where voices of earth, of hell and heaven blend.
Beethoven {unfolding a roll of paper).
Stay. I would write thy utterances -- that when
I shall return to the world half-dreaming still
I may show thy revelations unto men --
Awakening those whose souls thy words can thrill.
{A moment's silence. )
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? 348 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Music.
Hark! some one comes thro 1 darkness and silence drear . . .
It pauses now, say you -- what hear you?
Beethoven.
I hear --
Three strokes . . . deep are they and very ominous;
The bravest must tremble . . . when that sound is heard.
Music.
Even the spirits with sudden dread are stirred,
Destiny knocks at the gates to Heaven thus.
Beethoven.
What does it wish?
Music.
With all earth's voice, in solemn tone
It calls: " Young soul! it is thy turn, come thou away. "
At that sound (to none save the happy known)
The heavens are disturbed with subtle sway.
The powers of Paradise as guests regret
The interruption of the feast whisp'ring low
" Who will then open to him? " but none will go,
Although Destiny knocks loud and louder yet.
But here look ! a radiant young soul alone
By the firm voice of its own destiny led --
Suddenly rises aglow with fire of dread --
And runs to the door. . . .
Beethoven.
The portals wide are thrown!
Music.
The guest goes in. " 'Neath that mysterious cloak
What bearest thou -- perdition's or glory's key? "
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? DEOTYMA 349
'Twas thus the soul in trembling accents spoke.
He answered: "What wouldst thou choose -- oh, come
with me
On a journey toward Fame's beckoning light;
To a rehearsal on the planet -- come to-night. 1 '
With feeling of regret the heavenly choir yearn,
Spirits at the portal hold her and repeat
"Oh, as thou leavest us -- say wilt thou return --
Wilt ever return? 1 '
Beethoven.
Amid the voices sweet
I distinguish one . . . 'tis innocent as yet --
Pure young soul, with sad complaint I hear it dwell
With weeping on the farewell strophes -- her farewell
To Heaven as though she and death had met!
Music.
Because he who is born for one world, ever dies
For another, with tears and sighs.
{Long silence. )
Beethoven.
Oh, winged sweetheart! perchance that soul no more
Was young? Perchance from Eternity's dim spheres
Too many times that road she had traveled o'er,
Or it may be sad forebodings caused those fears?
Such forebodings like sad memories seem to be.
Music.
Perhaps you guess aright.
{Silence. )
But list! life does not wait:
The soul still with fond complaint against its fate
Sinks in the embraces of its Destiny.
He grasps and covers it with its mantle fold,
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? 350 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Bears it 'mid praise and worship from Paradise --
Behold! even worlds now from their thrones arise
By admiration and respect controlled!
Beethoven.
Yes! let them rise, and thou, Destiny, stern guide,
Be humble. The soul going where trials wait
Is greater than the sun -- than cherubims more great.
Spectators these -- the soul strives in arena wild.
(Long silence. )
Music.
The soul through misty abysses falls to earth from the skies,
Drowned by night and the silence far and nigh ;
Then she slowly forgets by whose desire she downward flies --
From whence she came, -- whither she goes, -- and why.
Awake, soul! thy world is near; -- 'tis rock high and steep,
Thrown out upon a lake that has no strand,
And at Life's portals angel guards their faithful vigils keep,
And they take her from Destiny's stern hand.
Two exiles from heaven, -- two beloved of angels are they;
'Tis hard to choose between them: -- one so fair,
The sunny love, -- and the other eternal pain . . . Alway
When they go they go together ev'rywhere.
Though the young soul knows them not by sight, yet it comes
to lie
And dream upon their bosoms, and the Muses sad
Bring them into this dark world; -- look! how bitter and yet
how glad;
They to waken her with fiery kisses try.
Advance stripling into life! then he took at this decree
The trav'ling staff like pilgrim 'neath a sky
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? DEOTYMA. 351
Dim with the twilight, gazed abashed, saying What troubles
me?
Vainly seeking through mem'ry for reply.
