Kornel Ujejski's Dramatic Poems about Chopin in English Translation (Vol. 7, No. 3)

Chopin Vintage Postcard. Maja Trochimczyk Collection, 1890s, Poland

Chopin’s music was reflected in verse by generations of poets in Poland and around the world. Our Chopin with Cherries anthology gathers contemporary American poetry about Chopin, juxtaposed with some English-language classics, like poems by Emma Lazarus and T.S. Eliot, as well as the magnificent and visionary "Chopin’s Piano" by Cyprian Kamil Norwid translated by Leonard Kress. Published in 2010, the anthology gathers “the last word” on Chopin in English-language poetry at the 200th anniversary of the composer’s birth.

However, as we have since found, there have been many more poems written in English or translated from Polish that were in circulation in North America. Two of these poems were located in an unlikely source, among documents of an amateur theatrical group active in Schenectady, NY in the 1930s and 1940s, and called the Maska Dramatic Circle. While working on the history of the group, Phyllis Zych Budka found the following press clipping, published on December 26, 1935, in the local Weekly Gazette (Gazeta Tygodniowa). The history book by Ms. Budka is currently in preparation to be published by Moonrise Press this year and will include more information about Chopin-related performances and activities of the notable theatrical ensemble.

Photo by Phyllis Zych Budka. Used by Permission.

The Gazeta Tygodniowa clipping contains two poems by a romantic Polish poet, Kornel Ujejski (1823-1897), based on  the music by Fryderyk Chopin: “Marsz Pogrzebowy” (“Funeral March”), following the formal outline of Chopin’s Funeral March from Sonata Op. 35, and “Wniebowzięcie” (“Assumption”) providing a poetic interpretation of Chopin’s Prelude Op. 28, No. 7.  The original version by Kornel Ujejski is on the left, accompanied on the right by the English translation written by Dr. Bradley Kirschberg (assisted by Wadsworth Olivier in Funeral March and by Jeanne Robert Foster in Assumption).

 The exaggerated dramatics of the Funeral March - depicting the despair and resultant blasphemous mutiny against  the will of God of a husband walking behind the coffin of his young wife - may strike a contemporary reader as quite kitschy. The poem follows the formal outline of the March, with a sweeter and more delicate topic describing the "dearly departed" wife in ethereal terms, reflecting the middle part of Trio, followed by the return of the tragic tone of despair in the closing section, repeating the main themes of music from the opening.

Similarly, the over-sweetened delight in a miniature that is inspired by an equally minuscule Prelude Op. 28, may seem to us, in the 21st century, as being completely exaggerated and false. Regardless of their reception today, these poems are an important testimonial to the history of Chopin reception at the end of the 19th century, where such exaggerated emotions, whether dramatic or ecstatic, were common-place.

The transcriptions of both poems are included below, along with links to several notable interpretations of the compositions by pianists from the era. For best experience, go to YouTube, open the link in a different screen, and come back here to read the poem.  The  Polish original is followed by its English translation. Enjoy!

Chopin's Funeral March from Sonata in B-flat, Op. 35 played by Anton Rubinstein.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ido55uT5U0k

Marsz Pogrzebowy 

By Kornel Ujejski

Tyle dzwonów! Gdzie te dzwony? Czy w mej głowie huczą?
Kędy idą roje księży z taką pieśnią kruczą?
Tu przede mną o dwa kroki czarny wóz się toczy
Jak mi ciemo, ten wóz czarny ściemnił moje oczy.”

Gdzieś w powietrzu krzyż jaśnieje, migają pochodnie,
A prowadzą mnie pod ręce – idą tak wygodnie.
Same prawie się podnoszą zatrętwiałe nogi.
Dobrze, dobrze, że mnie wiodą, nie znam żadnej drogi.

Idę, płynę niby śniący, bez myśli, bez woli.
Tylko w głowie  tylko w sercu coś mnie strasznie boli,
Coś zatapia w nich swe szpony,  krzywe, ostre szpony,
A tu ciągle biją dzwony a tu kraczą wrony….

