As to the conditions under which the poem was written, it is perhaps needful to state that it was composed by Mickiewicz, during the term of his banishment into Russia, and was first published at St. Petersburg in the year 1828. In the character of the hero of the story, and in various circumstances of the poem, it is impossible not to recognise the influence of Lord Byron’s poetry, which obtained so powerful an ascendency over the works and imaginations of the Continental romanticists, and had thus an influence over foreign literature not conceded in the poet’s own country. The Byronic character, however, presents a far nobler aspect in the hands of the present author than in those of its original creator; for, instead of being the outcome of a mere morbid self-concentration, and brooding over personal wrongs, it is the result of a noble indignation for the sufferings of others, and is conjoined with a high purpose for good, even though such good be worked out by means in themselves doubtful or questionable.
We cannot pass by the subject without saying a word as to the undercurrent of political meaning in “Konrad Wallenrod,” which fortunately escaped the rigid censorship of the Russian press. Lithuania, conquered and oppressed by the Teutonic Order, is Poland, subjugated by Russia; and the numerous expressions of hatred for oppressors and love of an unhappy country woven into the substance of the narrative must be read as the utterances of a Pole against Russian tyranny. The underhand machinations of the concealed enemy against the state in which he is a powerful leader, may be held to figure that intricate web of intrigue and conspiracy which Russian liberalism is gradually weaving throughout the whole political system, and which is daily gaining influence and power. The character of Wallenrod is essentially the same as that of Cooper’s “Spy;” but we cannot suppose that the author intended to hold up trickery and deceit as praiseworthy and honourable, even though it is the sad necessity of slaves to use treachery as their only weapon; or that the Macchiavellian precept with which the story is headed is at all intended as one to be generally followed by seekers of political liberty against despotism. The end and aim of this, as of all the works of Mickiewicz, is to show us a great and noble soul, noble in spite of many errors and vices, striving to work out a high ideal, and the fulfilment of a noble purpose; and to exhibit the heroism of renunciation of personal ease and enjoyment for the sake of the world’s or a nation’s good.
In regard to the method used in the English version, it is only necessary to add that as far as possible verbal accuracy in rendering has been endeavoured after; and an attempt, at least conscientious — whether or not partially successful must be left to the sentence of those qualified to form an opinion — has been made to reproduce as nearly as may be something of the original spirit In translating the main body of the narrative blank verse has been the medium employed, not as at all representing the beautiful and harmonious interchange of rhymes and play of rhythm so conspicuous in the Polish lines; but as securing, by reason of freedom from the necessity for rhymes, a truer verbal rendering, and as being the measure par excellence best suited to English narrative verse. The “Wajdelote’s Tale” has for similar reasons been rendered into the same form, instead of being reproduced in the original hexameter stanza, as strange to the Polish as to the English tongue, wherein, despite the works of Longfellow and Clough, it can hardly be said to have yet become thoroughly naturalised. Most of the lyrics are translated into the same metres as the originals, with the sole exception of the ballad of Alpujara. This, as being upon a Spanish or Moorish subject, it was judged best to render into a form nearly resembling that of the ancient Spanish ballad, and employed by Bishop Percy in translation of the “Rio Verde,” and other poems from a like source. Moreover, the original “Alpujara” is couched in a metre which, though extremely well suited to the Polish tongue, is difficult of imitation in English; or only to be imitated by great loss of accuracy in rendering.
In concluding, the translator begs to express a hope that this humble effort to present, however feebly, to the reading public of Great Britain an image of the work of the greatest of Polish poets, may, not be wholly unacceptable. Any defects which the critical eye may note, must undoubtedly be laid rather to the charge of the copyist, than to the original of the great master. I dare, however, to trust, that the shadow of so great a name, and the sincere wish to contribute this slender homage to the memory of one of Europe’s most illustrious writers, may serve as an excuse for over-presumption.
London, March 1882.
KONRAD WALLENROD. AN HISTORICAL TALE.
(FROM THE ANNALS OF LITHUANIA AND PRUSSIA.)
“Dovete adunque sapere come sono due generazioni da combattere... bisogna essere volpe e leone.”
Macchiavelli, Il Principe.
Introduction.
A hundred years have passed since first the Order
Waded in blood of Northern heathenesse;
The Prussian now had bent his neck to chains,
Or, yielding up his heritage, removed
With life alone. The German followed after,
Tracking the fugitive; he captive made
And murdered unto Litwa’s farthest bound.
Niemen divideth Litwa from the foe;
On one side gleam the sanctuary fanes,
And forests murmur, dwellings of the gods.
