No More Learning

In the shade of an old linden tree I recline,
That is scarcely beginning to burgeon and shoot;
I list, as he flits through the boughs of the pine,
How the cuckoo is cooing his suit.
cuckoo! O cuckoo! Of years that remain
How many are there you shall number for me?
When, O bird! -- my dear bird of the prophet-like strain, --
Will the end of this counting be?
It is twelve already, if rightly I heard;
You have counted too many for me, my bird ! *
Low each bough of the apple and pear tree drops;
All too heavily laden with fruit are they;
And over the meadow the girls bring the props
To grandpa, who whittles away.
1 watch as he gives them a welcoming smile;
'Tis a picture to treasure on memory's page.
How happy I feel, though the tears start the while; --
God! give me such happy old age!
O'er the fields hung with mist see the shadows increase;
The day's labor ends as the sun westers low;
No sound greets the ear save the cackling of geese,
No sight save the white fences show.
Now and then the slow wheel of a wagon is heard;
From some creature estrayed comes a sound now and then,
Or a creak from the well when the old crane is stirred,
And then falls the silence again.
* There is a remarkable superstition in some parts of Poland in
regard to this bird, and it has its influence with almost every rank
in society ; namely, when it makes its appearance in the Spring,
each one listens, the first time they hear it, with rapt attention, be-
lieving that the number of times it utters the word "cuckoo" indi-
cates the number of years they are to live.
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? 340 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
In the garden-patch brother is hoeing around,
Grandpa whittles and whittles, his back to a tree;
Two sisters are spreading the flax on the ground,
And chanticleer crows cheerily.
When 'tis cloudy without we are happy within;
Our roof is secure when the tempest makes strife;
And sweet is the bread that through labor we win
For father, for children, and wife.
There's pleasure in all things surrounding me here;
My country, my people, are precious to me.
In the home of the farmer dwells sunshine and cheer,
And a bird that sings constantly.
Where a wife spins and sings to the wheel's drowsy tune,
Where the rich soil yields us a bountiful crop,
Where the star bathes its ray in the well, and the moon
Rises up o'er the forest top.
Is there pleasanter looks than our neighbors can give?
Water purer than that which wells freshly from earth?
Aught more sweet than in memory of kindred to live,
More dear than the land of our birth?
And what better gift than a mind of content?
A heart open, -- honest; -- all else is above.
What more sad than the days of our youth, lost and spent?
What more holy than labor and love?
This world is made up of the good and the ill, --
Of all sorts of people, with natures diverse,
And they each go their ways, and they each work their will
As maybe, -- for better or worse.
I spend the spare time with my children and song,
With father and grandsire, -- a life free from blame;
And the days they pass smoothly, if slowly, along, --
Pass brightly, -- though ever the same.
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? DEOTYMA.
te?
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? DEOTYMA. 343
DEOTYMA.
(Hedwige ? uszczewska. )*
Hedwige ? uszczewska (Deotyma) is known in the
Polish literature as a lady of extraordinary poetic
talent; she is in reality a wonderfully gifted improvvi-
satrice and rhajjsodist; hence she must be considered
as an uncommon phenomenon of our age. She is so
gifted that she can apparently, with scarcely an effort,
incarnate an idea into a living being, -- not a being that
throbs, quivers, and palpitates, -- but she can embellish
it with such an illusive language that it seems so. Her
lyrism is not of a slender and nauseous kind, but a
quiet and yet sublime comprehension of the subject,
united with bright imagery and loftiness. The lyric
art of our poetess consists not only of the characteris-
tics of epic poetry, but also possesses a finished dramatic
turn. The most admired improvisations of Deotyma
are ' ' Spring, " ' ' Sculpture, " ' ' Stones, " < ' Birds, "
" Painting," and "Flowers"; perhaps the best of all
is "The Highest Love. " . Deotyma feels, perhaps,
involuntarily an inclination to the dramatic Muse, as
is plainly shown in her fantastic creations: "The Mys-
tery of Fruits," "Tamira," and "Stanislas Lubom-
irski," of which it can be remarked that aside from
some forms and turns resembling the monologues of
Goethe's " Faust," there is not much of dramatic art,
and there is an uncertainty whether Deotyma' s genius
is thus adapted. From these dramatic specimens she
went into epopee as " Poland in Song," and " Poetry. "
* Pronounce Heel vi g Loosh-tchev-skah.
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? 344 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Deotyma' s improvisations are written mostly under the
influences of occurring circumstances; but the multi-
tude of images introduced in them makes one feel
restive under the pressure, and at other times one gets
weary of the frequent introduction of philosophical
views, which oftentimes are but cloudy mysticisms.
Some of her allegorical compositions are wrought up
in a highly poetic and finished style ; such are ' ' The
Mysteries of Fruits," " Pilgrim," " May Visions, "
"Storm in the Desert," "Wreaths," "A Dream,"
u The Power of Song," " The Inspiration," and others;
perhaps the finest and the most finished of all is ' ' The
Prayer. " The chief idea of Deotyma' s composition is
of a religious cast, -- an anticipation that society can be
regenerated only by faith.
Deotyma always surrounds herself with phantasm;
it is her strongest forte, and yet the weakest. Her
notions of society, her ideas of history, and the
unfolding of human spirit in form and action, are
always rosy, well meant, and possess unaffected sim-
plicity. They are like the smiles of a child, unsuit-
able to well-wrought ideas, and not consonant with
the life of reality; but after all one cannot but admire
her many precious gems of genius, which shecl a great
luster upon the national literature.
Deotyma was born before 1840, at Warsaw. She
is the daughter of Wac? aw ? uszczewski, counsellor of
state, and the director of the commercial and industrial
department. Her first education was under the super-
vision of Dominick Schultz, and Anton Waga, the
celebrated Polish naturalist. She traveled in Ger-
many and other countries, and made an excursion into
the Carpathian Mountains. Descriptions of her trav-
els were published in "The Warsaw Gazette," and
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? DEOTYMA.
345
1 ' The Illustrated Weekly. " In 1865 she returned with
her father from the far-off regions of Kussia to her
native place.
Her poetry was published in Warsaw in 1854, 1856,
1859 and 1860.
SYMPHONY OF LIFE.
A LYRIC SCENE.
Written by Deotyma on the One Hundredth Anniversary of
BEETHOVEN'S BIRTH;
Performed at Warsaw on the 17th day of December, 1870*
Allegro con brio. Op. 67.
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* The following poem was written on the one hundredth anni-
versary of Beethoven's birth, which was celebrated with great solem-
nity in the city of Warsaw on the 17th of December, 1870. In this
beautiful lyric scene Kro? likowski played Beethoven, and Madam
Palinska represented the genius of Music. The newspapers of those
days write about the event as follows : " We will not even attempt
to give a correct account of the charms of the Polish verse, sublim-
ity of ideas and unassumed inspiration. Our opinion is, however,
that the performance was the most creditable representation of hom-
age to the memory of Beethoven ever given in our city.
From Beethoven's dialogue his desire is plainly shown to write
a Symphony of Life. While he sits down to the composition of his
work an unseen orchestra plays the first part of the symphony.
After that is finished another dialogue takes place before "Adagio,"
and a third one before "Scherzo," with a finale. In this way the
idea of the composer, represented by scenery and poetical elucida-
tion, exerted a magic influence on the audience. 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.