Ha ! muzykę jakąś słyszę – pięknie grają, pięknie…
Żar mam w oczach, a po twarzy coś zimnego cieknie
Patrzą na mnie, ale zbliżyć nikt się nie odważa,
Musi coś być w mojej twarzy, co ludzi przeraża.

A wóz ciągną cztery konie, okryte żałobą
A mnie ciągnie jakaś siła, wlecze mnie za sobą…
Wielki Boże! toż ta trumna wysuwa się ku mnie!
Tam zagadka mego bytu, w tej trumnie, w tej trumine!

Za co Tyś mnie tak ukarał, Ty, co zwiesz się Bogiem!
Za co, za co – och!
Samowładca nad słońcami, nad stworzeniem mnogiem
Mnie zdeptałeś – proch?!
Gdzie ten Bóg
Co mnie zmógł?
Czy Go jęki dzwonów głoszą i krakanie wron?

Niech pokaże się przede mną z ironji obliczem
On, straszny jak noc
Bom ja większy w moim bólu, chociaż jestem niczem,
Niźli jego Moc
Ha, zły On!
Ha, zły On!
I tem słowem dzwony biją
Jezus, Maryjo!
Jakże mnie ten razi dzwon
Ten dzwon! Ten dzwon!

* * * *
Na atłasie piękna, cicha
Rączki trzyma w krzyż,
Przez sen do mnie się uśmiecha
Oh, ty już nie śnisz!

Oh, nie czujesz ty już woni
Z wieńca białych róż,
Całowaniem twojej skroni
Nie zbudzę cię już.

Nie wiesz nawet, że za tobą
Idę, blady trup,
Że prowadzą cię z żałobą
Że prowadzą w grob!

Na toż ciebie biedna matka
Wydała na świat,
I jam kochał do ostatka,
Bym cię w trumnę kładł!

Takież moje ślubne łoże?
I ja w takim dniu
Żyję jeszcze? Boże! Boże!
Co ja pocznę tu!

Była słodka i anielska
I kochała mnie,
Jak piosenka jaka sielska,
Plynęły nam dnie.

I jam przy niej był bez grzechu
I anielskość miał
Bo z jej oczu z jej usmiechu
Jam sacrament brał.

Była dla mnie jak natchnienie
Genjuszu i cnót,
Wiodło do mnie jej szat jaśnienie
Do niebieskich wrót.

Gdzie zawiodło mnie na końcu,
Po przebyciu prób?
W czarną otchłań szedłem w słońcu!
Przez nadzieję w grób!

Takież moje ślubne łoże
I ja w takim dniu
Żyję jeszcze? Boże! Boże!
Co ja pocznę tu!

* * * *
Wzięli trumnę na ramiona, ponieśli ją śpiesznie
Mnie zatrzymać chcą przemocą – ha! Ha! To pociesznie!
Precz mi z drogi, głupi tłumie, bo będzie nieszczęście,
Młody jestem, wściekły jestem i mam silne pięście!

Ja mam do niej prawo. Precz z drogi ciekawi!
Czarne mrowie! Tylko równy niech mi opór stawi.
Mego bólu żadna z waszych piersi nie pomieści;
I pierzchnęli, a ja idę, wielki król boleści!

Pośród gwaru podziwienia, śród hałasu dzwonu,
Oto zbliźam się do trumny do mojego tronu!
Ty grabarzu, na tym kopcu wsparty na łopacie,
By takiego pogrześć króla, ile chcesz mój bracie?

A zakop mnie a głęboko, tak mi źle na świecie!
Ciężej niźli twoja ziemia, powietrze mnie gniecie…
Precz z kropidłem, śwecona woda ją poplami
Ja tu jeden mam kapłaństwo, pokropię ją łzami!

Z pod habitu zakonnego wysuwa się ręka,
Jakaś jasna, jakaś mocna! Duch mój przed nią klęka.
Dotknęła mnie! A ja padam podcięty jak kosą…
I wzięli mnie I ponieśli – gdzie oni mnie niosą?

