One of those hallmark asides

One of the hallmarks of Aleksander Krawczuk's style are his asides--short chapters inserted into the main narrative by the way of the topic of his book. They often find a connection between the ancient historical events of two or three thousand years ago and modernity, ancient Greeks and Romans and Jews, and the little us. This is one such chapter, taken from our newest offering, Titus and Berenice. It also happens to be extraordinarily beautifully written.

And it addresses what seems to be more than a passing similarity between modern Poland and ancient Israel: a psychological mechanism whereby a minor nation, conquered and trampled by a far more powerful empire seeks to find in its defeat proof of its value as a Chosen People, of its special, messianic role in the world, and of the inevitability of a future return to glory.

Zygmunt Krasiński

CONCERNING MESSIANISM

"I’ve always been of this opinion, and I didn’t hesitate to say so to Krasiński’s face. I remember one conversation I had with him about it. It was in Paris in 1858. I lived at Quai d’Orléans, not where the Polish Library was, but a bit closer to Notre Dame. Krasiński used to visit me. Well, once we talked about messianism in general and his messianism in particular. Not wanting to beat about the bush, I simply told him, when he questioned me on the matter, that while I adored him as a poet, I was opposed to his messianic theories.

Why should we tell a people who are unhappy, broken, troubled, demoralized, losing ground, surrounded on all sides by enemies, deprived of political existence, that they are a chosen people, that they are the Christ of nations, that in them and their suffering lies the salvation humanity? We will only mislead them because instead of working, instead of thinking about improving their fate, instead of learning and striving to be useful citizens, trying to make themselves better than their fathers who have lost their homeland and political independence, they will stand with folded arms proud of their Christhood, their role as God’s Chosen People, their moral superiority over other nations, their “super-European” virtue. That is why I believe that this theory of messianism is a demoralizing theory because it is telling people something that should not be told to any nation, and to us, Poles, in particular. People should be told the naked, honest truth, may it hurt ever so much, for it is always the most effective remedy for all vices and imperfections. People should always have their faults pointed out to them so that they try to get rid of them because only by knowing their faults can they improve morally and hope to raise themselves from their defeat.

"These words, spoken with all sincerity and force of conviction, made a greater impression on Krasińki than I could have supposed. He heard them out sitting, but when I had finished, he got up, and you could see how deeply he was agitated because he began to pace the room nervously as if struggling with himself, until finally he came to me, took my hand and said in a voice that betrayed strong emotion:

"'You’re wrong! It is not so! If to a fallen, vicious, perverted, corrupt, and reckless woman, but one not completely corrupted, not utterly corrupted, sometimes grieved by her frivolity, often repenting of her sins which she would like to amend, you begin to preach her fall, you begin to enumerate her sins and vices by dwelling on her wicked and immoral life, what effect will you have? What effect will you have on her by telling her the naked and brutal truth in this way? Why, you will demoralize her completely, corrupt her completely, and instead of saving her from the abyss, you will push her to the very bottom of decline and disgrace. For when you reveal to her all the horror of her position, all the abomination of dirt and mud into which she has fallen, all the disgrace she has covered herself with, then she will doubt herself, she will believe that having fallen so low, she can only sink even deeper, that having found herself on this slippery slope she has no chance of turning back, and she will be lost forever. And she will not improve because she will doubt the possibility of improvement. She will become incapable of repentance.

"'But if to such a fallen woman, but one not completely devoid of noble instincts, you say that there is great holiness in her, which she has only soiled with her reckless and vicious conduct, that she is an angel, though with muddy wings, that if she has fallen, it was only because she has been driven to her fall by those worse than she, more vicious, people not possessed of the holiness and virtue, which have not yet entirely died out in her heart, which are still smoldering under the ashes of corruption, but blown up by repentance and atonement, are capable of bursting with the purest flame of holiness... When you talk to her like that, then you will lead her on the path of improvement, then you will not arouse self-doubts in her, then you will appeal to her nobler instincts: she will believe in her virtue, believe that she can yet become an honest woman, that she can still whiten her angel wings, and that she can be saved.'[1]

This is how Julian Kłaczko described his Paris conversation with Zygmunt Krasiński. He related it in the afternoon of February 27, 1897: the day was sunny, cloudless, the sky was blue, the breath of spring was already felt in his Krakow home. That palace still stands today on the corner of Smoleńsk and Straszewskiego Streets, a bit set back, surrounded by a tiny garden, and serving after recent renovations as a wedding hall. Kłaczko’s guest was Ferdynand Hoesick. What he heard from the old man, he faithfully wrote down years later in his biography."

[1] F. Hoesick, Julian Kłaczko, Warsaw 1934, pp. 345–346. The two men in the conversation are Zygmunt Krasiński (1812-1859), a Polish poet traditionally ranked among Poland’s Three Bards—the Romantic poets who influenced national consciousness in the period of Partitions of Poland (1795-1918); and Julian Kłaczko (1825-1906), a Polish-Jewish writer, activist, and politician. And the topic of their discussion is Polish Messianism, a doctrine which referred to Poland as the Christ of Europe or as the Christ of Nations “crucified” in the course of the foreign partitions of Poland (1772–1795). During the period of partitions, the territory of former Poland was home to most of Europe’s Jews, it was only natural that Jewish ideas filtered into Polish intellectual life, and especially that of the coming of the Messiah would restore the nation’s former glory.

