Rostropovich in London, 1968

 

by Brett Rutherford

Never on such a night did a London audience sit
raptured yet each at the edge of their seat, as Slava played

the yearning and passionate solos, ensembles and rests
of the Dvorak Cello Concerto. They saw that he wept
as he played, sobbing at times; they saw how his face was flushed

and red, as though he had been called to bar, a criminal.
All underscored the urgent throb of vibrato, the long,
long arc of his bowing, the endless homesickness and love
of a Czech composer an ocean away from homeland.

All this while the Soviet tanks rolled across the Moldau
and Eastern Bloc forces occupied the streets of Prague.

Fragments of Empedocles

 

FRAGMENTS OF EMPEDOCLES

 

Translated by Brett Rutherford

 

11

Fools, whose thoughts run fast and false,
who fancy that from Nothing, Something comes,
or that, with wave of hand, What Is, is Not,
as if a thing once seen, can be unseen.

 

12

From Nothingness a bring can never come;
if so, What Is could just as well be all destroyed,
by what Force by what name no one has heard —
for What Is rests forever where it sits.

The All contains no void, nor has it more
than what itself encompasses.

17

I will report a truth two-fold: I see
the One from Many come to be, and
as the One dissolves, the Many come again:
Earth and Fire, Water and the sky of Air;
and held apart from them, conflicting Force
in balance held, and Love upon them all,
in all her being everywhere the same.

Focus your mind on Love, sit not
like a novice astonished. She exists
inborn in every human cell and not
to be denied. Through her, the yearning comes
of created things for one another; through her
we call a well-done thing a beauty, and know
Delight or even love a thing for its own sake.

 

 

The Last Lesson - A Young Alsatian's Narrative

 

THE LAST LESSON. A YOUNG ALSATIAN'S NARRATIVE.

by Alphonse Daudet, from Monday Tales.

That morning it was quite late before I started for school, and I was terribly afraid I should be scolded, for Monsieur Hamel had told us that he would question us upon participles, and I did not know the first thing about them. For a moment I thought of escaping from school and roving through the fields.

The day was so warm, so clear! The blackbirds were whistling on the outskirts of the woods. In Rippert Meadow, behind the sawmill, the Prussians were drilling. All these things were far more attractive to me than the rule for the use of participles. But I mustered up strength to resist temptation, and hurried on to school.

As I reached the town hall, I saw a group of people ; they loitered before the little grating, reading the placards posted upon it. For two years every bit of bad news had been announced to us from that grating. There we read what battles had been lost, what requisitions made ; there we learned what orders had issued from headquarters. And though I did not pause with the rest, I wondered to myself, “What can be the matter now?”

As I ran across the square, Wachter, the black- smith, who, in company with his apprentice, was absorbed in reading the notice, exclaimed, —

“Not so fast, child! You will reach your school soon enough!”

I believed he was making game of me, and I was quite out of breath when I entered Monsieur Hamel’s small domain.

Now, at the beginning of the session there was usually such an uproar that it could be heard as far as the street. Desks were opened and shut, lessons recited at the top of our voices, all shouting together, each of us stopping his ears that he might hear better. Then the master’s big ruler would descend upon his desk, and he would say, —

“Silence!”

I counted upon making my entrance in the midst of the usual babel and reaching my seat unobserved, but upon this particular morning all was hushed. Sabbath stillness reigned. Through the open window I could see that my comrades had already taken their seats ; I could see Monsieur Hamel himself, passing back and forth, his formidable iron ruler under his arm.

I must open that door. I must enter in the midst of that deep silence. I need not tell you that I grew red in the face, and terror seized me.

But, strangely enough, as Monsieur Hamel scrutinized me, there was no anger in his gaze. He said very gently, —

“Take your seat quickly, my little Franz. We were going to begin without you.”

I climbed over the bench, and seated myself. But when I had recovered a little from my fright, I noticed that our master had donned his beautiful green frock-coat, his finest frilled shirt, and his embroidered black silk calotte, which he wore only on inspection days, or upon those occasions when prizes were distributed. Moreover, an extraordinary solemnity had taken possession of my classmates. But the greatest surprise of all came when my eye fell upon the benches at the farther end of the room. Usually they were empty, but upon this morning the villagers were seated there, solemn as ourselves. There sat old Hauser, with his three-cornered hat, there sat the venerable mayor, the aged carrier, and other personages of importance. All of our visitors seemed sad, and Hauser had brought with him an old primer, chewed at the edges. It lay wide open upon his knees, his big spectacles reposing upon the page.

While I was wondering at all these things. Monsieur Hamel had taken his seat, and in the same grave and gentle tone in which he had greeted me, he said to us, —

“My children, this is the last day I shall teach you. The order has come from Berlin that henceforth in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine all instruction shall be given in the German tongue only. Your new master will arrive to-morrow. To-day you hear the last lesson you will receive in French, and I beg you will be most attentive.”