Where are these lights without shadows, the truth that no
change knows?
And where the lovely kindred spirits, to whom
He bade a sad farewell? here the mist profounder grows;
Yet still amidst the earth's intensest gloom.
Beethoven (ivith enthusiasm).
He will preserve his hope that the light lives somewhere still,
And that he remembers her as in a dream ;
Although outwardly bedimmed, she exists in him, and will,
'Neath the guise of conscience, though accursed she may
seem.
Music.
He prepares for life's battle, armed with hope, against all fears,
As for a dance with joy imagining
Works of might for the world, arranging plans for coming
years ;
But years cunningly disappear. Scarce a young genius shows
Promise of bloom when time claims it for its own;
Scarcely has the soul accomplished aught when weary grown
To youth's Allegro sings it the sad close.
Beethoven.
And thou, too, art weary ; -- take a rest, bend down thy brow.
My oracle's words shall be in notes enchanted now.
{Here Music sits down on the steps of the column and begins
to entwine a wreath from laurel leaves. During this time
the orchestra, hidden in the grove, plays " Allegro,'' from
Beethoven's Symphony. After the " Allegro" is finished
Beethoven lays down his pen; -- then Music rises. )
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? 352 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Music.
Now the soul for the first time sits to rest beside the way,
Begins to look around . . .
but by sadness is oppressed;
Although nothing seems to pain her, what tortures still her
breast?
Beethoven.
Thought!
Music.
When she begins to think endlessly her thoughts hold sway;
In life's symphony thought plays the Andante with grave
sound,
Looking at the world that is shut closely all around:
Seeing causes without effects, confession she seeks,
Upon elements, books, mankind, and boldly asks " Why? "
And when she has asked once o'er and o'er, the word she
speaks
To ev'ry one and ev'ry where.
Beethoven.
And who will make reply?
Music.
The people's answers differ, -- so the mystery remains,
And Nature, who her wonders so willingly explains
Except to this "Why? "has reply for everything; --
Then to Destiny the soul turns with its questioning.
Is Destiny responsive? -- will this an answer bring?
See! she grows a Titian; -- so quickly soars the mind,'
She sends herself ambassador to God from mankind,
She criticises His laws, is astonished at His sway; --
But why ever from these laws do all things go astray? --
What light from her country in her conscience can she find?
Deepest melancholy envelops her.
Beethoven.
So soon.
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? DEOTYMA. 353
Music.
Now is the dark hour. She is in doubt amid her gloom
As to the aims of life she has cherished long and well ;
E'en dreams of eternal light these doubts dispel.
Ah! she keeps silence and even ceases asking "Why? 1 '
(Music sits down again on the steps of the column and con-
tinues wreathing the laurel crown. )
Beethoven.
I will take this moment while she is speaking not
To enchant in notes the mystery of human thought.
(He grasps the pen and writes. During that time the orchestra
is performing the " Andante" of the Symphony. With the
finishing of the " Andante " Beethoven also stops writings)
Beethoven (laying down his pen).
Here is the " Andante," bitterly solemn in truth,
I am as a player who counts an Enchantment's cost. While
I am listening to it I cannot in sooth
Forbear indulging in a bitter smile.
Music (rising).
You are not alone who thus smiles. Nay!
Every one will thus smile who questions truth too near,
Ev'ry thinker bears with him a sign of sneer;
As an interrogation mark it stands for aye!
(After a while. )
Terrible soul's voice with irony rife;
Her pois'nous tears e'en through a stone will go;
In the grand symphony of life
She strikes the frantic Scherzo.
23
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? 354 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Beethoven (grasps the pen).
Wait . . . I will write Scherzo. The serpents beneath my
pen
Already with venom hiss. . . .
Music.
Hold on a moment then,
In the soul open to the great
And pure light of inspiration this sneering may flit
With simple innocence, but it
Should ne'er be placed on a page separate.
(Beethoven pushes his pen and paper aside. A short silence. )
Music (continues).
Now the pilgrim of life behold!