Nero and Vespasian in Greece

(p. 132)

Having set foot in the sacred land of Greece, the emperor devoted himself exclusively to artistic pursuits. Various programs took place in different towns: singing competitions, chariot races, poetry recitations, and theatrical performances. And invariably, the world’s best singer, its most excellent musician, and its most brilliant actor—Nero—performed in them all. He received frenetic applause, aroused universal enthusiasm, and won first prizes, wreaths, and memorial statuary. It was, therefore, hardly surprising that overwork and excess of impressions prevented him from dealing with trivial matters like current politics. Nothing out of the ordinary was happening anyway.

But then, this blessed living for art alone was suddenly disturbed by news from Judea and, in particular, by the news of the defeat of Cestius Gallus. Of course, it was clearly not a major disaster by any means. The whole thing was a rebellion of a small people, and while, yes, it had inflicted some casualties on the Roman corps, none of it was cause for alarm. The forces led by Cestius were only part of the army stationed in Syria, and other legions could easily be moved to the Palestinian theater if necessary. Yet, it was unwise to underestimate the importance of the uprising. Rome had to suppress it as soon as possible lest it become a contagious example to other subjugated peoples.

The emperor and his advisers judged the situation well, stating publicly that the defeat in Judea was brought about, above all, by the incompetence of the commander. It, therefore, behooved the emperor to send a new general, an energetic and experienced man. We do not know what candidates were considered, but the final result is known. And we can guess why the choice fell on this particular senator and not any other.

The newly designated commander-in-chief was Flavius Vespasian.

Of course, Vespasian had proven himself as an effective general in Germany and Britain and possibly as a capable administrator in Africa. However, there was no shortage of people with similar or even better qualifications in the Senate, so there had to have been other considerations. The decisive factor seems to have been that Vespasian did not belong to any of the great aristocratic families and was not aligned with any of them: he had no Senators among his ancestors. And all the conspiracies uncovered in recent years, both real and imagined, had all involved members of old and distinguished families. Nero and his advisers were understandably suspicious of the people of that class. They certainly would not have entrusted a mighty army to any aristocrat—and to put down the uprising in Judea would require a large army comprised of several legions.

It is possible that Vespasian’s candidacy was helped, somewhat paradoxically, by a small and amusing event, but one imbued with very special meaning in the eyes of Nero. It had recently been reported to the emperor that Vespasian showed little enthusiasm during the emperor’s artistic performances; indeed, that he showed no interest in them at all. To speak the brutal truth—that they made him fall asleep. As soon as this matter was reported, the Senator was punished with displeasure. He was ordered to leave the imperial entourage and go to one of the small Greek towns for a while. It is easy to imagine the anxiety in which he lived there, deeply convinced that his career, and perhaps his life, had already come to an end. When he sought help from one of the emperor’s freedmen, he heard a formerly unimaginable answer:

“Get lost!”

Vespasian could only console himself with the fact that his fortune was rather small and that he was in debt, for in recent years, the emperor had tended to send very rich people to the other world.

It is very likely that during the deliberations within the imperial entourage, someone recommended his candidacy half-jokingly and half-seriously, saying:

“Ah, Vespasian should be sent to war! He is a simpleton, he has no idea about art, here he’s only a pain and makes himself ridiculous. There, in the military camp, he will be at home. Let him go and fight and leave us here to delight in your art, Caesar!”

And someone else added:

“He’s well over fifty, but he’s still robust and healthy.”

And yet someone else chimed in:

“He’s just a simple peasant. Short, stocky, strong in arms and legs. Square big head and tiny eyes. He will do well.”

And then someone else:

“Though he certainly will feel lonely without his Caenis!”

And thus, the combination of many factors, both weighty and ridiculous, decided the future of both Rome and Jerusalem.

Our Tragic Heroine is Here

In the year 1670, at the height of glory of Louis XIV, and before rebellions and unlucky foreign wars dimmed somewhat the brilliance of the Sun-King, his cousin and sister-in-law, Henriette d'Angleterre, daughter of the unlucky Charles I of England, wife of Phillip d’Orleans, staged a bloodless game: a head-to-head duel between two court dramatists, the aging Pierre Corneille (1606-1684) and the up-and-coming Jean Racine (1639-1699), both of whom were commissioned to produce a play on the subject of Berenice, Queen of the Jews.

Performed a week apart at the end of November 1670, the two plays caused a furor, a loud war of words and pamphlets between two cultural (and, therefore, as always in France, political) factions—the supporters of one or the other. It was a war conclusively won by the new man. Broken by his defeat, Corneille never wrote another play. For Racine, this victory marked his rise to power. In 1672 he was elevated to a seat in the Academie and went on to compose, in short order, his greatest plays: Bajazet (1672), Mithridate (1673), Iphigénie (1674) and Phèdre (1677).

The French ruckus caused a veritable cultural tsunami across the landscape of European courts, all of which rushed to stage their own versions of the story, whether in dramatic, or poetic, or operatic, or graphic form. As a result, the amount of “Titus and Berenice” output deposited in the deep layers of European culture is staggering; Racine’s play remains on the playbill in France until this day. As a result, most Europeans have heard of Titus and Berenice: the title rings a bell even if most today cannot say which church is tolling.

Read what really happened.