Book One

THE ESTATE

The young master's return - The first meeting in the

room, and the next at the table - The Judge's important
lecture on the nature of politeness - The Chamberlain's
judicious remarks on fashion -The beginnings of the
dispute concerning Bobtail and Hawk -The Tribune's
complaint - The last Court Usher - A bird's-eye view of
the contemporary political state of Lithuania and
Europe

Lithuania, my country! You are as good health:

How much one should prize you, he only can tell
Who has lost you. Your beauty and splendour I view
And describe here today, for I long after you.
Holy Virgin who shelters our bright Czstochowa
And shines in Ostra Brama! You, who yet watch over
The castled Nowogrdek's folk faithful and mild;
As You once had returned me to health, a sick child,
(When by my weeping mother into Your care given,
I by miracle opened a dead eye to heaven,
And to Your temple's threshold could straightaway
falter
For a life thus returned to thank God at the altar)
Thus to motherland's breast You will bring us again.
Meanwhile, bear my soul heavy with yearning's dull
pain,

To those soft woodland hillocks, those meadows,

green, gleaming,
Spread wide along each side of the blue-flowing
Niemen,
To those fields, which by various grain painted, there
lie
Shimmering, with wheat gilded, and silvered with rye;
Where grows the amber mustard, buckwheat white as
snow,
Where, with maidenly blushes, clover flowers glow,
And all as if beribboned by green strips of land,
The balks, upon which scattered quiet pear trees
stand.
Mid such fields years ago, by the edge of a rill,
In a grove of white birches, upon a slight hill,
Stood a gentleman's manor, of wood, but on stone;
The home's whitewashed walls brightly from faraway
shone
Seeming whiter in contrast with dusky green trees,
The poplars, which stood guarding it from autumn's
breeze.
The dwelling not too large, but well-cared for and
neat,
With a barn very big, and with three stacks of wheat
Standing near, which the thatch could not fully
contain;
One can see that the country is heavy with grain;
And one sees from the sheaves that in fields near the
house
Shine as thickly as stars; from the number of ploughs,
Turning up early sods of the black fallow ground
Of the fields, stretching far, by the house doubtless
owned,
Fields tidy and well tilled, like a trim garden border,
That one finds in this dwelling both plenty and order.
The gate wide open stands, and to strangers attests:
Guests are welcome, and all are invited as guests.
In a two-horse chaise, just then, a young man
approached;
After circling the courtyard drew up at the porch,
And then leapt from the carriage; the team, left to
wait,
Ambled, nibbling the grasses, towards the front gate.
The manor house seemed empty; the door was pulled
to
And secured with a staple, with a peg pushed through.
The Traveller did not run to the farm to inquire,
Unlatched it, ran in quickly, to greet it desired:

A long time now from home, in a far distant town,

He had worked at his studies, now laid his books
down.
He enters, with eyes hungry regards those walls
ancient,
With a tender regard, as his friends old and patient.
Sees the same bits and pieces, same hangings and
covers
He had loved in his childhood; but now he discovers
They are smaller than once seemed to him, and less
glorious.
On the walls the same portraits of patriots and
warriors:
Here is Kosciuszko, wearing his Krakw cap,
kneeling,
Towards heaven eyes turned, sword in both hands,
appealing
To God at his high altar, and swearing defiance:
This sword shall drive from Poland the three mighty
giants
Or himself will fall on it. There, in Polish dress,
Sits Rejtan, he at freedom's loss quite comfortless,
In his hand, point to breast, he is holding a knife,
Before him, open, 'Phaedo' lies, and Cato's 'Life'.
Further, grim-faced Jasinski, youth fair, near his tried
And inseparable Korsak, erect by his side
On Praga's ramparts, sabring the foes from a mound
Of dead Russians, while Praga's aflame all around.
He even the old chiming clock well recollected
In its wooden case, close by the alcove erected,
And with old child-like pleasure he pulled at the
chain,
Old Dabrowski Mazurka to hear once again.
He ran through the whole manor and sought out the
chamber
Where he'd lived as a child, and for ten years
remembered;
Entered, and pulled back quickly, surveyed it
astounded,
Now by feminine fineries on all sides surrounded!
Yes, but whose? His old uncle had never been
married;
And his aunt had for years in St. Petersburg tarried.
A pianoforte! On it sheet music and books!
No housekeeper's, that's obvious! Here everything
looks
Strewn hither, scattered thither: disorder most sweet!
And not old were the hands that had scattered each

sheet.
Here, a white gown, unbuttoned, and ready to wear,
Is but freshly draped over the arm of a chair;
And standing on the window sill, in fragrant clusters,
There are pots of geraniums, violets and asters.
The Traveller to one window stepped, and, a fresh
wonder:
In the orchard, on bank full of nettles once, yonder
There was now a small garden by pathlets cut
through,
Full of English grass tussocks, of mint, and of rue.
A wooden paling, toy-like, intricate, and tiny,
With streamers of white daisies was brilliantly
shining,
Garden beds had been watered just then, it is clear,
A watering-can, still half-full, was left standing near
But the gardener can nowhere be seen roundabout;
The gate quivers, just touched, so she must have gone
out
But a moment before; near the gate one more clue:
He sees one tiny footprint, no stocking or shoe,
In the dry, fine-grained sand, white as snow; the foot's
trace
Quite distinct, but so faint, you would guess in swift
race
Has been made by a someone whose feet were so light
That they touched hardly ever the earth in their flight.
The Traveller at the window stood long, his face bent
Over the herbs and violets, inhaling the scent
Aromatic. Bemused, his inquisitive eyes
He sent down the wee pathways in curious surmise,
And then to the small footprints returned them again,
Whose the feet could have made them still puzzling in
vain.
By chance lifted them higher-and then he caught sight
Of a girl on the paling-her shift of plain white
Her slight form to her bosom, at most, was concealing,
The slim arms and the swan-like white neck quite
revealing.
Thus clad will Litwan maidens appear but at dawn;
One thus clad will be never a gentleman shown;
And, though no one seemed by, she her hands folded
over
Her breasts, so as to lend to her garment more cover.
The hair not left loose-flowing, but hid out of sight
In tight ringlets, each wrapped in a curlpaper white
Her head strangely embellished, the sunlight it
striking

It shone bright like a halo upon a saint's ikon.

The face could not be seen. She was turned to the
field,
Seeking someone below, in the distance concealed;
Search successful, she laughed, and her hands clapped
together,
Like a white bird she flew off the fence on the heather,
And she breathed through the garden, through flower
and hedge,
On a board hopped that leant on a window-sill's edge;
Before he knew, she'd flown through the window, as
bright,
Sudden, soundless and weightless as moon's silver
light.
She took up the dress, humming, and ran to the
mirror;
Then she saw the young man, and her face paled with
terror,
And she let fall the garment. Distressed at his error
The young Traveller's face flamed with a sudden deep
rose
(As a cloud that is touched by the dawn brightly
glows).
The modest youth half covered his eyes with a hand,
Wished to speak, ask for pardon, but only bowed, and
Stepped backward; the girl gave out a plaintive cry,
light,
Indistinct, as a sleeping child's frightened at night.
The Traveller looked up, flustered-but she had now
fled.
He left, perplexed completely, heart pumping, face
red,
And he owned he knew not if the thing should amuse
him,
This most singular meeting, or please, or confuse him.
In the meanwhile they failed not to note at the
farmstead
That a new guest had pulled up in front of the
homestead.
The horses were soon stabled and given enough,
As befits a good household, of fodder and chaff:
For the Judge never followed the smart modern use
Of guests' nags being sent to be cared for by Jews.
The staff offered no welcome, but do not imagine
In the Judge's house service could ever be grudging:
The staff waits till the Tribune is ready at last,
In the offices planning the evening repast.
He can act for the master, in his absence reigns,
In his absence guests welcomes and guests entertains

(Distant kin of the master, and friend of the house).

He had noted the guest but sped home like a mouse,
(He could not welcome guests in a homespun old
gown),
So, as quick as he could, took his Sunday dress down,
Since the morning laid out, for since morning he knew
He would sit down to supper with guests not a few.
The Tribune from afar did the youth recognise,
And reached out to embrace him with many glad
cries.
A conversation followed then, rapid, confused,
During which the events of years many were fused
Into words short and tangled, questions, explanations,
Exclamations and sighings, and fresh salutations.
When these questions and answers the Tribune had
sated,
He at last the proceedings of this day narrated.
"It is well, my Tadeusz..." (for such was the name
Of the youngster, who owed it to Kosciuszko's fame,
As a sign of his being born during that war),
"It is well, my Tadeusz, you're here; all the more,
With so many young damsels here gathered already.
Your uncle has been planning to give you a wedding;
You have many to choose from: here are many prizes:
A good company's here for the county assizes,
Which should put the old suit 'gainst the Count now
to rest;
And tomorrow the Count will arrive as a guest;
The Chamberlain, his lady and daughters are here.
The young now to the woods with their guns
disappeared,
The elders and the women at harvesting gathered
By the wood, and there doubtless they wait for the
others.
We'll go now, if you wish, and should meet, I daresay,
The Chamberlain, your uncle, and ladies half-way."
The Tribune and Tadeusz towards the woods walk
And cannot yet run out of more matter for talk.
The sun, to very edge of the sky now declining,
Less fiercely, but more broadly, than earlier was
shining,
Ruddy, as the hale face of a tiller of soil
Who now, having completed the day's heavy toil,
Returns home for his rest. Now the great flaming
wheel
On the treetops descends, and a misty gloom steals

Down on crowns, trunks and branches, and lower

descends,
The whole wood now unites, as if fuses and blends;
And the forest looms black like a mansion gigantic,
And the sun, red above like a fire in the attic,
Then sinks into its depths; through the trunks it still
scatters
Its flashes, like a candle yet glimpsed through the
shutters,
And goes out. Soon the sickles, that in accord sound
In the grain, and the rakes drawn across fallow
ground,
Grew still and stopped completely: the Judge so
commands,
With the end of the day halts all work on his lands.
"The Master of all well knows what toil should be
given;
When the sun, His own workman, descends from the
heaven
Is time too for the farmer to cease and be still"Thus the Judge would say often; and his Honour's will
To the good hearted steward was as Holy Writ:
And so even the wagons that still half filled sit
With no full load of rye, home return by his choice:
At their unwonted lightness the oxen rejoice.
Just then came from the forest the company, all
Merry, but in good order; first came children small
With their nurse, then the Judge with the
Chamberlain's dame,
The Chamberlain, by his family surrounded, then
came,
Ladies followed the seniors, young men in their place,
By their side, but preceded by them half a pace,
(As propriety orders): here no one harangued
About precedence, nor thus the sexes arranged;
Without conscious thought each in his proper place
stepped.
For the Judge at his home still the old customs kept
And never would allow that here anyone lacked
For age, birth, rank or wisdom the proper respect.
"By this order", said he, "homes and nations will
flourish
And with its downfall, houses and nations will
perish".
And so used to this order were servants and kin,
If a guest or a kinsman or stranger dropped in
To the Judge on a visit, but stayed a day there,
Soon accepted the usage breathed in with the air.

Only short was the Judge's with young nephew

greeting;
His grave hand to the youth raised to honour the
meeting,
And having kissed his brow, him politely saluted;
(More was not, due to presence of company, suited);
But the tears showed quite plainly, which with the
lapel
Of his kontusz he wiped, that he loved the youth well.
All, in the master's footsteps, from pasture and field,
From the meadows and woods, through the
homestead's gates wheeled.
Here a flock of sheep, bleating, into the lane crowd
And raise clouds of dust; there steps quite slowly a
proud
Herd of Tyrolese calves with brass tinkling bells hung;
A dozen horses, neighing, from mown meadows run;
These all to the well hurry, whose wood arm squeaks,
soars,
Squeaks again, and cool water into the troughs pours.
The Judge, although with guests, and despite his
fatigue,
In his duties as farmer would never renege.
Went himself to the well; it's at evening best
A man can to the state of his livestock attest;
This task would not to servants entrust for, of course,
The Judge knows that 'the master's eye fattens the
horse'.
The Tribune with the Usher Protase in the hall
Stood with candles, and not in agreement at all;
For, in the Tribune's absence, the Usher had neatly
From the house had the tables, all laid, brought
discreetly,
And now in the old castle's interior they stood
(The ruins of which could be observed near the wood).
What the point of this transfer? The Tribune
grimaced
Asked the Judge for his pardon; the Judge made a
face,
What's done is done; too late now, best not be
annoyed,
Beg guests' pardon and escort them into this void.
The Usher, on their way, tried to show why he'd
changed,
Why his master's arrangements he'd so disarranged:
The manor could not boast one such adequate

chamber
To sit guests so distinguished, so many in number,
But the hall of the castle-still fairly intactThe soffit still good-although one wall was quite
crackedWindows glassless, in summer this does not much
matter,
Being close to the cellars suits serving lads better.
Thus arguing, he winked at the Judge; one could tell
He had, and hid, some weightier own reasons as well.
Full two thousand steps distant the old castle lies,
Of impressive construction, imposing in size,
The Horeszko line's ancient familial bequest;
The direct heir had perished at time of unrest;
The estate, laid to waste by official exactions,
Disorderly direction, disastrous court actions,
In part passed to kin distant and on distaff side,
To creditors the remnant was left to divide.
No one wanted the castle; a rare Polish lord
Could the upkeep of such an encumbrance afford;
But the Count, a near neighbour, to manhood now
grown,
A rich youth, who to drops of Horeszko blood owned,
Returned home from his travels, had fancied the pile,
Explaining that it was in the Gothic built style;
Though the Judge, and with records, had always
maintained
That the architect, no Goth, in Wilno was trained.
Enough, the Count would have it, the Judge then
came by
The identical fancy, and no one knew why.
In the County Court sued they, to High Court
appealed,
To the Senate, and back, and as neither would yield,
At last after huge costs and with numerous court
orders
The case reached the Tribunal of Disputed Borders.
The Usher spoke with reason, the great castle hall
Would contain a whole court, plus invited guests all,
Hall huge as a refectory, a vaulted stone nave
On stone pillars supported, the floor, too, stone paved,
Walls left quite unadorned, but the masonry strong;
And bristling with deer antlers and horns all along.
On each trophy inscribed: when and where each was
won;
And the huntsman's familial escutcheon thereon
Blazoned proudly, each name was in black letters

writ;
Horeszkos' arms, the Half-Goat, shone on the soffit.
The guests entered in order and stood for the grace:
The Chamberlain at the very top seat took his place;
To him from age and rank does this honour belong;
Entering, greeted the ladies, the old and the young,
By his side stood the Almsman, the Judge to him next;
Then the Bernardine uttered a short Latin text;
The men were given vodka; and all took their seat,
And Lithuanian cold barszcz all proceeded to eat.
As a guest, Pan Tadeusz, though young and almost
A son, sat near the ladies, and close to the host;
Between him and his uncle one only remained
Empty place, as if waiting for someone in vain.
Uncle often his eyes to this seat, and the door,
Sent, as if he'd some person expected before;
And Tadeusz his uncle's gaze followed in turn
To the door, and on that seat his curious eyes burned.
Strange! For seated around him fair maidens were
placed
Of a charm that a prince's court well could have
graced;
All of excellent birth, each one young, each one pretty;
Tadeusz there stares only where not one is sitting.
That place is a conundrum; youth by such is stirred;
Absent-minded, Tadeusz says hardly a word
To his good-looking neighbour, the Chamberlain's
lass;
Does not change her used plates, nor attends to her
glass,
Entertains not the ladies with fine conversation,
By which could be displayed his big town education;
With allure and enchantment's this empty place
fraught,
But not empty, for he had now filled it with thought.
A thousand guesses over it ceaselessly pass,
As frogs, after a shower, hop over the grass;
One form queens above others, as when soft winds
waft,
Its white brow a lake lily thus raises aloft.
The third course had been served. And then Pan
Chamberlain,
In Miss Rose's glass pouring a wee drop again,
Pushed a plate to the younger of gherkins and bread,
"I myself must look after you, daughters," he said,
"Although clumsy and old". Then immediately
bounded

Up some youths, and the ladies with dishes

surrounded.
The Judge filled his glass, glanced at Tadeusz askance,
And his sleeves now adjusted, he thus began: "Once,
Customs were different. These days, by new
dispensation,
We send youths to the city for their education,
And so our sons, and grandsons, we cannot deny it,
Have acquired more book-knowledge than we oldsters
by it;
But the young are the losers, as I each day find
That no school teaches living with men and mankind.
Once to noble courts were our young gentlemen sent,
I myself have ten years at the Voivode's court spent,
Our Lord Chamberlain's father, our most honoured
guest's
(Here paused he, and the knees of the Chamberlain
pressed);
He with counsel for public affairs me prepared,
Till he'd made a man of me, continued his care.
In my house is forever his memory adored,
Each day, I for his soul pray to our Blessed Lord.
If I have not enough picked good fruit from this
bough
As some others, and back here, I now push the plow,
While others, more deserving the Voivode's support,
Attained some of the highest positions at court,
At least this have achieved, that me none can accuse
That within my own house I would any refuse
My good faith or politeness; and say to you all:
Courtesy's not a science too easy, or small.
Not easy, for it is not sufficiently done
With a deftly bent knee, smile at just everyone;
For meseems, such politeness a merchant's is only,
And is not of old Poland, nor yet gentlemanly.
Courtesy's due to all, but not quite in same style,
For not lacking it should be the love of a child,
Or man's public respect to his wife, or a lord's
To his household: with each some distinction accords.
Long must one study, so as to never offend,
And to each the appropriate politeness extend.
And we old, too, have studied: a lord's conversation
Was as the living history of country, of nation,
And, to the gentry, annals of region and shire:
Thus would be made explicit to brother esquire
That he's not an unknown, and is not taken lightly;
So his manners a man would keep under guard
tightly.
Today, no one inquires: who are you and where from?
What's your birth, your profession? All as they like

come,
If not government's spies, or are not too penurious.
Just as this Vespasianus showed he was not curious
Whence the money, how smelled it, from what hands
or place,
They now care not to know a man's manners or race
If he struts and is amply with badges bedecked;
And so friends are respected as Jews gold respect".
This said, the Judge looked keenly in turn at his
friends;
For though he spoke well always, and spoke with good
sense,
He knew that the impatient today's generation
Is soon bored by a lengthy, if worthy, oration.
But all there in deep silence gave him a good hearing.
He the Chamberlain's eye sought with an unspoken
query,
Who did not interrupt him with some praising word,
But with frequent nods showed with the speech he
concurred.
The Judge paused, but the other encouraged him still;
So the Judge his guest's goblet and own wineglass
filled:
"Courtesy's not", he went on, "a thing small, or slight
When a man learns to weigh, as he should, and is
right,
The age, birth, and the virtues and customs of others,
Then his own weight and standing he also discovers:
As if, placed on a balance, our own weight to tell
We must put someone else in the opposite scale.
But, dear guests, not least worthy of note, I propose,
Is courtesy that youth to the fairer sex owes;
When the house's distinction, and fortune's largesse,
The innate charms and virtues yet brighten and bless,
Thence the path to affection, and thence forged the
link,
Of great houses the league-so the old used to think.
And thus..." the Judge turning his head sharply here
Nodded towards Tadeusz, a look shot severe,
One could tell, to the nub of his speech he drew near.
When the Chamberlain drummed on his gold
snuffbox: "Hey,
Dear Judge, yesterday things were much worse than
today!
I know not if we old, too, see things a new way,
Or youth has improved, but I see less disarray.
Alas, I recall when in our Fatherland dear
Those new frenchified fashions the first time

appeared!
When, suddenly, these lordlings, from some foreign
lands
Invaded us in hordes worse than wild Tartar bands,
In our homeland our fathers' faith, God, to oppress,
And our laws and ways, even our national dress.
'Twas painful then to witness those yellow-faced
posers
Chatter on through the nose, or perhaps without
noses,
Well equipped with brochures and with various
gazettes,
New laws, new faiths announcing, and brand new
toilettes!
That rabble had established great sway over minds;
For Lord God, when He visits a scourge on mankind,
From the citizens' brains first all reason He chops.
And so even the wise dared not gainsay the fops,
They, like Black Death, were dreaded by all of our
nation,
Which felt signs in itself of the plague's germination.
They abused the fops, should though have followed
them less;
And people their religion changed, speech, laws and
dress.
This was some masquerade, or some carnival
knavery,
To be followed ere long by the great fast of-slavery!
"To father's house in Oszmian shire, I still recall
And that very well, although I was then quite small,
The Cupbearer arrived in a little French gig,
The first in Lithuania to dress in French rig.
All followed him, as hawks are pursued by a troop
Of swallows, and would envy the house where would
stop
The Cupbearer inside his absurd two-wheeled dray,
Which he in the French manner would call
'cabriolay';
Instead of lackeys sat two small dogs at the rear,
On the box sat a German, like a plank, with queer
Long thin legs just like hop poles, and over them
slipped
Long black stockings, and slippers with bright silver
clip,
A peruke with a pigtail, stuffed in bag or purse.
At this equipage oldsters would laugh fit to burst,
Peasants crossed themselves, saying that here was a
marriage
Of a Venetian devil with a German carriage.
One could take long describing the Cupbearer's

shape,
Suffice, that he resembled a parrot, or ape,
An enormous peruke topped the head of this fop,
Which he to gold fleece likened, and we to a mop.
If one even but felt then, that old Polish dress
Excelled aping strange fashions, one could not confess,
Kept one's mouth shut, for youth would cry out one
delays
Growth of culture, dams progress, the nation betrays!
Such the crass superstition that ruled in those days.
"The Cupbearer announced that he comes to
commute us,
Will civilise, reform us, and reconstitute us;
Announced he, that some Frenchmen to new notions
came,
And invented a rule, that all men are the same;
Though it's what the Lord's Book for a thousand
years teaches,
And every priest on Sundays from his pulpit preaches.
The teaching old, the problem was-its consummation!
But just then such a blindness encompassed the nation
That truths, even most ancient, would not be believed
Unless through a French paper they were first
received.
'galit' despite, he was styled 'marquis';
(One brings titles from Paris inside one's valise,
And just then was in vogue there the title 'marquis').
When, however, the fashions then changed with the
years,
As 'democrat' the self-same marquis now appears,
Then, when under Napoleon, the fashions had turned,
The 'democrat' from Paris a baron returned;
Perhaps, if he lives on, at the drop of a hat
The baron will rechristened be as 'democrat',
For Paris for a change in the mode often opts,
And what a Frenchman dreams up, a Pole soon
adopts.
"Praise to God, that today, when our young people
press
To travel in parts foreign, it's not for fine dress,
Not in printers' sheds seeking new law-giving ways,
Nor to learn elocution in Paris cafs.
For Napoleon, a fellow quick-acting and clever,
Leaves us no time to look for new modes or palaver.
And now that cannon thunders, our old hearts are
stirred,
That about us Poles once more the whole world has
heard.

