• WL100/21: Funeral and Homily, 16.02.94

It was Ash Wednesday, 1994.  I had not gone specially to Warsaw for Lutosławski’s funeral on 16 February; I had arrived a week earlier on a pre-planned research trip.  But I could not stay away from Powązki Cemetery.  My recollections are slender, my few photographs, for what they are worth, rather remote.  Those were the days before digital photography, my camera had a poor zoom, and it didn’t seem right to photograph those present at close quarters (how customs have changed in less then 20 years).

Funeral

As you would expect, it was a cold day, but not snowbound as on my recent visit to the grave on the centenary of his birth.  Lutosławski had been cremated (there was at that stage only one crematorium in Poland – in Poznań – and the Roman Catholic church had an ambivalent attitude to cremation, to say the least).  I got to the cemetery early, before the mass in the chapel.  I located the grave, which was squeezed in next to that of Witold Rowicki, the conductor who commissioned Lutosławski’s Concerto for Orchestra in 1950.  I was intrigued to see that a full-size grave had been dug, a couple of feet deep, lined with bricks and half covered-over with curved concrete panels.

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The chapel at the edge of the cemetery, inside the three-metre perimeter wall, was packed and stuffy.  The family wanted the minimum of fuss, with only one oration (translated below).  Stefania Woytowicz, who had been one of the great Polish sopranos and a passionate advocate of new Polish music, gave a less than steady account of the early Lacrimosa.  I decided to move outside.  Eventually, the funeral party emerged past an array of wreaths. Lutosławski’s stepson carried the simple wooden casket (to the left of the wreaths in the photo below).

WL Funeral, 16.02.94:3It was a circuitous route to the graveside.  A soldier carried the Order of the White Eagle, Poland’s highest honour, which had been awarded to Lutosławski shortly before he died.

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I found myself standing the other side of the grave from the family.  Lutosławski’s stepson, Marcin Bogusławski, climbed into the narrow opening to place Lutosławski’s casket on the grave’s floor (not the easiest of tasks). Lutosławski’s widow Danuta looked terribly frail.  She was heard to say: “Happy Rowicka, that she died straight after her husband!” (she must have glanced to her right and seen the inscription on the adjacent grave of Rowicki and his wife, who died within weeks of each other in 1989).  Danuta Lutosławska died less than three months after her husband, on 23 April 1994.

I returned a day or two later to see the grave, now covered in a mound of earth.

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Homily

The homily at Lutosławski’s funeral was given by Father Wiesław Niewęgłowski.  It was reproduced at the end of Tadeusz Kaczyński’s Lutosławski. Życie i muzyka (Warsaw: Sutkowski, 1994), 237-8.  The translation is mine.

We have come here to say farewell to Witold Lutosławski, who is going on a long journey.  Among his incessant travels around the world, this is the last.  The final stop the house where there are many mansions – eternity.  He has left us citizens of the world, while simultaneously being a faithful son of the Polish homeland.  An eminent artist, a great composer, and above all a man of integrity.

He was born during the winter in Warsaw.  And in Warsaw he also died on a winter day.  A graduate of the Warsaw Conservatory.  Before he knew what success was, he experienced deprivation.  During the years of occupation he earned his living playing the piano in a few cafés in the capital city.  During martial law, he took the side of society.

An artist of great talent.  He created his own musical language.  A unique art.  Already during his lifetime he was seen as a classic of the twentieth century.  His works entered the treasure-house of world musical culture.  They are of permanent and universal value.  He was aware of his gift, but also the responsibility for these gifts entrusted to him.  Which is why he once said, “Talent is a good entrusted.  And with this good I need to do something wise and noble.  Talent must be given back to people.  It is the duty of the artist”.  These talents he multiplied and generously gave to the world.  Inspired, but also hard-working, he repeated after Tchaikovsky: “Inspiration does not visit the lazy”.

We know how he avoided publicity.  He was self-effacing.  But the world appreciated him – he was presented with honorary degrees by many renowned universities, many distinguished prizes and decorations.  A great talent, heart and spirit.  Open to people, kindly, independent and steadfast.  Totally elegant and calm, he was a free man.  But his freedom, both as an artist and as a man, created a harmonious whole.  He was a person of clear choices.  Which is why he was seen as an unquestioned authority, not only musically but also morally.

