Sonnets from the Crimea By Adam Mickiewicz Translated byEdna Worthley Underwood MCMXVII Paul Elder and Company, PublisherSan Francisco Copyright, 1917, byPaul Elder and CompanySan Francisco CONTENTS Adam Mickiewicz A biographical sketch by Edna Worthley Underwood The Ackerman Steppe Becalmed Mountains from the Keslov Steppe Baktschi Serai Baktschi Serai by Night The Grave of Countess Potocka The Graves of the Harem Baydary Alushta by Day Alushta by Night Tschatir Dagh (Mirza) Tschatir Dagh (The Pilgrim) The Pass Across the Abyss in the Tschufut-Kale (Mirza) The Ruins of Balaclava On Juda's Cliff ADAM MICKIEWICZA BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ADAM MICKIEWICZ (1798-1855) The last of the eighteenth century was an important period for Russiaand Poland, not only politically, but in letters and art. It marked thebirth of statesmen, patriots, poets and writers. It was into a Poland ofgreat names and greater activities that Adam Mickiewicz was born in1798, as son of an impoverished family of the old nobility. Three yearsbefore, the third and last partition of his native land had taken place, and the signed documents had been hastened to Petersburg to make moretriumphant the birthday of the Great Catherine. Just a few years before this (1792), Kosciusko had courageously led hisforty-five thousand valiant Poles in their brave defiance of anoverwhelming number of Cossacks and Russians. History had recorded thebloody Turkish wars, the Pugatshev rebellion, the uprising of theZaporogian Cossacks and the Polish confederations. And with thenineteenth century came the Napoleonic wars with the dramatic entry ofNapoleon into Russia, and a new and different mental life began to dawnover Europe. Mickiewicz was born in Novogrodek in Lithuania. This was the birthplaceof Count Henry Rzewuski, who wrote the delightful memories of the Polisheighteenth century, under the title of "The Memories of Pan SeverinSoplica, "[*] and who declared he considered it an honor to be born a"schlazig" (noble) of Lithuania, and of Novogrodek. He went to agovernment school in Minsk, and later attended the University of Vilna, which city in his day was a place of Jesuit faith, gloomy convents andechoing bells. All about him epoch-making events for Slav lands weretaking place. It was a resounding, inspired age for his race, and hegrew up to take a fitting place in that age and to be called "theimmortal hero of Polish poetry. " Poland just then was the battle-groundnot only for the armies of Europe, but for the diplomats. It was a placefor statesmen to win their spurs. If accredited to Petersburg or Warsaw, and successful, they were believed to be equal to any diplomaticemergency. Eloquence, inspiration, and patriotic fervor must havecradled his childhood. [Footnote *: The full title of the book is: Memories of Pan SeverinSoplica, Cupbearer of Parnau, by Count Henry Rzewuski. ] At the time of the birth of Mickiewicz, Russia was bringing to a close aprodigious period of development in almost every field of humanactivity. It was really the birth-throe of a nation that was to movepowerfully, and to dominate--partially--the new age. And the splendidand never again to be equalled pageant of the life of Catherine theGreat, with its wild dreams of world dominance and of the gloriousrevival of perished Greece, had just been unrolled for the amazement ofEurope. What dramatic and enchanting memories the names of her followerscall up: the Orlows, Potemkin, Panin, Poniatowski, Bestushew-Rjumin, Princess Daschkov, Razumowski. In France, too, the same preceding period had been brilliant. It hadbeen the France of Voltaire, the Encyclopedists, and a most resplendentand luxurious monarch. England had known her greatest orators and primeministers. It had been the Prussia of Frederick the Great; the Dresdenof August the Strong; the Austria of Joseph the Second. A little later--during Mickiewicz's own youth--Goethe was at the heightof his power and the intellectual dictator of Europe. Under hisdirection and encouragement the treasures of oriental literature werebeing translated and made known to the West. This is merely a hastyglimpse of the "mise-en-scene" that preceded the debut in life of themost renowned of Polish poets. The old traditions of absolute andGod-created monarchs and princely times were coming to an end, and thatdemocratic modern world, where everything was to change, was close athand, just over