This so-called ‘Great Improvisation’, arguably one of the most important verses in Polish literature, is a storm of pride, humility and heresy. Konrad’s soul is a battlefield between good and evil spirits. He talks about his genius, ability to create, which makes him equal to God. As the devils start to win, Konrad starts to mock and accuse God. He says: I call myself a million, because I suffer for the millions. And you, God, with your arrogant silence and lack of action, are just a tyrant, no better than a Russian Tsar.
It’s striking that the most important poetry of Polish culture, always centred around Catholicism, is, in fact, a great accusation of God. Some thinkers, like Czesław Miłosz, claimed that Polish culture doesn’t like dark tones and dark metaphysics, that we are the people of idyllic, childlike sensitivity. In fact, Poland didn’t have many top league philosophers – but our poets did the job.
In more modern terms, Mickiewicz is trolling God, asking Him – what the hell? We loved you so much, God, we trusted You, and what happened? We lost our proud empire, our state. Our language, culture and customs are on the brink of extermination. And we fought for you against Turks, we defended Christianity for centuries. So why? Why did the bad guys win? But there is not only individual suffering at stake – a fleeting, fragile life put against stakes of eternity – but also a threatened nation. A tribe.
The status of Dziady in Polish culture points to its particular character. In the case of strong, established nations, it’s not necessary to treat literature as a pillar of a nation’s identity, same like it’s not likely to worship own nation like a God. But for 19th-century Poles, conquered and deprived of their identity and language by invaders, literary works such as Dziady and Pan Tadeusz were not just an artistic expression of individual experience and emotions. It was much more – and less.