Niech za kilka kropli szczęścia ludzie światu płacą
Całym morzem łez!
Głupi świecie, marny świecie stworzonyś ty na co?
W czemu twój byt i kres?
Jego ruch,
To mój duch!
Jam jak serce w nim bijące, oh, próżny jak dzwon!
Czym ja kogo prosił o to? Kto tu bez mej woli
Nakazał mi przyjść?
Chociaż bytem mnie okuto, nie jestem w niewoli!
Ja mam władzę wyjść!

Ha, zły On!
Ha, zły On!

I tem słowem dzwony biją….
Jezus, Maryjo!

Jakże mnie ten razi dzwon!
Ten dzwon! Ten dzwon!

Chopin with the angel of death, vintage postcard, Poland, 1890s. Maja Trochimczyk collection.

And here's another, slightly more modern interpretation of Chopin's Funeral March, faster in this version by Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hgw_RD_1_5I

Funeral March

By Kornel Ujejski, English translation and versification by 
Dr. B.H. Kirchberg and Wadsworht Olivier
(to Chopin’s Funeral March From Sonata – Op. 35)

A thousand bells from hidden lofts clamor in my brain,
As these slowly pacing priests drone a sad refrain
While before me just two paces moves a slow black car,
Deathly shadows cloak my eyes, darkness shrouds my heart.

Crucifix reflects the glint of torches burning bright,
Thus they lead me, thus support my falt’ring footsteps light.
It is well that they keep moving my unconscious tread,
It is well for I, in truth, know not where I am led.

I am walking, floating, moving, without thought or will
Aching head and aching heart, body cold and chill.
Claws so sharp and claws so crooked digging at my sou,
I hear ugly ravens croak as death bells slowly toll.

Music playing, softly gently, music clear and sweet,
Water cold runs down my face, though eyeballs burn with heat.
Strangers eyes keep staring at me, no-one dares draw near,
Is my face a gruesome mask that men will dread and fear?

A hearse by four black horses drawn, in mourning is each horse,
Thus my body too is dragged, by some terrific force.
Oh great God that coffin seems to move and ghostly gait.
And in that dreadful casket likes toe answer to my fate.

* * * *
Why must you punish me this way, Though Almightly Lord,
I have done naught, so why?
You who rule the  Universe with biting, flashing sword,
Have slain me, ever to lie.
Where is He
Who killed me?

Does He speak through mournful bell, or croaking raven  horde?

L:et Him stand before me now with his satanic face,
As black as night,
I am greater through my pain though but a speck in space,
Than his great might.
The Mad One
The Mad One. Through such words the bells do toll,
Oh, Jesus, Oh Mary,
Bells keep pounding in my soul,
Bells, bells Bells, Bells.

* * * *
On the satin, lovely, silent,
Folded hands on breast,
Still you smile at me though sleeping
In your final rest,

Though you cannot breathe the perfume
Of wreath roses white,
As you do not fee l my kisses,
In your endless night.

You know not that here behind you,
I walk pale with dread
As your corpse in gruesome mourning
Ti its grave is led.

Was for this your poor dear mother,
Suffered at your birth,
Did I love you just to give you
Back again to earth?

Is your grave our nuptial chamber,
If I here remain,
God in Heaven, with Thy power,
Help me in my pain.

She was kind and so angelic
Sweet her love and true
Haunting melody our livng,
As time quickly flew.

And beside her I stood sinless
Angel blessings took
And from her eyes, her lips, her smile
Sacraments, partook.

For me she was inspiration
Guide light for my soul
Leading me with goodness, virtue
To immortal goal.

After trials I surmounted,
Is this then my doom,
Blackest chaos in days sunlight
Standing by her tomb?

Is your grave our nuptial chamber
Is I here remain
God in heaven with Thy power
Help me in my pain.

* * * *
They slowly lift her coffin down, they who walked so fast.
In mockery the urge me now to sit and rest at last.
Begone Black Insects, only equals can oppose my wrath.
If I am  young and desperate, my fists are apt to fly.