Fame is ours, and ours too will the Commonwealth

be!
For blooms only from laurels the liberty tree.
But how sad that for us, oh so slowly years pass!
We do nothing, and they still so distant, alas!
Still waiting! And so seldom does news reach us here!
Father Worm, (here more softly in Bernardine's ear)
I hear that 'cross the Niemen some news has got
through,
Of our soldiers, perhaps you have heard something
new?"
"Not a thing", said Worm, in an indifferent voice,
(One could tell that he listened to this not from choice)
"I find politics boring, if from Warsaw letters
Arrive, these are monastic, our Bernardine, matters;
There's no point now discussing these over a stewHere are laymen with whom this has nothing to do".
Saying this, he glanced sideways, to where in the thick
of
Other guests sat a Russian, by name Captain Rykov.
An old soldier, and quartered not too far away,
Him the Judge from politeness invited today.
Rykov spoke little; ate though with gusto instead,
But, at mention of Warsaw, said, raising his head:
"Pan Chamberlain! Oy, I know you! You always
would learn
Of this Bonaparte! Always to Warsaw you turn!
Hey! Fatherland! I no spy, I speak Polish tooOne's fatherland! I know this, I feel this like you!
You are Polacks, I Ruski, today we don't squabble,
There's a truce, so together we drink and we gobble.
Our advance pickets often with Frenchies cards
played,
Drinking vodka; then: shooting! Urrah!-cannonade!
Russians say: 'Whom I cudgel, him also I hug';
'Give your chum your caresses, but beat like a rug'.
I say, that war is certain, I this do believe,
For Major Plut a staff aide arrived yester eve:
Get ready for a march! Seems, we're off to annoy
The Turk-or else the Frenchie; this Boney's some boy!
Without Suvarov, Boney could give us a whack!
In our unit they said, when the French they attacked,
That Bonaparte cast spells; but so did, what the hell,
Suvarov: so there was then a spell against spell.
Once in battle, where's Boney? He cannot be foundHe's turned into a fox now-Suvarov's a hound!
And, then, suddenly, Bony appears as a cat,
And at him with claws; what does Suvarov at that?
He's a pony! So hear now of Bon and the horse..."
Here Rykov paused to swallow; when, with the fourth

course,
Came a servant and quickly threw wide the side
doors.
A new person then entered, young, very good-looking;
Every eye was attracted, and everyone took in
Her stature and her beauty; by all she was greeted,
Plainly, but for Tadeusz, was known to all seated.
Her form slender, but rounded, her bosom alluring,
Dress of pink silk material, in no way obscuring
A dcollet neckline, lace collar; gloves short;
In her hand she was twirling a small fan, for sport,
(Hot it was not); the glittering fan ceaselessly plied,
Waved aloft, copious showers of sparks scattered
wide;
Her hair artfully styled in tight ringlets and curls,
And woven through with ribbons in bunches and
twirls;
Among them sat a brilliant as if hid from view,
Glittering like a bright star in a comet's long queue;
In a word, quite a gala dress, some whispered there,
That too refined for country and everyday wear.
Though the hemline was short, one could not glimpse
her shoe,
For she moved very quickly, or glided, or flew,
(Like the figurines, which on the feast of Three Kings
In the crib little children pull deftly with strings).
Quickly passing by, she all with slight curtsey greeted,
At the place for her kept she would quickly be seated,
Not so easy, for lacking a chair for each guest,
On four benches, perforce, four long rows had to rest,
-Move a whole row? Or over a bench lift one's knees?
Neatly in between benches she managed to squeeze,
Then, between seated diners and long dining table
Like a billiard ball rolled, till at length she was able
To reach the vacant seat right beside our young man;
Having on someone's knee caught a flounce as she
ran,
She slipped slightly, and in some brief absence of
mind
Our Tadeusz's arm was one prop she could find.
She apologised nicely, then managed to sit
Between him and his uncle, but ate not one bit;
Only fluttered her fan, or else twirled it about,
Or her collar of finest Brabant lace smoothed out
And made adjustments, or with light touches of hand
Repaired some ruffled curls, or corrected a band.
This pause in talk had lasted a minute or two
When, at the table's far end, some murmuring grew,

And then several voices were heard being raised:

The huntsmen were debating their part in the chase;
The Assessor and Notary felt that they were bound
To resume their old quarrel re that bob-tail hound,
The Notary's pride and joy, who continued to swear
And insist it was Bobtail had taken the hare;
The Assessor maintaining the Notary's wrong,
That to his hound-dog Hawk did this honour belong.
He sought support from others, but many denied it,
Giving Bobtail their vote, while with Hawk some few
sided,
These as connoisseurs, others had witnessed it all.
The Judge, low-voiced, at opposite, far end of the hall
Said to his fair new neighbour: "Forgive me, I pray,
One just could not the supper much longer delay:
Guests were hungry; today they have roamed far
afield:
I'd thought you would not join us today for the meal!
This said, after refilling the Chamberlain's glass,
With him matters of state in a low voice discussed.
While both sides of the table were thus occupied,
Tadeusz eyed the latest unknown by his side;
He recalled that the moment he looked at that place,
He at once guessed whose presence the table would
grace.
He flushed; his heart was beating as loud as a drum;
He at last to the key to the riddle had come!
So: it had been predestined, that here, by his side,
Would be seated the beauty in half-light espied.
She, indeed, appeared somewhat in her figure taller,
But now dressed, and dress renders one bigger or
smaller.
The other's hair had to him seemed short and lightgold,
While over this one's shoulders long raven locks
rolled?
The colour change, most likely, was due to the sun,
(Which at sunset does redden all things it shines on).
He had not seen her face then, too quickly drawn
back,
But the mind with a fair face repairs such a lack.
He thought, her eyes would prove to be black, without
doubt,
And face fair, and red lips that like twin cherries
pout:
In this one he discovered such eyes, face and lips.
The greatest alteration in age seemed perhaps:
The gardener a young girl seemed to him, to be sure,
And this lady a woman in years more mature;

But youth does not ask proof of a goddess's age,

And all beautiful women are young to a page.
All seem equal in years, when the boy's blood is
surging,
To the innocent every first lover's a virgin.
Tadeusz, though today to years twenty admitting,
And since a child in Wilno had lived, a great city,
Yet a priest guardian had he, who reined him in
tightly
And in old and strict precepts had brought him up
rightly.
So Tadeusz had brought back to his native parts
A soul pure, lively mind, and an innocent heart,
But with no little impulse to loosen the bit.
In advance he had promised himself to permit
In the country some freedoms, denied for so long;
He believed himself handsome, felt restive and young,
From his parents his good health and wholesomeness
came.
He was surnamed Soplica, and all of that name
Are, it's well-known, strong, stout, and are splendidly
fitted
For all soldiering, less though to studies committed.
Tadeusz from his forebears did not fall away:
He rode as well on horseback, marched stoutly as
they,
Was not dull, but in studies his progress was small,
Though Uncle on his learning skimped nothing at all.
He rather with his flintlock or sabre contended;
For he knew that he was for the army intended,
That father, in his will, had expressed this wish duly;
So he longed for the drum while still doing his
schooling.
But Uncle his intentions had suddenly varied,
Ordered him to return, and to get himself married,
And then to take on farming; promised to donate
A small village, and later the entire estate.
These Tadeusz's virtues, endowments and learning
Drew his neighbour's attention, a woman discerning.
She noted his fine figure, so shapely and tall,
Then his powerful shoulders, his breast like a wall,
And looked into his face, to which soon a blush
mounted
Every time that the youth with his eyes hers
encountered:
For he from his first shyness completely recovered,
And gazed with eyes on fire, the bold eyes of a lover;

So gazed she, and four pupils blazed steadily; rather

Like pairs of votive candles, one opposite the other.
First, began she with him in French tongue to
converse;
He had come from the city: about the new verse
And new authors she sought for Tadeusz's view,
And from halting replies she fresh questions then
drew;
What, when she about painting began then to speak,
Of music, and dance, even of sculpture antique!
She in brush, print, or music, proved just as
discerning;
Tadeusz was dumbfounded at such sum of learning.
In fear of her derision, his heart beating faster,
He stuttered like a schoolboy before his form master.
Luckily, teacher pretty and not too severe:
Quickly fathomed his neighbour the cause of his fear,
Began talk on less taxing of topics and stories,
Spoke of rural existence, its tediums and worries,
Of creating enjoyment, and what can be done
For life to be more pleasant, the country more fun.
Tadeusz speaks more boldly, the friendship soon
firms,
In a half-hour they were on quite intimate terms;
Step by step, began even to jest and dispute.
At last, three balls of bread she in front of him put,
Of three persons the choice; he took one to him next;
Both the Chamberlain's daughters at this looked quite
vexed.
His neighbour laughed, but would not say what this
all meant,
Or, indeed, whom that lucky ball did represent.
Otherwise was the table's far end occupied
For, there suddenly growing, the strong Hawkist side,
Without pity on Bobtail's adherents came down.
There great argument raged, and dessert was
foregone,
But on their feet, and drinking, the factions war
waged,
Of them all was the Notary most deeply enraged.
Without pause, once he'd started, the matter debated
And, with gestures emphatic, his speech illustrated.
(The Notary in the courtroom had once lawsuits
pleaded,
Nicknamed 'Preacher': for no one used gestures as he
did).
Now, his hands by his side, and his elbows tucked in,
At his breast poked out fingers and nails long and

thin,
Representing two leashes of hounds by this show;
Arriving at the climax, said: "Fetch! We let go,
The Assessor and I, both the dogs, off the tether,
Like of one double-barrel two triggers, together
Discharged! Fetch! They took off! And, whoosh! Off
the hare raced
For the field, dogs hard by!" And both hands he now
placed
On the table, hounds running he wondrously mimed.
"Dogs hard by, and, all-whoosh-left the woods well
behind,
Hawk leading, quite a fast but a hot-headed beast,
Heading Bobtail by this much, a finger, at most,
I was sure he would miss, for the hare, sly old fellow,
Made as if for the field, and the pack, yelping, follow;
Sly old cat, that! As soon as dogs bunched up, he
bounds
To the right, turns a cartwheel, turn right the dumb
hounds.
He then-whoosh-doubles left, leaps twice more, back
again(Dogs follow)-in the wood now! And, my Bobtail then,
Snap!' Bent over the table, the Notary let slide
His fingers right across to the opposite side,
And: 'Snap!' he shouted over Tadeusz's ear;
Tadeusz and his neighbour, caught off-guard, in fear,
This sudden, loud explosion disrupting their talk,
With a start their conjoint heads abruptly unlocked,
As two treetops entangled torn roughly asunder
When the hurricane strikes; so, the hands that had
under
The table been converging, apart quickly rushed,
And four cheeks were suffused with the one tell-tale
blush.
Tadeusz, most embarrassed that he'd been caught out,
Said: 'True, true, my dear Notary, without any doubt,
Bobtail has the right lines, and if he's a good
catcher...'
'A catcher?' screamed the Notary, 'my favourite
snatcher
May not be a good catcher?' Tadeusz again
Was glad such a fine dog had no defect or stain,
Was sorry-he had seen him for but a short moment
So not qualified was on his virtues to comment.
The Assessor blanched, put then his glass down with
care,
And Tadeusz transfixed with a basilisk stare.

The Assessor, less boisterous and restless in nature

Than the Notary, both slimmer and shorter in stature,
Was a terror at meeting, or diet, or ball:
That his tongue held a sting was the verdict of all.
For such humorous sallies and quips he invented,
In a calendar these could be easily printed:
All malicious and sharp! Once a man of some means,
He his father's estate, and his brother's demesne,
To play a man of fashion, had wasted entire;
Now took a public posting, for rank in the shire.
He all hunting loved greatly, as much for the sport,
As for the bugles' bleat and the guns' loud report,
Which his youth would call back, when he hunters
maintained
And employed many beaters and greyhounds welltrained.
From his quondam pack now he had but two hounds
left,
And of these now might one of all fame be bereft!
So, approaching, and stroking his whiskers the while,
He said smiling, though it was a venomous smile:
"A hound with no tail is like a squire with no place,
The tail assists immensely a hound in the chase,
And you, sir, see a virtue in tail-piece so scanty?
We perhaps should solicit a vote from your auntie.
Though Madam Telimena did mainly reside
In the capital, not long in this countryside,
She's more expert than huntsmen to this business
new;
Thus knowledge with the passing of years does
accrue".
Tadeusz, whose head, out of the blue, thus incurred
This thunderbolt, confused, could at first find no
word,
But gazed upon his rival with gathering rage...
When, the Chamberlain haply sneezed twice at this
stage.
"Good health!" cried they. He bowed low to all from
his place,
And his fingers drummed slowly upon the rich case
Of his snuffbox of gold, made with diamonds set close,
In the centre a portrait of King Stanislaus,
The king's gift to his father, which, after he died,
The Chamberlain would at all times produce with
great pride.
The drumming was a signal he wished to be heard;
So all hushed and not dared they to utter a word.
He spoke: "My Brothers gentry, it long stands
revealed,

Proper forum for huntsmen is forest or field;

I don't sit on such cases at home, and insist
The pleadings be adjourned till tomorrow's court list.
No more hearings today and no leave to appeal.
Usher! You'll call tomorrow the case for the field,
Happens, that we'll tomorrow be joined by the Count,
And you too Judge, dear neighbour, must with the
rest mount,
With Madam Telimena, the ladies all too;
In a word, this hunt shall be a great how-de-do;
And the Tribune his presence will grant us, I trust".
Saying this, to the old man his snuffbox he passed.
The Tribune with the huntsmen sat listening to all
With eyes narrowed: so far he'd not let one word fall,
Though the young his opinion would often request
For of all persons present he knew hunting best.
Kept silent; and the pinch from the snuffbox he
weighed
In his fingers, long pondering, its taking delayed,
Sneezed-and the whole room echoed; then shaking his
head,
Slowly, sadly, at last with a bitter smile said:
"Oh, what shock and amaze to an old man this
brings!
What would huntsmen of yore have said of such
strange things,
That among such fine gentry is voiced a concern
To resolve a contention about a hound's stern;
What would old Rejtan say, if alive, in this room?
He'd go back to Lachowicz and lie in his tomb!
What would old Niesiolowski, the Voivode, now say
Who maintains the best hounds in the world till
today?
He keeps two hundred huntsmen, this puissant great
lord,
And a hundred full cartloads of nets he keeps stored,
Yet, like a monk, for years sits behind a closed door;
No one him to a hunt once again can implore,
Even Bialopetrowicz himself he refused!
What quarry in your manner of hunt would he
choose?
Great the glory indeed, if a lord with such airs,
Bowing to modern fashion, rode out against hares!
In the huntsmen's tongue, dear sirs, in my time at
least,
But boar, bear, elk and wolf were 'the gentleman's
beast'.
An animal not graced with such fang, claw or horn
Would be left for paid servants and menials low-born;

No gentleman his honour would thus deign to blot,

And to sully his gun with a charge of small shot!
Yes, hounds were kept; a horse might just happen to
scare
On return from the hunting some poor little hare;
They would loose then the hounds, for some sport, on
the coney,
And the young masters chase it, each proud on his
pony,
Before their parents' eyes, who would scarce such a
chase
Give notice, much less argue about, or give praise!
Let Your Lordship for this once most graciously deign
To cancel this his order, and spare me the pain
For to such a use my gun shall never be put,
And on such hunt, so-called, I shall never set foot!
Hreczecha is my name; since King Lech it's no habit
Of a single Hreczecha to follow a rabbit".
Here the Tribune was drowned out by young people's
laughter;
The Chamberlain arose first from the table soon after,
To his age and his rank does this honour belong:
Leaving, bowed to the ladies, the aged and the young,
The monk followed, the Judge then, who next to him
came,
At the door took the arm of the Chamberlain's dame,
Tadeusz Telimena's, Assessor a friend's,
Notary and Miss Hreczeha then brought up the end.
Tadeusz with some guests to the nearby barn went
But puzzled, out of temper, and quite malcontent:
In his mind the events of the day he rehearsed,
The chance meeting, the meal with his neighbour, but
first
And last that small word 'auntie' would keep buzzing
by
His ear, annoying like some importunate fly.
He looked out for the Usher, would have him explain
Telimena's enigma, but sought him in vain;
The Tribune, too, had vanished for, after the food,
All had followed the guests, as good servitors should,
To prepare in the manor the chambers for rest:
The seniors and the ladies, of course, would fare best,
While Tadeusz was ordered the youths to convey,
Representing the host, to the barn, to the hay.
In a half-hour such hush on the whole homestead fell
As when rings out for prayers the monastery bell,
The stillness only broken by night-watchman's cries.

All now slept. The Judge only does not close his eyes:
As the household's commander he plans the
campaign,
And how, after the chase, will the guests entertain,
Gave orders for the village heads, stewards of lands,
The housekeeper, the beaters, the clerks, stable-hands,
Perused all the accounts of the day until, tired,
At length he bade the Usher to help him retire;
Who his sash then unfastened, Sluck sash, woven fine,
From which rich golden tassels abundantly shine,
With gold samite on one side with purple rosettes,
The reverse of black silk with rich silver-sewn frets:
Such sash on either side can be used for adorning,
For a gala day gold, the black side to mark mourning.
None but the Usher this sash unties, folds away;
He was busy with this, and thus ended his say:
"What harm if in the ruin were guests entertained?
Nothing by it was lost, and you, Sir, may have gained:
The Castle, after all, is why we're in the courts,
And today we've acquired rights de jure, of sorts;
And, for all our opponent's malicious aggression,
We can prove we now own it by right of possession.
For, whoever a banquet in castle's walls makes,
Proves possession he has or possession he takes;
We can even subpoena the opposite side:
In my day I saw similar examples betide."
But the Judge slept. The Usher tip-toed to the
hallway;
By a candle sat, took out a notebook he always
In his pocket kept and, like a small prayer-book,
At home or on a journey with him ever took.
It was the curial record: therein, row by row,
Were writ cases and hearings that once, long ago,
He, the Usher, himself had importantly called,
Or about which he later found out or was told.
To folk simple it seemed but one name after name,
To the Usher an outline of pictures of fame.
So he read and he pondered: Oginski v Wizgird,
Dominicans v Rymsza, Rymsza v Wizogird,
Radziwill-Wereszczaka, Giedroic-Rodultowski,
Obuchowicz-Jewish commune, Juraha-Piotrowski,
Maleski v Mickiewicz, and right at the end,
The Count's suit with Soplicas: from these names
ascend
The memories of great cases, events of each hearing,
Judge, parties, every witness, all rise up, appearing;
He again sees himself, in his white coat bedecked,
In a navy-blue kontusz, before court, erect,
One hand on his sword, one on the bench for support,

Calling out to both parties: "Now-silence in court!".

Thus dreaming and concluding his night prayers,
slowly
The last of Litwan ushers now fell asleep wholly.
Such the frolics and such the disputes in those years
Midst quiet Litwan fields; while in blood and in tears
The rest of the world swam; when that man, god of
war,
In a cloud of battalions, a thousand guns' roar,
Hitched to his chariot eagles, both silver and gold,
From Libya's wastes he hurtled to Alps icy-cold,
Hurling bolt after bolt; at pyramids, Marengo,
At Ulm, Austerlitz. Triumph and conquest and anger
Ran before and behind him. Renown of these acts,
With the names of knights pregnant, from Nile's
cataracts
Strode roaring northwards till, at the far Niemen's
banks,
Rebounded as from rocks from the Muscovite ranks
That had about Lithuania their iron walls reared
To shield Russia from news more than pestilence
feared.
And yet, sometimes, some news, like a stone from the
sky,
Would fall into Lithuania; a tramp passing by,
With no arm or no leg, when soliciting alms,
Stopped by; and if his eyes saw no reason for qualms,
And when no Russian soldiers he spotted around,
And no skullcaps nor any red collars he found,
Who he was, then would tell them: an old legionary
Who his bones to his native land managed to carry,
Land he could guard no longer-how to him then raced
All the family, how all the household embraced,
Almost crying their eyes out! He'd sit by the table
And adventures relate much more strange than a
fable.
Would tell how, under General Dabrowski's
command,
His troops strive to reach Poland from Italy's land;
How compatriots, on Lombard plains, run to his call;
How Kniaziewicz gives orders-from the Capitol!
And, victor, how from Caesar's descendants he prised
Full five score bloody colours, and threw in French
eyes;
How Jablonowski journeyed where pepper grows
vernal,
Where sugar is refined, and in springtime eternal
Forests fragrant bloom, there, with his Danube

command,
The Commander smites Negroes, but sighs for his
land.
The old man's words the village in secret passed on:
Having heard him, a boy would be suddenly gone,
Through forests and through marshes would secretly
steal,
By Russians chased, until him the Niemen concealed,
Would, submerged, swim across to the Grand Duchy's
strand,
There to hear a warm greeting: "You're welcome
here, friend!"
But, before leaving, step on a cairn, and from far
To the Russ 'cross the Niemen call: "Au revoir!"
So stole across Grecki, Pac and Obuchowicz,
Piotrowski, Obolewski, Rozycki, Janowicz,
Brochocki, Mirzejewski, Bernatowicz brothers
Kupsc, Gedymin-I shall not now name all the othersLeft their country beloved, from kin separated,
And from their goods, at once by the Czar
confiscated.
Sometimes, from some strange abbey, an almsman
passed through,
When he felt that the squire he sufficiently knew,
Unstitched then a gazette in his scapular sewn:
Therein the disposition of soldiers was shown
And the name of each one of the Legion's
commanders,
And of how each had conquered, or what earth lies
under.
The first news had the house, with so many years gone
Of the life, and the glory and death, of a son;
The house would put on mourning, but dare not
confess
Whom they mourned so; though people would
venture to guess
In the district, and only the masters' dumb grief,
Or quiet joy, would bear out the general belief.
Father Worm, it was rumoured, had played such a
part;
With the Judge he would often discuss things apart;
After these visits always some fresh circumstance
Would spread throughout the village. The
Bernardine's stance
Gave away that this monk had not always been
cowled,
Not behind walls monastic had this man grown old.

He had over his right ear, not far from the temple,
A scar over skin missing, in size rather ample;
And his chin bore trace recent of lance or of pistol,
Wounds he'd not likely suffered while reading his
missal.
But not only his warlike appearance and scars,
His voice and movements told of acquaintance with
Mars.
When with raised hands he swivelled around at the
mass
To call out 'Pax vobiscum' to people, 'God bless!',
He would wheel himself often so smartly about
As if a 'right-about-turn!' he'd just carried out;
And the liturgy's phrases he so would intone
Like an officer standing before his platoon,
As the lads who assisted at mass quickly noted.
About politics Worm could more safely be quoted
Than the lives of the saints, and, when doing his
round,
He would frequently stop at the neighbouring town;
He transacted much business, would letters conceal,
Which before strangers never he'd read nor unseal;
Or would couriers dispatch, as to whither or why,
Would not say; then he often would leave on the sly
For nearby manors; whispered he much with the
gentry;
Would the neighbouring hamlets step out like a
sentry;
With farmers at the inns he much talked and
discussed,
And always about things which in other lands passed.
He now the Judge, the hour gone already asleep,
Comes to awaken; surely has news that won't keep.

Book Two

THE CASTLE

Hunting with hounds - A visitor at the castle - The last of the

household tells the history of the last of the Horeszkos - A glance into
the orchard -The girl in the cucumber patch - Breakfast - Madame
Telimena's Petersburg anecdote - A fresh outburst of the dispute
regarding Bobtail and Hawk - Father Worm's intervention - The
Tribune's speech -The wager - Let's go mushrooming!

Who the years shan't recall when he, as a young lad,

Through the fields, gun on shoulder, strode whistling ahead;
Where no dyke, and no stile, will the huntsman's leg bother,
Stepping over a balk you'll not know it's another's!
For in Litwa a huntsman's a ship out at sea:
Where or how he likes, ranges the boundless space free!
Like a sage, may quiz heaven, and there may espy
In a cloud portents plain to a trained huntsman's eye,
Or may, a sorcerer, talk with the earth, which appears
Deaf to townsfolk but, many-voiced, speaks to his ears.
From a meadow a corncrake screamed, seek him in vain,
He, like pike in the Niemen, skims over the plain;
Overhead, there, the early spring's morning bell pealed:
The skylark, just as deeply in heaven concealed;
Somewhere an eagle rustled its wide-stretching wing,

Scaring sparrows as comets to czars terror bring;

While a hawk, from the azure sky hung, flaps its wing
As a butterfly flutters, transfixed on a pin,
Till a bird or hare sighting in meadow afar,
On its prey swoops and pounces, a grim falling star.
When will God let our wanderings be done at last, and
Let us dwell in house standing on our native land,
In a cavalry serve, which against hares war wages,
Or in foot, which birds only in battle engages;
And, except scythe and sickle, no other steel whet,
And read household account-books in lieu of gazette!
Risen above Soplicowo, the sun shone already
Through the chinks in the thatch of the barn on the bedding
That consisted of freshly-cut, fragrant green hay
Upon which the young sleepers in snug comfort lay,
And on which streamed and flickered bright golden bars that
Stole through holes in black thatching like braids from a plait.
And the sun's rays the sleepers' lips teased from above
Like a girl with a wheat-stalk awaking her love.
Now sparrows hopped and chirped in the thatch on the byre;
Now thrice the gander cackled, and echoed the choir
Of the ducks and the turkeys; then this chorus yields
To the bellow of cattle that move to the fields.
The young men rose: Tadeusz still sleeps out of sight
For the last to doze off: from the supper last night
He returned so perturbed that not by first cock-crow
Had his eyes closed in sleep; and, in bedding of straw
He so thrashed about, that he sank quite out of view
In deep sleep: when a cold wind into his eyes blew
As the barn's squeaking door with much noise opened wide,
And the Bernardine, strap in his hand, loudly cried,
"Surge, puer!" and over the youth's shoulders swung
The thonged strap from which knots, like small cucumbers, hung.
Already in the yard one can hunting cries hear;
Men are leading out horses, some britskas appear,
The courtyard scarcely can such a multitude bound;
The kennels have been opened, the bugles resound;
The pack, rushing out madly, with joy yelps and skitters
When they see huntsmen's steeds and the leashes of beaters;
The dogs, wildly cavorting, about the yard race
Then run up and necks gladly in their collars place:
All this augurs good hunting and puts all in heart;
Till the Chamberlain, at last, gives the order to start.
First the huntsmen moved forward at quite a slow pace,
One by one, but more quickly once outside the place;

In the middle Assessor and Notary rode;

Though their mutual malice their looks sometimes showed,
Talked politely as would men of honour and mettle,
On their way now their mortal contention to settle;
None can their deadly rancour deduce from their talk;
The Notary led Bobtail, Assessor led Hawk,
Last, the ladies in britskas, young men close beside
By the carriage wheels, chatting with them as they ride.
Father Worm paced the courtyard with slow measured step,
While his matins completing, but frequently kept
His eyes fixed on Tadeusz; first frowned, and then smiled,
At last beckoned him over. Tadeusz complied.
The priest threatened Tadeusz with finger on nose;
But though Tadeusz tried to persuade him that those
His vague gestures he should more precisely explain,
The Bernardine nor answered, nor look at him deigned.
He but pulled down his cowl, and his prayers recited;
So Tadeusz rode off, with the guests soon united.
Just then the leashmen halted, dogs checked in their course;
Each rider, like a statue, stock-still on his horse;
Each his neighbour bade silence by gesture alone,
And all eyes were directed towards a large stone
Upon which stood the Judge: he had sighted the beast;
Gave commands, with the motions of both hands expressed,
To stand still; they obey; and across the glebe's centre,
The Assessor and Notary carefully canter.
Tadeusz, being closer, had both of them passed,
And had stopped near the Judge; his eyes everywhere cast,
Inexperienced, in vain searched the vast grey expanse,
But the hare hard to spot, so concealed among stones.
The Judge then pointed to him: there sat the poor hare,
Flattening under a boulder, his ears in the air,
His eye crimson, unblinking, the huntsmen's gaze met
And, as if spellbound, dumbly awaiting his fate,
His eyes could not avert in his panic, and shock,
And beneath the rock sat he, as dead as a rock.
Meanwhile, the distant dust-cloud in plough-land draws near,
Bobtail runs on his leash, with fleet Hawk at his rear,
Now "Catch, catch!" screamed Assessor and Notary out loud,
And the dogs and men vanished in swirling dust-cloud!
While the hare in this manner was being pursued
The Count came in view, skirting the old castle's wood.
The whole neighbourhood knew that this lordling could not
Turn up anywhere, ever, at right time or spot,
And today he'd slept through, so at servants he ranted.
Seeing in the field huntsmen, towards them he cantered;
And his English-cut frockcoat, fine, pure white, and long,

With the wind he let flutter. Behind rode a throng,

Wearing head-gear like mushrooms, small, black, shiny-bright,
In short jackets, tight boots, and in pantaloons white;
The servants whom the Count had in this manner dressed,
In his palace were always as 'jockeys' addressed.
This troop rode at a gallop out onto the plain,
When the Count saw the Castle and pulled at the rein:
He'd not seen it at dawn, and now could not conceive
That these walls were the same walls, so much was achieved
By dawn, so much the contours enhanced by its light;
The Count could not but marvel at this wondrous sight.
The tower now appeared doubled: its top overhung
Morning mists; its tin roof blazed like gold in the sun;
Below shone a vast draughtsboard of glass panes, some whole,
Breaking up the sun's rays in a bright aureole;
Lower stories submerged in a hazy dust cover,
Which the dilapidations, and gaps, shrouded over.
The shouts distant of huntsmen, by wind here deflected,
Once, again, from the castle's stone walls were reflected:
You would swear the shouts came from the castle, again
Behind mist's veil restored, and once more filled with men.
The Count favoured views novel, unusual; said
Such prospects were romantic; would say that his head
Was romantic, while really was not quite all there.
Often, while he was hunting a fox or a hare,
He would suddenly, sadly, head backward incline,
Like a cat spying sparrows upon a tall pine;
Often, sans dog, sans weapon, he through the woods wandered
Like an escaped recruit; by a brook he would ponder,
Head bowed, motionless, watching the water stream by,
Like a crane keen to swallow all fish with its eye.
Such were the Count's strange habits and practices queer:
People said there was something quite missing up here.
Yet was honoured for family, most ancient and grand,
Wealthy, decent to peasants, to neighbours fair, and
Even Jews.