My “last” French lesson! And I scarcely knew how to write! Now I should never learn. My education must be cut short. How I grudged at that moment every minute I had lost, every lesson I had missed for the sake of hunting birds’ nests or making slides upon the Saar! And those books which a moment before were so dry and dull, so heavy to carry, my grammar, my Bible-history, seemed now to wear the faces of old friends, whom I could not bear to bid farewell. It was with them as with Monsieur Hamel, the thought that he was about to leave, that I should see him no more, made me forget all the blows of his ruler, and the many punishments I had received.

Poor man! It was in honor of that last session that he was arrayed in his finest Sunday garb, and now I began to understand why the villagers had gathered at the back of the class-room. Their presence at such a moment seemed to express a regret that they had not visited that school-room oftener ; it was their way of telling our master they thanked him for his forty years of faithful service, and desired to pay their respects to the land whose empire was departing.

I was busied with these reflections when I heard my name called. It was now my turn to recite. Ah! what would I not have given then, had I been able to repeat from beginning to end that famous rule for the use of participles loudly, distinctly, and without a single mistake ; but I became entangled in the first few words, and remained standing at my seat, swinging from side to side, my heart swelling. I dared not raise my head. Monsieur Hamel was addressing me.

“I shall not chide thee, my little Franz ; thy punishment will be great enough. So it is! We say to ourselves each day, ‘Bah ! I have time enough. I will learn to-morrow.’ And now see what results. Ah, it has ever been the greatest misfortune of our Alsace that she was willing to put off learning till tomorrow ! And now these foreigners can say to us, and justly, ‘What! you profess to be Frenchmen, and can neither speak nor write your own language?’ And in all this, my poor Franz, you are not the chief culprit. Each of us has something to reproach himself with.

“Your parents have not shown enough anxiety about having you educated. They preferred to see you spinning, or tilling the soil, since that brought them in a few more sous. And have I nothing with which to reproach myself? Did I not often send you to water my garden when you should have been at your tasks? And if I myself wished to go trout-fishing, was my conscience in the least disturbed when I gave you a holiday”

One topic leading to another. Monsieur Hamel began to speak of the French language, saying it was the strongest, clearest, most beautiful language in the world, which we must keep as our heritage, never allowing it to be forgotten, telling us that when a nation has become enslaved, she holds the key which shall unlock her prison as long as she preserves her native tongue.

Then he took a grammar, and read our lesson to us, and I was amazed to see how well I understood. Everything he said seemed so very simple, so easy ! I had never, I believe, listened to any one as I listened to him at that moment, and never before had he shown so much patience in his explanations. It really seemed as if the poor man, anxious to impart everything he knew before he took leave of us, desired to strike a single blow that might drive all his knowledge into our heads at once.

The lesson was followed by writing. For this occasion Monsieur Hamel had prepared some copies that were entirely new, and upon these were written in a beautiful round hand, “France, Alsace! France, Alsace !”

These words were as inspiring as the sight of the tiny flags attached to the rod of our desks. It was good to see how each one applied himself, and how silent it was! Not a sound save the scratching of pens as they touched our papers. Once, indeed, some Maybugs entered the room, but no one paid the least attention to them, not even the tiniest pupil ; for the youngest were absorbed in tracing their straight strokes as earnestly and conscientiously as if these too were written in French! On the roof of the schoolhouse the pigeons were cooing softly, and I thought to myself as I listened,

“And must they also be compelled to sing in German?”

From time to time, looking up from my page, I saw Monsieur Hamel, motionless in his chair, his eyes riveted upon each object about him, as if he desired to fix in his mind, and forever, every detail of his little school. Remember that for forty years he had been constantly at his post, in that very school-room, facing the same playground. Little had changed. The desks and benches were polished and worn, through long use; the walnut-trees in the playground had grown taller ; and the hop-vine he himself had planted curled its tendrils about the windows, running even to the roof. What anguish must have filled the poor man’s heart, as he thought of leaving all these things, and heard his sister moving to and fro in the room overhead, busied in fastening their trunks! For on the morrow they were to leave the country, never to return. Nevertheless his courage did not falter; not a single lesson was omitted. After writing came history, and then the little ones sang their “Ba, Be, Bi, Bo, Bu” together. Old Hauser, at the back of the room, had put on his spectacles, and, holding his primer in both hands, was spelling out the letters with the little ones. He too was absorbed in his task ; his voice trembled with emotion, and it was so comical to hear him that we all wanted to laugh and to cry at the same moment. Ah ! never shall I forget that last lesson!

Suddenly the church clock struck twelve, and then the Angelus was heard. At the same moment, a trumpet-blast under our window announced that the Prussians were returning from drill. Monsieur Hamel rose in his chair. He was very pale, but never before had he seemed to me so tall as at that moment.

