Part 3

“O children! what a foul disgrace for Litwa, That none of you, aye, none, defended me, When from the shrine, the hoary Wajdelote,(4) Away they dragged me into German chains! Alone in foreign lands have I grown old. A singer!—alas! to no one can I sing! On Litwa looking, I wept out mine eyes. To-day, if I would sigh towards my home, I know not where that home beloved lies, If here, or there, or in another place.

“Here only, in my heart, have I preserved That in my Fatherland my best possession; And these poor remnants of my former treasure You Germans take from me,—take memory from me!

“As a defeated knight in tournament Escapes with life though honour has been lost; And, dragging out despisèd days in scorn, Returns once more unto his conqueror; And for the last time straining forth his arm, Breaketh his sword beneath the victor’s feet,— So my last failing courage me inspires; Yet once more to the lute my hand is bold; Let the last Wajdelote of Litwa sing Litwa’s last song!” He ended, and awaited The Master’s answer. All in silence deep Await. With mockery and with curious eye Konrad tracks Witold’s every look and motion.

They noted all how when the Wajdelote Of traitors spoke, a change o’er Witold came. Livid he grew and pale again he blushed, Alike tormented by his rage and shame. At last, his sabre casting from his side, He goes, dividing all the astonished crowd. He looked upon the old man, stayed his steps; The clouds of anger hanging o’er his brow Fell sudden in a rapid flood of tears; He turned, sat down, with cloak he veiled his face, And into secret meditation plunged

The Germans whispered, “Shall we to our feasts Admit old beggars? Who will hear the song, And who will understand?” Such voices were Among the crowd of revellers, and broken By constant peals of ever-growing laughter. The pages cry, whistling on nuts, “Behold! This is the tune of the Litvanian song.”

Upon that Konrad rose. “Ye valiant knights! To-day the Order, by a solemn custom, Receiveth gifts from princes and from towns, As homage from a conquered country due. The beggar brings a song as offering To you: forbid we not the old man’s homage. Take we the song; ’twill be the widow’s mite.

“Among us we behold the Litwin prince; His captains are the Order’s guests: to him Sweet will it be to list the memory Of ancient deeds, recalled in native speech. Who understands not, let him go from hence. I love betimes to hear the gloomy groans Of those Litvanian songs, not understood, Even as I love the noise of warring waves, Or the soft murmur of the rain in spring;— Sweetly they charm to sleep. Sing, ancient bard!”

SONG OF THE WAJDELOTE.9

When over Litwa cometh plague and death, The bard’s prophetic eye beholds, afraid. If to the Wajdelote’s word be given faith, On desert plains and churchyards, sayeth fame, Stands visibly the pestilential maid,10 In white, upon her brow a wreath of flame,— Her brow the trees of Bialowiez11 outbraves,— And in her hand a blood-stained cloth she waves.

The castle guards in terror veil their eyes, The peasants’ dogs, deep burrowing in the ground, Scent death approaching, howl with fearful cries

The maid’s ill-boding step, o’er all is found; O’er hamlets, castles, and rich towns she goes. Oft as she waves the bloody cloth, no less A palace changes to a wilderness; Where treads her foot a recent grave up-grows.

O woeful sight! But yet a heavier doom Foretold to Litwa from the German side,— The shining helmet with the ostrich plume, And the wide mantle with the black cross dyed.

For where that spectre’s fearful step has passed, Nought is a hamlet’s ruin or a town, But a whole country to the grave is cast O thou to whom is Litwa’s spirit dear! Come, on the graves of nations sit we down; We’ll meditate, and sing, and shed the tear.

O native song! between the elder day, Ark of the Covenant, and younger times, Wherein their heroes’ swords the people lay, Their flowers of thought and web of native rhymes.

Thou ark! no stroke can break thee or subdue, While thine own people hold thee not debased. O native song! thou art as guardian placed, Defending memories of a nation’s word. The Archangel’s wings are thine, his voice thine too, And often wieldest thou Archangel’s sword.

The flame devoureth story’s pictured words, And thieves with steel wide scatter treasure hoards. But scatheless is the song the poet sings. And should vile spirits still refuse to give Sorrow and hope, whereby the song may live, Upward she flieth and to ruins clings, And thence relateth ancient histories. The nightingale from burning dwellings flits, But on the roof, a moment yet she sits; When falls the roof she to the forest flies, And from her laden breast o’er dying embers, Sings a low dirge the passer-by remembers.