The Count's stallion, once turned off the road,

Trotted straight through the field to the ancient abode.
The Count, solitary, sighed, and glanced at the walls: fetched
Out some paper and pencil, commencing a sketch.
Then, at some twenty paces, he saw such a second
Connoisseur of fine views whom this vista, too, beckoned,
Head thrown back, hands in pockets, and also alone,
You would think that his eyes tried to count every stone.
The Count knew him straightway, but called out more than once
Before would old Gerwazy come out of his trance.

Of the gentry, in service to masters once reigning,

Now the last of Horeszkos' old household remaining,
A tall grey-haired old man, with a hale, ruddy face
Ploughed by wrinkles and dour, of that humour no trace
For which once he was famed and by gentry was cherished.
Since that battle in which his last master had perished,
Gerwazy changed completely; for years now already
He would never be seen at a fair or a wedding;
Never since have his quips and his humour been heard
And his face to a smile now would never be stirred.
He would wear the Horeszko old livery, faded
Frock-coat with yellow tails, and all heavily braided,
(Braids, now jaundiced, their one-time gilt now long since gone),
With his master's insignia embroidered thereonThe Half-Goat, for which reason the old fellow would
Be nicknamed the 'Half-Goat' in the whole neighbourhood.
And at times, from a phrase he would always employ,
He instead would be greeted as 'Well-My-dear-boy';
Sometimes 'Notchy': for notches embroidered his pate.
His real name was Rembailo, and no one could state
What his arms were. 'The Warden' he liked to be calledAt the castle indeed, he the post once did hold,
And still from his belt dangling a bunch of keys swung
Knotted to a thick thong with a gilt tassel hung,
Though with nothing to open, long since every door
In the castle had gone. He found two to restore,
Then at his own expense these repaired and installed,
And these doors every day would unfasten and fold.
He in one empty chamber had set up his bed;
Could have lived at the Count's house on charity bread,
But would not; for was home-sick and not well at all,
When he was not inhaling the air of the Hall.
When he saw the Count, pulling the cap off in haste,
He his old master's kin with a sweeping bow graced,
His huge bald pate inclining, which shone from afar
And, by sword-cuts criss-crossed, like a chopping-board, marred;
He his hand passed across it, approached, made a bow
Once again, and said sadly: "My-dear-boy, allow
And forgive me my manners, Sir, if not correct,
Just my habit, Your Honour, not lack of respect:
'My-dear-boy' was Horeszkos' own manner of speaking;
The last Pantler, my master, much favoured this greeting:
Is it true, My-dear-boy, that for pennies, you sealed
Some pact with the Soplicas, your castle will yield?
This I hardly believe, but it's voiced far and wide".
And with eyes on the castle he constantly sighed.
"What so strange?" said the Count, "cost is great, tedium greater;
I would settle this, but that shrewd procrastinator

Has dug in; he foresaw that I'd soon be too bored.

I can stand it no more, and will lay down my sword,
Peace conditions accept, which the courts will police."
"What peace?" shouted Gerwazy, "with Soplicas, peace?
With Soplicas, My-dear-boy?" So saying, he twisted
His lips, as if the very word 'peace' they resisted.
"Peace and that Soplicowo! My-dear-boy, retreat?
Sure, you jest, Sir? The castle, Horeszkos' old seat,
In Soplicas' hands fall? Let your lordship agree
To dismount; let's go in, let your lordship but see;
Sir knows not what he's doing, let Sir but dismount,
Sir must see!"-and the stirrup he held for the Count.
They stepped into the castle; on entering the hall
Said Gerwazy: "Here, masters, surrounded by all,
Oftentimes on their chairs sat at ease after food
To judge peasants' disputes; or else, in a good mood,
Various interesting stories would tell to their guests;
Or, in turn, were amused by their stories and jests,
While the youths in the courtyard themselves entertained
At singlesticks, or Master's fine Turkish steeds trained."
They went in. Spoke Gerwazy: "In this massive chamber
You would not, Sir, as many here paving stones number
As were broached old wine barrels in those good old days:
On their belts, from the cellar, the gentry casks raised,
When here for moot or diet, or observance hearty
Of the master's saint's feast day, or some hunting party.
On this choir-loft musicians at feasts music made,
On the organ, and various old instruments played;
As on Judgement Day, trumpets to toasts would resound,
Thundering there; in due order the toasts passed around:
The first toast to the health of His Majesty raised,
Then the Primate's, and then in our gracious queen's praise,
Then the gentry's and after the whole Commonwealth's;
And, to end, after drinking the five above healths,
They raised: 'To love and friendship!' And toast after toast,
Which, in day-time begun, rang till next dawn almost;
Teams of horses and wagons stood harnessed already
To return to his inn each carouser unsteady".
They passed more rooms. Gerwazy in deep silence stepped,
His gaze here on a ceiling, there on a wall kept,
Recalled memories, sad ones, at other times splendid;
Sometimes, as if intending to say: "all is ended",
He would nod, or sometimes, a sad wave of his hand
To show even the memory was like torture, and
He would chase it away. Then at length they advanced
To the top floor, which had been a mirrored hall once:
Now, of mirrors bereft, stand the frames desolate,

Sashes glassless; a loggia there facing the gate;

Here the old man his head bowed in reverie and pain,
And then covered his face: when revealed once again,
Thereon grief and great sorrow could plainly be seen:
The Count, quite unaware of what all this could mean,
Watched the old man's face, felt too a certain emotion,
Pressed his hand, stood a moment without speech or motion.
The old man broke the still; raised and shook his right fist:
"No truce with the Soplicas, My-boy, can exist
And Horeszko blood. In you Horeszko blood flows:
Through your mother you're Pantler's kin, everyone knows,
And she Castellan's daughter's (the second one's) child
He who was Master's uncle-you thus are allied.
Listen, Sir, to the story of your kith and kin,
Which took place in this very same room you stand in!
"My last master, the Pantler, first gentleman styled
In the shire, of great family, rich, had but one child,
Daughter fair as an angel, of course she was wooed
By the gentry and lordlings, a great multitude.
'Mongst the gentry one fellow, a famed great firebrand
Bully, Jacek Soplica, known throughout the land
As 'Voivode' in jest; true, he pulled weight in the shire,
For he ruled like a general the family entire
Of Soplicas; three hundred sure votes he quite owned;
Though himself he had naught but a small piece of ground,
A sabre, and great whiskers from ear unto ear:
And so, the Pantler welcomed this brave fellow here
Most of all, at the time of the local elections,
Highly valued because of his kin and connections.
"'Whiskers' so grew in pride from the preference he saw
That it came to his head to be Sir's son-in-law;
To the castle, unasked, he would frequently come;
At last, taking root here as if in his own home,
Was about to propose, but they saw through the fool,
And served at the next dinner a bowl of black gruel.
It was whispered the daughter had fancied him rather,
If she did, she had hidden it well from her father.
"These were times of Kosciuszko, the master respected
The Third of May laws, straightway the gentry collected
All prepared to proceed to confederates' aid,
When us Moscow besieged in a sudden night raid;
Hardly time with the mortar to sound the assault,
Lower doors to swing shut and to slam home the bolt.
In the castle but Pantler, Milady, and me,
The head cook, and two kitchen lads (tipsy all three),
The parish priest, a valet, four heyduks, brave fellows,
So to arms, and to windows; a Moscow swarm bellows

"Urrah!" from the gate, and rushed in through the flat,

And with ten guns we answered: 'here's at you! take that!'
All was shrouded with gunsmoke, the staff, without stop,
From the lower floors fired; as did we from the top.
All went on in fine fettle, though in such great fear:
Twenty guns on the floorboards lay; just about here,
When one gun we had emptied another was handed,
The parish priest with zeal to this service attended,
With Milady, and Miss, and the ladies-in-waiting;
We, the three marksmen, kept up a fire unabating;
From the Russians down there a great hail of balls came,
While we peppered them less, but with far better aim.
Three times the moujiks crowded right up to the door;
And three times there were three left face-down on the floor,
So they fled to the storehouse; it now was near dawn;
The Pantler, glad, stepped out on the loggia, alone:
When a Russ, from the storehouse, but dared show his phiz,
He at once pulled the trigger, and never would miss;
Every time a black shako would on the grass fall,
And now rarely would any his nose show at all.
The Pantler, with the enemy confused and afraid,
Thought to make an excursion, and snatched up his blade,
And, calling from the loggia, told each man his role;
To me turned, 'Follow me, my Gerwazy!' he called.
A shot came from the gateway, the Pantler swayed, stuttered;
Went red, paled, tried to speak, and instead with blood sputtered:
I saw him struck; the ball pierced his chest through and through;
The master, swaying, pointed-I saw him, I knew,
Knew the villain Soplica! I saw, knew him well!
By his height and his whiskers! By his gunshot fell
The Pantler! Saw the villain! Showed no sign of shame,
Still the gun aloft brandished, still smoke from it came!
I took aim, stood the ruffian as if petrified!
Once, twice I fired, and both of my shots carried wide,
I missed-my aim by anger, or grief, was misled...
Heard the women scream, looked down-the Master was dead."
Here Gerwazy was silent, his face with tears flooded,
Then concluded: "The Russians now at the doors thudded;
For I stood after Pantler's death senseless, and stared
All around, but of what then went on unaware.
By good fortune, with succour came Parafianowicz,
Mickiewiczes two hundred came from Horbatowicz,
Who are numerous gentry, and brave to a man,
And hate all the Soplicas since history began.
"Thus fell a lord of piety, principle, and power;
One with seats, ribands, batons, abundantly dowered;
Folk's father, gentry's brother; and he did not leave
A son who would swear vengeance upon his fresh grave!

But he had loyal servants; with his blood I smeared

My rapier, under name of the 'Penknife' so feared
(And no doubt, you have heard of my Penknife, dear sir,
Renowned at every diet, or council, or fair).
I swore on the Soplicas' necks this blade to notch,
And pursued them at diets, fairs, forays and such.
Two I butchered in duels, two at a carouse;
One to ashes I burnt in his own timber house,
When on raid with the Rymszas we gave them some hell:
Like a loach he baked in it, and those I can't tell
Whose ears I have cut off. One now only remained
Who to date has a keepsake from me not obtained!
Of that very same 'Whiskers' his own little brother
Who yet lives, and yet boasts of his wealth before others!
His haystacks the Horeszkos' own castle here nudge,
Has respect in the shire, has a rank, is a judge!
And you'd yield him the castle? Let base feet efface
The blood of my old master from floors of this place?
Oh, not while but a penn'orth of spirit, and such
Strength remains to Gerwazy, that his hand can touch
His old Penknife, still hanging today on the wall,
So long will not Soplica hold sway in this hall!"
"Oh indeed!" the Count cried out, his hands raising higher,
"My forebodings were right when these walls I admired!
Though I did not know then that such treasure's here scattered,
So many scenes dramatic, so much subject matter!
When I take from Soplicas these ancestral halls,
I shall make you a marshal upon these old walls:
Your old story, Gerwazy, affected me quite.
Pity, you did not bring me here at dead of night:
In a cloak draped, I would have sat here on the ruins
And have heard your recital of these bloody doings;
More pity, you're so little adept at rendition!
Oft I heard, and have read of, such similar traditions;
In England and in Scotland each castle of lords,
And each German schloss, tales of such murders affords!
Within each noble, puissant, old family, indeed,
There is lore of some bloody or treacherous deed,
After which to the heirs is bequeathed vengeance gory:
For the first time in Poland I hear such a story,
Feel within me Horeszkos' brave blood to be flowing!
To my fame and to family I know what is owing!
Yes! I must tear up all the Soplicas' accords,
Though it should come to pistols, or, maybe, to swords!
Honour bids!" He spoke, gravely traversing the ground,
And Gerwazy walked after in silence profound.
The Count stopped at the gateway, muttering, entranced,
Quickly mounting his horse, at the castle still glanced,
Thus his monologue ending, while yet there he tarried:

"'Tis a pity that this old Soplica's not married!

Nor has he a fair daughter whose charms I'd adore!
I, in love, and yet being forbidden the door,
To the plot complications fresh this would impart.
Here is love-there, revenge! Here is duty-there, heart!"

And thus murmuring, his horse towards the manor he urged:

On the far side, the huntsmen from woods just emerged.
Now the Count loved the hunt, when he saw them ahead,
By him all else forgotten, towards them he sped,
Passing gate, garden, fences; and when turning thence
He looked back, and arrested his horse by a fence;
There was an orchardFruit trees, arranged in neat rows
Shade a generous area; below them there grows
The round cabbage: inclining its hoary bald pate,
It sits, seeming to ponder on legumes' sad fate;
There, its long pods entwined in the carrot's green plaits,
The slender vetch upon it a thousand eyes sets;
Elsewhere Indian corn raises its golden plume swelling;
Here, there, a watermelon suns its obese belly,
Which away from its stem, in a far-ranging quest,
Has among the red beetroot rolled in as a guest.
Beds by mounds interrupted: along each such mound,
Stalks of hemp in stiff ranks seem as guarding the ground:
The cypresses of legumes, calm, simple, and green;
Their leaves and odour serving the beds for a screen
For, athwart their lobed leaves, no snake dares to crawl through,
And their scent caterpillars and insects kills too.
Further on poppies raise up their milky-white stalks
On which butterflies settled, you might think, in flocks
With little wings aflutter in multi-hued show,
And like rainbows, with lustre of precious stones, glow:
Thus they with varied colours the pupil deceive.
Like full moon among stars, mid the flowers and leaves,
The sunflower's enormous face ardently burns,
Which from dawn until sunset he to the sun turns.
Near the fence long mounds, convex, with greenery filled,
Without tree, bush or flower: the cucumber hill.
Growing gloriously, large-leafed and broadly outspread,
Like a rich verdant carpet they covered the bed.
In its middle-a maid moved, in white linen dressed,
To her knees by May greenery concealed and caressed;
Gliding from bed to furrow, seemed not to walk through,
But skim over the leaves, and to bathe in their hue.
A straw hat her head covered, and to it she'd pinned

Two pink ribbons that fluttered about in the wind

As did some scattered ringlets, sun-bright and unwound;
In her hand a small basket, her eyes she cast down,
With her right hand raised somewhat, as if for a catch,
Like a girl in a pond, whose feet little fish touch,
And which she plays at chasing; just so the girl bends
Now and then for the fruit with her basket and hands,
Which her foot found in nudging, or which her eye found.
The Count, by this so lovely sight simply spellbound,
Stood stock still; and then hearing his servants' clip-clop,
Gestured to them to rein in their horses; they stop.
He kept gazing with outstretched long neck, like a great,
Long-beaked crane, which away from its flock, stands in wait,
Poised on one leg, the other foot upraised to keep
A stone in it, to stop it from going to sleep.
The Count came to with rustling on back and on temple:
It was Father Worm lifting in one hand an ample
Thong switch from which hung knotted short cords in great
numbers:
"Hands off, you want cucumbers, sir? Have your cucumbers!
Keep thumbs out of this pot, in this bed is no profit
For you, sir, no fruit, nothing for you will come of it."
Then his finger wagged, straightened his cowl up, and went.
The Count still a good moment there motionless spent
Laughing at, also cursing this hindrance a bit;
Turned his eyes to the garden, in vain now, for it
Was abandoned; but in one house window there flashed
Her pink ribbons, white linen frock and the white sash.
One could tell from the beds, though, what path she had taken:
Here and there a green leaf, by her shoe lightly shaken,
Straightened, quivered a while, then was still, like the rings
In calm water, disturbed by a little bird's wings.
And where once she had stood now could only be found
Her cane basket, abandoned, and turned upside-down:
Having lost all its fruit, it hung from the leaves, hollow,
And was still gently rocking upon the green billow.
A brief moment and all was deserted and still;
The Count straining his ear, and still gazing his fill
At the house and yet musing; his men standing close,
Dumb-when from the deserted and still house arose,
First some murmurs, then cheerful commotion and humming,
Like a once empty beehive upon bees' homecoming:
A sign, guests were returning from chasing the hare,
So the staff were now busy, and breakfast prepared.
Indeed, throughout all rooms there was movement and sound,
Dishes, cutlery, bottles, were carried around,

The men, just as they came, in their green outfits dressed,

Wandered with glass and plate from one room to the next,
And ate and drank, or leant on a window reveal
And of flints, hounds and hares talked with usual zeal.
At the table the Judge and the Chamberlain sat;
In a corner girls whispered; no order kept that
At a dinner or supper was held to be due
(In an old-Polish home this was something quite new);
At breakfast the Judge did not, though grudging, reprove
Such chaos, although certes did not quite approve.
They served different refreshments to ladies and men:
Here a whole coffee service on trays was brought in,
Trays enormous, each painted with exquisite flowers,
And upon each a steaming tin coffeepot towers,
And cups of gilded Dresden fine porcelain gleam,
With each cup a small pitcher containing the cream.
Such coffee as in Poland you'll not find elsewhere:
In a good house, in Poland, by old custom there,
Making coffee's the task of one housemaid alone
(As the coffee-maid known), who imports from the town,
The best beans, or from trading barge buys them, and who
Has her own secret ways of preparing the brew,
Which as jet-black as coal is, and as amber limpid:
Is as fragrant as mocca, and as honey viscid.
It's well known that good coffee needs really good cream:
In the country that's easy; the maid, at first beam,
Sets the kettles, proceeds next to visit the dairies
And there gathers the flower of cream; gently carries
In a separate jug, to each cup freshly brought,
So that each one is dressed in a separate coat.
Elder ladies, up earlier, had coffee before;
For themselves they've prepared now a tasty encore,
A concoction from heated, with cream thickened, beer,
In which curds, densely floating, of cream cheese appear.
For men there's a choice of smoked meats on a platter:
There is tongue, savouries, sausage, and half-geese well fattened,
All first-rate, all by secret house recipe cured,
Long in juniper smoke in the chimney matured,
At the end, as the last course, 'Zrazy' were served.
Thuswise was in the Judge's house breakfast observed.
In two rooms have two different societies assembled:
The older folk were gathered around a small table,
To discuss various recent improvements in farming,
Or the latest, and drastic, severe, most alarming,
Czar's ukase; the Chamberlain considered some new

War rumours, and politic conclusions thence drew.

Miss Hreczeha, with cards, and her blue glasses on,
Told the Chamberlain's lady her fortune for fun.
In the next room young people still talked of the chase,
But now with quieter and with less passionate phrase:
For Assessor and Notary, both great talkers once,
Foremost judges of hunting, among the best guns,
Sat across from each other, bad-tempered and hurting;
Both their dogs set correctly, both had been quite certain
Of their hound's coming triumph, when suddenly loomed
A large patch, peasant owned, of ungathered legume;
Ere pounced Bobtail and Hawk, in this bed hopped the brute,
When the Judge, riding up, stopped all further pursuit,
And, though great was their anger, they had to obey.
Both dogs came back, jowls empty, and no man could say
If the beast had been taken-or not; and no talk
Would decide whether run down by Bobtail, or Hawk,
Or by both of them-there are still differing views,
And the issue remains, as before, quite confused.
From one room to another old Tribune proceeded,
Absent-mindedly gazing to both sides, nor heeded
Either huntsmen nor seniors; this was a sure sign
That a subject quite different must weigh on his mind;
He held a leathern fly-swat: would sometimes stand by
In one spot and long ponder-then slaughter a fly.
Tadeusz and the 'auntie' stood face to face in
One doorway, and conducted their talk in the din.
From them was no great distance to other folk's ears
So they quietly whispered: Tadeusz now hears
That Auntie Telimena is well situated,
That, canonically speaking, they are not related
Even closely by blood; and it's not a sure thing
That auntie Telimena is this nephew's kin,
Though Uncle calls her 'sister', it merely appears
Parents called them so, for all the difference in years;
Then she, dwelling so long in the capital city,
Rendered Uncle great service, and he this admitting,
Being in her debt, honoured her and, before others,
Liked, from vanity maybe, the title of 'brother';
Telimena this would not deny an old friend.
All this lightened the heart of Tadeusz no end.
Many other things, too, they declared face to face;
And all this in the blink of an eyelid took place.
To their right, said the Notary off-hand, just to bait
The Assessor: "Did I not but yesterday state
That our chase would not likely succeed well at all,
It is still much too early; the grain still stands tall;

There's so much peasants' legume still on the ground here,

Hence the Count, though invited, chose not to appear.
For the Count is well versed in the lore of the chase,
Often speaks he of hunting: its right time and place.
The Count was raised from childhood among foreign nations,
And says that we are lacking in civilization
To hunt without us giving due consideration
To articles, to by-laws, to state regulations;
Trampling mounds, balks of others without respect owing,
Riding over strange land, with its owner not knowing;
Whether summer or spring to go leaping and vaulting
Through field and forest, killing the fox when it's moulting;
Or allowing a pregnant she-hare in the heath,
Or green rye, to be taken, or hounded, to death,
With great harm to game numbers. The Count thus complains
That more civilization in Russia obtains:
For there hunting is ruled by Czar's laws of the land,
By police watched, and punished if any offend."
Telimena, towards the left chamber turned, and
Her white shoulders with kerchief of white cambric fanned,
Said: "The Count, cross my heart; is not so very wrong,
I know Russia well. You thought my words were too strong,
When I often declared how, in so many ways
Their alert and strict courts are deserving of praise.
I in Petersburg sojourned, not once, and not twice!
Pleasant memories, which with their sweet image entice!
What a town! Have you been there? If not, I can show
You its plan: it is somewhere inside my bureau.
Every summer escape all the Petersburg gentry,
To their villas, or 'dachas' (for 'dacha' means country).
I lived in a palazzo near the river Neva,
Not too close to town, and yet not far from it, either,
On a small knoll, constructed just for my chateau.
A sweet villa! Its plan is inside my bureau.
"But, to my bad luck, moved in near my habitation
Some official low sent on an investigation:
The man kept some dogs; oh, it is worse than it sounds,
To reside near a petty official with hounds!
Whenever, with a book, to my garden I'd go
To enjoy cool of evening, the moon's silver glow,
Straightaway would a dog come, tail wagging, and raising,
And pricking its ears, as if it were going crazy.
I was terrified often. My heart augured ill
From these dogs, some disaster; and so it befell.
For en route to the garden on one certain morning,
At my feet a hound throttled my very own darling
Pekinese! Ach, it was the most simply bewitching,
Gorgeous puppy! A keepsake for me from Prince Bitchin,

Bright and quick like a squirrel, it ran to and fro;

I had her done: her portrait is in my bureau.
From seeing her thus throttled, the dreadful sensation
Gave me trauma and spasms and heart palpitations.
Indeed maybe my health would have suffered much more,
When, by chance, on a visit arrived Kirilo
Gavrilich Kozodusin, the Court Hunting Master:
Seeing my wretched humour, asks of the disaster,
And orders the official dragged in by one ear:
He stands there, pale and trembling, near lifeless from fear.
'How dare you', thunders Kiryl, the little man froze,
'Chase a deer in foal under the Czar's very nose?'
The official, dumbfounded, swore that he had done
Nothing wrong, that his hunting had not yet begun,
That with leave of His Highness, to him would appear
That the unlucky beast seemed a dog, not a deer.
'How so?' screamed Kiryl, 'so, you great rascal would dare
To know better of species and hunting affairs
Than do I, Kozodusin, the Czar's Jaeger-master?
Let our case now be settled by our Police-master!'
So they call the police-chief, bid issue of writ:
'I', Kozodusin stated, 'do hereby submit
That this is a spring doe; it's a house-dog, he says:
So be judge, who knows better the game and the chase!'
The policeman, in duties of office well-grounded,
At the clerk's great effrontery immensely astounded,
Took the scoundrel aside, like a brother admonished
To admit to his guilt, and the sin thus diminish.
The Master, appeased, promised to put in a word
With the Czar, and the sentence reduce by a third:
It ended with the hounds all strung up, so I think,
The official enjoying four weeks in the clink.
This nonsense entertained us a whole evening through,
And all Petersburg next day laughed too when it knew
That the Master appeared in the case of my puppy;
And I'm told it made even the Czar himself happy."
Laughter rose in both chambers-in one the priest played
At 'marriage' with the Judge, whose next lead was a spade;
The priest (the trick was vital) exhaled not, nor stirred.
When the Judge the first words of the anecdote heard,
He became so absorbed, that with head tilted back
Card uplifted, and ready to throw on the stack,
Like a statue sat frozen; the monk turned quite green.
The tale over, the Judge then put down the trump queen
And said, heartily laughing: "Let he who will, praise
German civilisation, and Russian strict ways;
Let our friends in Great Poland be taught by the Krauts
To sue over a fox, and to call in their louts
To arrest any hound, which in hunting trespassed:

In Lithuania, thank God, old customs still last.