Having thrown the bitter smile from his heart
He rose, by longing thought controlled,
And withdrew into Mystery's realms apart.
He was unconscious while his thought did progress,
Powers unknown before within him woke to life; --
Of life's problems from this day he will think less,
And he will live better, and more free from strife.
(With growing warmth. )
Man wonders with how many changes fraught
Life seems, when on it his full vision brought.
He touches it. The world is different far!
The rock of grief is harder than the thought,
But its flowers of pleasure more fragrant are.
The brave soul raised its head and looked around
As 'twere her element herself she bore.
Symphony! the brassy trumpet sound; --
Life's a battle evermore.
See the man of destiny; his touch the keys obey;
He bears the standard away!
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? DEOTYMA. 355
Beethoven (sadly).
And sometimes loses standards.
Music {with a smile).
All the suns with their trembling rays,
Every angel with a beating heart,
From the skies with interest lean and gaze
On man in life's struggle bearing a part.
(Draivs back as if in fear. )
It is a dreadful sight! . . . Oh! what's doing there?
The angels are pale, . . . the suns no more are bright. . . .
Too many temptations! -- the spirit in despair. . . .
Man, before half fallen, . . . now is fallen quite !
Do you hear his moanings?
Beethoven (with warmth).
God! wilt Thou
Arrest the fate that overwhelms him in this hour?
Will no hand rise to his assistance now?
(Reproachfully. )
Lives there for him no saving power?
Music (raising her hand).
Only one power can help him to rise,
Of which hell is jealous. Above
A vision bright appears from out the skies; --
That vision is beauteous Love!
Beethoven (gets up and raises his hand).
Above all his misfortunes now is he!
That which brought him to the world and nursed him too
Resurrects him now. In life's symphony, -- 'tis true, --
Love is a hymn of victory !
O Love! thou mother of faith! 'Tis through thee
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? 356 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
Man agrees with truths of eternal birth;
He who but once loved truly on this earth
From doubt of Heaven's joy is free.
(He becomes thoughtful, sits down slowly, and leans his head
on his hands. After a short interval of silence he raises his
head, as if awakened from a dream. )
Beethoven (continues).
And the pain?
Music.
Pain? It is not needful that a mortal
Call for it from Heaven's portal.
He will find it here.
Beethoven.
Every day it will appear,
In every-day tear, in his daily bread,
In that which is changing, in that which is dead;
But it is most fearful with conscience in its face.
(Long silence. )
Music.
Up to this time man everything has tried,
But since in Love sublime harmony he perceived
He ends all there. His symphony's run achieved
Great Finale and is glorified!
In life it is long and difficult to bear,
But the end receives its reward ev'rywhere.
The longer the years the stiller are they grown,
And remembrances speak in the loudest tone.
Some weep bitter tears, that bitter tears succeed;
Others in prayer watch beside the dear ones' tomb.
The days flit away, . . . time flies with the greatest speed,
And the soul hastes on to the sfaol of its doom.
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? DEOTYMA. 357
It clasps it, and with mantle o'er it spread
It raises it by funeral bells' deep tones,
And while on its way worlds rise from their thrones
With emotions of expectation and dread.
Then Destiny before the heavenly gates
Halted. Now it knocks, but not alone it waits.
This time it brings with its return a soul.
Beethoven.
Happy spirits! Will you not open the door?
Then, my beloved one, tell me.
Music.
No. As to this
I am silent. This laurel for witness I take.
I promised to reveal life by song, but more
Beyond that is a problem
That death can break.
Beethoven {folding his
I will reveal God's mystery so great!
Even if o'er an abyss the spirit stood,^--
Even if love and pain followed her. They would
Of themselves ope the heavenly gate!
{He grasps the pen and writes. Music sits doivn on the steps
of the column and finishes the wreath. During this time
the orchestra plays Scherzo and the Finale of the symphony.
As the last strains of the Finale die away Beethoven throws
his pen aside and, weary, hides his face in his hands, and
falls into a deep reverie.