Only I have right to her, begone who stare and laugh,
Begone Black Insects, only equals can oppose my wrath
My suffering s are far too great for any human breast,
The mob disperse, with only I, the King of Sorrow left.

Through a murmur of surprise and church bells’ mournful chime,
I draw newer her coffin black – my royal thrones sublime.
You grave diggers, leaning calmly on your faithful spades,
Quote your price to end my life, here mid-tombstone shades.

Take your priestly sprinkler here, your prayers and chantings vain
For I the only priest shall be, and but my tears remain.
From monk’s habit a hand appears, full of strength a d light,
Touches e, my spirit calms, my soul again is bright.

And then I fell as though cut down by Death’s mysterious scythe,
Now they lift me through the mirk as I unconscious writhe.
Of for a drip of happiness, bought with human tears
Foolish world, unhappy man, why do you linger here?

What is your goal?
It is my soul.

I did not ask for pulsing beat. I did not ask to be.
And so I burst these bonds of life and thus at last am free.
The Mad One.
The Mad One.
Through such words the bells do toll
Oh Jesus, Oh Mary,
Bells keep pounding in my soul,
Bells, Bells, Bells, Bells.

Photo by Phyllis Zych Budka. Used by permission.

The second poem, much, much shorter, is about Assumption, and is inspired by a smaller work, Prelude Op. 28 No. 7.  Here's the very brief Prelude in an interpretation by Artur Rubinstein.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U6vJmHiHBMo

Wniebowzięcie

By Kornel Ujejski
do Preludjum Chopina Op. 28 No. 7

Leżę na obłoku
roztopiony w ciszę
mgłę mam senną w oku
oddechu nie słyszę
fijołkowej woni
opływa mnie morze
dłoń złożywszy w dłoni
lecę, płynę gdzieś…

Ne wiem, gdzie, czem jestem
czym anioł napoły?
Bo z cichym szelestem
migają anioły.
Chyba Bóg określi
Moją słodycz… Boże!
Ach, nie zbudź mej myśli
I serca nie wskrześ!

Fragment of Chopin tapestry by Monique Lehman, 2010.

Before reading the English version, let's hear the same Prelude in A Major, Op. 28, No. 7 beautifully played by Martha Argerich.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-9MyFUu4JBk

Assumption

Translated by B. H. Kirschberg and Jeanne Rober Foster, 
to Prelude 7 op. 25 of Chopin

On a cloud I lie entranced
Drifting silence all around
Sleeping mists have closed my eyelids
Flows my breath without a sound

\Violets’ alluring perfume
Softly, gently cover me
And with hands on my breast folded
I float out in ecstasy.

Is my body still earth-captive
Or a spirit borne on high?
For on wings that eat in silence
Angels all around me fly?

Only God above can tell me
Why this joy that is so sweet;
God, let not y mind awaken
Do not stir my heart to beat!

Chopin's Last Day - October 17, 1849 (Vol. 2, No. 12)

The curiosity about Chopin's death appears almost morbid today, when the cult of fitness and health has placed all disabled and sick on the margins of society. As Franz Liszt writes in his biography of Chopin, the hagiography, rather, setting the tone for the legend of the feeble, tortured body and the elevated, spiritual, noble, suffering mind: "None of those who approached the dying artist, could tear themselves from the spectacle of this great and gifted soul in its hours of mortal anguish." And a spectacle it was. As Liszt claims, Chopin planned things in advance:

"By a custom which still exists, although it is now falling into disuse, the Poles often chose the garments in which they wished to be buried, and which were frequently prepared a long time in advance [...] Chopin, who, although among the first of contemporary artists, had given the fewest concerts, wished, notwithstanding, to be borne to the grave in the clothes which he had worn on such occasions [...] He had linked his love for art and his faith in it with immortality long before the approach of death, and as he robed himself for his long sleep in the grave, he gave, as was customary with him, by a mute symbol, the last touching proof of the conviction he had preserved intact during the whole course of his life. Faithful to himself, he died adoring art in its mystic greatness, its highest revelations."