Plenty for us, and neighbours, of game of all sorts;
No need here about suchlike to go to the courts;
And of grain we have plenty, of want shall not die
If dogs run through our legumes or trample the rye;
But I allow no hunting across peasant land."
From the left room, the Steward: "This I understand,
For in such a case, sir, you paid dear for such game.
Peasants rubbed their hands when through their legume bed came
The odd hound; let it shake off but ten ears of ryeYou, sir, give him a bushel, and then not deny
One or two thalers extra for misuse of land;
Believe me, sir; the peasants will get out of hand
Unless you...", but the rest of the Steward's review
Was quite lost to the Judge, for as well as the two
Discussions, there began now some ten conversations,
Anecdotes, and accounts, and, at last, altercations.
Our youth and Telimena, forgot by the crowd,
One another remembered. The lady was proud
That her humourous tale so Tadeusz amused;
The young man in turn at her bold compliments loosed.
Telimena spoke ever more low-voiced, and slowly,
And Tadeusz pretended he heard her not wholly
In the babble of voices: so, whispering, he placed
His face near, till he felt the sweet warmth of her face;
Held his breath, with his mouth he would catch all her sighs,
And his eyes hunted every bright ray from her eyes.
When, between their two mouths, unexpectedly shot
First a fly and, soon after, the Tribune's fly-swat.
Litwa has flies aplenty. Among these, there hum
A species quite distinct and called 'gentry' by some,
Which in colour and shape do resemble the others,
But broader, bigger bellied, than their vulgar brothers:
They drone dreadfully, flying, and vilely buzz too,
And so strong, they a spider's web often pierce through,
If caught, one of these will for three days thrash about:
For the spider himself it can wrestle and rout.
This the Tribune researched, and the thesis defended,
That from these 'gentry' lesser fly plebs are descended;
That to flies these as bees are to mother queen bee,
And that when they're extinct, of these pests we'll be free.
True, the housekeeper would not, nor would parish priest,
These daring propositions accept in the least,
And about the fly species held different views;
But the Tribune would keep his habitual use,

And set off in pursuit if he saw one appear.

Just then, did one such 'gentry' fly buzz in his ear;
Twice the Tribune swiped, missed once, then missed once again,
Surprised, third time swished, nearly destroyed a glass pane;
Till the fly, stunned, confused by the din, and in fright,
Seeing two in a doorway impeding her flight,
Plunged between the two faces headlong in despair;
Flashed the Tribune's right arm and had followed her there:
The blow struck with such power, two heads sprang apart
As do halves of an oak tree, split by lightning's dart;
And both heads bumped the recess with such sudden force
That they bore quite a while the marks made by the doors.
By chance, no one paid heed, for the hitherto loud
And well-mannered, though lively, small-talk of the crowd
Ended now with a sudden explosion of sound.
At a hunt, when a fox in the undergrowth's found
One hears baying of hounds, shots and shouts, branches snap,
Then, a beater surprises a boar from its nap,
Gives a signal-from men and from dogs comes a noise
As if trees of the forest had all given voice;
Thus too with conversation: it trots slow before
It meets up with a subject as gross as a boar.
Here for huntsmen the boar was the fierce, beyond bounds,
The Notary and Assessor's war over their hounds.
A short war, but they managed a lot in one moment;
For each fired off so many rude words at his foeman,
They went through the three stages of all duellists:
Taunts, and anger, and challenge-were coming to fists.
So towards this pair all from the other room leapt,
And rolling through the door like a mighty wave swept,
And the young pair they nearly had underfoot trod,
Who had stood there like Janus, the double-faced god.
Tadeusz and the lady could hardly adjust
Their mussed hair, when the threat of hostilities passed;
Murmurs, mingled with laughter, from out the crowd welled;
A truce halted the quarrel; the Almsman it quelled,
A man oldish, but thick-set, and very broad backed:
And just when the Assessor ran up in attack,
As they threatened each other, he each duellist
Grabbed at once by the collar; one man in each fist,
And twice the two tough noggins together cracked, rather
Like two eggs boiled for Easter, the one with the other;
Then, his arms flung apart like a signpost, across
To the room's farthest corners the combatants tossed;
A brief moment with outstretched arms quietly stood
And "Pax, pax, pax vobiscum!" cried, "peace be with you!"
The two sides were surprised, some amused, some were both,

But due to the respect owed a man of the cloth

None dared the monk admonish; and after such sample,
None had the inclination to set an example:
While Father Worm, when once he restored peace unaided,
It was clear, no applause sought, nor triumph paraded,
The quarrellers nor threatened more, nor them upbraided;
Stuck his hands in his belt, cowl adjusted a fraction,
And quietly the room left.
During this transaction
The Judge already had with the Chamberlain taken
Their place between the factions. The Tribune, awakened
As from deep reverie, taking his stand in the middle,
Twirling his grizzled whiskers, with his kontusz fiddled,
Then passed over his audience his fiery glance
And, as a priest his brush waves, whenever he chanced
To hear a whisper, at it his fly swat he waved,
Its shaft raising aloft in a manner most grave;
As with a marshal's baton, strict silence enjoined:
"Be quiet!" he repeated, "and have this in mind,
You, who are foremost huntsmen the whole shire can show,
From this unseemly quarrel, what good? Do you know?
Our young, in whom are vested the hopes of the nation,
Who should enhance our thickets and woods' reputation,
And who, alas, already their hunting neglect,
A new motive may gain for their lack of respect!
To see those, who should set an example to others,
From the day's chase return but with squabbles and bothers.
More, a proper regard for my grey hair is due;
In my time I have greater known huntsmen than you,
And have refereed many a huntsman's dispute.
Who in Litwan woods ever could Rejtan out-shoot
Or draw game, or the beast in a 'face-to-face' meet?
Who with Bialopietrowicz for fame could compete?
Where's another Zegota, who with a hand-gun
Never missing, would skittle a hare on the run?
Terajewicz I knew, who, when stalking wild boar,
Carried only a spear and not one weapon more!
Knew Budrewicz, who'd wrestle a bear quite alone:
Such famed stalwarts our forests have long ago known!
If it came to a dispute, what course did they take?
They would choose arbitrators, and wager a stake.
Once a wolf cost Oginski a wood in a wager,
Niesiolowski two hamlets lost over a badger!
Them, sirs, you as examples to follow should take,
And thus settle your quarrel, though with smaller stake.
Words are wind, there's no end to a wordy affair,
And why dry out your tongues with words over a hare:
So, first, settle between you on an arbitrator,

And, however he judges, abide by it later:

And the Judge will not stop, I this humbly entreat,
The whips chasing the hare, if right over the wheat;
I hope, Sir, you may grant me this boon I request",
And he thus having spoken, the Judge's knees pressed.
"A horse", cried out the Notary, "and harness I stake,
And before the land office shall this undertake
That this ring I will deed as his fee to the judge".
"I shall", said the Assessor, "my gold collars pledge,
With golden sequins studded, with shagreen inlaid,
And a leash of silk woven, so cunningly made
And handsome, as the jewel which shines on it still.
I wished to leave these trappings to sons in my will,
Had I taken a wife. I received this fine trim
From Prince Dominik, when I once hunted with him
And Prince-Marshal Sanguszko and General Mejen,
When I challenged the company to hounds on the plain,
Thereon, in an unmatched in all hunt-lore display,
I, with but one bitch, bagging six hares in one day.
This great hunting took place on the Kupiski moors;
Prince Radziwill could hardly keep still on his horse;
He dismounted, my famous bitch Kania embraced,
And the prince, her snout clapping thrice with his own hand,
Said: 'I dub you here Duchess upon Kupiskland'.
Thus Napoleon fiefdoms on generals settles
Named for the field whereon they have won their great battles."
Telimena, bored by those disputes overlong,
Wished to take some fresh air, but not walk out alone;
Off a peg took a basket: "If you, sirs, are sticking
Indoors, that is your business; I'll go mushroom picking;
Who so wishes is welcome to follow", she said.
Having placed a red cashmere shawl over her head,
She the Chamberlain's daughter took by one small hand,
With the other hand slightly her hem lifted, and,
Tadeusz, silent, followed (for mushrooms) with speed.
The Judge to the excursion plan gladly agreed,
He'd seen the means the noisy debate to conclude,
So now cried: "It is mushroom time, sirs, in the wood!
Who with the very best to the table returns,
His place next to the loveliest of ladies he earns;
He will choose her himself. If a lady's the winner,
She the handsomest fellow can partner at dinner."

Book Three

FLIRTATIONS

The Count's expedition to the orchard - A mysterious nymph feeds

the geese - The resemblance between mushroom-gathering and a
promenade of Elysian shades - The varieties of mushrooms Telimena at the Temple of Musing - Discussions concerning the
launching of Tadeusz into the world - The Count-peisagist Tadeusz's remarks about art, trees and clouds - The Count's
opinions on art - The bell -The note - Master, a bear!

Homeward bound now, the Count still his horse often checked
So, head turned, he again could the garden inspect;
And once thought, that he caught from a window recess
A brief flash of the little, mysterious, white dress,
Once again, a light something had dropped from a height,
And traversed the whole garden too quickly to sight:
Among cucumbers green it then glittered and glowed,
Like a sunbeam glimpsed stealing from out of a cloud,
Which then shines among furrows upon a hard flint,
Or on rain-puddle's glass in a meadow may glint.
The Count dismounted, homeward his retinue sent,
His steps towards the garden then stealthily bent;

He soon, reaching the fence, found boards missing entire,

And quietly squeezed through, like a wolf in a byre,
Unluckily, he rustled some gooseberry plants.
By the slight rustle startled, the gardener at once
Turned and looked all around but saw nothing undue:
Nonetheless, in the opposite direction she flew;
While the Count sideways, through some huge sorrel stalks
passed,
Through some burdock leaves, crawled on all fours in the grass,
Hopping froglike and noiseless crept close as he might,
Stuck his head out-to witness a wonderful sight.
In this part of the park here and there grew the cherry,
In between sprang up grain of kinds purposely varied:
Wheat, maize, barley bewhiskered, with oats, and broad bean,
Even shrubberies and flowers were part of the scene.
For the sake of her poultry the housekeeper aimed
Such a garden to plant; she a lady of fame,
(Kokosznicka her surname, of family Jendi
kowiczowna); her vital invention so handy
For husbandry domestic: today widely known,
In those days it was still as a novelty shown,
Received but as a secret from one's trusted friends,
Until finally published as: 'One Sure Defence
Against Goshawks and Kites, Or, A New Method Simple
For The Raising of Poultry'-this was an example.
And indeed, when the cock, which a careful keeps watch,
Standing still with beak lifted, the proud neck outstretched,
The becombed head bent sideways, to bring its round eye
Into better position to aim at the sky,
Perceives a hawk suspended in cloudy expanse,
And cries out: in this garden the hens hide at once,
Even peacocks and geese and, in great helter-skelter,
Frightened doves, under rafters too late to find shelter.
No such enemy now in the heavens was found,
Just the summer sun beating relentlessly down.
Birds find from it some refuge in forests of rye;
Those in sand bathe and burrow, these on the turf lie.
Among heads of the birds rose small human heads, bright
And uncovered, with hair cropped quite short, flaxen-white;
Their necks bare to the shoulders; among them stood there
A girl by a head taller, and with longer hair;
Past the children a peacock its plumes' plenitude
Like a rainbow extended, wide-arched, multihued.
The bright heads, as in contrast against a dark-blue
Painting's background, a greater resplendence thence drew.
With the halo surrounded of bright peacock eyes,

In the grain shone like stars on the backdrop of sky,

Among Indian corn heads with their bright golden canes,
And the tall English grasses with silvery lines,
And the mercury's coral, and mallow grey-green.
All these mingled together, form, colour, and sheen,
Gold and silver-thread patch-work, close-woven, which sailed
And fluttered in the breeze like a gossamer veil.
Above those stalks and rushes of manifold hues
Hung a dragon-fly awning, mist-like and profuse,
Known as 'grandmas', their four-fold wings are just as light
As a spiderweb, almost as pervious to sight,
Hardly visible hanging above, you might guess,
Although you hear them buzzing, they're quite motionless.
The girl gracefully fluttered, in one hand held high,
A grey tuft, like an ostrich-plume fan to the eye.
From gold butterfly rain she thus seemed to defend
The defenceless babes' heads; and in her other handWhat could this be-a horn? It was shining like gold,
Seemed to be some strange vessel for feeding her fold,
For it was to the children's mouths, one by one, borne;
And resembled Amaltheia's profuse golden horn.
Although thus busied, turned she her head all the same
To the gooseberry bush whence the rustling noise came,
Unaware that the thief would another way take,
Through the beds closing in, like a slithering snake;
Till he sprang from the burdock. She looked-and she found
He stood near, four beds distant, and bowed to the ground.
Her head already turned, with both arms lifted high,
She, like a startled roller, was ready to fly,
And her light feet already breezed over the grass,
When the children, alarmed by her leaving them thus
And the stranger's arrival, burst into loud squealing:
And she, hearing this, felt it not sensible really
To abandon the children, small, frightened and tearful;
Came back, but first came slowly, herself rather fearful,
Like an unwilling spirit, by witchcraft recalled.
To the noisiest child went she, to comfort and scold,
Sitting down, to her bosom the infant she pressed,
Soothed with soft words another, and gently caressed,
Until calmed, and their tiny hands hugging her knees,
Their little heads, like chickens, all trying to squeeze
Under the mother's wing. She said: "Is this polite,
So to scream? This fine master might well get a fright,
For he's not some bad bugbear, nor horrid old man,
But a guest here, just see, what a nice gentleman."
She looked up at the Count too; he pleasantly smiled,

Clearly pleased by this praise from the lovely girl-child,

She sensed this, and fell silent, her eyes dropped abashed,
And then like a pink rose-bud, she prettily blushed.
Indeed, the man was handsome: of tallish physique,
The face oval in shape, with a pale but fresh cheek,
he eyes dark-blue and kindly, hair long and pale-blond,
And festooned with odd fragments of leaf, grass and frond,
Which the Count gathered crawling through furrow and bed,
Like a green garland's remnants encircling his head.
"Oh thou!" spoke he, "whatever name shouldst thou be hight,
Whether nymph, or a goddess, a phantom or sprite!
Oh speak! Is't thine own will that on earth thou befall,
Or another's great power that holds thee in thrall?
Ah, I guess! It is, certes, a suitor abhorred,
A protector too jealous, or some mighty lord
You secludes in this castled park, as if enchanted!
Worthy, that over you should knights' lances be blunted,
To be heroine tragic of mournful romances!
Disclose, Oh Fair, the secrets of your cruel mischances!
You shall find a protector to guard you from harm,
As you now rule my heart, so you, too, rule my arm."
He stretched his armThe maiden, this pretty speech took
With a blush, but with also a much amused look:
As a child enjoys pictures chocolate-box-bright,
And in glittering counters may find a delight
Without knowing their worth, thus, her ear was content
With sonorous phrases, knowing not what these words meant.
At last she asked: "And wherefrom did you, Sir, appear?
And what's Sir in my garden beds looking for here?"
The Count opened his eyes wide, surprised and non-plussed,
Was silent, then his speech he in simpler form cast:
"Pardon me; I have now ruined your games, I see, Miss,
My rash haste was to blame, pray forgive me for this;
Breakfast's served, it is late and I wished to ensure
Being punctual; this path avoids a detour;
As Miss knows, the road circles; this saves much delay."
The girl answered: "Indeed, Sir, you may go this way,
But don't trample the beds. Your path's there, in full sight,
Through the grass." "To the left", asked the Count, "or the
right?"
The petite gardener, raising her cornflower eyes,
Seemed to study him, taken by obvious surprise:
There's the house, at short distance, and plain as a post,
Yet the Count asks the way? But the Count was now most

Keen to find any pretext for talk, to delay

His departure. "Miss lives here? Not too far away?
Or perhaps, at the village? How is it, I missed
Here your presence? Just come? You're, perhaps, a new guest?"
The girl shook her head-"Pardon me, may I presume
That the small window there, Miss, belongs to your room?"
If no heroine is she, he thought, out of books,
She has youth; she has freshness, exceptional looks.
Too oft a great mind, soul great, by shade obscured, could
In its solitude blossom, a rose in the wood;
To the world but transplanted, and warmed by sun's rays,
She with bright hues a thousand will viewers amaze!
The young gardener meanwhile rose quietly and,
With a babe on one arm, took another child's hand
In her own, and the rest of her little ones herding
All before her like goslings, moved into the garden.
Turning round, she said to him, "Perhaps, sir, would chase
My poor poultry, so scattered, back into the maize?"
"I chase poultry?" the Count cried, extremely astonished:
Meanwhile she, by the shadow of trees hidden, vanished.
And but through the espalier's green brushwood of May
Something bright, for a while, like two eyes, seemed to play.

Long, alone in the garden, the Count stood there yet;

And his soul, like warm earth when the sun has just set,
Slowly, slowly cooled off, and grew dark by degrees;
He fell into a daydream-the dream did not please.
Woke unsure then with whom he was so disaffected;
Alas, found he so little! So much had expected!
When he, stalking this shepherd-maid, crawled through the bed,
His heart bounded within him, fire blazed in his head;
With such charms the mysterious young nymph he had dressed,
He so much had imagined, at such wonders guessed!
But all otherwise found it: indeed, a sweet face,
Figure slender, but awkward! Without much true grace!
And that softness of cheek, and that too lively blush,
Portraying a contentment too vulgar, too lush!
Signs, the mind is still dreaming, the heart still but slumbers,
And those answers, so rustic, so full of cucumbers!
"Why delude myself, I was too easy to please!
My mysterious nymph's simply a herder of geese!"
With the nymph's disappearance the charmed firmament
All changed: these bands, this lattice of fey wonderment,
Gold and silver, alas! Was this but hay and straw?

The Count, wringing his hands, looked about him, and saw
A slim ladyfern sheaf, tied together with grass,
Which, when held by the maid did for ostrich plumes pass.
And that vessel: that gold shape, he had to confess,
That horn of Amaltheia-a carrot, no less!
He saw a child devouring it greedily yonder:
So farewell to the spell! To the charm! To the wonder!
Thus a boy, when his eye on a chicory bloom settles,
Which entices the hand with its soft, silky petals,
Wants to touch it, comes near-and his breath the whole flower
Dissolves into the air in a feathery shower,
And the curious inquirer holds only, alas,
In his hand a bare stalk of a greeny-grey grass.
The Count pulled his hat lower down over his brow,
And returned as he came, but a short cut took now,
Through gooseberry, flower, legume beds, bent in two, passed,
Until, leaping the stile, he breathed freely at last.
He recalled that of breakfast he spoke to the maidenThey, perhaps, have all learned now of his escapade in
The garden? Have observed him? Have noted him slink,
Escaping like a burglar? What would they now think?
It was best to depart. By the fence, bent in two,
Round the beds and the greenery, he wormed his way through,
And was glad after all to emerge on the road,
Which at last led him straight to Soplicas' abode.
By the fence he ran, turning his gaze other way,
Like a thief from a barn, so as not to betray
He had broached it, or else, he was planning to broach.
So, the Count was most careful, though under no watch;
In the opposite direction now gazed, to his right.
A small grove, sparsely wooded, now came into sight;
Over its grassy carpet, past beechen boles gray,
Beneath canopied branches in greenery of May,
An assembly of shapes moved, with movements most strange,
Almost dance-like; dressed oddly, like spirits that range
By the light of the moon. Those in clothes black and tight,
These, in long, flowing garments loose-trailing, snow-white,
This one under a hat like a cartwheel, stooped, bowed,
Next to one with head bare; while as if in a cloud
Wrapped, some others, slow moving, behind their heads trail
Veils let loose to the breeze, as a comet its tail.
And each different in pose: one affixed to the ground,
Looking down, his eyes only he swivels around;
That one looks straight ahead, and steps as if asleep,
Neither left nor right veering, a straight line would keep,
All, often, and at random, bend down very low,
As if reverence to fellow forms wishing to show.

When approaching, and even at moment of meeting,

Not a word do they utter, nor vouchsafe a greeting,
In a deep meditation, in own thoughts engrossed.
The Count perceived a tableau of Elysian ghosts,
Which, though nor ills nor cares now above their heads loom,
Wander soundless, serene, yet sunk deep in their gloom.
Who would guess that these forms, which like sleepwalkers move,
That these silent ones-should our acquaintances prove?
Judge's friends! They from breakfast, so noisily bright,
Turned to mushrooming's ancient and decorous rite:
Knowing how to adapt, as such persons astute,
Their behaviour and speech, as to properly suit
In each circumstance new, the occasion and mood.
And so, before they'd followed the Judge to the wood
They a different demeanour donned, likewise a smock,
Long, loose, of unbleached linen, more fit for a walk,
And which would their kontuszes completely protect,
On their heads broad-brimmed straw hats: thus strangely
bedecked,
White, like souls purgatorial they looked in effect.
The youths too in such costume; though some in French fashion
Dressed, as was Telimena.
The Count this procession,
Unlearned in country customs, had not understood
And so, greatly amazed, ran full tilt to the wood.
There were mushrooms aplenty: the lads 'foxies' gather,
In Lithuanian song praised more than is any other,
These are maidenhood's emblems, no worm will them blight,
And more strange, on them will not an insect alight.
After slender 'boletus' the young ladies throng,
Which is famed as the colonel of mushrooms in song.
All look out for the 'milk-cup', he of the slim waist:
Though less featured in ballads, it has the best taste,
Fresh or salted, for autumn, or winter use rather,
Put away. But the Tribune, of course, 'fly-bane' gathered.
Other more common mushrooms did not win their favour
For their harmfulness, or else their unpleasant flavour:
Yet are not without use, for to beasts they are food,
To the insects a nest; and add charm to the wood.
On the meadow's green cloth they arise in ranks prim
Like a neat table setting: with smooth rounded rim
The 'leaf-mushrooms', cream, silver and red, stand in line,
Perfect row of small goblets, with various filled wine;
There, the 'goat's' upturned beaker, round-bottomed and plain,
Here the 'funnel', a slim glass designed for champagne,
'Whities', rotund and white, broad and flat, smooth as silk,

Sets of fine Dresden tea-cups, all brimful with milk,

And the spherical 'puffball', filled up with black dust
Like a pepper-pot-but all the others' names must
Be known only in hare's or in forest wolf's tongue,
Yet by humans unchristened; these are a vast throng.
None those hares' or wolves' mushrooms to gather would deign,
He who stoops such to pick, when his error is plain,
Will, angry, with his foot break it off or demolish;
Defacing thus the sward, does a thing very foolish.
Telimena not wolfish nor human sort gathered,
Absent minded and bored, moved along with the others,
Head in air, glancing round. So the Notary, displeased,
Said of her, that for mushrooms she looked in the trees;
The Assessor, with spite: "She's a female who would
Find a spot for her nest in the near neighbourhood".
She indeed seemed to search for seclusion and peace,
And so from her companions withdrew by degrees
Through the wood, alone, wandered towards a steep hill
Very shady, trees growing there more densely still.
In its centre a boulder; beneath, a cascade
Sprayed and gurgled, straight after, as if seeking shade,
Hid in lush vegetation, that constantly nourished
By abundance of water here splendidly flourished;
There this flibberty-gibbet, well swaddled in grass,
Bedded down on soft leaves, with no motion or fuss,
Hardly audible, whispered unseen in the glade
Like a mewling small infant in bassinet laid
When Mother the May curtain ties over its bed
And sprinkles leaves of poppy around the wee head.
Telimena, this lovely still spot often choosing
For her refuge, had called it her 'Temple of Musing'.
Stopping close by the streamlet she gently let fall
From her arms to the grass her carnelian-red shawl,
Like a swimmer who bends at the water's edge slowly,
Before daring to enter the cold water wholly,
She knelt, and then she gently on one side slid down;
And at last, and as if by that coral stream drowned
Sank down, and at full length stretched out, propping her arms
In the grass on her elbows, face cupped between palms,
Head bent towards the ground; and, below her brows oval
Glistened smooth vellum sheets of a recent French novel;
Above the volume's pages of white alabaster,
In and out wound pink ribbons and black ringlets' clusters.
On emerald lush sward, in carnelian shawl wreathed,
In her long gown attired, as if in coral sheathed,
Against which was contrasted at one end the hair,