the crest, indeed, of this new century into which Fatewas ushering him. He was to see the last of blind power and royalprerogative, and the first dawn of a modern spirit which in time wouldsweep away forever, the old. It was an uncertain, difficult transitionperiod, without standards and without measurements. As we take a fleeting, bird's-eye view of the stirring times in whichhis days were spent, his travels, his army life, his periods ofprofessorship, we can not help but wonder at the amount of writingMickiewicz did. And his life was not a long one; it did not reach tosixty years. But during the working years allotted him, before amystical melancholy--which was threatening to degenerate intomadness--had impaired his faculties, his mind was unusually brilliant, creative and marvelously disciplined. It obeyed at will. At one time hewas professor of Latin in Lausanne; at another time he held the chair ofSlavic languages in Paris. He taught Polish and Latin in Kovno. Hetraveled extensively in Italy in the interest of the Polish revolution. His mind was many-sided and capable of various activities. He devotedconsiderable time to advanced mathematics and philosophy. He madescientific investigations in Vilna under Lalewel. At one time andanother he lived in various large cities of Europe. In Germany he metand became friendly with Goethe. In Switzerland he met Krasinski. In1833 he married Celina Szymanovska. Her mother was the famous Slavbeauty and musician who had so delighted Goethe in her youth. Among writers of Russia and Poland whose life period somewhat coincidedwith that of Mickiewicz's are: Korzenowski (born in 1797), the novelist(a brother of Adam Mickiewicz was fellow-teacher with Korzenowski atCharkov); Danilewski (1829), likewise a novelist--it was he whotranslated The Crimean Sonnets into Russian; Malzweski, Polish patriotand poet, whose "Maria"--perhaps the most popular poetic story inPoland--appeared at almost the same time as The Crimean Sonnets; Zaleski(1802), Slowacki (1809), Krasinski (1812), the three greatest poets ofPoland excepting only Mickiewicz himself, the Polish critic, Brodzinski. In Russia, the golden age of literature almost covered the same periodas Mickiewicz's own life--Puschkin, Lermontov, Schukowski, Gogol, tomention only some of the most important names. In the eighteen-thirties we find Mickiewicz in Paris, which happened tobe filled just then with a crowd of brilliant Slavic exiles. Here hebecame the friend of Chopin, and one of Chopin's most talented pupils--ayoung Polish girl--made the first translation of the Sonnets intoFrench. It was a wonderful and brilliant Paris which Mickiewicz entered. This was the time when the city was first called "the stepmother ofGenius. " Heine was here in exile, and Boerne. It knew the personalfascination and the denunciative writings of Ferdinand la Salle. It wasthe day, too, of Eugene Sue, Berlioz, George Sand, de Musset, Dumas, Gautier, the Goncourt Brothers, Gavarni, Sainte Beuve, Liszt, FelixMendelssohn, Ary Scheffer, Delacroiz, Horace Vernet--to mention only afew great names at random. Julius Slowacki, Count Krasinski and AdamMickiewicz were all here editing their poetry in the midst of thisbrilliant life in the inspiring city by the Seine. This period in Parissigns perhaps the high-water mark of the creative genius of Mickiewicz. He had already written the Ballads and Romances, the third part ofDziady, Pan Tadeuz. The Crimean Sequence belongs to the period of Mickiewicz's youth, theVilna period. He joined a society at this time which was looked uponwith disfavor by the Government. At length, because of his continuedparticipation in it, he was exiled to southern Russia. On that trip, while he was going toward Odessa, he began the Crimean Sonnets. Theirsuccess was quick and astonishing. They were translated into everylanguage of Europe. Although the form is the traditional and classicsonnet form, he makes use of it in a slightly different manner, notaltogether as an exposition of the sentiments of the soul, and theconvictions and emotions of the mind, but as an instrument with which tosketch what he saw upon this eventful journey. He used the sonnet format that period just as Verhaeren used it in "Les Flamandes, " to show usFlanders, and as Albert Samain in "Le Chariot d'Or, " to picture thegardens of Versailles. This is worthy of note. And this we must rememberwas before 1826. In the poetical