“My friends — ” he said, “my friends — I — I — ”

But something choked him. He could not finish his sentence.

Then he took a piece of chalk, and grasping it with all his strength, wrote in his largest hand, —  “Vive La France!”

He remained standing at the blackboard, his head resting against the wall. He did not speak again, but a motion of his hand said to us, —

“That is all. You are dismissed.”

 

The Love Spell

 

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Theocritus, Idyll II 

Dried laurel leaves, where are you? What shelf
did I mark as the place for love-charms? Thestylis,
help me find everything I need! I am not myself;
anger with the wretch who abandoned me
is making me forgetful. Yes, girl, those are the ones
I wanted. Now to girdle my best bronze bowl
with a garland of red amaranth, whose dried blooms
look ever so much like balls of yarn, redder
than blood and softer than love’s surrendering.

 Twelve days the door has been ajar for him,
for slipping in at any time of night —
twelve nights, too, and nothing! For all he knows
I died here in my bed, from wanting him.
Be sure he has not died from wanting me,
for one bird says he is out and about,
sunning himself in a new, blue tunic,

led off by Eros, and where the little
Love points him, boy that he is, he follows.
Can Aphrodite be so far behind,
love’s calendar cancelled by one impulse?

I have a mind to go, disguised, of course,
for I can pass as boy when I need to,
to Timagetus’s wrestling school, where girls
are not permitted (as if that little
fence could prevent my seeing his presence!)
There, right in front of all the oiled athletes
I shall confront and shame the deceiver!
(Or should I not? What good will that do me?)

 But now, tonight, I shall use my powers —
I may not be an adept at witchcraft,
but I learned much from a circle of crones
whose hearths I swept, and at whose knees I sat
to ken birth-secrets, and how to call death
down, and best of all, how to compel men.

 Moon at my window-sill, rising not full
but cusped as sharp as a brazen scythe, shine
me nevertheless in silvery light,
just bright enough that I may enchant thee,
raw moon of infernal Hecate, one
who makes even wild dogs whine and shudder
as you drift freely among the white tombs
and take as you please from the bony dead
whatever tokens of skulls and scraps
your rituals require, who in the dark
supine yourself in awe of greater Darkness —

Hail! from this unworthy acolyte, hail,
O Hecate, Hecate, Hecate!
Be with me this little while as my weak
hands cross and uncross, then blinder my eyes
as I tremble that you bless this love-charm.
Deign, Hecate, to make this spell as strong
as the philtres of seductress Circe,
or that of dread Medea, (as loving
as she was cruel), or strong as the love-spells
of our ancestress, yellow-haired Perimede.

And now I take the sacred iynx in hand,
(five carven birds on a wooden top)
and pull the strings to spin it, and it sings
the chanting of the heart-broken wryneck
as it turns round its head to seek its mate —

Que …. que …. que. Faster, slower, faster,
slower as my hands pull the motor twine.
Que … que … que.
     Spin, five birds, spin.
          Que … que … que.

Birds in a wheel, turn, turn!
Bring the man back to me!
Bring the man back to me!

First we must burn some barley-meal. Come on,
Thestylis, attend me and throw it down
until the well-tended fire can char it.
Yes, burn it, burn it, no matter the smoke.
Can you not follow the simplest orders?
You, in your rags, you would smile and mock me?
Just wait till you see the magic outcome.
Now toss them in and say this after me:
May these be the bones of Delphis I hurl.

Birds in a wheel, turn, turn!
Bring the man back to me!
Bring the man back to me!

Take in your hand the laurel leaves, and throw
them into the heart of the flame. Just so
they crackle and curl and hiss to nothing,
up in a flare without a trace of ash,
Just so may the limbs of Delphis sting.

 Birds in a wheel, turn, turn!
Bring the man back to me!
Bring the man back to me!

 Take now this doll which I did mold of him,
with hair of his head and seed of his loin
in waxen likeness with my kisses warmed.
Here, take it, girl, and do not shudder so.
On this same grate now let it melt away.
So melt with love, Delphis of Mindus born.

As my hands spin, so do the guiding hands
of Aphrodite, I swear it. Delphis,
return and beg admittance at my door!

Birds in a wheel, turn, turn!
Bring the man back to me!
Bring the man back to me!

Laurel, barley, doll and bran, so I recall
in order the ancient women taught me.
Now, slave, a handful of bran to the fire.
Step back, lest it singe your hairy eyebrows.
More! More! See how it takes the form of man,
with arms and legs and flaming hair like his!

O Artemis, this slender moon is yours,
with such a disk more dark than light
you could draw down even adamantine
Hades to do your will. Oh, so much less
I ask of you and Hecate, a boy,
one boy, one will, one love, and forever.