I heard the song! An ancient peasant swain, When over bones his iron ploughshare rang, Stood, and on flute of willow played a strain, Prayers for the dead, or, with a rhymed lament, Of you, great childless fathers, then he sang. The echoes answered. I from far did hear, And sorrow brought the sight and song more near; In eyes and ears my spirit all was bent.

As on the judgment-day the dead past all The Archangel’s trumpet from the tomb shall call, So from the song the dead bones upward grew To giant forms, from sleep of death awake, Pillars and arches from their ruin anew, And countless oars splashed in the desert lake; And soon the castle-gates wide open seemed, And princes’ crowns and warriors’ armour gleamed. Now sing the bards, the dance the maidens weave; I dreamed of marvels,—and awoke to grieve.

Forests and native hills are vanished, And thought doth fail, on weary pinions fled, And sinketh in a hidden stillness drear. The lute is silent in my stiffened hand, And ’mid the groan of comrades of my land, The voices of the past I may not hear. Still something of that youthful fire once mine Smoulders within me, and at times its light Wakens the soul and maketh memory bright. Then memory, like a lamp of crystalline, The pencil has with painted colours decked, Although by dust bedimmed, with scars beflecked; Place but within its heart a little light, With freshness of its colours eyes are lured, On palace walls yet gleaming fair and bright, Lovely, though yet with dusty cloud obscured.

O could I but this fire of mine impart To all my hearers’ breasts, the shapes upraise Of those dead times, and reach the very heart Of all my brothers with my burning lays! But haply even in this passing hour, Now when their native song their hearts can move, The pulses of those hearts may beat more strong, Their souls may feel the ancient pride and love; And live one moment in such noble power, As lived their forefathers their whole life long.

But why invoke the ages long gone by, And for the present’s glory find no voice? For in your midst a great man liveth nigh— I sing of him. Ye, Litwini, rejoice!

Silent the old man was, and hearkened round, If still the Germans will permit his song. Around the hall there reigned a silence deep; This warms all poets to a newer zeal. Once more he raised his song, but other theme; O’er freer cadences his voice did range. More rarely he, and lighter, touched the strings, Descending from the hymn to simple story.

THE WAJDELOTE’S TALE.