He leaves on the day when at Church people pour ashes on their heads, saying an old truth: remember man, that you are dust and to dust you shall return.  A funeral ceremony on Ash Wednesday in a way doubly proclaims the truth about life.  Europe, as a result of strenuous efforts in the field of philosophy and culture, has sponsored an anthropological reduction of people.  The latest proposed model according to the conception of the West is a man devoid of the spiritual dimension, a man crippled.  Today’s European man is conceived of as an irreligious man.  But is it possible to limit him and his thinking space on the horizon of eternity?  As you know, unbelief is the idea only of white, European man.  Atheism in the cultures of other continents is an unknown phenomenon.  Today’s ceremony has revealed the need for the Absolute.  It shows that, alongside mental activity, the spiritual element, humility and realism are necessary for every climate. 

Remember, man, that you are dust and to dust you shall return – this sentence is not uttered to arouse fear.  Dust does not evoke a symbol but reality.  Man is a transient being.  But he is the only being who the inevitability of his own death knows.  The ritual of the ash and the ritual of the funeral, however, proclaim the truth not about death, but about life.  From the time of Christ, the insignificance of man is filled with the infinite, death brings life – like the chrysalis of a butterfly.  As the ash fertilises the earth and thus becomes a source of new life during the following spring, so  the ash, which is man, sown in the ground with Christ, may have its own spring.

In this liturgy, we ask God for this eternal spring for Witold Lutosławski.  We heard in today’s reading from the Letters of St Paul, that Man does not live for himself, but for Christ.  Man does not live for himself, but for people with whom Jesus identifies himself.  Our recently deceased brother Witold fulfilled this truth in his service as an artist, in his service as a Christian.  May his actions intercede for him with God, and that will be a sign for how we must go.

Przyszliśmy tutaj, aby pożegnać Witolda Lutosławskiego, który udaje się w daleką drogę.  Wśród jego bezustannych podróży po świecie – ta jest ostatnią.  Kóncowym przystankiem dom, w którym mieszkań jest wiele – wieczność.  Odchodzi od nas obywatel świata, a jednocześnie wierny syn polskiej ojczyzny.  Wybitny artysta, wielki kompozytor, a przede wszystkim człowiek prawy.

Urodził się podczas zimy w Warszawie. I w Warszawie też umarł w zimowy dzień.  Absolwent Konserwatorium Warszawskiego.  Zanim dowiedział się czym jest sukces, poznał smak niedostatku.  W latach okupacji zarobkował grą na fortepianie, w kilku kawiarniach stołecznego miasta.  W stanie wojennym opowiedział się po stronie społeczeństwa.

Artysta wielkiego talentu.  Stworzył własny język muzyczny.  Sztukę niepowtarzalną.  Już za życia postrzegano go jako klasyka XX wieku.  Jego dzieła weszły do skarbca światowej kultury muzycznej.  Są wartością stałą i uniwersalną.  Miał świadomość własnego obdarowania, ale i odpowiedzialności za powierzone mu dary. Dlatego kiedyś powiedział: “Talent to dobro powierzone.  I z tym dobrem trzeba coś mądrego i szlachetnego zrobić.  Talent trzeba oddać ludziom.  Jest to obowiązek artysty”.  Owe talenty mnożył i hojnie rozdawał światu. Natchniony, ale i pracowity – powtarzał za Czajkowskim: “natchnienie nie nawiedza leniwych”.

Wiemy, jak unikał rozgłosu.  Był skromny.  Ale świat go docenił – ofiarowano mu doktoraty honoris causa wielu renomowanych uczelni, wiele znakomitych nagród i orderów.  Wielki talentem, sercem i duchem.  Otwarty na ludzi, życzliwy, niezależny i niezawodny.  Pełen elegancji i spokoju, był człowiekiem wolnym.  Ale jego wolność i jako artysty, i jako człowieka, tworzyła harmonijną całość.  Był osobą jasnych wyborów.  Dlatego postrzegano go jako nie kwestionowany autorytet nie tylko muzyczny, ale i moralny.