Upon the other shore the German ensign,
The cross, implanted on a hill, doth veil
Its forehead in the clouds, and stretches forth
Its threatening arms towards Litwa, as it would
Gather all lands of Palemon together,
Embrace them all, assembled ‘neath its rule.
This side, the multitude of Litwa’s youth,
With kolpak of the lynx-hide and in skins
Clad of the bear, the bow upon their shoulders,
Their hands all filled with darts, they prowl around,
Tracking the German wiles. On the other side,
In mail and helmet armed, the German sits
Upon his charger motionless; while fixed
His eyes upon the entrenchments of the foe,
He loads his arquebuse and counts his beads.
And these and those alike the passage guard.
The Niemen thus, of hospitable fame,
In ancient days, uniting heritage
Of brother nations, now for them becomes
The threshold of eternity, and none,
But by foregoing liberty or life,
Cross the forbidden waters. Only now
A trailer of the Lithuanian hop,
Drawn by allurement of the Prussian poplar,
Stretches its fearless arms, as formerly,
Leaping the river, with luxuriant wreaths,
Twines with its loved one on a foreign shore.
The nightingales from Kowno’s groves of oak
Still with their brethren of Zapuszczan mount,
Converse, as once, in Lithuanian speech.
Or having on free pinions ‘scaped, they fly,
As guests familiar, on the neutral isles.
And mankind? — War has severed human kind!
The ancient love of nations has departed
Into oblivion. Love by time alone
Uniteth human hearts. — Two hearts I knew.
O Niemen! soon upon thy fords shall rush
Hosts bearing death and burning, and thy shores,
Sacred till now, the axe shall render bare
Of all their garlands; soon the cannon’s roar
Shall from the gardens fright the nightingales.
Where nature with a golden chain hath bound,
The hatred of the nations shall divide;
It severs all things. But the hearts of lovers
Shall in the Wajdelote’s song unite once more.
The Election.
In towers of Marienbourg the bells are ringing,
The cannon thunder loud, the drums are beating.
This in the Order is a solemn day.
The Komturs hasten to th
e capital,
Where, gathered in the chapter’s conclave, they,
The Holy Spirit invoked, take counsel who
Is worthiest to bear the mighty sword, —
Into whose hands may they confide the sword?
One day, and yet another flowed away
In council; many heroes there contend.
And all alike of noble race, and all
Alike deserving in the Order’s cause.
But hitherto the brethren’s general voice
Placed Wallenrod the highest over all
A stranger he, in Prussia all unknown,
But foreign houses of his fame were full
Following the Moors upon Castilian sierras,
The Ottoman through ocean’s troubled waves,
In battle at the front, first on the wall,
To grapple vessels of the infidel
The first; and in the tourney, soon as he
Entered the lists and deigned his visor raise,
None dared with him the strife of keen-edged swords,
By one accord the victor’s garland yielding.
But not alone amid Crusading hosts
He with the sword had glorified his youth;
For many Christian graces him adorn,
Poverty, humbleness, of earth disdain.
But Konrad shone not in the courtly crowd
By polished speech, by well-turned reverence;
Nor e’er his sword for vile advantage sold
To service of disputing barons. He
Had consecrated to the cloister walls
His youthful years; all plaudits he disdained,
And ruler’s place, even higher, sweeter meeds.
Nor minstrel’s hymn, nor beauty’s fair regard
Could speak to his cold spirit. Wallenrod
Listens unmoved to praise, and looks afar
On lovely cheeks, enchanting discourse flies.
Had Nature made him thus unfeeling, proud?
Or age? For albeit young in years, his locks
Were grey already, withered were his looks,
And sufferings sealed by age. — Twere hard to guess.
He would at times divide the sports of youth,
Or listen, pleased, to sound of female tongues,
To courtiers’ jests reply with other jests;
Or scatter unto ladies courteous words
With chilly smile, as dainties cast to children —
These were rare moments of forgetfulness; —
And speedily some light, unmeaning word,
That had no sense for others, woke in him
Passionate stirrings. These words: Fatherland,
Duty, Beloved, — the mention of Crusades,
And Litwa, all the mirth of Wallenrod
Instantly poisoned. Hearing them, again
He turned away his countenance, again
Became to all around insensible,
And buried him in thoughts mysterious.
Maybe, remembering his holy call,
He would forbid himself the sweets of earth;
The sweets of friendship only did he know,
One only friend had chosen to himself,
A saint by virtue and by holy state.
This was a hoary monk; men called him Halban.
He shared the loneliness of Wallenrod;
He was alike confessor of his soul,
And of his heart the trusted confidant
O blessed friendship! saint is he on earth,
Whom friendship with the holy ones unites.