works of Mickiewicz there was alwaystraceable an inclination to break tradition and to search for new anduntried possibilities. On this exile in Russia he learned to know Puschkin, then a young manlike himself. Puschkin has written a verse letter to him which wetranscribe in free prose. "He lived among us for a while--a peoplestrange to him. And yet his mind cherished no hatred and no longing forrevenge. Generous, kind of heart, noble-minded, he joined our eveningcircles, and we loved him. We exchanged our dreams, our plans--ourpoems. God gave him genius and inspiration. He stood always on theheights and looked down on life. We talked of history and of nations. Hedeclared a time would come when races would forget all evil things--likewar, rebellion--and dwell together peaceably in one great family. Welistened to him eagerly for he had the gift of speech. After a while hewent away and we gave our blessing to him. Then we learned ourguest--spurred on by his revengeful race--had become our enemy. Toplease that bitter race of his he filled his songs with hatred. Of ourbeloved friend there came to us only revenge and angry thoughts. Godgrant that peace may come again to his embittered heart!" Puschkin himself wrote eloquently of these same Crimean scenes thatMickiewicz shows us. He, too, was inspired by the old capital city ofthe Tartar rulers. We recall his "Fountain of Baktschi Serai. " And he, too, brings before our eyes again that gigantic mountain world ofsouthern Russia in "The Prisoner of the Caucasus. " The fame of The Crimean Sonnets was so great that Mickiewicz was offereda government position which attached him to the person of the powerfulPrince Galitzin, in Moscow. It was in Rome, and singularly enough it waswhen he wrote the "Ode to Youth" that he began to devote himself tomystical studies which had such an injurious effect upon his mind. Forsome time after he had lost his fluent power as a poet, he retained hisconversational gifts which were remarkable and brought him almost asmuch fame as his poetry. His life ended in a period as dramatic as thatin which it began. He entered the Turkish wars in 1855 and died inStamboul in that same year. It is somewhat peculiar and at the same timeno little to his credit that he should have chosen the sonnet as theinstrument of his quick sketching of Crimea on the trip of exile, because the sonnet has never been a frequently chosen means ofexpression of the Slav races, despite the numerous sonnets written laterby Vrchlicky, Preseren and others. The sonnet has belonged more to theLatin races, and to the English race. The Crimean Sonnets, however, rankamong the famous sequences. Edna Worthley Underwood. SONNETS FROM THE CRIMEA THE ACKERMAN STEPPE Across sea-meadows measureless I go, My wagon sinking under grass so tallThe flowery petals in foam on me fall, And blossom-isles float by I do not know. No pathway can the deepening twilight show; I seek the beckoning stars which sailors call, And watch the clouds. What lies there brightening all? The Dneister's, the steppe-ocean's evening glow! The silence! I can hear far flight of cranes-- So far the eyes of eagle could not reach--And bees and blossoms speaking each to each; The serpent slipping adown grassy lanes;From my far home if word could come to me!-- Yet none will come. On, o'er the meadow-sea! BECALMED The flag is listless, limp. It dances not. As deep the sea breathes from a gentle breastAs any bride who dreams at love's behest, And wakes and sighs, then casts with dreams her lot. Sails hang upon the masts--useless-forgot-- Like folded standards which the warriors wrestAnd bring home broken from the battle's crest. The sailors rest them in some sheltered spot. O Sea! within your unknown deeps concealed, When storms are wild, your monsters dream and sleep, And all their cruelty for the sunlight keep. Thus, Soul of Mine, in your sad deeps concealedThe monsters sleep--when wild are storms. They start From out some blue sky's peace to seize my heart. MOUNTAINS FROM THE KESLOV STEPPE (Pilgrim) What would Great Allah with the frozen sea? Would he of icy clouds a throne carve bright, Or would the demons of the deepest night A bar build where the shining stars sweep free?It gleams like pagan cities fired, kings flee. When Day was anciently destroyed by NightDid Allah amid chaos fix this light To guide the star-worlds of eternity? (Mirza) Up there I've journeyed where the winter reigns, And seen the rivers bitten black like linesOn Tschatir Dagh, where the white cloud reclines, Which not the wildest eagle's shadow stains, Where cradled under me the thunders sleep And Allah and the stars their watches keep. BAKTSCHI SERAI In ruin are the spacious, splendid halls With frozen forest of white columns whereThe Tartar Khan his palace builded fair, Where loneliest the shrilling cricket calls. The ivy blackens over shining walls Enscribing in gigantic letters thereSome curse Belshazzar-like: Beware! Beware!