Whence come the Litwins? From a nightly sally; From church and castle they have won rich spoils, And crowds of German slaves with fettered hands, Ropes on their necks, follow the victors’ steeds. They look towards Prussia and dissolve in tears, On Kowno look, commend their souls to God. In midst of Kowno stretches Perun’s plain; The Litwin princes, there returned from conquest, Do burn the German knights in sacrifice.12 Two captive knights untroubled ride to Kowno, One fair and young, the other bowed with years. They in the battle left the German troops, Fled to the Litwins. Kiejstut did receive them, But led them to the castle under guard. He asks their race, with what intent they come. “I know not,” said the youth, “my race or name; In childhood was I made the Germans’ captive. I recollect alone, somewhere in Litwa, Amid a great town stood my father’s house. It was a wooden town on lofty hills, The house was of red brick. Around the hills Murmured a wood of fir-trees on the plains; Among the woods a white lake gleamed afar. One night a shout aroused us from our sleep; A fiery day dawned in the window, shook The window-panes, and whirling wreaths of smoke Burst forth within the house. We to the door. Flames curled through all the streets, sparks fell like hail. A horrid cry arose, ‘To arms! the Germans Are in the town! to arms!’ My father rushed Forth with his sword,—rushed forth—returned no more! The Germans poured into the house. One seized me And caught me to his saddle. What came further I know not; but long, long my mother’s shrieks I heard ’mid clash of swords, ’mid fall of houses. This cry long followed me, stayed in my ear; Even now when I view flames and falling houses, This cry wakes in my soul as echo wakes In caverns after thunder’s voice. Behold My memories all of Litwa and my parents. Sometimes in dreams I view the honoured forms Of mother, father, brethren; but anew Some cloud mysterious veils their features o’er, Thicker and darker growing evermore. The years of childhood passed away. I lived A German among Germans, and they gave me The name of Walter,13 Alf thereto as surname. German the name, my soul remained Litvanian; Grief for my parents, for the strangers hatred Remained. The Master Winrych in his palace Reared me, himself did hold me to the font, Loved and caressed me as his very son. But weary in his palace, from his knees I fled unto the Wajdelote. That time Among the Germans was a Litwin bard, Captive for many years,—interpreter, He served the army. When he heard of me That I was orphan and Litvanian, He told of Litwa, cheered my longing soul With his caresses, song, and with the sound Of the Litvanian speech. He often led me To the grey Niemen’s shores; from thence I joyed To look upon my country’s well-loved mountains. And when unto the castle we returned, He dried my tears to waken no suspicion: He dried my tears, but kindled in me vengeance Against the Germans. I remember well How, when we came again into the castle, I sharpened secretly a knife, with what Delight of vengeance cut I Winrych’s carpets, Or broke his mirrors, on his shining shield Flung sand, or spit upon it. Later on, When grown near manhood, from Klajpedo’s port I sailed with the old man to view the shores Of Litwa. There I plucked my country’s flowers; Their magic fragrance woke within my soul Some ancient, dark remembrance. With the fragrance Intoxicated, seemed me that a child Once more I grew, and in my parents’ garden, Played with my little brothers. The old man Assisted memory with his words, more lovely Than herbs and flowers,—painted the happy past, How sweet in native land ’mid friends and kin To pass one’s youth, how many Litwin children Knew not such bliss, in the Order’s fetters weeping. I heard this on the plains, but on the beach, Where the white billows break with roaring breasts, And from their foamy throat cast streams of sand, ‘Thou seest,’ the old man then was used to say, ‘The grassy carpet of this seaboard meadow. The sand blows over it. These fragrant herbs, Thou seest, would pierce the deadly covering, By their brow’s strength. In vain, alas! for now Another hydra comes of gravel-dust, Spreads its white fins, subdues the living lands, Stretching its kingdom of wild desert round. My son! the gifts of spring are living cast Into the grave. Behold! they are conquered peoples, Our brothers the Litwini! Son, this sand Storm-driven from the sea, it is the Order.’ My heart did pain me hearing, and I longed To murder all Crusaders, or to fly To Litwa; but the old man checked my zeal. ‘To free knights,’ said he, ‘it is free to choose’ Their weapon, and with equal strength to fight in open field. Thou art a slave; the only Weapon that slaves may use is treachery. Remain awhile and learn the Germans’ war-craft; Try thou to gain their confidence; we later Shall see what thing to do.’ I was obedient Unto the old man’s words—went with the Germans. But in the first fight, scarce I viewed the standards, Scarce did I hear my, nation’s songs of war, I sprang unto our own,—led the old man with me. As the young falcon, severed from his nest, And nourished in a cage, although the fowlers By cruel torments strip him of his reason, And send him forth to war on brother-falcons; Soon as he rises ’mid the clouds, soon as His eyes o’erstretch the far unmeasured plains Of his blue Fatherland, he breathes free air, And hears the rustle of his wings.—Return Unto thy home, O fowler! do not wait To see the falcon in his narrow cage.”

The youth made end; with wonder Kiejstut heard, And listened also Kiejstut’s daughter fair, Aldona, young and lovely as a goddess. The autumn passes, therewith evenings lengthen; And Kiejstut’s daughter, as accustomed, sits Among her sisters and her comrades’ train, Weaves at the loom or spins the distaff thread; But as the needles fly or spindles turn, Walter stands by and telleth wondrous tales, About the German countries and his youth. The damsel seizes all that Walter speaks, Her soul, insatiable, devours all things; She knows them all by heart, repeats in dreams. Walter related of the castle halls, Great towns beyond the Niemen, what rich dresses, What splendid pastimes; how in tourney knights Break lances, and the damsels look upon them Down from their galleries, and adjudge the prize. He spoke of the great God who rules beyond The Niemen, and His Son’s Immaculate Mother, Whose angel form he showed in wondrous picture. This picture piously adorned his breast; The youth now gave it to the fair Litwinka, The day he brought her to the holy faith, When he prayed with her;—he would teach her all He knew himself. Alas! he taught her too That which as yet he knew not,—taught her love. And he himself learned much. With what delight He from her lips the half-forgotten words Heard of Litvanian speech. New feelings rose With each new-risen word like sparks from ashes. Sweet were the names of family, of friendship, And sweeter yet than all the name of love, Which no word equals here on earth, but—country.