Music arises, and with the laurel wreath, lohich is finished,
crowns Beethoven's bust on the column. She looks once
more upon Beethoven, and, throwing him a hand-kiss, dis-
appears. )
? ? Generated for (University of Chicago) on 2014-06-10 17:14 GMT / http://hdl. handle. net/2027/loc.
? ? Generated for (University of Chicago) on 2014-06-10 17:14 GMT / http://hdl. handle. net/2027/loc. ark:/13960/t04x6gz3d Public Domain / http://www. hathitrust. org/access_use#pd
? 346 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND.
A portico. Back in the distance a grove. Toward one side
a column, on which stands Beethoven's bust. In the
middle a small table, having on one side the column, and
on the other a chair. On the chair sits Beethoven, lean-
ing on the table, with his face covered by his hands. On
the table before him there is inkstand and pen and musical
note-paper. From the column side Music, in a classic
dress, with a laurel branch in her hands, approaches
Beethoven, and lays her hand on his shoulder.
Music.
Beethoven, awake! I would address thy soul.
Beethoven.
I am not sleeping.
Music.
Not sleeping? Commonly
Life seems one half a dream to be --
Until Inspiration with a high control
Awakens the soul to real life, pure and free.
Beethoven (raising his head).
Under the fondling of that heavenly hand
I feel . . . my spirit wakes from mists of sleep --
Oh, my dream 'mid people fearful was and deep!
I thank thee, Music, for thy influence bland;
It has awakened me. O seraph, stay!
Come, my own beloved, and- my soul possess,
I will follow thee even into endlessness.
I am forever thine!
bers such perfect stillness and such emotion during any concert
before.
One of the reportorial corps questioned the poetess why the
genius of Music did not crown Beethoven himself, but only his bust?
The poetess replied, in the words of Naruszewicz, the poet :
"True greatness is never crowned with glory during this life,
The crown is put on after they are gone -- upon their monuments. "
? ? Generated for (University of Chicago) on 2014-06-10 17:14 GMT / http://hdl. handle. net/2027/loc. ark:/13960/t04x6gz3d Public Domain / http://www. hathitrust. org/access_use#pd
? DEOTYMA. 347
Music.
All words that thou dost say
Music hears and changes into melodies --
As genius loves genius with spontaneous glow
Thus I love thee! I take thy soul and show
To thee Creation's marvelous mysteries --
For thee I came down from regions of the sun
Into this darkness.
Come with thy beloved into infinity.
What is it thy heart would solve to day? tell me,
For Music no secrets hath from thee -- not one !
Beethoven.
All to me is happiness when thou art near --
But amid the people tones discordant sound,
The stars revolve harmoniously around,
But a chaos still does human life appear.
Hearts are sobbing, and desolate spirits moan.
The songs of the world are fully known to me,
And thus sadly ask I why should Harmony
Ev'ry where exist, save in man's life alone?
Music.
Ah, thou'rt wrong! There's harmony thou must hear,
Voices of more worlds than one to comprehend --
Life is a symphony loud that rises clear --
Where voices of earth, of hell and heaven blend.
Beethoven {unfolding a roll of paper).
Stay. I would write thy utterances -- that when
I shall return to the world half-dreaming still
I may show thy revelations unto men --
Awakening those whose souls thy words can thrill.
{A moment's silence. )
? ? Generated for (University of Chicago) on 2014-06-10 17:14 GMT / http://hdl. handle. net/2027/loc. ark:/13960/t04x6gz3d Public Domain / http://www. hathitrust. org/access_use#pd
? 348 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Music.
Hark! some one comes thro 1 darkness and silence drear . . .
It pauses now, say you -- what hear you?
Beethoven.
I hear --
Three strokes . . . deep are they and very ominous;
The bravest must tremble . . . when that sound is heard.
Music.
Even the spirits with sudden dread are stirred,
Destiny knocks at the gates to Heaven thus.
Beethoven.
What does it wish?
Music.
With all earth's voice, in solemn tone
It calls: " Young soul! it is thy turn, come thou away. "
At that sound (to none save the happy known)
The heavens are disturbed with subtle sway.