The goddesses hear! Up goes a howling
now from every she-bitch in the city:
from curs and hounds to the long-eared lap-dogs
in the cool, high-walled mansions of the rich.

I can almost see the crossroads. She comes,
surely she comes now to the abhorrent place,
where she will find the daytime offering,
the one I left by a suicide’s grave.

Now beat the pans as loud as possible
to signal her that I, attending her,
should have this one small gift bestowed on me.

Birds in a wheel, turn, turn!
Bring the man back to me!
Bring the man back to me!

What? Just Silence? Such silence, absolute,
that not a tree or blade of grass tells me
that Hecate treads the waste-place tonight?
The sea is within my hearing, yet not
a single wave slaps the stone quay, not one
o’erleaps the promenade and washes up
and then back again on the paving stones.
(such sighing we heard each night as the bay
rose and fell in time with our lovemaking).

What? silence now, and mockery to come
when I, who should have been his wedded wife
will now be scorned as an old castaway! 

Birds in a wheel, turn, turn!
Bring the man back to me!
Bring the man back to me!

No matter, girl — they are just testing me.
Three times now I offer my libation.
Three times I say these words, great goddesses:

Whatever woman lies beside him now,
or even whatever man, if it has come
to that, may he forget their embraces
as soon as he takes them, oblivious
to them as once great Theseus forgot
his precious Ariadne at Naxos:

In loving me, he shall forget all else.
In loving me, he shall forget all else.
In loving me, he shall forget all else.

 Birds in a wheel, turn, turn!
Bring the man back to me!
Bring the man back to me!

Something there is about that wrestling school
that seems amiss to me: who could resist
strong oil’d limbs and burning male eyes once
they had caught one’s fancy? Not I! Not him,
perhaps? What if the things I did with him,
the joys I learned beneath his embrace,
were already done to him by a man?

Hippomanes I need. Where on the shelf?
A lamp I need, Thestylis, a lamp!
Ah, here! “Colt’s foot” the herb is called
in Arcady, where mare and stallion
go mad for one another on eating it
and make such folly, lust out of season
that would make even fauns and centaurs blush.
Into my fire it goes, so Delphis mad
with animal lust may come to my bed,
and then, forgetting all, forsake the rest.

Birds in a wheel, turn, turn!
Bring the man back to me!
Bring the man back to me!

I have the trim I tore from his mantle,
a blue-and-gold souvenir embroidered
with blazing suns. Into the fire it goes,
sun after little blazing sun cindered
to trembling ash. What have I gone and done?
This was the ribbon I kissed each morning
just after he left me, the one I held
upon my lap as I day-dreamed of him.
Now it is gone, and he is gone, and I
have grown pale as though a leech were on me,
as though the sweet Eros had turned vampire
to drink away all the life inside me.

Birds in a wheel, turn, turn!
Bring the man back to me!
Bring the man back to me!

Delphis, beware! For I am witch enough
to have found and drained a venomous eft,
cold-blooded thing with adder’s potency,
and I will carry it on my person,
should things not work out between us. But no,
that is the last resort. Now, Thestylis,
we are done with the spell. Take up the bowl
as soon as it is cool enough, and fly
to Delphis’s home, the place I showed you,
and smear those ashes upon his lintel.
Spit once and say, These the bones of Delphis.

She goes, she goes; it is done. How long now
must I keep on with the sacred iynx? —

Birds in a wheel, turn, turn!
Bring the man back to me!
Bring the man back to me!

Que …. que …. que. Slower, faster, slower,
slower as my hands pull the motor twine.
Que … que … que.
     Sleep, five birds, sleep.
          Que …… que …… que.

 

 

Two Poems from the Ancient Greek

 translated by Brett Rutherford

UPON A STATUE OF ANAKREON 

     after Theocritus, Epigram 16

Study this statue carefully, O Stranger,
and when you return home, report of it,
“I saw, at Teos, Anakreon, or
such a likeness of Anakreon, as
though he still lived and breathed, pre-eminent
if ever a man was, among the bards.”

 Add also the thing that no one would know
unless they kenned his words and combed each line
for object and intent: Anakreon
burned for the love of young men of beauty.

 Then, having reported this, be silent.
Now you have told the truth of the whole man.

** ** ** 

FRIENDSHIP 

      after Bion, Idyll 8

Some call it friendship, and some call it more.
Blessed are they who love with fair return.

So blest was Theseus with one great friend,
Pirithous whom he mourned to leave behind
in Hell; so blest was Furied Orestes
when beautiful Pylades held him close
through the night terrors of fear and flight,
who for his high-born friend begged crumbs of bread
among ever-more barbarous strangers;
so blest was Achilles until the day
Patroclus for love assumed his armor
and in Achilles’ place went down to ground.

Deep such love is, and deeper still the grief.