“Whence,” Kiejstut thought, “my daughters sudden change? Where is her former mirth, her childish sports? On holidays all maidens join in dance; She sits alone, or converse holds with Walter. On other days the needle or the loom Engage the damsels; from her hands the needle Falls, and the threads are tangled in the loom. She sees not what she does; all tell me so. And yesterday, I marked she sewed a rose, The flowers with green, the leaves with rosy silk. How could she know this, when her eyes and thoughts Seek only Walter’s eyes, seek his discourse? Oft as I ask, ‘Where goes she?’ ‘To the valley.’ ‘Whence comes she?’ ‘From the valley.’ ‘What is there?’ ‘The youth has made in it a garden for her.’ What! is that garden fairer than my orchards? (For Kiejstut owned proud orchards full of apples And pears, allurement of the Kowno damsels.) ’Tis not the garden lures her. I have marked Her windows in the winter; all the panes Which look on Niemen clear are as in May; The frost has not obscured the crystal glass. Thence Walter comes. She sat beside the window, And with her burning sighs did melt the ice. I thought, he teaches her to read and write, Hearing all princes now instruct their children,— A good lad, valiant, skilled like priest in books. Shall I expel him from my house? He is So needful to our Litwa; he can rank The troops as can no other; rampart mounds He best can heap; the thunder-arms direct. I have one behind my army.—Walter, come, And be my son-in-law, and fight for Litwa.”

So Walter wed Aldona. Germans! you No doubt will think this is the story’s end; For in your love romances when the knights Are married, then the minstrel ends his song, And only adds, “They lived long and were happy.” Well Walter loved his wife; his noble soul Yet found no happiness in heart or home, For in the country was there blessing none.

The snows scarce vanished, scarce the first lark sung;— The lark to other lands sings love and joy, But unto hapless Litwa he proclaims With every year carnage and fire;—on march Crusading armies in unnumbered crowds. Now from the hills beyond the Niemen echo To Kowno bears a mighty army’s shouts, The clang of armour and the neigh of steeds. Like mist the camp descends, o’erflows the plain, And here and there the leaders’ standards gleam Like lightning ere the storm. The Germans stood Upon the shore, threw bridges o’er the Niemen, And day by day the walls and bastions fall With shock of battering-ram, and night by night The storming mines work underground like moles; Beneath the heavens the bomb in fiery flight Rises, and swoops upon the city roofs, As falls the falcon on the lesser fowl. Kowno is fallen in ruins. Then the Litwin Retires to Kiejdan; Kiejdan falls in ruin. Then Litwa makes defence in woods and hills; The Germans march on farther, robbing, burning; Kiejstut and Walter first in battle, last Retreating. Kiejstut was untroubled still, From childhood used to combat with his foe, To attack, to conquer, or to fly. He knew His forefathers warred ever with the Germans; He, following in their footsteps, ever fought, And cared not for the future. Other were The thoughts of Walter. Nurtured ’mid the Germans, He knew the Order’s power; the Master’s summons, He knew, could draw forth armies, treasures, swords, From all of Europe. Prussia made defence; In former times the Teutons broke the Prussians; Sooner or later Litwa meets such fate. He had seen the Prussians’ misery; he trembled To think of Litwa’s future. “Son,” cries Kiejstut, “Thou art an evil prophet; thou hast reft The veil before my eyes, to show the abyss. While hearing thee, it seemed my hands grew weak, With victory’s hope all courage left my breast How shall we with the German power contend?” “Father,” said Walter, “one sole way I know, A dreadful way, alas! effectual! Some day I may reveal it.” Thus did they Converse, the battle over, ere the trumpet Did summon to fresh battles and defeats. Kiejstut grew ever sadder, and how changed Seemed Walter; never over-merry he. Even in happy moments some light shade Of thought o’erhung his brow, but with Aldona Serene was once his brow and visage tranquil, Aye welcoming her with smiles, with tender glance Bidding farewell to her. Now, as it seemed, He was tormented by some hidden pain. By morn, before the house, wringing his hands, He looked upon the smoke of towns and hamlets, Burning far off; there gazed he with wild eyes. By night he started out of sleep, and looked Forth from the window on the blood-red blaze. “Husband, what ails thee?” asks with tears Aldona. “What ails me? Shall I peaceful sleep till Germans Shall give me sleeping, bound, to hangman’s hands?” “O husband! Heaven forbid! The sentries guard Full well the trenches.” “True the sentries guard them. I watch and grasp the sabre in my hand. But when the sentries die the sword is broken. List, if I live to old age, wretched age——” “But Heaven will give us comfort in our children.” “The Germans will fall on us, slay the wife, The children tear away, and lead them far, Teach them to loose the arrow on their father. Myself my father, brothers, might have slain, Unless the Wajdelote——” “Dear Walter! go we Farther in Litwa; hide we from the Germans In mountains and in forests.” “Aye, we go, And other mothers, children leave behind. Thus fled the Prussians; Germans overtook them In Litwa. If they trace us in the mountains——” “Let us again go farther.” “Farther? farther? Unhappy one! shall we go far from Litwa, Into the Tartar’s or the Rusin’s hands?” Hushed was Aldona, troubled at this answer, For hitherto it had to her appeared Her Fatherland were long as is the world, Wide without end; and now for the first time She heard there was no refuge in all Litwa. Wringing her hands she asked, “What may be done?”