And black shoes at the other; a glittering pair

Of white stockings, a kerchief, snow-white skin and hands:
A caterpillar seemed she, dyed in broad bright bands,
Crawling on a green leaf.
But, alas! All this show,
All the virtues and charms of this tasteful tableau,
Vainly craved a spectator, none there to comment,
Thus on gathering mushrooms all were so intent.
But Tadeusz observed, and kept watching askance,
Not daring the direct route, obliquely advanced:
Like a huntsman, who hides in a movable blind,
While he creeps up on bustards, or, skulking behind
His horse while hunting plover, he places his gun
On the saddle, or under the horse's neck hung,
Feigns a harrow he pulls by the edge of the field,
But approaches the spot where the birds sit concealed;
Thus, stealthily, Tadeusz.
The Judge his plans baulked
And, forestalling him, quickly he to the spring walked.
The white skirts of his dust-coat danced free in the wind,
As did an outsize kerchief, one end to belt pinned:
His straw hat fastened under the chin, in his hurry,
Flapped about like a burdock leaf by the breeze carried,
Now falls it down his shoulder, now both his eyes hides;
In his hand a huge cudgel: His Honour thus strides.
He bent down and, first washing his hands in the brook,
He his seat on a stone near his cousin then took
And with both hands at rest on the ivory boss,
Which his huge cane adorned, he commenced his speech thus:
"You see, Ma'am, since Tadeusz arrived as a guest
To stay at Soplicowo, my mind's not at rest;
I am childless and old; this my good darling boy
In all this world remains my chief comfort and joy,
Future heir of my all. By God's grace, when I'm dead,
He'll have a fair-sized hunk of a gentleman's bread;
It is time to consider his future and station;
So observe my distress, Ma'am, and my consternation!
You know, my brother Jacek, Tadeusz's father,
A strange man, his intentions not easy to gather,
He will not return home, God knows where he's concealed,
Will to his own son, even, not have this revealed;
Runs his life from a distance; would have him enrolled
In the Legions; at this I was greatly appalled.
He agreed, at long last, that home here he should stay
And marry; that's no problem, there's quite an array,
A match I can arrange, there's no citizen here
Can in name or connections come anywhere near

To the Chamberlain: Anna, his eldest, a flower,

Has come out, has good looks, and has also a dower.
So I tried..."-Telimena at this paled and frowned,
Closed her book, partly rose, and again sat her down.
"As I love mummy", said she, "is this, Brother, smart?
Is there sense in it? Do you have God in your heart?
Do you think that you're doing your best for the lambkin,
If you turn the young master thus into a bumpkin?
You will shut the world to him! He'll curse you tomorrow!
Why bury such great talent in forest and furrow!
Allow me, I can tell it's a capable child,
He should smooth his rough edges, not rot in this wild;
Brother should send him off to some capital city:
For example, to Warsaw? Or, brother, more fitting!
To St. Petersburg, maybe? For I ought to bide
There this winter on business, then we can decide
What to do with Tadeusz. I know there, indeed,
The top people, that's surely the way to succeed.
With my aid the best houses he'll soon penetrate,
And when with foremost folk he becomes intimate,
He'll gain office, an order, he then can resign,
When he wishes, that service and come home again,
Having gained then some standing, some wider world-knowledge.
Your opinion, dear Brother?"-"For sure, after college",
Said the Judge, "I agree there is no harm done when
Youths go out in the world and rub shoulders with men;
I, when young, have much travelled the world, near and far,
Been to Piotrkw and Dubno, when one of the bar,
The assizes have followed, or furthering my own
Business interests, once even to Warsaw have gone.
Not a little one learned! And my nephew I'd rather
Among folk send as traveller, more wisdom to gather,
Like a journeyman who would set out on the road,
To acquire some experience at home and abroad.
Not for rank nor for orders! Pray tell, if you please,
Russian ranks, Russian orders-what meaning have these?
Which of our ancient lords, bah, and those of today,
Who among local gentry held some little sway,
Cared for similar trifles? Yet these hold their place
In men's favour through deference to good name and race,
Or their office, but local, confirmed by elections
And by their fellow voters, not through one's connections."
Telimena spoke: "Brother, I would not now cavil,
If that's what you think, send off the boy on his travels."
"You see, Sister", the Judge said, his head sadly scratched,
"I would do so, and gladly, but there's a new catch!
Pan Jacek won't relinquish control of his son,

And has now round my neck this big Bernardine hung,

That monk, Worm, who from over the Vistula came,
Brother's friend, he's acquainted with his every aim;
They plan, for our Tadeusz, this Worm and my brother,
He's to wed your ward Zosia, and marry no other.
On my little all, Sister, you know they can count,
And, by Jacek's good will, on a tidy amount
Of his capital: Ma'am knows, his own means are great,
And I owe to him almost my entire estate,
Thus he can well give orders. So, Ma'am, by your leave,
Give some thought as to how this can best be achieved;
They should first get acquainted. True, both young to marry,
Little Zosia, for sure, but this is no great worry;
It is time for our Zosia to come out at last,
It does seem that her childhood has very near passed."
Telimena, amazed, in a panic heart-felt,
Made attempts to arise, but upon her shawl knelt:
First she listened intently and then with her hand
Contradicting, her ear she with vehemence fanned
As if driving back words as unwelcome as flies,
To the mouth of the speaker:
"Ah, what a surprise!
A worry for Tadeusz, but what does this matter",
She said, angry, "of this will your worship judge better,
Tadeusz's not my business, your own counsel take,
Turn him into a bailiff, or innkeeper make,
Let him draw beer or let him game from the woods carry:
With him do what you will: but my Zosia? To marry?
What's your business with Zosia? Her hand will be guided
By me only! That Jacek has money provided
For the girl's education, for Zosia assigned
A small annual income and more had in mind,
Does not mean that he bought her. Besides, sir, you know,
And the world at large also knows that this is so,
Your largesse, sir, towards us, is not without cause,
To Horeszkos the house of Soplicas yet owes
A something!" (This the Judge heard with visible pain,
With confusion, distaste and repugnance most plain;
As if fearing the rest, his head lowered abashed,
One hand raised in agreement, abundantly blushed).
Telimena concluded: "I beg Brother's pardon,
But I am her kin, Zosia's sole carer and guardian.
And her happiness none but I care for and plan."
"What if happiness should she find in this young man?"
Said the Judge, his eyes raised, "and what if she him fancies?"
-"Fancies, romances, to me it's much like the chances
Of a pear on a willow, nor troubles me much!

Zosia's not, this I grant you, a well-dowered catch,

But poor gentry she's not, from some village or other;
A Right Honourable is she, a Voivode her father,
She is of the Horeszkos, a husband will get!
On her upbringing we have so much value set!
Though she does run quite wild here."-The Judge, with care,
followed
All her words, searched her eyes, and it seemed that he mellowed
For he ventured, quite gaily: "Well, what's now to do!
God knows, I tried sincerely the thing to push through;
But without anger. Ma'am, if you're simply not willing,
You have the right, a pity-but to quarrel is silly;
I tried, for brother ordered, none here uses force;
If Ma'am rejects Tadeusz, it's your right, of course:
I shall write now to Jacek that not through my fault
His plans for that betrothal have come to a halt.
I'll look after the thing; with the Chamberlain should
Talk the other match over and matters conclude."
During this Telimena's first fever had passed:
"I reject nothing, Brother, you're going too fast!
You yourself said it's early-they're both so young stillLet's think, let's wait a little, it can do no ill,
Let the young get acquainted, we'll think more than once,
Others' happiness should not be risked on a chance.
But I give you fair warning: you should not persuade,
Nor Tadeusz encourage towards the young maid.
For the heart is no servant, a master disdains,
And will not let itself be imprisoned in chains."
At this, rose the Judge, thoughtful, and went on his way;
Pan Tadeusz approached by the opposite way,
Being lured, he would have it, by mushrooming wholly;
And in that same direction the Count too moved slowly.
While the Judge and the lady had words on the green,
He stood hidden by trees, much surprised at the scene;
From his pocket some paper and pencil he fetched:
These he always had with him, the paper he stretched
On a stump; it was clear he a painting proposed,
To himself mused: "As if they're on purpose so posed!
He above, she below him: a group most artistic!
Faces so full of contrast! Heads characteristic!"
He approached, and then wavered, wiped clean his lorgnette,
Dabbed his eyes with his kerchief and kept gazing yet:
"This scene so fine and charming, this idyll, I fear it
May vanish, or be changed, if I venture too near it!
Shall this velvety grass prove but poppies and beet?
In this nymph, shall I but some young housekeeper meet?"

The Count knew Telimena from meeting her at

The Judge's house, wherein he had frequently sat,
But paid her small attention: was greatly surprised:
Her, in the sketch's model, he now recognised!
The fine setting, her posture, the style of her gown,
So altered her, in truth she could hardly be known.
In her eyes, yet unquenched, still burned hot indignation;
The face, by the wind given a new animation,
After words with the Judge, and the now sudden coming
Of the two young men, sported a flush most becoming.
"Madame", said the Count, "deign my presumption forgive,
I come pardon to beg, and my thanks to you give
To beg pardon, that stealthily your footsteps I traced,
To give thanks, that to witness your thoughts I was graced;
As great is my offence-so great my obligation!
Spoiled your moment of musing-owe my inspiration!
Too brief moments of bliss! Take the man now to task,
But the artist is here your forgiveness to ask!
Much dared I, and ere long shall much more put to chance!
Judge!"-He knelt, and his sketchbook he to her advanced.
Telimena commenced her critique to impart
As a person polite, but acquainted with art;
With encouragement generous, though sparing in praise:
"Bravo, you have a gift, sir", she said, "but it pays
Your art not to neglect, and, of all, it is wise
To seek beautiful nature! O, fortunate skies
Of lands Italian! Caesars' rose-filled gardens shady!
O ye, classical waters of Tiber cascading!
Pathless, dread Pausillipus! Bare rocks heaven-piercing!
That's, Count, the land for painters! But here, Lord have mercy!
Here, a child of the muse, by a local fed breast,
Will die surely. This sketch, Count, I of you request,
To frame, or in my album collection bestow,
Among others I bought, and keep in my bureau."
Began they to converse then about skies all azure,
Murmuring waves, fragrant breezes, cliffs steep beyond measure,
Mixing in, here and there, as do travellers and others,
The laughter and jibes aimed at the land of their fathers.
And yet in each direction the forest deep stretched;
Lithuanian woods! Sublime, full of beauty unmatched!
The blackcurrant, which garlands of wild hop entwine,
Service tree with fresh blush of a shepherdess shines,
The hazel, like a maenad, with thyrsuses flecked,
As by wine-grapes, with pearly nut-clusters bedecked;
Below-the forest children: the alder caressing

The hawthorn, black-lipped blackberry the raspberry kissing,

Trees and shrubs with twined leafy arms take up their stance,
Like young men and young ladies lined up for the dance
Round the newly-weds. Stands in the hub of the group
This pair set well apart from the rest of the troop
By the grace of the form and the beauty of hue:
The white birch, the beloved, and her groom, horn-beam true.
And further, the aged seniors their young minding; each
Watches, sitting in silence: here sits grave old beech,
There the matronly poplars, and moss-bearded oak,
To its humped back now having five centuries yoked,
Leans, as if on the toppling and cracked graveyard stones,
On its ancestor oaks' dead and petrified bones.
Pan Tadeusz was restless, and very much bored
By long discourse to which he did not add a word;
But when the foreign woods they'd begun to extol,
And, in turn, each arboreal variety to call:
Like the orange-tree, cypress, mahogany, lemon,
The sandal-tree, and cactus, and olive, and almond,
Walnut, aloe and fig-tree, and climbing plants too,
Praising trunk, leaf and flower, the form and the hue,
Grimaced Tadeusz, pouted, grimaced once again,
Till he could not his temper much longer contain.
A simple lad, he nature's charm felt and admired;
At his native woods gazing, then spoke much inspired:
"Once in botanic gardens of Wilno I saw
Those much-vaunted trees that in the eastern lands grow
And in southerly lands of fair Italy and Greece;
Which of them can compare with our own native trees?
With his lightning-conductor-like sticks, can the aloe?
Can the lemon, that dwarf, with its balls of chrome yellow,
With leaves carefully lacquered, short, dumpy, the which
Is like an aging woman, small, ugly, but rich?
Or the cypress be-praised, long and thin, which to me
Appears much more the plant not of grief, but ennui?
He is said to look mournful a tombstone adorning,
-But is like German flunkeys rigged out in court mourning!
Would not dare raise an arm, nor dare move on its hinge
His head, lest he decorum in some way infringe.
Does not our honest birch-tree far more beauty don,
Which, like a village-woman who grieves for her son,
Or her man, wrings her hands and lets fall in despair
Down her arms to the ground the cascades of her hair!
Mute with grief, how profoundly she sobs in her pose!
If the Count so for art cares, why paints he not those?
Paints the trees round about us, among which we sit?
Neighbours will, really, laugh at you, sir, quite a bit,

That while among Lithuanian plains, meadows and flocks

You paint only some foreign lands, deserts and rocks."
"Friend!" said the Count, "the glories of nature's creation
Are but form, ground and matter. Soul's the inspiration,
Which on imagination's broad pinions transported
Is by tastefulness polished, by rules is supported.
Nature is not enough, nor does ardour suffice,
Into spheres of the ideal true artists must rise!
Not all things that are beauteous are worthy of paint!
Some day, knowledge of this you from books will obtain.
To return now to painting: one needs must apply
Viewpoint, and composition, and grouping, and sky,
The skies Italian! This is why all understand
Italy, was, is, and shall be the arts' native land!
Thus, except then for Breughel, though not Van Der Helle
But the landscapist (for there's another as well),
Also Ruisdael excepted-in all of the north
Can one name but one artist of similar worth?
The skies, the skies are lacking!"-"Our Orlowski, too",
Telimena broke in, "held the Soplicas' view,
(One should know that this is the Soplicas' malaise,
That they'll nothing else but their own fatherland praise).
Orlowski, too, has settled in Petersburg; though
This famed artist (his sketches are in my bureau)
Lived at court by the Czar's side, as in paradise,
Yet you, Count, would not credit, how this land he prized!
He would always his youthful days fondly recall,
And praise all matters Polish: earth, sky, forests, all..."
"And was right, right completely!" Tadeusz cried, stirred:
These your bright skies Italian, by what I have heard
Blue and clear, they resemble but still water frozen;
Are not, hundredfold, bluster and storm more imposing?
Here, but raise up your head and how many sights meet you!
How many scenes and pictures of clouds at play greet you!
For each cloud is quite different: see one during fall,
Like a slow lazy turtle, with rain pregnant, crawl,
From the sky to the ground its long grey streamers lowers
Like thick tresses unbound: these are autumn's brief showers;
While balloon-like, the hail-cloud upon the wind rides
Rotund, and dark-cerulean, with yellow inside,
With great noise heard around. And these, too, everyday,
Just look up, these white clouds: watch their changing display!
First, like flocks of wild geese or swans, hither and thither
Try to scatter, wind, hawk-like, them herding together,
They bunch up, thicken, grow-and we see a new wonder!
Curving necks sprout before us, manes flow out, and yonder,
Having also grown legs now, across heaven's vault,
Which is now a steppe, witness these wild horses bolt!

Silver-white, they blend, mingle-and suddenly spring

From their necks great tall masts, from the manes broad sails
wing,
The herd changes to ship now, floats splendidly by,
Calmly, slowly across the blue plain of the sky!"
The Count and Telimena the skies with him scanned;
Tadeusz pointed to one of the clouds with his hand,
Telimena's small hand with his other he pressed;
Some minutes of this peaceful entr'acte had now passed;
On his hat the Count laid his art paper and gear,
Had his pencil in hand, when, so harsh to the ear,
The homestead's shrill bell clanged, and at once there arose,
In the erstwhile still forest, much clamour and noise.
The Count, nodding his head, said in serious tones: "Friends,
Thus in this world fate all with a bell's tolling ends,
Great ambitions, great projects of imagination,
Childhood's playtimes and friendship's heart-felt consolations,
The hearts' tender confessions! Should some dread bronze roar
From afar, all is shattered, confused-is no more!"
And directing a glance that showed feeling and pain;
"What remains?"-and she answered him: "Memories remain!"
And desiring to soften the Count's mournful look,
A forget-me-not picked, which he gratefully took,
Pressed a tender kiss on it, and pinned to his heart;
Prised Tadeusz, on his side, a green bush apart,
Glimpsing that through the foliage towards him came stealing
Something pale-a small hand, soft and white as a lily;
He seized it, kissed it also, in it sank his lips,
As a bee from a lily-cup sweet nectar sips.
Something cold touched his mouth; he a key found, and caught
A rolled flute of white paper: this must be a note!
He snatched it and concealed, the key's meaning not plain,
But the little white note would all surely explain.
Clanged the bell still; like echoes came clamour and cry
From the depths of the forest in instant reply:
People calling each other, confused disarray,
All a sign mushroom gathering was done for the day.
This bell's pealing was neither forlorn nor funereal
As the Count it perceived, but, indeed, was 'dinnerial'.
This bell, each noon calls loudly to all from the gable,
Guests and servants calls homeward, to come to the table:
Such was ever the custom in many old homes,
And was still in the Judge's house. From the grove comes
The whole company, carrying all variously, caskets,
Kerchiefs knotted at corners, or small wicker baskets
Full of mushrooms; young ladies displayed in one hand
The imposing boletus, a well-folded fan,

In the other hand, tied like a field-flower posy,

Carried tree-and-mulch mushrooms, brown, ochre, and rosy.
The Tribune carried fly-bane. Hands empty came then
Telimena, with both of her young gentlemen.
The guests entered in order and stood for the grace:
The Chamberlain at the head of the cloth took his place;
To his age and his rank does this honour belong,
Walking, bowed to the ladies, the aged and the young;
By his side stood the Almsman, the Judge followed next,
The Bernardine recited a short Latin text;
Then the men were served vodka, and all took their place
And their cold barszcz, in silence, ate at a quick pace.
And the dinner was quiet, on speechlessness verging:
Not one his mouth would open, despite the host's urging.
The two sides in the bitter great canine dispute,
Minds set on next day's contest and wager, were mute:
Deep thought to silence often conduces the mind.
Telimena, though most to Tadeusz inclined,
Talking with him, sometimes to the Count turned her head,
Or yet at the Assessor a glance loosed instead:
Thus the fowler the net minds when he finches catches,
With the other eye, meanwhile, the sparrow-trap watches.
And the Count and Tadeusz, each pleased in his mind,
Each one chock-full of hopes, to talk were not inclined.
While the Count a proud gaze at the flower directed,
More stealthily Tadeusz his pocket inspected,
To make sure that the key was still there, and not fled;
Or, he fingered the note, which he had not yet read.
The Judge the Chamberlain's glass filled with Tokay, champagne,
Attended to his needs, knees pressed time and again,
But for friendly discussion he had little zest;
It was plain, secret worries his mind now possessed.
Plates and dishes each followed in silence profound;
When the tedious routine was disturbed by the sound
Of a guest unexpected; the keeper rushed in:
Paying no great attention to dinner within,
He ran straight to the Master, from mien and from gait
One could see he was bearer of news of great weight.
So on him were the eyes fixed by everyone there,
He, breath somewhat recovered, said: "Master, a bear!"
They the rest guessed: emerged from the depths of the wood,
One in trans-Niemen thickets now sought solitude.
That he had to be hunted, at once all agreed,
Though they nor to consult nor to ponder had need.
Orders issued in volleys, quick phrases clipped short,
Lively gestures and nods, all showed common rapport,
And the quick-fire words that from so many lips came,

All yet nonetheless tended towards the one aim.

"To the village!" the Judge cried, "the bailiff, to horse!
At first dawn the battue, none to join us is forced!
He who turns up with pike, him I grant a release
From two days of forced roadwork, five days of his fees!"
"Quick!" the Chamberlain shouted, "go saddle my gray,
Someone ride to my manor, and fetch, no delay,
My bulldogs, which in all this whole district are famed,
The dog called 'the Inspector', bitch 'Lawyer' by name;
Gag securely their snouts, tie them up in a sack,
Bring them quick as you can here upon the mare's back."
"Wanka", cried the Assessor, in Russian, "go home:
And my Sanguszko cleaver whet well on the stone:
You know! That famous cleaver I had from His Grace;
Check the belt whether each ball is loaded in place."
"Guns!" all shouted together, "make ready the guns":
The Assessor called: "Bring all lead to me, at once!
I have dies in my satchel"-The Judge said: "Go warn
The priest that he tomorrow will say mass at dawn
At the wood-chapel for us, without too much fuss,
A short offering, the huntsman's St. Hubert low mass."
When the orders were given, there was not a sound;
Each one deeply considered, his eyes cast around
As if searching for someone; all eyes slowly drawn
To the Tribune's head hoary, and to him alone:
A sign, they for this business to follow the matins
Seek a chief, and the Tribune was handed the baton.
The old Tribune his comrades' will well understood,
Rose, and solemnly striking his hand on the wood,
Drew out, hid in his bosom, on gold watch-chain hung,
A time-piece like a ripe pear, which from the chain swung.
"At the wood chapel must we at four-thirty gather,
Our contingent of beaters, and we huntsmen brothers".
He spoke, and left; the keeper behind him a pace;
It was theirs to arrange and take charge of the chase.
Thus war chiefs, when the morrow they fixed for the battle,
Their soldiers at the campsite clean arms, boil the kettle,
Or on cloaks and on saddles sleep care-free, while yonder,
In the hushed tent, their leaders till dawn brood and ponder.
Cut short was the day's dinner, remaining time passed
With dogs fed, horses shod, arms were cleaned, bullets cast.
Hardly any to supper turned up at the table;
And even Hawk's and Bobtail's two parties were able

For the present to pause in their ancient dispute.

The Assessor and Notary, arms linked, in pursuit
Of lead vanish, while others, from much effort tired,
So as early to waken, now early retired.

Book Four

DIPLOMACY
AND THE HUNT

Tadeusz is wakened by an apparition in curlpapers - Belated

realization of his error - The tavern - A skilful application of
snuffbox directs the discussion back on track - The heartwood - The
bear - Tadeusz and the Count in peril - Three shots - Dispute about
Sagalas and Sanguszko guns, decided in favour of a Horeszko
single-barrel - The bigos -The Tribune's tale of the duel between
Dowejko and Domejko, interrupted by coursing the hare Conclusion of the Dowejko-Domejko tale

You, companions of Litwa's great princes! Trees hoary

Of Bialowieza, Switez, Kuszelew, Ponary!
Whose shadow in days ancient descended on crowned
Dreaded heads of Witenes, Mindowa renowned,
And Giedymin's, when he, on Ponary's great hill
By a huntsman's campfire on a bearskin lay still,
Listening rapt to the songs of sagacious Lizdejko.