The powers of Paradise as guests regret
The interruption of the feast whisp'ring low
" Who will then open to him? " but none will go,
Although Destiny knocks loud and louder yet.
But here look ! a radiant young soul alone
By the firm voice of its own destiny led --
Suddenly rises aglow with fire of dread --
And runs to the door. . . .
Beethoven.
The portals wide are thrown!
Music.
The guest goes in. " 'Neath that mysterious cloak
What bearest thou -- perdition's or glory's key? "
? ? Generated for (University of Chicago) on 2014-06-10 17:14 GMT / http://hdl. handle. net/2027/loc. ark:/13960/t04x6gz3d Public Domain / http://www. hathitrust. org/access_use#pd
? DEOTYMA 349
'Twas thus the soul in trembling accents spoke.
He answered: "What wouldst thou choose -- oh, come
with me
On a journey toward Fame's beckoning light;
To a rehearsal on the planet -- come to-night. 1 '
With feeling of regret the heavenly choir yearn,
Spirits at the portal hold her and repeat
"Oh, as thou leavest us -- say wilt thou return --
Wilt ever return? 1 '
Beethoven.
Amid the voices sweet
I distinguish one . . . 'tis innocent as yet --
Pure young soul, with sad complaint I hear it dwell
With weeping on the farewell strophes -- her farewell
To Heaven as though she and death had met!
Music.
Because he who is born for one world, ever dies
For another, with tears and sighs.
{Long silence. )
Beethoven.
Oh, winged sweetheart! perchance that soul no more
Was young? Perchance from Eternity's dim spheres
Too many times that road she had traveled o'er,
Or it may be sad forebodings caused those fears?
Such forebodings like sad memories seem to be.
Music.
Perhaps you guess aright.
{Silence. )
But list! life does not wait:
The soul still with fond complaint against its fate
Sinks in the embraces of its Destiny.
He grasps and covers it with its mantle fold,
? ? Generated for (University of Chicago) on 2014-06-10 17:14 GMT / http://hdl. handle. net/2027/loc. ark:/13960/t04x6gz3d Public Domain / http://www. hathitrust. org/access_use#pd
? 350 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Bears it 'mid praise and worship from Paradise --
Behold! even worlds now from their thrones arise
By admiration and respect controlled!
Beethoven.
Yes! let them rise, and thou, Destiny, stern guide,
Be humble. The soul going where trials wait
Is greater than the sun -- than cherubims more great.
Spectators these -- the soul strives in arena wild.
(Long silence. )
Music.
The soul through misty abysses falls to earth from the skies,
Drowned by night and the silence far and nigh ;
Then she slowly forgets by whose desire she downward flies --
From whence she came, -- whither she goes, -- and why.
Awake, soul! thy world is near; -- 'tis rock high and steep,
Thrown out upon a lake that has no strand,
And at Life's portals angel guards their faithful vigils keep,
And they take her from Destiny's stern hand.
Two exiles from heaven, -- two beloved of angels are they;
'Tis hard to choose between them: -- one so fair,
The sunny love, -- and the other eternal pain . . . Alway
When they go they go together ev'rywhere.
Though the young soul knows them not by sight, yet it comes
to lie
And dream upon their bosoms, and the Muses sad
Bring them into this dark world; -- look! how bitter and yet
how glad;
They to waken her with fiery kisses try.
Advance stripling into life! then he took at this decree
The trav'ling staff like pilgrim 'neath a sky
? ? Generated for (University of Chicago) on 2014-06-10 17:14 GMT / http://hdl. handle. net/2027/loc. ark:/13960/t04x6gz3d Public Domain / http://www. hathitrust. org/access_use#pd
? DEOTYMA. 351
Dim with the twilight, gazed abashed, saying What troubles
me?
Vainly seeking through mem'ry for reply.
Where are these lights without shadows, the truth that no
change knows?
And where the lovely kindred spirits, to whom
He bade a sad farewell? here the mist profounder grows;
Yet still amidst the earth's intensest gloom.
