To Anthony C . . . . . . . . .
La musique est une chose étrange!
Byron
L’art? . . . c’est l’art – et puis, voilà tout.
Béranger
I
I visited you in those days but last
Of life’s inscrutable thread –
Full – like Myth,
Pale – like dawn . . .
– When life’s end whispers to its beginning:
“I won’t destroy you – no! – You I’ll enhance! . . .”
II
I visited you in those days, days but last,
When you became – moment, by moment –
Likened to the lyre Orpheus let fall,
Where force-of-thrust struggles with song,
And four strings converse,
Nudging each other,
Two – by two –
And in soft strains:
“Has he begun
To strike the tone?
Is this the Master! . . . who plays . . . yet, disdains? . . .”
III
I visited you in those days, Frédéric!
Whose hand . . . with its alabaster
Whiteness – and manners, and chic,
Its swaying touches like an ostrich plume –
Fused in my eyes with the keyboard
Of elephant tusk . . .
And you were that form, which
From marble’s bosom,
Still uncarved,
With chisel withdrawn,
By the genius – eternal Pygmalion!
IV
In what you played – and what? asked the tones, what?
Though echoes will strum differently,
Than when you blessed with Your Own hand
Every chord –
In what you played, was the simplicity
Of Periclean perfection,
As if some Virtue of antiquity,
Entering a larch-wood country manor –
Said to herself:
“I was reborn in Heaven
Its gates became – my Harp,
Its path – my ribbon . . .
The Host – through the pale wheat I see . . .
And Emmanuel already dwells
On Mount Tabor!”
V
And in this was Poland – from its zenith
Through Ages’ all-perfection,
Captured in songs of rapture –
– That Poland – of wheelwrights transfigured into kings!
The very same – indeed
A golden-bee . . .
(Recognize it I would, at the limits of existence! . . .)
VI
And – thus – you’ve ended your song – and no more
Do I see you – – merely – hear:
Something? . . . like children quarreling –
– These are the keys of the piano wrangling
For their not-fully-sung wish:
And nudging each other in soft strains
By eight – by five –
They whisper: “has he begun to play? or does he disdain us? . . .”
VII
O You! – who are Love’s profile,
Whose name is Fulfillment;
The one – that in Art they call Style,
For it infuses song, chisels stone . . .
O! You – who through the ages bear the name: Era,
Even in times that aren’t history’s zenith,
You are named both: Spiritus et Littera,
And consummatum est . . .
O! You – Consummate-completion,
Whatever is Your sign . . . and where?
Be it in Phidias? in David? or Chopin?
Or in an Aeschylus scene? . . .
Always – you’ll be revenged by: NOT ENOUGH . . .!
– Privation is this globe’s stigma:
Fulfillment? . . . pains it! . . .
It – prefers ever to begin
Prefers always to pay – a deposit!
– An ear of wheat? . . . when ripe – a golden comet –
When barely moved by the breeze,
It sprays the rain of its wheaten seeds –
Its own perfection scatters it . . .
VIII
Look then – Frédéric! . . . this is – Warsaw:
Under a flaming star
Strangely brilliant – –
– Look, the organs at St. John’s! Your nest –
There – old patrician homes
Like the Publica-Res,
The squares’ cobbles dull and gray,
And King Sigismund’s sword in clouds.
IX
Look! . . . from alleys to alleys
Caucasian horses tear forth,
Like swallows before a storm,
Ahead of their brigades –
Hundred – by hundred – –
A house – engulfed by fire, which dims,
Flares up again – – and here – by a wall –
I see widows’ mourning brows
Pushed by rifle butts – –
And again I see, though blinded by smoke,
As – through a balcony’s columns –
A coffin-likened object
They heave . . . it tumbled . . . tumbled – your grand piano!
X
The very one! . . . that proclaimed Poland
– From the zenith of Ages’ all-perfection
Captured – in hymns of Rapture;
That Poland – of transfigured wheelwrights –
That same piano – cast – on a street of granite!
– And so it is, like man’s noble thought,
Besullied by men’s wrath,
Or, so it is – ever and evermore –
With all that will awaken!
And – thus – as Orpheus’ body,
A thousand passions tear it into shreds;
And each one howls: “Not I! . . .
Not I!” – grating her teeth –
*
But You? – but I? – let’s break into judgment chant,
And exhort: “Rejoice, our grandson yet to come! . . .
The dull stones groaned:
The Ideal – has reached the street – –”