By the sight of Wilija, sigh of the Wilejka

Lulled asleep, he a dream of an iron wolf dreamt;
And, waking, by gods' order knew that he was meant
To build the city Wilno, which sits in its lair
Like a wolf, midst the bison, the boar and the bear.
From this Wilno town, like from the she-wolf of Rome,
The great Kiejstut, and Olgierd, and Olgierd's brood come,
Famous huntsmen and also great warrior-knights they,
Whether chasing the enemy, or hunting wild prey.
This dream the future's secret did to us reveal,
That Lithuania will ever need forest and steel.
Wild woods! To you the last one had come for the chase,
The last monarch whom Witold's majestic cap graced,
Last Jagiellon a victory in battle to win,
And the last Lithuanian renowned huntsman-king.
Native trees of my homeland! If heaven yet sends
Me once more to behold you, my faithful old friends,
Shall I find you again? Are you living this while?
You, among whose huge trunks I once crawled as a child;
Does great Baublis survive yet, within whose huge womb
By centuries drilled hollow, as in a good room,
A supper for a dozen could easily be set?
Blossoms Mendog's old grove by the parish church yet?
And does there, in the Ukraine, does there yet now stand
At Holowinski's manor, upon Rosa's strand,
The linden-tree so widespread, that under its shade
Five score youths, five score maids, had joined hands, danced and
played?
Our monuments! Each year brings how many attacks
From government's or merchant's sharp Muscovite axe!
It now to forest warblers no shelter affords,
Nor bards, to whom your shadow is dear as to birds.
Yet the Czarnolas linden, to Jan's voice tuned, spoke
Such rhymes into his ear! And, this garrulous oak
With such wondrous sounds did once the Cossack bard please!
How much do I owe to you, my dear native trees!
A wretched marksman, fleeing my hunting friends' sneers
About targets I missed here, how many ideas,
Dreams, I bagged in your quiet, when in some wild place
I sat down on a tussock, forgetting the chase.
And about me shone silver the grey-bearded moss,
Stained with blackberries' crushed purple, and further across
There reddened gentle hillocks in heather apparel
Like with rosaries, strung with red cranberries' coral!
All around me was darkness; the branches' expanse
Hung above me suspended like clouds green and dense;
Above this dormant ceiling the wind somewhere wandered

With groaning, soughing, howling, with thudding, and thunder;

Strange bewildering uproar! Then seemed it to me
There was hanging above me a wild stormy sea.
Below, resembling ruins of a civilization:
A prone oak salient juts, like some dilapidation;
Leaning on it, like crumbling walls and pillars seem
Here the branchy log, and there the half-rotted beam,
By a hedge of grass guarded; the heart of this glade
It is terror to enter; for there sit arrayed
Boars, bears, wolves: these woods' masters; and at its gates rest
Half-gnawed bones of some hapless and unwary guest.
Sometimes briefly above the green grass may appear
Like two water-jets sparkling, the horns of a deer;
Flickers yellow its form through the trees, off and on,
In the wood, like a sunbeam, now here, and now gone.
Below again all's quiet. Perched high on a fir,
A woodpecker pecks lightly, and flies off somewhere;
He has hidden himself, but continues his knocking
Like a hiding child calling that we may come looking.
Near-by nibbles a squirrel a nut of good size
In her paws held, her bushy tail shielding her eyes
Like the plume on the shako of a cuirassier,
And, although thus concealed, darts her glance everywhere;
Glimpsing a guest, this forest danseuse makes a dash
From one tree to another, a red lightning-flash;
Until into a bole-hole, too secret to see,
She slips in like a dryad returned to her tree.
Again there is silence.
When a branch quivers, brushed,
And part the ash-tree's clusters, and into view flash
A pair of cheeks than berries more crimson and fairThey are the maid's who gathers such nuts and fruit there
Into a simple basket, and in which she carries
The cranberries; her lips sparkling as red as the berries;
Alongside steps a youth; he the hazels bends down;
-The maid catches the nuts then before they touch ground.
At the house a great hubbub; but neither the baying
Of the hounds, nor the creaking of carts, nor the neighing,
Nor the trumpets' loud signal for all to be ready
For the hunt, could Tadeusz draw out of his bedding.
On it fallen full-dressed like a dormouse snored deep;
None of the youths suspecting he yet lay asleep;
With their own affairs busy each to his post sped,
Of their sleeping companion no thought in his head.
He snored on. The sun, entering the small heart-shaped hole

Which was cut in the shutter, first timidly stole,

Then with its fiery beam our young sleeper's brow burnt:
He kept trying to slumber and twisted and turned
Hiding from this harsh brightness; but then a loud rapping
Fully woke him, it was an awakening happy.
He felt bright as a bird, and breathed amply and freely,
Felt an exhilaration, a wonderful feeling:
Musing on the past day and all that him befell,
Blushed and sighed, his blithe heart beat as loud as a bell.
Then looked up-but how strange! In the rays of the sun,
In that opening heart-shaped, a pair of eyes shone
Which, as can be expected, were opened quite wide,
For they gazed into darkness from brightness outside.
A small hand, like a fan, he saw shading the light
And protecting those eyes from the sun over-bright;
The slight, delicate fingers against the light turned,
And like rubies transparent, with roseate glow burned;
He saw lips, curious, pouting somewhat, and saw fine
Little teeth, which like white pearls among coral shine;
And cheeks, which though that rosy hand shielded them so,
Yet themselves both all over like two roses glowed.
He lay under a window; in shadows concealed,
Stretched flat on his back, marvelled at what he beheld,
Which just over, near-touching his face was now gleaming,
Was this presence quite real? Or, perhaps, he was dreaming
Of the shining and pleasant young face of a child
As in tender years once, in our dreams, on us smiled?
The small face approached his-and, now trembling in fear,
And, alas, in joy too, now! He saw, all too clear,
Saw, remembered, and knew that hair short, golden-bright,
Twisted into small ringlets in curl-papers white,
(Like silvery pods), which shone, with the radiance sun lent,
As in a blessed icon the crown of a saint.
He sprang up-but the vision had vanished in fear
Of the noise; though he waited, did not re-appear.
Only heard he again once the same triple tapping
And the words: "Please get up, sir, it's no time for napping,
You've slept in, sir". He leapt out of bed, roughly threw
Both wood shutters asunder, till groaned every screw,
And each flew apart, banging the wall on its side;
He jumped out, looked around him, dazed, eyes open wide,
Yet saw nothing, saw no one, no footprint at all:
The fenced orchard extended not far from the wall,
And above, leaves of hop-plant, and flowers, swayed slightly,
By some delicate hands these, perhaps, were touched lightly?
Or the wind? So Tadeusz stood long in suspense,
Dared not enter, but only, both arms on the fence,

Raised his eyes, with one finger he placed on his lips

Bid himself to stay silent-so no word would slip
To spoil this meditation. His forehead he rapped,
Just as if an old memory, long dormant, he tapped.
At last, biting his fingers, till blood nearly streamed,
At the top of his voice: "serves me, right, idiot", screamed.
The house, filled until lately with bustle and cries
Like a graveyard now silent and desolate lies:
All had left for the hunt now; Tadeusz pricked up
His ears, and like two trumpets, both hands to them cupped,
And listened, till the wind brought, blown from the deep wood
Trumpet-calls and loud cries of the hunt brotherhood.
Tadeusz's horse stood in the stable, all saddled,
He his flintlock grabbed, and, like a madman, skedaddled
Towards the inns that stood by the chapel, thus near
Where at dawn the hunt party were told to appear.
There two inns leant together, opposing each other,
And with its hostile windows each threatened its brother;
The older was the castle's, by old feudal right,
The latter by Soplicas was built in despite.
Gerwazy in the first ruled the roost, by tradition,
In the other, Protazy took foremost position.
The new inn not distinctive in style or in line;
While the other was built to an older design,
Tyrian carpenters' pattern, it is now well known,
Which the Jews had adopted and took for their own:
A style of architecture they through the world carried,
Abroad quite unknown; we from the Jews it inherit.
The inn's front view a Noah's ark strongly resembled,
Its rear more like a temple; the ark held assembled
In its box-like square structure much fauna, though called
These days by the more rustic name 'byre'; in its hold
Various beasts: horses, bearded goats, cattle; birds flew;
Reptiles crawled in pairs; there were huge insect swarms too.
The rear built in a different and temple-like style,
Its appearance recalling that Solomon's pile,
Which those earliest trainees in the carpenter's trade,
King Hiram's skilful craftsmen, on Mount Zion made.
Jews it follow today still when building their schools,
And their taverns and barns are built to the same rules.
Roof of straw and of shingle, ends pointed, kicked up,
Crumpled up like a Jew's old and shabby torn cap,
Up above it the show of a balcony boasts,
Held aloft by a row of close-set wooden posts;

Architecture's great marvel these columns are, too:

Still standing, though half-rotten and put up askew
Like the tower of Pisa; the style, though, not GreekFor no capital to them, nor bases antique.
Semi-circular arches above these posts run,
Also wooden, in manner of Gothic art done.
Carved all round, though no graver nor chisel were used,
But with carpenter's hatchet most deftly produced,
Like Sabbath candelabra, with arms long and hooked,
At their ends turned round balls, which like those buttons look
Which on Israelite pates at their prayers are hung
And which 'tsitses', or fringes, are called in their tongue.
From afar the whole tavern, tottering, and off-square,
Most resembled a Jew who is nodding at prayer:
The roof a cap, thatch under, a rough unkempt beard;
Walls, a gaberdine smoke-stained, bedraggled and smeared,
While the carving in front like a 'tsitses' projects.
A partition the tavern down centre bisects:
One section filled with chambers quite narrow and long,
Does solely to the ladies and travellers belong;
In the other, one huge room. Along each wall stood
A plain many-legged table, long, narrow, of wood,
On both sides many stools, which the table resembled
As do children their father.
On these stools assembled
Peasants, wives, petty gentry, together tight pressed,
In a row; but the Steward apart from the rest.
After mass at the chapel, it was the Lord's Day,
They proceeded to Jankiel's to drink and to play.
A small bowl of grey vodka by each hand frothed hot,
In between ran the hostess who held a quart pot.
In the middle stood Jankiel in full-length capote
To the ground, with silk loops and with silver clasps caught.
One hand gravely inside his black silken sash placed,
With the other his beard stroked, grey, reaching his waist;
Casting glances about him, he newcomers greeted,
Issued orders, would pause by those already seated
To encourage the discourse, the quarrelsome quelled,
Serving no one himself, he about the room strolled.
The old Jew, wide reputed to be a good man,
Long the lease held. No peasant, nor yet gentleman
At the manor his service would ever run down;
Why complain? Here the best choice of drink could be found,
He kept careful accounts, but gave no one short weight,
Good cheer encouraged, drunks though would not tolerate,
He loved dancing and fun: here were weddings enjoyed,
They held christenings here; he each Sunday employed

Musicians from the village, and this band would swell

With a player on bass-viol, and bagpipes as well.
In all music versed, he had a great reputation;
On the cembalo, greatly beloved by his nation,
He performed at the manors: his playing amazed,
And his singing, for skill and musicianship praised.
Though a Jew, quite correctly pronounced he our tongue;
He especially favoured the national song,
Brought from over the Niemen too many to tell:
Hutzul dances from Halicz, mazurkas as well;
Rumour, true or not, had it that to him we owed,
That, in fact, he the first was to bring from abroad
And to soon make familiar throughout the whole shire
That song that through the world now is famed and admired,
And which for the first time, in the Ausonian regions
To Italian ears sounded the trumps of our legions.
The gift of voice in Litwa is very well-paid,
People's joy, it earns wealth, and it brings accolade:
It made Jankiel rich; sated with profit and fame,
His cembalo sweet-voiced he hung up and became
An inn-keeper; with children and wife settled down.
He was, too, under-rabbi in neighbouring town,
In all homes a guest welcome, one never afraid
To give sound advice; knew much about the grain trade
And its transport by water: a much-needed role
In this country.-Known also to be a good Pole.
It was he brought feuds, bloody sometimes, to a cease
That raged between the taverns: he took both on lease;
The adherents of neither respect him begrudged;
By Horeszkos' men honoured, and those of the Judge.
Only his mien could temper the more feared, and rasher,
The Horeszkos' old Warden, and quarrelsome Usher;
Before Jankiel each choked back the grudge and the wrong,
Gerwazy of the feared hand, Protazy of tongue.
Gerwazy was not there; he had gone to the hunt
Loath into such great peril to send the young Count
As yet so inexperienced in such matters, and
Therefore followed him close to advise and defend.
Today Gerwazy's corner, away from the door,
Where two wall benches meet, at the inn's very core,
As the 'sanctuary' known, was by Father Worm filled;
Placed there, indeed, by Jankiel; who, quite plainly, held
The almsman in much honour; as soon as he chanced
To see the priest's glass empty, would run up at once
And then have it replenished with best July mead.

It was said that, when younger, they had known indeed

Each other in lands foreign. And often, at night
Worm would come and confer with the Jew out of sight
About matters of substance; and some rumours had it
The monk smuggled, an insult not worthy of credit.
Worm, arms propped on the table, talked in tones subdued,
By the gentry surrounded. The crowd stood, ears glued,
In the snuff-box monastic long noses they squeezed;
All sniffed thence, and then all like a battery sneezed.
"Reverendissime", said Skoluba, sneeze done,
"This is some great tobacco, gets up the old bun;
As long as this beak's mine" (here he stroked his long nose)
"I have never had better" (he took one more dose);
"A real Bernardine snuff this, from Kovno indeed,
A town through the world famous for snuff and for mead,
I was there, let me see..." Broke in Worm: "The Lord send
Good health to you all, masters, my most honoured friends!
But about this tobacco, hem, it, I confess,
Comes from further afar than our friend here can guess.
From the Bright Mountain comes, where the Pauline priestfathers
In Czestochowa make it, much better than others,
Where dwells that wondrous picture, for holiness known,
The Lord's own Virgin Mother, Queen of Polish Crown;
As she, also, Lithuania's Grand Duchess is called!
She the royal crown of Poland still wears, as of old,
But our Duchy's now under schismatic oppression!"
"Czestochowa?" asked Wilbik, "I went for confession,
For indulgences there, now a score years or more;
Is it true that the Frenchman sits there like a lord,
Plans the church to demolish, steal the treasure in't?
-The 'Lithuanian Courier' had all this in print!"
"No, not true", said the monk; "no, beyond any doubt
Of all Catholics, Napoleon's by far most devout;
Him the Pope has anointed, they live in accord,
And the French they together convert to the Lord,
For these have grown lax, somewhat; and true, the monks blessed
And put much silver into the national chest,
For the Fatherland, Poland! The Lord so ordains,
Still the treasury of Poland His altar remains;
After all, in the Duchy, there stand now five-score
Thousand our Polish soldiers, there soon may be more
And who'll pay for this army? And should not you offer?
You who pennies put only in Muscovite coffer?"
"The devil!" Wilbik cried, "they by force grab the tin!"
"Oy, dear master", a peasant most humbly put in,
Bowing low to the Father, and scratching his head:
"You are gentry, for you it is not half as bad,
But us, they strip like fish".-"Churl!" Skoluba cried out

"Stupid, you're better off, you're accustomed, you lout

Like an eel, to be skinned; but for us, the well-bred,
For us gentry, to golden old liberties wed!
Ah, a gentleman, brothers, once, on his own patch..."
("Yes, yes, yes", they all cried, "is a voievode's match")
"...They our birth would now question, 'Find papers', they prate;
Our title to be 'gentry' we must demonstrate".
"Yours, sir, is but small matter", Juraha then cried,
"Your granddads were just peasants, but late gentrified,
But I, I come of princes! Ask me to disclose
When my patents were granted? God only this knows!
Let the Russ to the forest go, ask the oak: 'Please,
Who gave you rights to flourish above other trees?'"
"Gracious Prince", put in Zagiel, "elsewhere tell this stuff,
Hereabouts you'll encounter coronets enough".
"A cross features on your shield; sign uncontroverted",
Cried Podhajski with venom, "your folk were converted".
"False!" cut in Birbasz, "I come of Tartar counts, sirs,
My escutcheon three crosses above an ark bears".
"Poraj", cried out Mickiewicz, "field gold, with a mitre,
A duke's coat, it is proven, Stryjkowski's the writer".
Upon this in the tavern rose murmurs, and worse;
Father Worm to his snuff-box again had recourse,
Passed it round the disputants; the tumult soon eased,
Each took some, through politeness, and several times sneezed;
Making use of the respite the priest spoke again:
"Oh, this snuff has been used by the greatest of men!
Would you credit, this snuffbox had once, true enough,
To our General Dabrowski four times given snuff?"
"What? Dabrowski?" they cried-"I was at the attack
When our great general Gdansk from the Germans took back.
He had writing to do; so, that he would not nap,
Took this stuff, sneezed, and twice gave my shoulder a clap:
'Father Worm', he then said, 'yes, without any doubt
We shall meet in Lithuania before the year's out;
Tell the Litwans: await me, have ready this snuff,
Czestochowan, no other is near good enough'."
The priest's tale raised such wonder, and such joy, among
All the listeners assembled, the whole gathered throng
Was silent for a moment; then, over and over,
"Polish snuff?" was repeated, "and from Czestochowa?
From Italy? And Dabrowski?"-When this moment passed,
As if thought met with thought, word with word, they at last
With one voice, as at signal made, all with one shout,
"The Dabrowski March!" cried-and all bedlam broke out,
All each other hugged: peasant embraced Tartar Count,
Cross, and Mitre, Gryf, Poraj, forgot every taunt,
All forgotten, with even the priest out of mind,

They sang on, while still shouting: "Mead! Vodka! And wine!"
Long gave Father Worm ear to the song of the men,
At last judged it enough; took the snuffbox again
In both hands, with two sneezes their melody broke
And, before they recovered, thus hastily spoke:
"You give praise to my snuffbox, my very good sirs,
Now observe what inside this container occurs".
Here, he wiped well its bottom, which snuff made obscure,
To reveal a small army in fine miniature,
Like a swarm of gnats; central, a man trots along,
Huge as a beetle, doubtless, the chief of this throng;
Reins in one hand, the other hand touching his nose,
His horse spurring, which skyward upon hind legs rose,
"Observe, sirs", said Worm, "this man's redoubtable bearing;
Can you guess who that is?"-All, expectant, stood staring"A great man this, an emperor, but not of the Russian,
For the Russian czars never took up the snuff fashion".
"A great man", called out Cydzik, "and in a capote?
I had thought that great men walk with gold on their coat,
Any Muscovite general puts on a great show,
Like a pike cooked in saffron, all glitter and glow".
"Bah", cut in Rymsza, "I had indeed seen the great
Kosciuszko, once commander of our entire state:
Though a great man, he favoured Krakw country wear,
Or a czamara, rather"-"What czamara, sir?
A taratatka it was!" cried Wilbik, "Forsooth,
The one's fringed, and the other is totally smooth!"
Mickiewicz then called out, and there broke out fresh quarrels
About the style and virtues of different apparels.
The resourceful Worm, seeing the train of discourse
Go astray, began putting it back on its course,
Once more snuff went around and they all sneezed in train,
Wished each other good health; so he spoke yet again:
"When the Emperor Napoleon takes snuff at a battle
Several times, that's a sure sign the matter is settled;
Take Austerlitz, the Frenchman stood still, every man
By his cannon, and at them a Muscow swarm ran;
The Emperor watched, silent; each time the French fired,
Corps of Russians lay down, like mown grass, in the mire:
And corps after corps galloped and fell off its mounts;
As each corps fell, Napoleon would sniff up an ounce;
At last Czar Alexander, with his little brother
Konstanty, and the Kaiser Franz all in a lather,
Took to their heels; so, seeing them quitting the scene,
The Emperor just laughed and his fingers shook clean.
So, if any here present, so being inclined
Joins the Emperor's army, just call this to mind."

"Ah!" cried Skoluba, "Father, but when will this be?

When will that day dawn? Every saint's day that we see
In the calendar, vainly the Frenchman predicts!
One watches, till one's lids must be propped up with sticks;
And the Ruski, as always, holds us by the throat;
Before that bright sun rises, our eyes dew will rot".
"My dear sir", said the monk, "it's for women to grumble,
Or for Jews, with arms folded, to wait, meek and humble
At the door for a traveller to bring him some trade;
No big thing to beat Moscow with Napoleon's aid.
Three times he tanned already the hide of the Kraut,
Nasty Prussians he stepped on, the English kicked out,
Hey, over the sea. Ruskis he'll cope with as well;
And what will come of all that, can you, good sir, tell?
So, the Lithuanian gentry will then show its mettle
And its sabres will brandish, but after the battle?
Napoleon, having thrashed all himself, will then say:
'I can do without you, who are you, anyway?'
Not enough to await, to invite guests to sup,
One should gather one's people and tables set up,
For a feast, clean your house out, you know what I mean,
So, make your house clean, children, first make your house
clean!"
Silence fell, then some voices arose, then a choral
"How to 'clean out your house'? What's your reverence's moral?
Sure, we'll do what's to do, do it all to the letter,
Only let your good reverence explain your drift better".
The priest gazed out the window, cut short what was said;
Saw there something of interest, so stuck out his head,
After a pause said, rising: "We've no time today,
At a time more convenient I'll have more to say;
I tomorrow have business in our district town,
Alms collected, will call here, sirs, on my way down".
"Let Father to Niechrymow drop in for the night",
Said the Steward, "The Ensign will gladly invite
You to stay, we in Litwa all know the old saying:
'As lucky as an almsman in Niechrymow staying'!"
"To our place," said Zubkowski, "do drop in, I beg:
We'll find linen, a lamb or calf, butter-a keg,
Mind the old proverb, Father: 'a priest is real blessed
If he comes as an almsman to Zubkow on quest'.
"Come to us", said Skoluba,-"To us"-Terajewicz,
"No Bernardine is hungry when leaving Pucrewicz".
Thus all gentry with plea and inducement galore
Saw the priest off; already he was out the door.
He had just glimpsed Tadeusz, who madly had raced
Down the road past the window, no hat, ashen-faced,

Head bent forward, a gloomy and set lower lip,

And his horse madly urging with reins, spur and whip.
The Bernardine by this sight was puzzled and worried;
So he after the youngster with rapid step hurried,
Towards the forest looming, vast, limitless, grim,
And blackening the horizon's broad outermost rim.
Litwan wilderness, who can its fastness explore
To the very heart's centre, the thicket's deep core?
The fisherman knows barely the sea's shallow shore,
And the huntsman but knocks on the Litwan woods' door,
Knows it but on the surface, its form, outward look,
But its innermost sanctum's to him a closed book:
Only rumour or fable knows what lies within.
For, if you through the thicket should manage to win,
You will strike a great rampart of roots, stumps and beams,
By quagmires well defended, by thousands of streams,
And anthill upon anthill, and mattings of brakes,
Nests of wasps and of hornets, and writhings of snakes.
If you these with amazing great bravery subdue
Then even more dire perils are waiting for you:
There lie in wait, like wolf-pits, that dare you to pass,
Little pools half grown over with mat of rank grass
So very deep, that no man can fathom such pit,
(And it is very likely, therein devils sit).
Water in these shafts glistens, with bloody rust spotted,
And steam from the depths rises, with smell of things rotted,
Which makes the trees that grow there lose all leaf and bark;
Bald and dwarfish, worm-riddled, unhealthy and stark,
With mossy tangled elf-locks from crooked limbs hanging,
And stumps hump-backed, and bristling with unlovely fungi,
Squat like a witches' coven round a cauldron wheezing,
Their hands warming, while in it a fresh corpse is seething.
Past these pools, it's not only quite useless to try
To set foot, but to even explore with one's eye:
For all is hidden always by mists which there lie,
And eternally rise from that quivering morass.
And behind this mist (such tales through villages pass)
Stretches out a most lovely and fertile expanse,
Capital of the kingdom of beasts and of plants.
In it gathered, the seeds of each herb and tree lie,
From which through the whole world can each kind multiply;
As in Noah's ark, in it each specie of beast
For propagation keeps here one pair at the least.
In its heart (we are told) there repose in grand state
Ancient Buffalo, Bear, Bison: its emperors great.
On a tree-branch the swift Lynx limbs stretches, inert;
Near the wolverine-glutton, ministers alert;
Then, subordinate vassals of this citadel,

The huge Boar, forest Wolf, and the long-horned Elk dwell.
The wild Falcons and Eagles keep watch overhead,
And like court hangers-on, are from lords' table fed.
These beast pairs, patriarchal, illustrious, serene,
In the forest's core hid, by the world never seen,
Send their young to the outposts at edge of the wood,
While they, in the deep centre, enjoy quietude;
They by arms never perish, by cold steel, or shot,
But a natural death die when old, in this spot.
And they have their own graveyard, where when nearing death,
The birds lay down their feathers, furred beasts give up breath,
The bear, its own teeth swallowed, cannot chew its food,
Senile stag, when its forelegs no longer are good,
The aging hare, when blood in its veins congeals cold,
The raven greyed, the falcon, once keen-eyed, now old,
The eagle, when so crooked becomes its old beak,
That, no food past its gullet, each day grows more weak,
Go to the graveyard. Even the lesser beasts race,
Sick or wounded, to die in each one's native place.
Thus in parts not so secret, where humans are guests,
One can never discover the bones of dead beasts.
One hears that the wild creatures in that citadel
Rule themselves and that therefore their matters run well;
By man's civilization not rendered immoral,
Rights of property know not, which makes our world quarrel,
Nor duels, nor the art and the science of war.
As in Eden their forebears, their sons evermore
Live in peace and affection, wild and tame, like brothers,
None will bite, nor will butt, nor attack one another.
Even if man should chance there, though he be unarmed,
Through the midst of the beasts he could wander unharmed;
They would cast on him merely that look of surprise,
Which on day six, creation's last, in paradise
Their forbears, who had dwelt in the First Garden's rim,
Cast at Adam, before they had quarrelled with him.
Happily, no man into this recess may stray,
For Toil, and Death, and Terror, forbid him the way.
Sometimes only the bloodhounds in frenzied pursuit
Having heedlessly rushed twixt the bog, gorge and root,
By these depths' utter horror unnerved, terrified,
Run off whining and yelping, half-mad, crazy-eyed;
And long after, although by their master caressed,
They yet at his feet tremble, by terror possessed.
This, the forest's deep covert, to men never shown,
In their language as 'heartwood' by hunters is known.
Foolish bear! Had you stayed in the heartwood protected
The Tribune would have never your presence detected;
But whether scent of honey, to which you are prone,

Or the fragrant ripe oats had you fatally drawn:

You to forest's edge ventured, where trees were less dense,
And the game-keepers there straight your presence had sensed,
And sent after you beaters to keep you in sight,
And spy where you are feeding, and where spend the night.
Now, the Tribune, with beaters, to your heartwood seat,
Having placed his battalions, forbids you retreat.
Tadeusz now found out that he did not much miss
Since the dogs vanished into the forest's abyss.
Quiet now:-now the huntsman in vain strains his ear
As if some vital speech he is trying to hear,
Listening to the deep silence, long motionless stays;
Only the forest's music to him gently plays.
Dogs, like grebes under water, dive through brake and fern,
While the hunters, twin-barrels towards the woods turned,
Watch the Tribune, now kneeling, ear quizzing the ground;
As they might watch a doctor, whom each tries to sound
For the life-or-death sentence for someone held dear,
Thus the hunters the Tribune's hunt-knowledge revere;
Their gaze hopeful, and fearful, upon his face kept.
"He's here", he at last muttered, and to his feet leapt,
He has heard: they yet listen-then, too, hear the grunts,
One dog's yelp, then another's, then, twenty at once,
All the hounds howl together-a wide-scattered pack
Gives voice, nostrils now catching the scent on the track,
They bay fiercely and loudly: but not with the lazy
Hunt-pack song when a hare, or a fox, or doe chasing,
But with short now and frequent, staccato, sharp sounds,
For this was not an old spoor, just found by the hounds:
Now their quarry's in sight, now stops still the pursuit;
The beast is at bay-yelpings, din, uproar-the brute
Fights them off, surely maims them; among the dogs' baying
One hears more and more often the howls of dog dying.
Now the hunters paused, each with his loaded gun stood,
Like a strung bow bent forward, head aimed at the wood;
Then can stand still no longer! Their set posts forsake
And one after another push into the brake
To be first at the beast, though the Tribune urged caution,
Though the Tribune on horseback inspected each station,
"Whether he a plain peasant, or master", he cried,
"Who his post leaves, a crop he across his backside
Will soon feel!" But no use! All, despite Tribune's tether,
Ran into the wood, three guns now thundered together,
Then a wild cannonade, till more loud than this war
Roared the bear, echo filling the woods with its roar.
A dreadful roar! Of anguish, of rage, of despair!
Then dogs' howls, cries of huntsmen, and beaters horns' blare
From the thickets' depth sounded; the huntsmen, excited,