Odchodzi w dniu, kiedy w Kościele sypie się ludziom na głowę popiół, mówiąc starą prawdę: pamiętaj człowiecze, że prochem jesteś i w proch się obrócisz.  Pogrzebowa ceremonia w Środę Popielcową jakby podwójnie głosi prawdę o życiu.  Europa w wyniku usilnych zabiegów na terenie filozofii i kultury zafundowała ludziom redukcję antropologiczną.  Proponowany najnowszy model według koncepcji Zachodu – to człowiek pozbawiony wymiaru duchowego, człowiek okaleczony.  Dzisiejszy człowiek europejski pomyślany jest jako człowiek niereligijny.  Ale czy można zamknąć go i przestrzeń jego myśli na horyzonty wieczności?  Jak wiecie, niewiara jest pomysłem jedynie człowieka białego, europejskiego.  Ateizm w kulturach innych kontynentów jest zjawiskiem nieznanym.  Dzisiejsza ceremonia odsłania potrzebę Absolutu.  Ukazuje, że obok aktywności umyśłowej potrzebny jest także każdemu klimat i pierwiastek duchowy, pokora, realizm.

Pamiętaj człowiecze, że prochem jesteś i w proch się obrócisz – to zdanie nie jest wypowiadane ku wzbudzaniu lęku.  Proch nie przywołuję symbolu, ale rzeczywistość.  Człowiek jest istotą przemijającą.  Ale jest także jedyną istotą, która o nieuchronności swej śmierci – wie.  Obrzęd popielcowy i obrzęd pogrzebowy głoszą jednak prawdę nie o śmierci, ale o życiu.  Od czasu Chrystusa znikomość człowieka wypełniona jest nieskończonością, śmierć wydaje życie – jak poczwarka motyla.  Jak popiół użyźnia ziemię i tym samym staje się przyczyną nowego życia podczas kolejnej wiosny; tak posiany z Chrystusem w ziemię proch, którym jest człowiek, może mieć swoją wiosnę.

O tę wieczną wiosnę dla Witolda Lutosławskiego prosimy Boga podczas tej liturgii.  Słyszeliśmy w czytanym dzisiaj liście św. Pawla, że Człowiek nie żyje dla siebie, ale dla Chrystusa.  Człowiek nie żyje dla siebie, ale dla ludzi, z nimi utożsamia sź Jezus.  Świętej pamięci nasz brat Witold wypełnił tę prawdę swą służbą artysty, służbą chrześcijanina.  Niech jego czyny orędują za nim u Boga, a dla nas będą znakiem, jak iść mamy.

• Szymanowski’s Funerals

Szymanowski’s sister Stanisława by her brother’s coffin, Lausanne, March-April 1937

Today is the 75th anniversary of Szymanowski’s funeral ceremony in Warsaw and tomorrow the anniversary of his burial in Kraków.  His body had travelled to Warsaw by train from Lausanne, where he had died on the night of 28-29 March 1937 (see my earlier post, When did Szymanowski die?).  The train stopped for commemorative ceremonies in Berlin, at the German-Polish border, and in Poznań in central Poland.  It arrived in Warsaw on Sunday evening, 4 April, and was taken to the Conservatory of Music, where it lay in state until the following evening.

The Warsaw funeral took place on the morning of Tuesday, 6 April, in the Church of the Holy Cross (where an urn containing Chopin’s heart was immured).  Szymanowski’s Stabat Mater was performed during the service. Afterwards, the cortège moved north up Krakowskie Przedmieście, past the University, and turned left to pass in front of the Grand Theatre, where an excerpt from Wagner’s Götterdämmerung was played.  From there it moved south to the Philharmonic, pausing while an arrangement of some of Szymanowski’s piano Variations on a Polish Folk Theme was heard.  Late that evening, the coffin was placed on an overnight train to Kraków.

Szymanowski’s coffin arrived in Kraków early on Wednesday, 7 April, and by 09.00 it had been ceremonially placed in the Mariacki Church on the city’s central square.  During the Kraków service, which began two hours later, Berlioz’s Requiem was performed.  At noon, the famous daily iteration of the hejnał (trumpet alarm) was sounded from the top of the church tower.