-- Then black as crepe from crested columns falls. Within the burnished banquet room there sings The fountain of the harem pure and clear, Just as of old it sang in twilights drear. But whither love and fame speed--on what wings?When all things else must perish these endure! Yet both are gone! The fountain ripples pure. BAKTSCHI SERAI BY NIGHT From out the mosques the pious wend their way; Muezzin voices tremble through the night;Within the sky the pallid King of Light Wraps silvered ermine round him while he may, And Heaven's harem greets its star array. One lone white cloud rests in the azure height--A veiled court lady in some sorrow's plight-- Whom cruel love and day have cast away. The mosques stand there; and here tall cypress trees; There--mountains, towering, black as demons frown, Which Lucifer in rage from God cast down. Like sword blades lightning flickers over these, And on an Arab steed the wild Khan rides Who goes to Baktschi Serai which night hides. THE GRAVE OF COUNTESS POTOCKA In Spring of love and life, My Polish Rose, You faded and forgot the joy of youth;Bright butterfly, it brushed you, then left ruth Of bitter memory that stings and glows. O Stars! that seek a path my northland knows, How dare you now on Poland shine forsooth, When she who loved you and lent you her youth Sleeps where beneath the wind the long grass blows? Alone, My Polish Rose, I die, like you. Beside your grave a while pray let me restWith other wanderers at some grief's behest. The tongue of Poland by your grave rings true. High-hearted, now a young boy past it goes, Of you it is he sings, My Polish Rose. THE GRAVES OF THE HAREM They sleep well here whom Allah loved and kept And treasured in his vineyard fair and fine, Most lustrous of the Orient pearls that shine, Which youth found where the waves of passion swept. Here, where in peace perpetual they have slept, A turban beckons where the roses twine, A banner flutters out in silken line, And sometimes here a Giaour's name is kept. Oh! roses of this paradise of old, The eyes that loved not Allah saw you not, Nor arms that prayed not eastward could enfold! But now a Christian treads this hallowed spot;Wise Allah, curse not him who bows his head Amid the marble shrines of Allah's dead! BAYDARY Give wings unto the storm, and spurs to steed, I'd move unchained as wind across the world, Sweep onward like a torrent mountain-hurled, Nor sea, nor height, nor valley pause to heed. The twilight spreads a dimness o'er our speed, And shows the diamond-stars from hoofs up-whirled, Since daylight now her curtained blue has juried, And mystery and magic shadows breed. The earth sleeps, but not I--not I--not I-- Who hasten to the shore where waves are loudAnd toward me in the darkness whitely crowd. Beneath them I would still my soul's deep cry--Like ships the whirlpools seize to drag to death-- I'd plunge within the silence, sans thought, breath. ALUSHTA BY DAY The mighty mountain flings its mist-veil down; With little flowers the gracious fields are bright, And from the forest colors flash to sight Like gems that drop from off a Calif's crown. Upon the meadows settles shimmering down A band of butterflies in rainbow flight;Cicadas call and call in day's delight, And bees are dreaming in a blossom's crown. The waves beneath the cliff are thunder-pale, Now upward, upward in their rage they riseAnd tawny are their crests as tigers' eyes. The sun is focused on one white, far sailAnd on blue, shining deeps as smooth as glass Wherein slim cranes are shadowed as they pass. ALUSHTA BY NIGHT The drooping, weary day night pushed aside; On Tschatir Dagh the sullen sun and lowPaints phantom purple upon ancient snow; While forest ways within, the wanderers hide. Night veils the mountains and the valleys wide; The thunderous brooks are dream-held, dulled, and slow;Beneath the blackness fragrant flowers blow And rich leaf-music clothes