http://vellutato.nease.net/aa/Funeral.mp3

comment of the Funeral March by Liszt --李斯特的《肖邦的一生》，第一章

在一段葬礼进行曲奏完之后，想要继续保持沉默不语已经变成了不可能。这段乐曲就嵌接在他的第一奏鸣曲里，并在他自己的葬礼上，第一次由管弦乐队奏出。除了它，还能有其他什么样子的曲调，能够演绎出如此的心碎，情感，和眼泪呢？除了它，谁又能够陪伴这颗高贵的灵魂长眠于泉下？我们的损失何其重大！曾经，我们听到他的一位同乡对这支曲子这样评论道，“除了波兰人，谁又能写出这样的乐曲？！”波兰在哭泣，为了民族在这场葬礼中所失去的一切。孤独而庄严的哀痛，让死亡的影像变得清晰——死亡的铃声从乐曲中传来哀号，幽暗低沉的丧钟一次次敲打着死的忧伤，它们将和强大的死神一起，护送这颗灵魂前往宁静的死亡国度。悲伤的圣歌在空气里回旋，伴随着令人心碎的祈祷——那对神秘希望的强烈期盼；那由每一次生命的诞生和死亡所化成的对于神灵的怜悯、无尽的宽恕和死亡的公正的虔诚祈求；那盘绕着无数为耀眼的荣光所照亮的悲痛的、尊贵的顺从；那在圣灵的指引下经历了无数劫难，却从未绝望的基督徒式的，高尚的忍耐。所有最纯净、最圣洁、具有最大的信心和希望的，儿童、妇女、牧师的心灵，带着难以抑制的激动，在空气中盘旋，摇摆，颤抖着。我们感到，我们所哀悼的，并不是个别的勇士的死亡，并不是还有其他的英雄活了下来，以完成他所未完的事业。不，这是整个时代的勇士永久的沦陷，他们倒下了，只留下号哭的妇女、哭泣的婴孩和无能的牧师，在这里为他们吟唱挽歌。然而，这荒凉、凄楚而又忧伤的旋律却又孕满芳香，以致我们几乎无法相信，这歌曲竟是出此尘间。在这些声音里，人类极度疯狂的痛苦似乎已因恐惧而变得麻木，因距离而变得柔软。这些直传至天神宝座的整个民族沉痛的呼叫，这些通过六翼天使的七弦琴所弹奏出来的人类悲切的恳求，象天使所唱的圣歌一样高天上漂浮着，将人类的灵魂带入深刻的冥想！无论是哭泣，嘶哑的呻吟，亵渎的话语，都不曾使包含在这悲叹里的崇高痛苦受到一丝侵扰：它在人们的耳边低语，就好象天使充满节奏的叹息。陈旧而带着忧伤的脸庞是不会被接纳的。它并不曾唤醒卡珊德拉的怒火，普里阿摩斯的屈辱，赫丘柏的疯狂，和特洛伊俘虏的绝望。在悲痛的苦涩和绝望的懦弱之间这场基督徒式的长久斗争里，崇高的信仰已经在幸存者的心里逐渐瓦解，他们的悲哀已经再也无法用尘世的软弱标上印记。它带着血和泪从湿润的泥土中升起，直接奔往神的宝座，对他发出哀求；对尘世上的一切，它已不抱任何希望，而它向这位至高无上的审判者所发出哀求，所祈祷的声音竟是如斯辛辣，以致于我们这些倾听者的心灵，竟在那庄严的怜悯下被压成粉碎……

原文： It would be impossible to pass in silence the Funeral March inserted in the first Sonata, which was arranged for the orchestra, and performed, for the first time, at his own obsequies. What other accents could have been found capable of expressing, with the same heart-breaking effect, the emotions, the tears, which should accompany to the last long sleep, one who had taught in a manner so sublime, how great losses should be mourned? We once heard it remarked by a native of his own country: "these pages could only have been written by a Pole." All that the funeral train of an entire nation weeping its own ruin and death can be imagined to feel of desolating woe, of majestic sorrow, wails in the musical ringing of this passing bell, mourns in the tolling of this solemn knell, as it accompanies the mighty escort on its way to the still city of the Dead. The intensity of mystic hope; the devout appeal to superhuman pity, to infinite mercy, to a dread justice, which numbers every cradle and watches every tomb; the exalted resignation which has wreathed so much grief with halos so luminous; the noble endurance of so many disasters with the inspired heroism of Christian martyrs who know not to despair;— resound in this melancholy chant, whose voice of supplication breaks the heart. All of most pure, of most holy, of most believing, of most hopeful in the hearts of children, women, and priests, resounds, quivers and trembles there with irresistible vibrations. We feel it is not the death of a single warrior we mourn, while other heroes live to avenge him, but that a whole generation of warriors has forever fallen, leaving the death song to be chanted but by wailing women, weeping children and helpless priests. Yet this Melopee so funereal, so full of desolating woe, is of such penetrating sweetness, that we can scarcely deem it of this earth. These sounds, in which the wild passion of human anguish seems chilled by awe and softened by distance, impose a profound meditation, as if, chanted by angels, they floated already in the heavens: the cry of a nation\'s anguish mounting to the very throne of God! The appeal of human grief from the lyre of seraphs! Neither cries, nor hoarse groans, nor impious blasphemies, nor furious imprecations, trouble for a moment the sublime sorrow of the plaint: it breathes upon the ear like the rhythmed sighs of angels. The antique face of grief is entirely excluded. Nothing recalls the fury of Cassandra, the prostration of Priam, the frenzy of Hecuba, the despair of the Trojan captives. A sublime faith destroying in the survivors of this Christian Iliad on the bitterness of anguish and the cowardice of despair, their sorrow is no longer marked by earthly weakness. Raising itself from the soil wet with blood and tears, it springs forward to implore God; and, having nothing more to hope from earth, it supplicates the Supreme Judge with prayers so poignant, that our hearts, in listening, break under the weight of an august compassion! It would be a mistake to suppose that all the compositions of Chopin are deprived of the feelings which he has deemed best to suppress in this great work. Not so. Perhaps human nature is not capable of maintaining always this mood of energetic abnegation, of courageous submission...

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