Then, he decided on his burial - the Mozart Requiem at the Church of the Madeleine, the body to be interred at the Parisian cemetery Pere Lachaise, next to Bellini and Cherubini, and the heart, submerged in brandy, carried under the skirts of his sister back to Poland, to be enshrined in a pillar in the Church of the Holy Cross on the Krakowskie Przedmiescie Street in Warsaw, not far from the place where he spent his youth.

Before burial, came Chopin's last days and moments, so fastidiously and admiringly described by Liszt:

"From week to week, and soon from day to day, the cold shadow of death gained upon him. His end was rapidly approaching; his sufferings became more and more intense; his crises grew more frequent, and at each accelerated occurrence, resembled more and more a mortal agony. He retained his presence of mind, his vivid will upon their intermission, until the last; neither losing the precision of his ideas, nor the clear perception of his intentions. The wishes which he expressed in his short moments of respite, evinced the calm solemnity with which he contemplated the approach of death.



As Liszt had it, everyone was blessed and raised to the heights of a spiritual realm by the very proximity of the dying "seraphic" artist: "—every knee bent—every head bowed—all eyes were heavy with tears—every heart was sad and oppressed—every soul elevated." After the final blessings, the agony began:

"A convulsive sleep lasted until the 17th of October, 1849. The final agony commenced about two o'clock; a cold sweat ran profusely from his brow; after a short drowsiness, he asked, in a voice scarcely audible: "Who is near me?" Being answered, he bent his head to kiss the hand of M. Gutman, who still supported it—while giving this last tender proof of love and gratitude, the soul of the artist left its fragile clay. He died as he had lived—in loving. When the doors of the parlor were opened, his friends threw themselves around the loved corpse, not able to suppress the gush of tears."

To remove the sanctified sheen of Liszt's verbosity let us read what Anne Woodworth wrote about this very moment in her poem published in the Chopin with Cherries anthology:

At the “Hour of Twilight”

– after reading Franz Liszt on Chopin’s death

Anne Harding Woodworth

Franz will write it all down:
that I swooned, that I asked for flowers
and music. Trouble is, I don’t know any Franz.

Tens of friends waited
in the anti-chamber. Trouble is,
I don’t have even four.

And a student held my hand,
because he wanted to return my affection
except that I’ve never had a student who loved me.

I do have a sister. I have two, but they wouldn’t think
of being prostrate at my bedside.
So who will hold my hand?

Where is a Franz who will unabashedly
describe my pillow? my sweat? my bitter suffering?
the unknown shores where next I go?

Of course, it’s true:
I don’t believe I’m going anywhere,
nowhere beyond nothing, that is.

Sing, Countess. Sing, my compatriot.
Trouble is, I’m not Polish. I don’t know any singers,
at least not one who can attain profound pathos.

And there’s no one to roll the piano I don’t own
to my bedroom door. Oh, Liszt, where are you?
I am coughing so. And the pain . . .

And the love . . .
Where is my Franz who will record
the cliché of a final agony?



The association of flowers with paying tribute to the dead, so typical of the West, was amplified in Chopin's death chamber: "His love for flowers being well known, they were brought in such quantities the next day, that the bed in which they had placed them, and indeed the whole room, almost disappeared, hidden by their varied and brilliant hues. He seemed to repose in a garden of roses. His face regained its early beauty, its purity of expression, its long unwonted serenity. Calmly—with his youthful loveliness, so long dimmed by bitter suffering, restored by death, he slept among the flowers he loved, the last long and dreamless sleep!"

The flowers are still there, in abundance. I visited his grave at Pere Lachaise Cemetery on October 3, 2011, during a strangely hot Indian Summer day. The tomb was easy to find. That's where everyone was going. The cemetery office distributes maps with notable graves marked, from Heloise and Abelard, to Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, and Rossini. But there are no fresh flowers at almost any of them - except at Chopin's. The grave is taken care of by a local Polish Historical Society that decorates it with the national symbols (white eagle on a red flag), and vases for flowers. These are always fresh, brought to the grave by the stream of visitors. About fifty people passed by during the ten minutes we were there.