Afterwards, the cortège wound its way, to the strains of Beethoven, south-west past Wawel castle and on to St Stanisław church on Skałka (‘the little rock’).  There, Szymanowski’s coffin was placed in the Krypt Zasłużonych (Crypt of the Distinguished).  Szymanowski shares this Polish Pantheon with a dozen other distinguished artistic figures, including Adam Asnyk, Stanisław Wyspiański, Jacek Malczewski and Czesław Miłosz.  Szymanowski is the only composer.  The last music heard after his committal was a folk tune played by Tatra highlanders (a modern commemoration is shown in the picture below), a tribute that was also paid in Katowice at the burial of Henryk Mikołaj Górecki in 2010.

For a contemporary account of the events of 4-7 April 1937, by the composer and critic Stefan Kisielewski, see the following three-part English translation by William Hughes:

Stefan Kisielewski – ‘Karol Szymanowski’s Final Journey’ [Part One]
Stefan Kisielewski – ‘Karol Szymanowski’s Final Journey’ [Part Two]
Stefan Kisielewski – ‘Karol Szymanowski’s Final Journey’ [Part Three]

Photos from these impressive ceremonies in Warsaw and Kraków can be found on several pages of the Narodowe Archiwum Cyfrowe (National Digital Archive), starting at http://www.audiovis.nac.gov.pl/haslo/279:224/. They knew how to do funerals in those days.

• A Last Amen for Górecki

I had not intended to post so much on Górecki over the past few days, but events and memories have rather taken over.  Not least of these are my recollections of the funeral, which took place in Katowice on this date last year.  I hope that my account below will give some sense of the occasion.

I caught an early train from Warsaw along with Polish friends and colleagues.  The cloud hung grey and dismal over the central lowlands.  Katowice looked the same as it had two weeks earlier, when I’d come to see Górecki for what turned out to be the last time.  Katowice, too, was grey and dismal, but then it often looks that way.  There was time for a reviving cup of tea and a sandwich, time for my friend to collect a bouquet, and time to buy the new edition of Tygodnik Powszechny, which had published my appreciation of Górecki along with those of others.  We walked to the Arch-Cathedral of Christ the King, whose huge dome sits squatly atop the cruciform building.  The dome should have been higher, but the post-war communist authorities did not want a Christian building dominating the area.  It was just as well that we arrived early, because the Cathedral was packed long before the scheduled start at 13.00.

Górecki had been cremated the previous day, in a private ceremony.  I was told that the Roman Catholic church in Poland barely tolerates cremation and would not countenance a funeral service beforehand, which is customary here in the UK.  (I recollect that, in 1994, Lutosławski’s ashes were brought to the chapel in Powązki Cemetery in Warsaw for the funeral service.  He had been cremated in the (then) only crematorium in Poland, in Poznań in the centre of the country.)  Urns are always buried, as the scattering of ashes is illegal in Poland.  Most of the close relatives, including his daughter Anna and her family, arrived at 12.45, his widow Jadwiga and son Mikołaj on the dot of 13.00.  They were followed by the funeral directors bearing wreaths and Górecki’s funeral urn, which was placed, gently sloping, on its back, with a large central candle behind and the funeral plaque in front.

The ceremony was in two parts, designed to last about two hours.  Almost inevitably, it overran, by almost an hour. First there was a concert, then the service proper.  The musical institutions of Katowice and further afield had pulled out all the stops.  Górecki’s former pupil, Eugeniusz Knapik, who is the senior figure at the Academy of Music in the city, where both Górecki and he studied, had played a key role in bringing everything together.  Three of Katowice’s orchestras performed – the National SO of Polish Radio, the Silesian PO and the AUKSO CO – alongside soloists and choirs from Katowice and Kraków.