“One way, Aldona, one remains to Litwa To break the Order’s power: that way I know; But ask it not for God’s sake. Hundred times Be cursed that hour in which, constrained by foes, I seize these means.” No farther would he say, Heard not Aldona’s prayers, but only heard And saw before him Litwa’s misery. At last the flame of vengeance, nursed in silence, By sight of suffering and defeat, increased, And did surround his heart, consumed all feelings— One feeling even, hitherto life-sweetening,— Feeling of love. So when the hunters light A hidden fire ’neath oaks of Bialowiez, It burns away the inner pith; the monarch Of the forest loses all his waving leaves, His branches fly off, even that green crown That once adorned his brow, the mistletoe, Dries up and withers. Long the Litwini Wandered through castles, mountains, and through woods, The Germans harrying or by them attacked, Till fought the dreadful fight on Rudaw’s plains, Where many thousand Litwin youth lay slaughtered, Beside as many of the Teuton host Soon reinforcements from beyond the sea Came to the Germans. Kiejstut then and Walter Ascended with a handful to the mountains. With broken sabres and with dinted shields, Covered with dust and clotted gore, they went Gloomy towards home. There Walter neither looked Upon his wife, nor spoke to her one word; But in the German tongue held he discourse With Kiejstut and the Wajdelote. Aldona Nought understood, but yet her heart forebode Some dire event When ended was their council, All three turned sorrowing glances on Aldona. Walter looked longest, with despair’s mute gaze; Thick-falling teardrops trickled from his eyes; He fell before Aldona’s feet and pressed Her hands unto his heart, and pardon begged For all the things that she had suffered of him. “Woe!” cried he, “unto women loving madmen, Whose hearts domestic happiness contents not. Great hearts, Aldona, are like hives too large; Honey can fill them not, and they become The lizard’s nest. Forgive me, dear Aldona! To-day I would remain at home, to-day Forget all things; be we for each to-day What once we used to be. To-morrow——” But He could not finish. What joy then Aldona’s! She thought, unhappy, Walter would be changed, That he would live in peace and joyousness. Less thoughtful did she see him, in his eyes More life; she saw new colour in his cheeks; And all that evening at Aldona’s feet Spent Walter. Litwa, Teutons, and the war He cast awhile into forgetfulness; Talked of those happy times when first he came To Litwa, his first converse with Aldona, The first walk to the valley, and of all Those childish things, but memorable to the heart, Of that first love. Wherefore such sweet discourse Must he break off with that sad word—to-morrow, And plunge in thought, look long upon his wife? Tears circle in his eyes. Would he then speak, But dares not? Did he but invoke the feelings, The memories of ancient happiness, Only to bid farewell to them? Shall all This evening’s converse, all its sweet caresses, Be but the last, last flickerings of love’s torch? ’Tis vain to ask. Aldona looks and waits, Uncertain. Passing from the room, she gazed Still through the crannies. Walter poured out wine, And emptied many cups, and near him kept The hoary Wajdelote through all the night.