Thus do the leaders of the Order’s council
Discourse of Konrad’s virtues. But one fault
Was his, — for who may spotless be from faults?
Konrad loved not the riots of the world,
Nor mingled Konrad in the drunken feast.
Though truly, in his secret chamber locked,
When weariness or sorrow tortured him,
He sought for solace in a burning draught;
And then he seemed a new form to indue,
And then his visage pallid and severe
A sickly red adorned, and his large eyes,
Erst heavenly blue, but somewhat now by time
Dulled and extinguished, shot the lightnings forth
Of ancient fires, while sighs of grief escape
From forth his breast, and with the pearly tear
The laden eyelid swells; the hand the lute
Seeks, the lips pour forth songs; the songs are sung
In speech of a strange land, but yet the hearts
Of the hearers understand them. ’Tis enough
To list that grave-like music, ’tis enough
The singer’s form to contemplate, to see
Memory’s inspiration on that face,
To view the lifted brows and sideward looks,
Striving to snatch some object from deep darkness.
What may the hidden thread be of the songs?
He tracketh surely, in this wandering chase,
In thought his youth through deep gulfs of the past.
Where is his soul? — In the land of memories!
But never did that hand in music’s impulse
Mere joyful tones from out the lute evoke;
And still it seemed his countenance did fear
Innocent smiles, even as deadly sins.
All strings he strikes in turn, one string except —
Except the string of mirth; — the hearer shares
All feelings with him, — one excepted — hope!
Not seldom him the brethren have surprised,
And marvelled at his unaccustomed change.
Konrad, aroused, did writhe himself and rage,
Had cast away the lute and ceased to sing.
He spoke out loudly impious words; to Halban
Whispered some secret things; called to the host,
Gave forth commands, and uttered dreadful threats,
On whom they knew not. All their hearts were troubled.
Old Halban tranquil sits, and on the face
Of Konrad drowns his glance, — a piercing glance,
Cold and severe, full of some secret speech.
Something he may recall, some counsel give,
Or waken grief in heart of Wallenrod,
Whose cloudy brow at once is calm again,
His eyes forego their fires, his rage is cool.
Thus when, in public sport, the lionward,
Before assembled lords, and dames, and knights,
Unbars the grating of the iron cage.
The trumpet signal given, the royal beast
Growls from his deep breast, horror falls on all.
Alone his keeper moveth not a step,
Folds tranquilly upon his breast his hands,
And smites with power the lion, — by the eye.
With talisman of an undying soul
Unreasoning strength in bonds he doth control.
II.
In towers of Marienbourg the bells are ringing;
Now from the hall of council to the chapel
Comes the chief Komtur, then the chiefest rulers,
The chaplain, brothers, and assembled knights.
The chapter listen vesper orisons,
And sing a hymn unto the Holy Spirit
Hymn.
Spirit! Thou Holy One,
Thou Dove of Sion’s Hill!
This Christian world, the footstool of Thy throne,
With glory visible
Lighten, that all behold.
Thy wings o’er Sion’s brotherhood unfold,
And let Thy glory shine from underneath
Thy wings, with sunlike rays.
And him, the worthiest of so holy praise,
Circle his temples with Thy golden wreath.
Fall on the visage of that son of man,
Whom shadows o’er Thy wings’ protecting van.
Thou Saviour Son!
With beckoning
of Thy hand almighty, deign
To point of many one,
Worthiest to hold,
And wear the sacred symbol of Thy pain.
To lead with Peter’s sword thy soldiery,
Before the eyes of heathenesse unfold
The standards of Thy heavenly empery.
Then let the sons of earth bow lowly down,
Him on whose breast the cross shall gleam to own.
Prayers o’er, they parted. The Archkomtur ordered
After repose, to seek the choir again;
Again entreat that Heaven would enlighten
Chaplains and brethren, called to such election.
So went they forth themselves to recreate
With the cool freshness of the night; and some
Sat in the castle porch, and others walk
Through gardens and through groves. The night was still;
It was the fair May season; from afar
Peeped forth the pale uncertain dawn; the moon,
Having the sapphire plains o’ercoursed, with aspect
Changing, with varying lustre in her eye,
Now in a shadowy, now a silvery cloud
Slumbering, now sank her still and tranquil head,
Like to a lover in the wilderness;
Dreaming in thought, life’s circle he o’erruns,
All hopes, all sweetness, and all sufferings.
Now sheds he tears, now joyful is his glance.
At length upon his breast the weary brow
Sinketh, and falls in sense’s lethargy.
By walking other knights beguile the time,
But the Archkomtur wastes no time in vain.
He quickly summons Halban and the chiefs
Unto himself, and leads them to one side;
That, from the curious crowd afar removed,
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 4