The concert began with Szymanowski’s Stabat Mater, a work with which Górecki had a deep affinity.  Unfortunately, the Cathedral has a ballooning acoustic with a reverberation time of almost 10″.  The a cappella fourth movement, however, sounded well.  There followed a performance of Górecki’s Beatus vir (1979), the last of the three monumental works that he composed in the 70s – it had been preceded by the Second Symphony ‘Copernican’ (1972) and Third Symphony ‘Symphony of Sorrowful Songs’ (1975).  It sounded as strong and imposing as it must have done at its first performance, which Górecki conducted in Kraków in front of the newly elected John-Paul II.

The mass, which began at 14.15, was presided over by Cardinal Franciszek Macharski, a close family friend.  There were addresses by other church figures, by the Minister of Culture and by the President of the Polish Composers’ Union.  In the congregation were composers of Górecki’s generation – Krzysztof Penderecki (Kraków) and Wojciech Kilar (Katowice) – and younger ones too, including Górecki’s pupils Knapik and Rafał Augustyn.  As far as I am aware, I was the only person from abroad, which I found rather sad, given how significant had been the relationship between the composer and major broadcasting, concert, publishing and recording institutions outside Poland.

There were a couple of musical surprises too.  A performance of Totus Tuus was to be expected, but Penderecki conducting Amen was less so.  And I was not the only one to be taken unawares, at the start of the communion service, by the performance of an excerpt from Strauss’s Metamorphosen.  According to his widow, this had been the one musical request for his funeral that Górecki had made.

The ceremonies came to a close at 15.45.  This must have come as a blessed relief for the representatives of organisations from Katowice and the Polish mountains who had stood with their banners at the far end of the Cathedral for the preceding three hours (see the photo above).  They now moved down to the aisle, leading the procession out of the main doors.  Górecki’s oldest grandchild, still in his mid-teens, carried the urn, flanked by his father and his uncle.  Then began the walk to the cemetery.  It took some 15′ for everyone to leave the Cathedral, and by this time dusk was falling fast.  We proceeded slowly up the side street, just a few hundred metres, and into the cemetery, but such was the crush of people that I had to look on from some distance.

En route, a miner’s band played solemn music and the urn was carried in relay, concluding with a trio of mourners from the mountain town of Zakopane (also carrying the plaque and a heart-shaped carved box containing soil from the mountains).  Most of Górecki’s happiest moments had been spent in this region since the late 1950s.  He honeymooned there and for many years in the 1970s and 80s rented a log cabin in the little village of Chochołów, before finally buying his own house in the 1990s in the village of Ząb, on a high ridge facing the magnificent jagged peaks of the Tatra Mountains.  He revelled in the views and the culture of the place.

At the graveside, further prayers and blessings were said, the urn placed in the ground and the mountain soil poured over.

There was then a patient wait to greet the family, a process further lengthened by the many mourners who carefully placed their wreaths and bouquets, creating a waist-high bank of flowers around the grave.  I became aware, beyond the low murmuring about me, of distant music.  It seemed familiar.  50 or so metres away, indistinguishable in the shadows, was a folk kapela, a string ensemble from the mountains.  They were playing a melody from the Tatras, keening and unbelievably poignant.  Earlier, they had walked from the Cathedral in daylight.  Now, they were paying a final tribute to their adopted son as night closed in.

Postscript

At the reception afterwards in the Academy of Music, his widow Jadwiga told me about her husband’s last moments. She has now repeated the story in public in an interview, ‘Dom na dwa fortepiany’ (Home for Two Pianos), in the Polish Catholic weekly Gość Niedzielny (Sunday Guest, 13 November 2011, 58-59):

Father Krzysztof Tabath, the hospital chaplain for Katowice-Ochojec, … came to the hospital half an hour later than usual.  At my request, he movingly described those last moments: “Eventually, I reached Mr Gorecki.  I began with “Our Father”, then “Hail Mary”, and then “Soul of Christ, sanctify me” “.  And there, the whole time, above the bed, were flashing the monitors to which my husband was connected.  During the saying of the prayer the display panel gradually dimmed, then went out altogether, and he died. During the prayer, he had crossed over into the other world.  I cannot imagine a better death.  It was simply wonderful.  I am happy that it was like that.

When Jadwiga told me the story, she added the resonant detail that Henryk had died as the priest uttered the final ‘Amen’.

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