Run in deeper, guns cocking-and all are delighted;

But the Tribune cries sadly: the shots went astray.
The huntsmen and the beaters all hurried one way:
To cut off the beast midway the covert and wood;
While the bear, by dogs menaced, by hunters pursued,
Turned back towards the areas of hunters bereft,
Towards fields, which the outposts already had left,
Where, from huntsmen's ranks, only the Tribune had stayed,
With the Count, and Tadeusz, and some who obeyed.
The forest here more sparse; from it roar, hubbub, crash,
When as from storm-clouds issues a thunderbolt, rushed
The bear, dogs chase and worry; on hind legs he rose,
Looked around him, his roaring affrighting his foes,
With his forepaws he tree-roots tore up, or he found
Blackened tree-stumps, or stones pulled from out of the ground,
These at dogs and men hurling, a tree he then cleft,
Twirling it like a club to the right, to the left,
And rushed straight at the outposts last of the battue,
At the Count and Tadeusz: No fear showed the two,
Legs apart, their two muskets thrust out at the game
Like two lightning-rods at a cloud's dark bosom aimed;
And two fingers then pulled at their triggers at once:
(Inexperienced!); as one gun there thundered both guns;
And both missed. The bear bounded, they grabbed with four
hands
A spear in ground embedded, and each it demands,
Pulls it to him-they look up, and here, from a snout
Red, enormous, two sharp rows of white fangs flash out,
And a paw with huge talons hangs just overhead;
They grew pale and jumped backwards, to open ground sped,
The beast just behind, outstretched, already its claws
Slashed, and missed, again pouncing, again stretched and rose,
For the Count's bright blond hair it with one black paw searched.
Would have torn skull from brains like a hat off its perch,
When Assessor and Notary emerged from each side,
And Gerwazy some five score of paces ran wide,
And with him Worm, unarmed though-the three, through the
briar,
As if at a command all together gave fire.
The bear leapt up as, chased by the hounds, leaps a hare,
And it crashed headlong downward, four paws in the air,
Turned a somersault, and its huge carcass's mass
Crashing at the Count's feet, knocked him flat on the grass,
Roaring still, yet would rise, when was pinned to the ground
By ferocious 'Inspector' and 'Lawyer' renowned.
Thereupon grasped the Tribune, to his belt well knotted,
His great buffalo horn, long, and twisty, and spotted
As the snake boa; two-handed to his lips he pressed it,

Blew his cheeks out like pumpkins, eyes with blood congested,
Half slid down his two eyelids, drew in half his belly,
And to his lungs he sent off all his spirit swelling,
And blew: the horn, a whirlwind, with a mighty beating,
Drives the notes through the forest, the echo repeating.
Hushed the huntsmen, stood beaters, amazed at the strong,
Limpid grace, the perfection and sweetness of song.
The old man all his art, once through forests renowned,
Perhaps for the last time, for the huntsmen's ears found;
He soon filled, brought to life, all the woods, groves of oak,
As if with hounds he filled them, and hunting evoked:
For the hunt's abridged history his horn was re-telling:
First a signal resounded, wake up!-the reveille;
And then yelp after yelp, whines-the dogs are disputing;
Here and there a note harsher, like thunder: the shooting.
Now the Tribune paused holding the horn; in the glade
It seemed to all he played still: but now echo played.
He blew again; you'd think that the horn changed shape, that
In the Tribune's lips held, it grew thin, then grew fat,
Imitating beasts' voices; into wolf's neck now,
Stretching out and emitting a long, dreadful howl;
Then, as if swelling into the throat of a bear,
It roared; and then a bison's bleat shattered the air.
Now he paused, the horn holding; to all in the glade
'Tseemed the Tribune was playing, but now echo played.
Having witnessed the zenith horn-playing can reach,
The oak to oaks replayed it, to beeches the beech.
He blows again: in that horn a hundred horns speak,
One could hear the confused cries of huntsmen, the shriek
Of anger and of fear; then the Tribune raised high
The horn and a triumphal hymn beat at the sky.
Now he paused, the horn holding; to all in the glade
'Tseemed the Tribune was playing, but now echo played.
As many as are trees, seemed there horns to admire,
One the song passed to others, as if choir to choir.
And the music spread, ever more distant, more wide,
Ever fainter, more perfect, and more purified,
Till afar off it vanished, at heavens' front step!
The Tribune, both hands letting go of the horn, swept
His arms cruciform; dropped then the horn on its thong,
It swung. Face swollen, radiant, the Tribune stood long
With eyes heavenwards lifted; stood as if inspired,
His ears catching the notes, ere they vanished, expired.
In the meantime there thundered a thousand ovations,
Thousand shouts and a thousand loud congratulations.

Slowly, slowly, they calmed, and the eyes of all there

Turned towards the enormous fresh corpse of the bear:
It lay pierced through by bullets, with wet gore bespattered,
The breast plunged in the thick grass, entangled and matted,
Lying prostrate it cross-wise its front paws spread out,
It still breathed, streams of blood poured from nostrils and snout,
His eyes he still could open, but not move his head,
The Chamberlain's two bulldogs hung on him like lead,
On the left the 'Inspector', his right side was caught
By 'Lawyer', who drew, throttling, black blood from the throat.
The Tribune then commanded an iron bar ease
The dogs' sharp teeth apart so the prey they'd release.
Men with gun-stocks turned over the corpse of the bear
And a triple hurrah yet again smote the air.
"Ey what?" cried the Assessor, his gun gave a twirl,
"Ey what, my little fusil, we're champion, old girl,
Eh what, my little fusil, a little bird-gun,
What a showing made it though! A better there's none,
She will not waste a bullet upon empty air,
It comes from Prince Sanguszko, a present most rare".
Here he showed them his gun which, though small, was first-rate,
And its virtues proceeded to enumerate.
"There I ran", cried the Notary, wiped sweat off his eyes,
"I ran just behind, closely, the Tribune then cries:
'Stay in your places!' How 'stay'? The bear does not stay,
Like a hare, at full gallop! He's off and away!
Till I ran out of breath; it seemed he is the winner,
Then I look right; he's bounding, the wood here is thinner,
So I take aim at once: this will stop you, you bear!
And presto, there, it's over: end of the affair!
A stout little gun, genuine true Sagalas make,
On it 'Sagalas, London', is writ, no mistake,
'Of Balaban': a smith there, a Pole, was located;
Polish guns made, in English mode well decorated".
"What?" spluttered the Assessor, "by one thousand bears!
So it's you, sir, who killed it? Have you naught upstairs?"
"Listen, you", said the Notary, "please, no police here,
This is hunting: we'll all as a witness appear."
Bitter schisms arose then among the hunt gentry,
These support the Assessor, and others the Notary;
No one mentioned Gerwazy, for all had run there
From all sides, of what happened up front unaware.
Now the Tribune addressed them: "In this, sirs, affair,
Here at least is some sense, sirs, it's not some poor hare,

But a bear, it's no shame here to seek satisfaction,

With a sabre, or pistols. If there's no retraction,
Your dispute's hard to settle, so by the old rule
And old ways, I permit you to fight out a duel.
I recall, in my time, dwelt two neighbours near-by
Honest gentlemen, gentry from times long gone by,
Lived on opposite shores of the river Wilejka,
Name of one was Domejko, the other's Dowejko,
They once shot at a she-bear, both firing together;
Whose kill, none could determine, both got in a lather,
'Cross the bearskin they swore they would settle their quarrel,
Seemed to me, not like gentry, it's barrel to barrel.
At the time this duello occasioned much talk;
Songs were written about it and sung by the folk.
I was a second; where it took place, and just how
I shall from the beginning recount to you now".
Before he could, Gerwazy cut short all contention;
Once around the bear walked he with earnest attention,
At last reached for a cleaver, the snout cut in two,
From the back of the head, from the cortex, withdrew
And extracted the bullet, wiped clean with his coat,
And matched it with the cartridge and flintlock he'd brought;
Then, his hand raising head-high, the slug on his palm,
"Sirs", announced he, "this bullet comes not from your arm,
But out of this Horeszko one-barrel was shot,
(Here he raised the old flintlock, with strings tied, still hot)
But not by me was fired. Oh, one needs in such plight
A cool brain; I still shudder, a mist hid my sight,
For both young men directly towards me then sped,
And the bear close behind! Just above the Count's head,
Of the last of Horeszkos! Though on distaff side.
'Jesu Mary!' cry I, and the Lord's angels guide
This Bernardine monk to me, to answer my call.
O, most excellent cleric! He had shamed us all!
While I dared not the gun touch, stood, shook, and perspired,
He snatched it from my hands, took aim quickly, and fired:
Shoot between two heads! Hundred of paces! Not miss!
A bull's eye through the muzzle! Teeth knock out like this!
Gentlemen! Long as I live, I knew one at most
Of such marksmanship could once deservedly boast.
He, notorious here once for his duels and booze,
Who could shoot out the heels from right under girls shoes,
That great scoundrel of scoundrels, of sinister fame,
That Jacek, nicknamed 'Whiskers'; I shan't speak the name:
But his time for bear-hunting now surely has passed;
The thug up to his whiskers in hell sits at last.
Glory be to the priest! Two men's lives saved today,
Perhaps even three; boasting was never my way,

But if of the Horeszkos today the last son

Fell into this beast's jaws, then my race would be run,
And my old bear-chewed bones would be buried as well;
Come then Father, let's thank you and drink to your health."
Vainly the priest was looked for; they only this heard,
After killing the beast he had briefly appeared,
To the Count and Tadeusz he'd leapt with one bound,
Satisfied then that both were indeed safe and sound,
His eyes raised up to heaven, a quiet prayer said,
And, as if he were hunted, towards the fields sped.
Meanwhile at Tribune's order big bunches of heather,
Twigs, and stumps, and dry brushwood, were piled up together;
Flames the fire, a great pine-tree of smoke grows, widespread
Like a baldachin, covering the sky overhead.
Above the flame stand tripods, made of three spears joined,
And big-bellied deep cauldrons are hung from each point,
Meats, vegetables, flour, then were brought from the wagons,
And the bread.
The Judge opened a box full of flagons,
These their white heads raise neatly arranged in prim rows;
A fine crystal decanter, the largest, he chose
(From Father Worm he had it, a present sincere),
This was vodka from Gdansk, to a Pole a drink dear;
"Long live Gdansk", cried His Honour, flask raising to pour,
"The city, which once ours, shall yet ours be once more!"
And poured the silvery liquor in turn, till there showed
Flakes of gold in the goblets, and in the sun glowed.
In the pots warmed the bigos; mere words cannot tell
Of its wondrous taste, colour and marvellous smell.
One can hear the words buzz, and the rhymes ebb and flow,
But its content no city digestion can know.
To appreciate the Lithuanian folksong and folk food,
You need health, live on land, and be back from the wood.
Without these, still a dish of no mediocre worth
Is bigos, made from legumes, best grown in the earth;
Pickled cabbage comes foremost, and properly chopped,
Which itself, is the saying, will in ones mouth hop;
In the boiler enclosed, with its moist bosom shields
Choicest morsels of meat raised on greenest of fields;
Then it simmers, till fire has extracted each drop
Of live juice, and the liquid boils over the top,
And the heady aroma wafts gently afar.
Now the bigos is ready. With triple hurrah
Charge the huntsmen, spoon-armed, the hot vessel to raid,

Brass thunders and smoke belches, like camphor to fade,

Only in depths of cauldrons, there still writhes there later
Steam, as if from a dormant volcano's deep crater.
Having eaten their fill, drunk full goblets uncounted,
The beast placed on a wagon, their horses they mounted,
All gay, chatty, except for the Notary, still sore,
And Assessor; both angrier than they were before,
Still disputing the virtues of this and that gun,
Of the quondamSanguszko, and Sagalas one.
The Count rode with Tadeusz, morose and defeated,
Ashamed, first, that they'd missed, and then that they'd retreated:
For he in Lithuania who lets a trapped bear
Get away, long must labour his fame to repair.
The Count claimed he was foremost in reaching the spear,
And Tadeusz had hindered him fronting the bear:
Tadeusz held that being of much stronger build,
And at wielding the big, heavy, weapon more skilled,
He'd been trying to spare the Count. Thus, now and then,
They would talk midst the hubbub and cries of the men.
The Tribune rode at centre; a senior respected,
In a most jovial humour. Much talk he directed
To amusing the squabblers, peace thereby restoring;
Pressed on with the Domejko/Dowejko old story:
"Assessor, if I seemed to encourage at first
Your duel with the Notary, it's not that I thirst
For blood; so Heaven help me! I wished to distract,
A comedy I purposed here to re-enact,
And renew a conceit which, some forty years back
I invented, most curious. You all my years lack,
So you would not recall, but during my days,
From these woods to Polesie, 'twas laughed at and praised.
Domejko's and Dowejko's adverse feelings came,
Strange to say, from resemblance between name and name,
Inconvenient to both men. When, during elections
Dowejko's friends were busied in courting connections,
Whispered one to a voter: "Give yours to Dowejko!"
But, mishearing, he voted to favour Domejko.
When a health was proposed by the Marshal Rupejko:
"Vivat Domejko!" cried he, cried others: "Dowejko!"
And those in between sitting quite frequently erred,
This can happen at dinner, when speech may be slurred.
It got worse: once, in Wilno, a gentleman sot
Sabres crossed with Domejko; two cuts from this got:
This same gentleman, later on, when he was setting
Out for home met Dowejko by chance on the jetty;

On the same punt then floating upon the Wileyka,

Asks his neighbour: "Who are you?"-The answer: "Dowejko".
Straight away, he his rapier withdraws with panache,
Snip! For Domejko's deed trims Dowejko's moustache.
At last, for a real clincher you hardly would want,
A coincidence happened when both were at hunt,
Where the two namesakes found each one next to the other:
At the same she-bear both men fired guns off together,
True, it fell down quite lifeless right after their shots,
But it carried already ten balls in its guts;
Quite a few had a gun with the same size of ball,
So, find who killed the she-bear? Not easy at all!
Here they shouted: 'Enough now! One of us must die!
God or devil has joined us, it's time to untie:
Two of us, like two suns, for this world are too much!'
And so, out with their sabres, both stand within touch,
Both were persons esteemed, but the more gentry tries
To make peace, the more one does the other despise.
They changed arms: now with pistols, not sabres, would fight,
Stand ready to shoot, "Too close!"-They vow, in despite,
Across this very bearskin to settle their quarrel;
But this means death for certain! A barrel to barrel;
Both good shots. 'Be our second', both of them request,
'Agreed', said I, 'but first you should look for a priest:
A dispute such as this can't but end with a grave;
So like gentlemen, and not like butchers, behave!
The range close enough; obvious, you're no nervous nellies!
Would you shoot with the barrels at each other's bellies?
I'll not have this! It's settled-to pistols we change;
But you'll shoot from no further and no closer range
Than a bearskin which I, as your second, am bound
To stretch out with my own hands upon the set ground,
And myself shall arrange you. You, sir, on one side
At the snout end will stand; you at tail of the hide.'
They: 'Agreed!' screamed; time?-'Sunrise'; the place?-'at the inn'.
They left, while I consulted my Virgil again..."
Here a cry "Get him!" Under the horses' hooves darted
A hare; now took off Bobtail, now speedy Hawk started;
These were brought to the hunt by their owners, aware
That returning, they'd likely encounter a hare;
Both ran, unleashed, alongside; hare barely in sight,
Before their masters sicked them, they're off in full flight.
The Notary and Assessor would ride in pursuit,
But the Tribune restrained them: "Stay! Don't move a foot!
I give no one permission to move from this place,
The hare's off to the field, we'll from here watch the chase".
Indeed, the hare sensed huntsmen and dogs behind, so

Made for the field, ears pricked like the horns of a doe,
And streaked above the furrows, long, grey, and outstretched,
Beneath him legs like sticks, which you'd say hardly reached
The ground below, just nudging the earth with touch slight
Like a swift almost kissing the water in flight.
Dust behind, dogs behind dust; from far off appeared
Hare, dust, hounds, as one being, mythical and weird;
As if through the fields slithered a long twisty snake,
The hare its head, the dust its dark greyish-blue neck,
While the dogs, like a double tail, writhed in its wake.
The Assessor and Notary, in silence complete,
Gaze, mouth open; the Notary grows pale as a sheet,
The Assessor pales too, sees-an ill turn things take,
The further from the watchers, the longer the snake,
It breaks into two sections, now gone neck of dust,
The head now near the forest, the tail-a poor last!
The head's hid now, but once more a scut can be spied,
Once between the trees flickers; the tail stops outside.
The poor dogs coursed the wood's edge, bewildered, confused,
Then appeared to confer and each other accuse;
Now at last they return, slowly jumping each mound,
Ears drooping and tails dropping in guilt to the ground,
Running up and heads hanging approach downcast-eyed,
Rather than join their masters, they stopped to one side.
The Notary to his chest sank his beclouded brow,
The Assessor cast glances, though quite cheerless now,
Then they both to their audience proceeded to prove
How their hounds without leashes were not wont to move,
How the hare sprang, no warning, how dogs should refuse
To course on such rough paddocks without wearing shoes,
So full was it of boulders and razor sharp flints.
Well did these expert masters such reasons evince:
The huntsmen may have gained much out of this discourse,
Had they listened intently. Some whistled, or worse,
They burst into loud laughter; or, bears on their mind,
To discuss recent hunting were better inclined.
The Tribune his glance hardly now gave to the hare,
Seeing it had got clear, he his head turned elsewhere
The disjunct tale to finish: "Where was I, before
I had stopped? I remember! When both parties swore
That across the bear's hide they would settle this quarrel.
Cried the gentry: 'It's sure death! It's barrel to barrel!
But I laughed, my friend Maro's good teaching I treasure,
That the hide of a beast is not any old measure.
For, as you all well know, sirs, Queen Dido once sought

Land from Libyans, and after much bargaining bought

From them a tract of land, of a size, and none over,
That by hide of an ox could exactly be covered;
On this plot arose Carthage, a once mighty nation!
So that night I gave all this due consideration.
"At first light comes a sulky: Dowejko it drives,
And opposite, on horseback, Domejko arrives.
They stare, over the river a shaggy bridge lies,
A slashed thin belt of bearskin, all knotted lengthwise.
I positioned Dowejko at tail of the hide,
On one shore, with Domejko on the opposite side,
'Pop away now', said I, 'all your life, if you choose,
But until you are friends, I will not set you loose'.
They are furious; the gentry just roll on the ground
Laughing, priest and I meanwhile address them with sound
Advice, he from the Gospels, I from statute law;
No help for it: they laughed, and a paw shook a paw.
Henceforth enmity changed to firm friendship for life,
Dowejko took Domejko's own sister as wife,
Gave his new brother's sister Domejko his heart,
And their wealth they divided into equal parts;
At the spot where unfolded this curious affair,
Having built there a tavern, they called it 'The Bear'.

Book Five

THE QUARREL

Telimena plans her hunting - The little gardener gets ready to enter
the world and receives instructions from her guardian - The
huntsmen return - Tadeusz's great astonishment - A second meeting
at the Temple of Musing; amity is restored due to the intervention of
the ants - The hunt matter is canvassed at the table - The
(interrupted) tale by the Tribune about Rejtan and Prince Denassow
- An arrangement between the parties is also interrupted - The
apparition with the key - The quarrel -The Count and Gerwazy hold
a council of war

While the Tribune with credit returns from the wood,

Telimena in silent old home's solitude
Is just beginning her hunt. Though seems she at rest,
Sitting motionless, folding her arms on her breast,
Yet her thoughts two beasts follow; she ponders the ways
Whereby both may be trapped and both bagged in the chase:
Both the Count and Tadeusz. The Count a young swell,
Of a great house the sole heir, good-looking as well;
Somewhat in love, already! But-love may miscarry!
Is he really sincere? More... and willing to marry?
To a wife some years older! Without very much?
What's the world to make of it? Would kin approve such?
From her couch Telimena with these thoughts arose
You'd think her grown; on tip-toe she struck a new pose,

Slightly unveiled her bosom, inclined to one side,

And examined herself with a critical eye,
And once more she the mirror's advice would obtain;
Dropped her eyes, then sighed deeply, and sat down again.
The Count, a grandee! Fickle are men of great fashion!
The Count's a blond! Blond men can be lacking in passion!
While Tadeusz? Good-hearted! The simplest of boys!
A child, almost! The first time romancing enjoys!
If well-watched, would not lightly renounce his first vow;
Besides, to Telimena he owes something now.
Young men, although their thoughts may quite frequently stray,
Are more faithful than oldsters, for more steadfast they,
Long the heart of a stripling, pure, virginal, simple,
Stays grateful for first entry to love's mystic temple!
Thus delight it greets gaily and gaily sees end,
Like a modest repast we enjoy with a friend.
But the old sot whose stomach rots through drunkenness
Will loathe the very liquor he gulps to excess.
All of this Telimena consummately knew,
For she had a good mind, and experience had too.
But what will people think?-Well, one need not here stay,
One can move to another place, out of the way,
Or, quit these parts entirely, an answer more fitting:
For instance, a short trip to the capital city?
Show the lad the big world, and thus open his eyes,
Guide his footsteps, assist him, support and advise,
Form his heart, and have in him a comrade, a brother!
And, last, enjoy the world while still fair is the weather!
With these thoughts gaily, boldly, she paced about now,
End to end of the alcove, then lowered her brow.
The Count's future is also worth thinking aboutDeftly net him for Zosia? She is, without doubt,
Not wealthy, but his match in arms progenitorial,
A great dignitary's daughter, of house senatorial,
If this pair she could manage to bring to the altar,
In their house Telimena could find a free shelter,
The Count's matchmaker, Zosia's own family, she
To the young married couple a mother would be.
Her soliloquy over, decisions all made,
She called Zosia who out in the poultry-yard played.
Zosia, dressed for the morning, and with her head bare,
Stood quite still, one hand holding a sieve in the air,
At her feet barnyard poultry; here frowzy old hens
Roll like balls of yarn; crested young cockerels prance
And flaunting casques of coral set high on each head,

Paddling through shrubs and furrows with pinions out-spread,

They broadly stride, extending their sharp rowel-spurred heels;
Behind, the puffed-up turkey importantly wheels,
At the giddiness grumbling of garrulous spouse;
Here and there raft-like, peacocks, their long tails, like bows,
Steer slow over the meadow; here, there, from above
Drops down like a white snowball a silver-plumed dove.
In this larger round area of greensward there mills
A small circle of birdlife, which cackles and shrills,
In a riband-like girdle of white pigeons tied,
With the striped, variegated and mottled inside.
Amber beaks here, there coral crests, rising pell-mell,
Emerge from feathery billows like fish from the swell.
Long necks rise and with motions composed and sedate,
Resembling water-lilies, with grace undulate;
Like stars, a thousand bird eyes towards Zosia blazed.
In the midst, and above all this bird-life, she raised
Her head bright as the birds', and arrayed in white linen,
Round her sprayed, like a fount in a flower-bed spinning,
From the sieve she held, on these heads, beaks and wings fairly,
With a hand itself pearl-like, a hail of pearl barley:
This grain, worthy to grace a lord's table alone,
And for thickening Lithuanian broth specially grown,
In the housekeeper's storeroom is kept; Zosia thence
To the household's loss, steals the rich grain for her hens.
She heard someone call "Zosia!" The voice was her auntie's.
She at once widely scattered the rest of the dainties,
The sieve twirling above her, like on a parade
A dancer with a timbrel, the frolicsome maid
Hopped between, over, peacocks and pigeons and hens:
The noisy whirling birdlife with hubbub ascends.
Zosia, feet hardly touching the surface, almost
Appeared the highest soaring among all this host;
Before her white doves scattered, and fluttered each dove
As if flying before the sweet Goddess of Love.
Zosia through the bay window blew in like the breeze;
With a squeal sat down, breathless, upon auntie's knees.
Telimena, while kissing and stroking her face,
With delight notes the dear child's quick brightness and grace
(For she really cared fondly for her little ward).
And attuning her mien to a more serious chord,
Rose, and pacing the alcove north-south and east-west,
These words, finger on lip, she to Zosia addressed:
"Dearest Zosia, you act as if quite unaware
Of your station and age; yet, it's your fourteenth year