Beethoven (ivith enthusiasm).
He will preserve his hope that the light lives somewhere still,
And that he remembers her as in a dream ;
Although outwardly bedimmed, she exists in him, and will,
'Neath the guise of conscience, though accursed she may
seem.
Music.
He prepares for life's battle, armed with hope, against all fears,
As for a dance with joy imagining
Works of might for the world, arranging plans for coming
years ;
But years cunningly disappear. Scarce a young genius shows
Promise of bloom when time claims it for its own;
Scarcely has the soul accomplished aught when weary grown
To youth's Allegro sings it the sad close.
Beethoven.
And thou, too, art weary ; -- take a rest, bend down thy brow.
My oracle's words shall be in notes enchanted now.
{Here Music sits down on the steps of the column and begins
to entwine a wreath from laurel leaves. During this time
the orchestra, hidden in the grove, plays " Allegro,'' from
Beethoven's Symphony. After the " Allegro" is finished
Beethoven lays down his pen; -- then Music rises. )
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? 352 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Music.
Now the soul for the first time sits to rest beside the way,
Begins to look around . . .
but by sadness is oppressed;
Although nothing seems to pain her, what tortures still her
breast?
Beethoven.
Thought!
Music.
When she begins to think endlessly her thoughts hold sway;
In life's symphony thought plays the Andante with grave
sound,
Looking at the world that is shut closely all around:
Seeing causes without effects, confession she seeks,
Upon elements, books, mankind, and boldly asks " Why? "
And when she has asked once o'er and o'er, the word she
speaks
To ev'ry one and ev'ry where.
Beethoven.
And who will make reply?
Music.
The people's answers differ, -- so the mystery remains,
And Nature, who her wonders so willingly explains
Except to this "Why? "has reply for everything; --
Then to Destiny the soul turns with its questioning.
Is Destiny responsive? -- will this an answer bring?
See! she grows a Titian; -- so quickly soars the mind,'
She sends herself ambassador to God from mankind,
She criticises His laws, is astonished at His sway; --
But why ever from these laws do all things go astray? --
What light from her country in her conscience can she find?
Deepest melancholy envelops her.
Beethoven.
So soon.
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? DEOTYMA. 353
Music.
Now is the dark hour. She is in doubt amid her gloom
As to the aims of life she has cherished long and well ;
E'en dreams of eternal light these doubts dispel.
Ah! she keeps silence and even ceases asking "Why? 1 '
(Music sits down again on the steps of the column and con-
tinues wreathing the laurel crown. )
Beethoven.
I will take this moment while she is speaking not
To enchant in notes the mystery of human thought.
(He grasps the pen and writes. During that time the orchestra
is performing the " Andante" of the Symphony. With the
finishing of the " Andante " Beethoven also stops writings)
Beethoven (laying down his pen).
Here is the " Andante," bitterly solemn in truth,
I am as a player who counts an Enchantment's cost. While
I am listening to it I cannot in sooth
Forbear indulging in a bitter smile.
Music (rising).
You are not alone who thus smiles. Nay!
Every one will thus smile who questions truth too near,
Ev'ry thinker bears with him a sign of sneer;
As an interrogation mark it stands for aye!
(After a while. )
Terrible soul's voice with irony rife;
Her pois'nous tears e'en through a stone will go;
In the grand symphony of life
She strikes the frantic Scherzo.
23
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? 354 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Beethoven (grasps the pen).
Wait . . . I will write Scherzo. The serpents beneath my
pen
Already with venom hiss. . . .
Music.
Hold on a moment then,
In the soul open to the great
And pure light of inspiration this sneering may flit
With simple innocence, but it
Should ne'er be placed on a page separate.
(Beethoven pushes his pen and paper aside. A short silence. )
Music (continues).
Now the pilgrim of life behold!
Having thrown the bitter smile from his heart
He rose, by longing thought controlled,
And withdrew into Mystery's realms apart.