Afterward, I was asked for the location of Chopin's grave five more times on the way out - by an American, a French hobo (visibly drunk), an Italian couple, and a family with teenage kids. Some had flowers to leave at the people's shrine, I brought my poems and a cover of our anthology. I left it there for the grave-keepers to put in a makeshift historical museum, preserving notes, piano keys, and other memorabilia left for Chopin over 150 years after his death.

The intertwined themes of death, mortality and morbidity were associated with Chopin especially strongly at the end of the 19th century and through the early decades of the 20th century. Polish composer Zygmunt Noskowski (1846-1909) elaborated on the topic of the “typically Slavic” feeling of the unspecific, yet overwhelming, “sorrow” (“żal” or “żałość”) and nostalgia permeating Chopin’s music. This overriding expressive tone was associated with a general poetic quality in Noskowski’s 1899 article, “The Essence of Chopin’s Works:”

"Whatever we call the mood in Chopin’s works, be it “elegiac quality,” “longing,” or “sorrowfulness,” it is of primary importance to state that, above all, the purest poetry prevails in them and that the breath of this poetry captures the hearts in a way that cannot be described with words."

Strangely enough, Liszt attempted to do precisely that, "describe the ineffable in words" in his discussions of that most famous, and trivialized of Chopin's pieces, his Funeral March from the Piano Sonata No.

"All that the funeral train of an entire [Polish] nation weeping its own ruin and death can be imagined to feel of desolating woe, of majestic sorrow, wails in the musical ringing of this passing bell, mourns in the tolling of this solemn knell, as it accompanies the mighty escort on its way to the still city of the Dead. The intensity of mystic hope; the devout appeal to superhuman pity, to infinite mercy, to a dread justice, which numbers every cradle and watches every tomb; the exalted resignation which has wreathed so much grief with halos so luminous; the noble endurance of so many disasters with the inspired heroism of Christian martyrs who know not to despair;—resound in this melancholy chant, whose voice of supplication breaks the heart [...] The cry of a nation's anguish mounting to the very throne of God! The appeal of human grief from the lyre of seraphs!"

Seraphs or not seraphs, the music still moves us deeply, still resonates within us, still inspires. The YouTube comments of uneducated teens betray their helplessness under his sway:

"When this song is played while bright sun light shining through a big window. its simply amazing" (on Nocturne Op. 9, no. 2)

"Even when I'm sleeping its playing in my head!! Have to learn this!! Chopin rocks!" (on Prelude in D-flat major, Op. 28, no. 15, "The Raindrop")

"Full metal alchemist" (on Pollini playing the Etude Op. 10, no. 3)

"This is how music was meant to sound like, from the soul. Sounds that you can relate to and understand." (on Zimmerman playing the Ballade No. 4)

"Amazing how few notes can make you wonder in your thoughts.....ahhhhhh" (on Aszkenazy playing the Nocturne Op. 55, No. 1)

"Ok the first time I've heared this song, was because Jimmy Page did a cover of it and I must say this song is just like a sweet but really deep pain that is falling slowly and slowly as it's becoming more near to it's end...a very intense short piece of music indeed" (on Prelude Op. 28, No. 4)

So here it is, for your enjoyment, Jimmy Page (I do not even know who that is, but apparently, he plays a guitar):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QZXG0fNUUXs&feature=related

______________________________________


Photos (c) 2011 by Maja Trochimczyk, including the tombs of Bellini and of Chopin at the Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris.

Vintage postcards with scenes of Chopin's death, from the private collection of Maja Trochimczyk:

Postcard with a caption in Polish: “Portrait of Chopin on his death bed, according to a watercolor by T. Kwiatkowski.” Published in Lwów: Nakł. Spółki Wydawniczej “Postęp,” n.d., ca. 1910.

Postcard The Last Chords of Chopin, based on a painting by Fr. Klimes, Les derniers accords de Chopin. Published by BKWI (Bruder Kohn) in Vienna, Austria, c. 1900-1910.