each valley side. Almost my waking eyes are dream-held too; With gold a meteor marks the deep-domed skyAnd fountain-like the fiery sparks float by. Oh! Beauty of the Eastern Night, you wooMy spirit like the odalisque, who held Men captive till her kiss the dream dispelled! TSCHATIR DAGH (Mirza) The reverent Mussulman bends low to greet You, Tschatir Dagh, Crimea's bright-masted ship!World-altar, --minaret--the place where dip Down stairs from golden Heaven for the feet!You guard the door of God in splendor meet, Like Gabriel with holy sword on hip;In bright mist mantled from the toe to lip, Tour turban set with alien stars and sweet. If winter rule the world, or summer's sun, If Giaour rage about, or winds are wild, Above them, Tschatir Dagh, you, changeless one, Are like to Allah, pure and undefiled;Aloft you tower from out the lowly sod To give to men again the will of God. TSCHATIR DAGH (The Pilgrim) Below me half a world I see outspread; Above, blue heaven; around, peaks of snow;And yet the happy pulse of life is slow, I dream of distant places, pleasures dead. The woods of Lithuania I would tread Where happy-throated birds sing songs I know;Above the trembling marshland I would go Where chill-winged curlews dip and call o'er head. A tragic, lonely terror grips my heart, A longing for some peaceful, gentle place, And memories of youthful love I trace. Unto my childhood home I long to start, And yet if all the leaves my name could cry She would not pause nor heed as she passed by. THE PASS ACROSS THE ABYSS IN THE TSCHUFUT-KALE (Mirza) Pray! Pray! Let loose the bridle. Look not down! The humble horse alone has wisdom here. He knows where blackest the abysses leer And where the path in safety leads us down. Pray, and look upward to the mountain's crown! The deep below is endless where you peer;Stretch not the hand out as you pass, for fear The added weight of that might plunge you down. And check your thoughts' free flight, too, while you go; Let all of Fancy's fluttering sails be furledHere where Death watches o'er the riven world. (Pilgrim) I lived to cross the bridge of ancient snow! But what I saw my tongue no more can tell, The angels only could rehearse that well. (MIRZA) Behold blue Heaven in that deep abyss! The sea is that! Behold the long waves shine!Watch how they rock that giant bird divine, Whose swinging white wings wide horizons kiss. Is that an iceberg in the blue abyss? No, no--a cloud! Watch how 'tis veiling fineThe sea, the land, out-blotting every line To drown it all in darkness soon I wis. The lightning comes now! Frightful is its sweep. But softly--softly! Watch my spur--my whip!I'll leap across unto that chasm's lip. What still and chilling sternness great cliffs keep!Down there light calls to me. Soon there I'll be. Uncanny is such loneliness to me. THE RUINS OF BALACLAVA Oh, thankless Crimean land! in ruin laid Are now the castles that were once your pride!Here serpents and the owls from daylight hide, And robbers arm them for the nightly raid. Upon the lettered marble boasts are made, Brave words on battered arms in gold descried, And broken splendor years have scattered wide, Beside the dead who made them are arrayed. The Greek set shining, columned marble here. The Latin put the Mongol horde to flight, And Mussulmans prayed eastward morn and night. The owl and vulture of dark wing and drearAre fluttering like black banners overhead In cities where the pest piles high the dead. ON JUDA'S CLIFF On Juda's Cliff I love to lean and look On waves that battling beat and break with might, While farther seaward in a bland delight, I see them shining where a rainbow shook. On Juda's Cliff I love to lean and look On waves that like sea-armies swing to sight, To send upon the shore their billows white, And, ebbing, to leave pearls in every nook. Thus, Poet, in your youth when storms are wild And passions break upon the heart and brain, To leave their ruin there--shipwreck and waste-- Pick up your lute! Upon it undefiledYou'll find song-pearls that your heart-deeps retain, The crown the years have brought you, white and chaste. Here, then, end the Crimean Sonnets of the immortal hero of Polishpoetry, Adam Mickiezvicz as translated by Edna Worthley Underwood andpublished by Paul Elder and Company at their Tomoye Press, in the cityof San Francisco, under the direction of Ricardo J. Orozco, theirprinter during the month of August, nineteen seventeen