He was unconscious while his thought did progress,
Powers unknown before within him woke to life; --
Of life's problems from this day he will think less,
And he will live better, and more free from strife.
(With growing warmth. )
Man wonders with how many changes fraught
Life seems, when on it his full vision brought.
He touches it. The world is different far!
The rock of grief is harder than the thought,
But its flowers of pleasure more fragrant are.
The brave soul raised its head and looked around
As 'twere her element herself she bore.
Symphony! the brassy trumpet sound; --
Life's a battle evermore.
See the man of destiny; his touch the keys obey;
He bears the standard away!
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? DEOTYMA. 355
Beethoven (sadly).
And sometimes loses standards.
Music {with a smile).
All the suns with their trembling rays,
Every angel with a beating heart,
From the skies with interest lean and gaze
On man in life's struggle bearing a part.
(Draivs back as if in fear. )
It is a dreadful sight! . . . Oh! what's doing there?
The angels are pale, . . . the suns no more are bright. . . .
Too many temptations! -- the spirit in despair. . . .
Man, before half fallen, . . . now is fallen quite !
Do you hear his moanings?
Beethoven (with warmth).
God! wilt Thou
Arrest the fate that overwhelms him in this hour?
Will no hand rise to his assistance now?
(Reproachfully. )
Lives there for him no saving power?
Music (raising her hand).
Only one power can help him to rise,
Of which hell is jealous. Above
A vision bright appears from out the skies; --
That vision is beauteous Love!
Beethoven (gets up and raises his hand).
Above all his misfortunes now is he!
That which brought him to the world and nursed him too
Resurrects him now. In life's symphony, -- 'tis true, --
Love is a hymn of victory !
O Love! thou mother of faith! 'Tis through thee
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? 356 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
Man agrees with truths of eternal birth;
He who but once loved truly on this earth
From doubt of Heaven's joy is free.
(He becomes thoughtful, sits down slowly, and leans his head
on his hands. After a short interval of silence he raises his
head, as if awakened from a dream. )
Beethoven (continues).
And the pain?
Music.
Pain? It is not needful that a mortal
Call for it from Heaven's portal.
He will find it here.
Beethoven.
Every day it will appear,
In every-day tear, in his daily bread,
In that which is changing, in that which is dead;
But it is most fearful with conscience in its face.
(Long silence. )
Music.
Up to this time man everything has tried,
But since in Love sublime harmony he perceived
He ends all there. His symphony's run achieved
Great Finale and is glorified!
In life it is long and difficult to bear,
But the end receives its reward ev'rywhere.
The longer the years the stiller are they grown,
And remembrances speak in the loudest tone.
Some weep bitter tears, that bitter tears succeed;
Others in prayer watch beside the dear ones' tomb.
The days flit away, . . . time flies with the greatest speed,
And the soul hastes on to the sfaol of its doom.
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? DEOTYMA. 357
It clasps it, and with mantle o'er it spread
It raises it by funeral bells' deep tones,
And while on its way worlds rise from their thrones
With emotions of expectation and dread.
Then Destiny before the heavenly gates
Halted. Now it knocks, but not alone it waits.
This time it brings with its return a soul.
Beethoven.
Happy spirits! Will you not open the door?
Then, my beloved one, tell me.
Music.
No. As to this
I am silent. This laurel for witness I take.
I promised to reveal life by song, but more
Beyond that is a problem
That death can break.
Beethoven {folding his
I will reveal God's mystery so great!
Even if o'er an abyss the spirit stood,^--
Even if love and pain followed her. They would
Of themselves ope the heavenly gate!
{He grasps the pen and writes. Music sits doivn on the steps
of the column and finishes the wreath. During this time
the orchestra plays Scherzo and the Finale of the symphony.
As the last strains of the Finale die away Beethoven throws
his pen aside and, weary, hides his face in his hands, and
falls into a deep reverie.
Music arises, and with the laurel wreath, lohich is finished,
crowns Beethoven's bust on the column. She looks once
more upon Beethoven, and, throwing him a hand-kiss, dis-
appears. )
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