--- iz dnevnika Frederika Šopena --- Štugart, oko 8. septembra 1831. The suburbs are destroyed, burned. — Jaś, Wiluś probably dead in the trenches. I see Marcel a prisoner! That good fellow Sowiński in the hands of those brutes! Paszkiewicz!—Some dog from Mohilov holds the seat of the first monarchs of Europe. Moscow rules the world! Oh God, do You exist? Youre there, and You dont avenge it—how many more Russian crimes do You want—or—or are You a Russian too!!? My poor Father! The dear old man may be starving, my mother not able to buy bread? Perhaps my sisters have succumbed to the ferocity of Muscovite soldiery let loose! Oh Father, what a comfort for your old age! Mother! Poor suffering Mother, have you borne a daughter to see a Russian violate her very bones! — Mockery! Has even her grave been respected? Trampled, thousands of other corpses are over the grave — What has happened to her? — Where is she? — Poor girl, perhaps in some Russians hands — a Russian strangling her, killing, murdering! Ah, my Life, Im here alone; come to me, Ill wipe away your tears, Ill heal the wounds of the present, remind you of the past — the days when there were no Russians, the days when the only Russians were a few who were very anxious to please you, and you were laughing at them beacause I was there — Have you your mother? — such a cruel mother, and a mine is so kind — But perhaps I have no mother, perhaps some Russian has killed her, murdered — My sisters, raving, resist — father in despair, nothing he can do — and I here, useless! And I here with empty hands! — Sometimes I can only groan, and suffer, and pour out my despair at the piano! — God, shake the earth, let it swallow up the men of ths age, let the heaviest chastisement fall on France, that would not come to help us— —The bed I go to—perhaps corpses have lain on it, lain long—yet today that does not sicken me. Is a corpse any worse than I? A corpse knows nothing of father, of mother, or sisters, of Tytus; a corpse has no beloved, its tongue can hold no converse with those who surround it—a corpse is as colourless as I, as cold, as I am cold to everything now— The clocks in the towers of Stuttgart strike the hours of the night. How many new corpses is this minute making in the world? Mothers losing children, children losing mothers—So much grief over the dead, and so much delight! A vile corpse and a decent one—virtues and vice are all one, they are sisters when they are corpses. Evidently, then, death is the best act of man—And what is the worst? Birth; it is direct opposition to the best thing. I am right to be angry that I came into the world—What use is my existence to anyone? I am not fit for human beings, for I have neither snout nor calves to my legs; and does a corpse have them? A corpse also has no calves, so it lacks nothing of a mathematical fraternity with death—Did she love me, or was she only pretending? Thats a knotty point to get over — Yes, no, yes, no, no, yes — finger by finger — Does she love me? Surely she loves me, let her do what she likes — Father! Mother! Where are you? Corpses? Perhaps some Russian has played tricks—oh wait—wait—But tears—they have not flowed for so long—oh, so long, so long I could not weep—how glad—how wretched—Glad and wretched—If Im wretched, I cant be glad—and yet it is sweet— This is a strange state — but that is so with a corpse; its well and not well with it at the same moment. It is transferred to a happier life, and is glad, it regrets the life it is leaving and is sad. It must feel as I felt when I left off weeping. It was like some momentary death of feeling; for a moment I died in my heart; no, my heart died in me for a moment. Ah, why not for always! — Perhaps it would be more endurable then — Alone! Alone! — There are no words for my misery; how can I bear this feeling—
Posted on: Sun, 14 Dec 2014 21:20:47 +0000
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