Starts today! So leave turkeys and hens, as you ought to,

Fie! Are such romps befitting a senator's daughter?
And with grimy churl children you have had your fill
Of their cuddles! Child, looking at you makes me ill;
Your complexion is cinders, a gypsy, no less,
Like some rustic you walk and you move, I profess!
From tomorrow I'll counter this dreadful anxiety,
Or today, yes, today bring you into society,
To meet guests, in the salon-of guests a heap came,
Just make sure you don't cause me today any shame."
Zosia jumped from her seat and her hands gaily clapped,
And, about her aunt's bosom both arms having wrapped,
She laughed, cried, both together, from joy manifest:
"Ah, dear Aunt, it's so long since I've seen any guest;
Since with turkeys and hens I've spent all my time here,
A wild pigeon's the only guest that would appear;
And I'm bored not a little here all by myself,
The Judge even says that it is bad for my health."
"The Judge", Aunt interrupted, "has long been a bother,
Wants you brought out, keeps muttering one thing and another
Saying that you're grown-up now, knows not how he drivels,
Old fellow, who no profit gained ever from travels.
I know more about timing a girl's preparation
So once out in the salons she makes a sensation.
A girl, Zosia, who grows up in full public view,
Despite beauty and brains, won't receive the praise due,
When we're used to her presence since she was a child.
But when a full-grown, cultured, young lady's bright smile
With its gleam the world startles, from no one knows where,
Then does everyone, curious, press closer to her,
Her each glance and each movement by all is assessed,
Every word is considered and passed to the rest;
And when to heights of vogue the young person is raised,
All must honour and praise, though she's not to their taste.
You in conduct pass muster, I should think, and hope,
In the capital raised, though here two years we mope,
Yet St. Petersburg's not quite forgotten, I know.
Time for dressing now, Zosia, all's in the bureau.
You will find all you need there to make your toilette.
But do hurry, they're not back from hunting as yet."
She then summoned a chambermaid, serving wench too;
Who water from a jug in a silver dish drew;
Zosia, just like a sparrow in a sand-bank, fluttering,
With the maid's help, her arms, neck, and face washes,
spluttering.
Telimena then opened her Petersburg store,
Brings forth bottles of perfume, pomades, and much more,

Sprinkles Zosia all over with exquisite scent

(It filled the room), the hair she with rich pomade blent.
Zosia slips on her stockings, white, made of fine net,
And the slippers from Warsaw of fine satinette;
The maid, meanwhile, had laced up her bodice, and dressed
Her with a smock for cover thrown over her breast;
Then, with care, she removes the warmed curlpapers, weaves
Her curls, too short for plaiting, in two braids, but leaves
The hair smooth on her forehead, and also on temple;
One maid freshly picked cornflowers wove into a simple
Garland, which Telimena's most competent hand
Placed on Zosia's head deftly and artfully pinned
Right to left: the pale tresses the flowery chain
Set off in lovely contrast, as on sheaves of grain!
The maid removes the wrap now the toilette is done;
Zosia over her head drew a little white gown,
A batiste snow-white hankie with one hand twists tight
And appears white all over, as lilies are white.
Final touches now given to hair and to gown,
She is told to parade in the room up and down:
Telimena observing with connoisseur's eyes,
Inspects her niece, grows angry, complains, nearly cries;
Until at Zosia's curtsy she groans in despair.
"Unhappy me! Now, Zosia, how's one to repair
This goose-and-shepherd life-style! Your legs you spread so,
Like a fellow, your eyes to the right and left throw,
A sheer divorcee! Curtsy! Just look, what a colt!"
"Oh Aunt" said Zosia sadly, "how am I at fault,
Auntie kept me locked up; who could ask me to dance?
I from boredom fed poultry, with small children pranced;
But you'll see, Auntie, once I have fun and can move
Among people, you'll see then how I shall improve!"
"Sure", said aunt, "it is better with chickens to scrabble
Then mix here with this common and flea-ridden rabble;
You do well to remember who with us was staying:
Parish priest, muttering prayers, or at checkers playing,
Or, with his pipes, the lawyer! That grand cavalier!
You from such-like would come by much polished veneer!
Now, at long last, it's worthwhile for one to appear,
We now have some quite decent society here.
The young Count, mark this Zosia, is here on vacation,
A milord, and well-mannered, and Voivode's relation,
So, be nice to him, Zosia".
They hear horses neigh,
The huntsmen's clatter entering the gate: it is they!
Taking Zosias small hand she ran to the salon.
The sportsmen did not enter the room; they must don,
Freshly within their chambers laid out, proper dress,

(Surcoats are not for ladies). Both young men came first,
For the Count and Tadeusz had speedily changed.
Telimena in duties of hostess engaged,
Greets the guests, shows them seats, and keeps up conversation,
And presents her young niece in the proper rotation:
To Tadeusz, the closest in kin, first, and so
Zosia prettily curtsied, he bowed very low,
Wished to speak to her, opened his mouth as if to,
But, into her eyes gazing, he so timid grew,
That, standing dumb before her, he flushed, and then paled;
But what his heart had hidden was from himself veiled.
He felt very unhappy-he knew Zosia, knew
By her figure, her bright hair, and by her voice too;
On the fence saw this morning this form and small head,
This sweet voice for the hunt woke and stirred him from bed.
But the Tribune him saved from confusion complete:
Seeing that he was pale and unsure on his feet,
Ordered him to repair to his chamber for rest;
But Tadeusz his back to the chimney-breast pressed,
Saying nothing-wide-opened, insane eyes he turned,
Which sometimes on the auntie or on the niece burned.
Telimena observed that the very first glance
At Zosia made Tadeusz go into a trance;
She had not guessed it all, but became rather white,
Receiving guests, but keeping him always in sight.
At last, seizing a moment, towards him she ran:
Was he well? Why so gloomy?-asked once and again,
Drops in mentions of Zosia, and tries a few jests,
Tadeusz stands, quite rigid; on one elbow rests,
Saying nothing he wrinkled his lip and just frowned:
Which Telimena much did amaze and confound.
She immediately changed her expression and tone,
Now rose wrathful and threw words as sharp as a stone,
With a shower of reproaches and blame on her tongue;
Started up then Tadeusz, as if he were stung,
Looked askance, and not saying a word to her, spat,
Kicked his chair away roughly and left the room flat,
Slamming the door behind him. It was for the best
Except for Telimena, 'twas seen by no guest.
Flying out through the gate he towards the field flew.
As a pike, when a fisher's spear pierces it through,
Dives and splashes in hope that it can get away,
But forever the iron and the line with it stay:
So Tadeusz behind him dragged his bag of bile;
Ploughing through every furrow and leaping each stile,
Without aim or direction, by furies pursued,
Wandering finally into the depths of the wood,

And chanced, whether on purpose or due to some madness,

On the hill which was witness to yesterday's gladness,
Where she gave him that love-pledge, it seemed long ago,
Named 'The Temple of Musing', as you all should know.
His eyes casts he about him-and sees-she sits there!
Telimena, sunk deeply in thought, unaware,
Changed in pose and in garment from yesterday's, lone,
Dressed in white, on a stone sits, herself like a stone;
Tadeusz's heart vainly went on the defence:
He felt stirrings of pity, compassion immense,
Long stood silent, well-hidden behind a large oak,
At last sighed, to himself he thus angrily spoke:
"Fool! How is she to blame, when the fault's due to me!"
So his head he withdrew from behind the oak-tree.
All at once, Telimena from her stone seat starts,
To right, to left, gyrating; across the stream darts,
Arms outstretched, deathly pale, her hair loose in the breeze;
She kneels down, jumps, falls over; runs into the trees,
Falls, cannot rise, on greensward she writhes yet again;
One can tell from her movements how dreadful her pain;
She grabs at herself, knees and feet, shoulder and breast;
So Tadeusz sprang fearing she must be obsessed,
Or be terribly ill. But another cause drove
These strange convulsions.
Nearby, within an ash grove
Stood a very large anthill; the thrifty ants' track
Threaded over the grasses, quick, busy and black;
From need, perhaps, or drawn by its loveliness, choosing
To especially favour the Temple of Musing;
From its capital hill to the spring's verdant banks
This busy nation trod out a path for its ranks.
By ill luck Telimena on this track was sitting;
The ants, lured by the shimmer of snowy-white stocking,
Ran up in swarms and started to tickle and sting;
Telimena was forced to escape, and to fling
Herself on the turf trying each ant to eject.
Such a plea for help couldn't Tadeusz reject;
Thus, while brushing her garment, right down to her feet,
His lips chanced Telimena's brow also to meetIn this pleasant position, though few words were passed
About that morning's quarrels, they seemed friends at last;
And one cannot tell how long this chat would have taken,
Had they by Soplicowo's bell not been awakened.
It's the signal for supper: they should now turn back
And the more so since nearby one heard branches crack.
Were they missed? To return hand-in-hand would not do;
So she tried by the garden to steal out of view,

While, on the left, Tadeusz towards the road hurried,

This withdrawal gave both of them cause to be worried.
It seemed to Telimena, behind a tree trunk,
There had flashed past-the hooded lean face of the monk;
Tadeusz saw distinctly how once and again
To his left, a white phantom flashed, long, lank, quite plain.
What this was, could not tell, but suspected he knew
That it must be the Count in his English surtout.
They supped inside the castle. Protaze, no permission,
Unheedful of the Judge's express prohibition,
Again in master's absence the old castle stormed,
With the plate (as he argued) their seisin affirmed.
The guests entered in order and stood for the grace:
The Chamberlain, as always, the foremost took place,
To him from age and rank does this honour belong.
He entered, bowed to ladies, the old and the young.
The Almsman was not present, his place occupied
By the Chamberlain's wife who sat at his right side.
The Judge, when he the guests in due order had placed,
Blessed the table by saying a short Latin grace;
Then the men were served vodka; their seats all assumed
And Lithuanian cold barszcz in the silence consumed.
After barszcz came crab, chicken, asparagus stalks,
Hand-in-hand with Malaga, red clarets and hocks;
They ate, drank-and kept quiet. There never was known,
(Since the walls of the castle were built stone by stone,
Welcomed hundreds of gentry for banquets or chats,
Heard and echoed such numberless healths and vivats)
Or recalled, such a gloomy and joyless repast;
Only popping of corks, the plates' clatter when passed,
Resounded in the vastness and void of the hall:
You'd say: an evil ghost tied the tongues of them all.
Many causes there were for the silence: the men
Returned from the deep wood quite loquacious, but when
Their excitement had cooled, they perceived that they came
Out of this whole bear business with no special fame:
It just needed one monkish black cowl to appear,
A jack-in-the-box pop up, God best knows from where,
And the shire's best guns show up? Oh shame, oh disgrace!
What at Oszmian and Lida they'll say to our face,
Who for ages for name of best marksmen have fought
And with our shire competed; so all sat in thought.
The Assessor and Notary, besides their distaste
For each other, recalled too their hounds' late disgrace.
In their mind's eye, that rascal, legs stretched out, that wicked
Hare, its scut always mocking from edge of the thicket,
Like a whip now, this scut both their hearts flagellates:
So they sat with their noses sunk into their plates.

The Assessor another had grief to subdue,

Gazing at Telimena and rivals both too.
Telimena sat turned from Tadeusz, nor dared,
Too confused, to cast even a glance, or a word;
She perhaps the Count's humour would somehow improve,
Involve in conversation, to better cheer move,
For the Count strangely sour had returned from his walk,
Or rather, (thought Tadeusz) returned from his stalk.
Listening to Telimena, head haughtily raised,
Brows knitted, and with close to contempt in his gaze;
He placed himself by Zosia, as close as he could,
Filled her glass, most considerate, brought platters of food,
Paid a thousand attentions, bowed, crinkled his eyes,
Sometimes turned his eyes upward and woefully sighed,
One could see though, despite such skilled amorous manner,
That this courtship's aim was but to spite Telimena;
For, by turning his head, as if only by chance,
Telimena felt often his eye's baleful glance.
Telimena the cause of this unexplained change
Could not guess; shrugged her shoulders, thought: he is deranged.
With the Count's fresh flirtation quite well satisfied,
She now turned to the neighbour on her other side.
Tadeusz too was grim-faced, drank nothing, nor ate,
Seemed the talk but to follow, eyes fixed on his plate,
Telimena pours wine, he gets angry, just frowns:
She's too pressing; she asks: are you well?-and he yawns.
Takes it ill (this one night had so worked on his mind),
Telimena to flirting seemed easily inclined;
He is shocked that her gown is so dcollet,
So immodest-and what, when he let his eyes stray!
More shocks! His eye, now keener, examines each grace
And it hardly arrives at her roseate face,
When at once it discovers the secret disgrace!
Good heavens! She's rouged!
Was the rouge second-rate?
Or did from its foundation somehow separate:
Here and there it a coarser complexion disclosed.
Perhaps he, at the Temple of Musing, who knows,
In too close conversation, had brushed from her skin
Carmine, lighter than dust on a butterfly's wing.
Telimena, too rushed when she'd come back from the wood
Lacked the time damaged make-up again to make good;
Round the eyes, surely, freckles! Indeed, now the eyes
Of Tadeusz were let loose, like two cunning spies,
Such self-betrayals noted, ranged boldly to reach
In turn all other charms to find falsehood in each:
In the mouth two teeth missing; on temples, brow, bide

Wrinkles, and yet more wrinkles beneath her chin hide!

Alas! Tadeusz felt, it's uncalled for, a pity,
A fine thing to too closely observe; how unfitting
So to spy on one's lover, what ignoble role
To change taste and heart, but who his heart can control?
In vain would he with conscience love's lack now replace,
The chilled soul vainly warm with the beams of her gaze:
This gaze, sparkling but cold, like the bright moonlight's dart,
Only skimmed the soul's surface, now chilled to the heart...
Thus reproaching and wishing himself every ill,
He bent into his plate, bit his lips, and sat still.
Meanwhile his evil spirit slips in the temptation
To eavesdrop on the Count's and Zosia's conversation:
The girl, who the Count's manner had found quite beguiling,
At first prettily blushed and her eyes lowered shyly,
Then both joined in gay laughter, proceeded to talk
Of some sudden encounter, of some garden walk,
Of someone's careless treading on burdock and balk.
Tadeusz, his ears stretching as far as he could,
Gulped the bitter words and these inside his soul chewed.
A bad meal he had. As, in the garden, a snake
With its forked tongue from toxic herbs venom will take,
Then roll into a ball, and lie down in the way,
Threatening a heel that thither may carelessly stray:
Thus by jealousy poisoned, Tadeusz at worst
Seemed indifferent, but inside with anger near burst.
In the happiest of gatherings when some feel depressed
Straightaway spreads their glumness across all the rest.
The huntsmen dumb already, the other side too,
By Tadeusz's bile were infected right through.
And the Lord Chamberlain even, unusually soured,
Had no wish for talk, seeing his daughters, well-dowered,
Very comely young ladies, fair, blooming, admired,
And acknowledged the foremost 'parties' in the shire,
Sitting silent, by silent young men quite neglected.
So the affable Judge, too, was by this affected;
And the Tribune, observing how all sat there dumb,
Said this meal had not Polish, but wolfish, become.
Hreczeha had for silence a sensitive ear,
A great babbler himself, loved more chatterers near,
And, not strange! He with gentry had spent his life, eating,
At assemblies, or hunting, or at council meeting;
He was used to hear always some hum in his ear,
Even when he was silent, or in full career
After flies with a fly swat, or musing, eyes closed;
In the day he sought talkers, at night, when he dozed

Wished to hear fairy-stories, or rosaries; and so

Of the pipe habit was an inveterate foe:
A German scheme, so Poles, like them, speechless become.
He said: "Poland turned silent, is Poland struck dumb".
The old man, life spent talking, would rest but in prattle,
Silence woke him. Thus millers, by unceasing rattle
Of their millstone lulled, wake in an instant afresh
When it stops, crying frightened: "the Word became flesh!"
He bowed to the old lord, to him made a slight sign,
Then, hand raised, to the Judge he it lightly inclined,
Asking the floor; the two lords then answered this bow
By bowing in turn, which meant: it is your turn now.
And the Tribune began:
"To the young I appeal
That they might in the old way enjoy a good meal,
Not sit dumbly and chew: are we Capuchin fathers?
Who keeps mum among gentry, such ill-fame he gathers
As the hunter whose bullet inside his gun stays
And rusts: so I our fathers' loquacity praise.
After hunting, to table, and not just for food,
But to talk to each other as much as they could,
Of what was in their heads: of faults damned, virtues crowned,
Of the hunters, the beaters, the shooting, the hound,
Once engaged in discussion, a hubbub then grew,
As dear to huntsmen's ears as another battue.
I know well what's your trouble: this cloud black and foul
Of cares surely had risen from Father Worm's cowl!
You're ashamed of your misses! Be not shamed by this,
Greater shots than you I've known, and they, too, could miss.
'Shoot, miss, correct' is huntsmen's quite usual lot,
I myself, though with gun I have tramped since a tot,
Have missed: famous Tuloszczyk himself missed a few,
Was not always successful our late Rejtan, too.
About Rejtan more later. To mention again
The bear breaking the cordon, that both our young men
Let the beast have the better of them in the end,
Though with pike in their hand, this will no one commend,
Nor should censure: to flee, with shot still in the gun
Would once brand you a coward: was simply not done;
Or likewise, to fire blindly (many do the same),
Before the beast comes closer, without taking aim,
Is an act shameful; but who takes adequate sight,
Who allows the beast near him, without taking fright,
If he misses, may draw back without disgrace still;
Or may fight on with javelin, but of his own will,
Not compulsion; the pike's put into hunter's hands
Not for attack, but only for his self-defence.
Thus was it in the old days: so mark what I say,

And do not take to heart your withdrawal today.

Dear Tadeusz, and also your lordship the Count!
When you chance to remember today's hunting jaunt,
When you ruminate over the deeds of this morning,
Recall also old Tribune's invariable warning:
Not to hinder each other should be huntsmen's aim,
And that two should not ever shoot at the one game."
The Tribune had just spoken that little word "game",
When the Assessor, under his breath, whispered "dame";
''Bravo!' cried the youths, rose then some murmurs and laughter,
By turns, Hreczeha's warning was echoed thereafter,
Especially the last word, these kept saying: "game",
And others, laughing loudly, cried: "No, at the dame!"
Whispered Notary: "a skirt"-the Assessor: "a flirt",
His eyes in Telimena, like knives, did insert.
The Tribune had no aim to cause any offence,
Neither noticed some whispered behind their cupped hands;
Glad he put youths and ladies into a good mood;
Then he turned to the huntsmen to see if he could
Also cheer these; and spoke thus, while pouring more wine:
"My eyes vainly endeavour to find our divine,
I would tell him about a most curious affair,
Not unlike what has happened today with the bear.
Said the Warden, he knew but one man who could vie
With our Worm, who from far off could hit a bull's eye;
Well, I once knew another: with one well-aimed ball
Two fine men's lives he saved, and I saw it befall,
When to the Nabolicki woods these worthies came,
Rejtan, deputy, and Prince Denassow. His fame
Was not begrudged the squire by these great lords of wealth,
They were first, at the table, to drink to his health,
Fine gifts him on him they showered, and presents galore,
Bestowed on him the boar's hide. And now of this boar
And that shot I will speak, for I also was there;
And it was to today's quite a similar affair,
And happened to two huntsmen enjoying great fame:
Rejtan, deputy, and Prince Denassow by name."

But the Judge broke in while he a goblet filled up:

"I drink the priest's health, Tribune, in your hands the cup!
If we can't make him richer with generous donation,
At least he'll for the powder have due compensation;
We'll warrant that the bear killed today in the wood
Will the monastery kitchen two years stock in food.
But the hide I will keep, and by force, if must be,
It is mine, or he'll yield it through humility.

I'll buy it, if ten minks I must pay him for it,
And the hide we'll dispose of as we then think fit;
The first laurel and glory must God's servant gain,
The hide, our most honoured, our Lord Chamberlain
Will to him who deserved it give as second prize."
Then the Chamberlain his brow smoothed and narrowed his eyes:
There were mutters 'mongst huntsmen; each one had his tale,
This one wounded the bear while that one found the trail,
That one called the hounds, this one the beast caused to double
Back to the wood. The Notary the Assessor troubled,
The great qualities of his Sanguszko gun praising,
The other, his Sagalas gun's powers amazing.
Said the Chamberlain: "Neighbour, Judge, to me it's plain:
The first prize our Lord's servant must surely obtain;
But not easy to judge, who came after him second,
For all with equal merit performed, as I reckon.
All on par in their skill and adroitness and daring.
Fate today though chose two for the burden of sharing
The worst danger, those nearest the claws of the bear:
Tadeusz and the Count: they the bearskin must share.
Pan Tadeusz will yield (and of this I am most
Certain), since he is younger, and kin of our host;
So these 'spolia optima' accept, my lord Count,
And these spoils on the walls of your trophy room mount,
Let them be a reminder of this today's game,
Symbol of hunting prowess, spur to future fame."
He ceased, well content, thinking the Count he'd pleased too;
Unaware, with what pain he that heart had pierced through.
For the Count when were mentioned those words: "trophy
room",
Raised his eyes all unwitting; these eyes, in the gloom
Saw stags' antlers, like forests of laurel, which once
Were by fathers' hands planted for wreaths for the sons,
Saw these pillars by portraits adorned, saw his coatOf-arms still on the vault shine: Horeszko Half-Goat;
From all sides these past voices were at him addressed;
He woke from his dreams; saw where he was and whose guest:
He, Horeszkos' heir, guest in his own hall armorial,
Feasting with the Soplicas, his foes immemorial!
And to boot, the ill-will he Tadeusz now bore
Now embittered him 'gainst the Soplicas the more.
With a bitter smile said he: "My house is too small,
For a gift so fine it has no fit place at all;
Best, the bear should wait here, 'mongst these antlers and horns,
Till the Judge to me all, with the castle, returns".
The Chamberlain divining, what face all this bore,

Tapped his gold snuffbox, meaning he asks for the floor.

"You deserve praise, Count, neighbour, that you are so able,
To look after your business, and even at table;
Unlike those rich and modish young men of your age
Who live day-to-day, heedless. I wish, and engage,
To resolve with a compact the current proceeding;
Manor fundum's a problem, I grant you, and needing
A few mutual adjustments, the fundum to trade
For land, as here shall follow...", a scheme now displayed
In good order, as always his wont, of his notion;
He was well under way, when a sudden commotion
At the table's end started. Some gazed in surprise,
Pointing fingers, while others re-focussed their eyes,
Until, like ears of corn, by a changing wind swayed,
Every head in the hall turned the opposite way,
To the corner where hung, with the dead of the past,
The late Pantler's grim visage, Horeszko the last.
Through a little door hidden between pier and pier
A still phantom-like figure, without fuss, appeared:
Gerwazy! Known to all by his height and his face,
By the silvery half-goats on his yellow coat traced.
He stepped straight as a post, dumb, morose, as one dead,
Not removing his cap, nor inclining his head;
In his hand he a key, like a bright poniard carried,
The case opened, and started to turn something buried.
In the hall's furthest corners, against pillars placed,
Stood two musical clocks, each erect in its case;
Two eccentrics, for long now at odds with the sun,
Noon they frequently chanted when midnight had gone;
Gerwazy made no effort the clocks to repair,
Without winding them up, though, would not leave them there,
With this key he tormented the clocks, would not miss
Any night, and just now came the moment for this.
The Chamberlain his legal proposals lined up,
When Gerwazy began the clock's weights to wind up:
The red rusty wheel, gap-toothed, rasped, grated and screeched;
The Chamberlain winced, shuddered, disturbed in his speech.
Said he: "Brother, your urgent task leave for a bit!"
And his project wound up; but the Warden, no whit
Abashed, pulled in despite at the other clock's weight;
And soon the bullfinch, which on the top of it sat,
Its wings flapping, began to churn out the old round.
The bird artfully fashioned, a shame broken down,
It wheezed and squawked and stuttered, the longer, the worse.
The guests roared: and the speaker again stopped mid-course.
"My dear Warden", he shouted, "or my screech-owl, rather,
If you value your beak, that's enough of this bother!"

But Gerwazy showed little concern at the threat,

With dignity his right hand upon the clock set,
And the left on his hip; thus supported twice, spoke:
"My sweet Chamberlain's lordship, a lord's free to joke,
Sparrow's smaller than owl, but when on its nest is
Bolder than any owl in a house that's not his:
A warden is no screech-owl: who in a strange loft
Prowls at night, is the owl, sir, and him I'll warn off".
"Out the door with him!" shouted the Chamberlain.

"Count!"
Called the Warden, "you see, sir, how they strut and flaunt:
Does not your lordship's honour sufficiently stink,
That you sit with Soplicas to guzzle and drink;
Must I, castle's official, now go beg their pardon,
I, Gerwazy Rembailo, Horeszkos' old warden,
In my lords' house insulted? And you, sir, you'll buy it?"
Then Protazy thrice called out: "Be silent here! Quiet!
I, Protazy Baltazar Brzechalski, erstwhile
Of two offices, provost of court once, and styled
Vulgo, Usher, here order an investigation
And a formal inquiry with participation
As the witnesses, those here, if gentlemen born,
And require the Assessor give evidence sworn,
At his Honour Soplica's suit, plea and demand:
Re the current incursion, or, trespass on land,
The forced entry to castle the Judge rules by right,
Of which evident proof is-he dines here tonight."
"Croaker!" screamed out the Warden, "I'll teach you to preach!"
To his belt for his ring of big iron keys reached
Whirled around his head once, with an almighty fling,
And the iron bunch flew off like a stone from a sling.
Protazy's head would surely have squashed like a fly;
By good luck ducked the Usher, and Death passed him by.
All jumped up from their benches, in shocked silence stood,
The Judge cried: "To the stocks with that firebrand rude!"
Hey, here, lads!"-and the servants then smartly rush all
Through the tight gap between the long bench and the wall;
But the Count barred the way; there he stood, chair in hand,
His foot on this weak rampart he took his firm stand:
"Halt there! Stand back!" called sternly, "Judge! No law allows
That my servant should suffer harm in my own house;
Who him bears a grudge, through me the plaint must be steered!"
Askance into the Count's eyes the Chamberlain then peered:
"Without your valued aid I myself can chastise
Yonder insolent fellow-you, Count, would be wise

Before judgment is passed of your rights not to boast,

Not you are here the master, nor you are our host:
Do sit still, as before, and if you this grey head
Cannot honour, respect then the office instead."
"Much I care", the Count muttered, "enough of this fooling,
Bore others with your orders and motions and rulings;
I've been fool enough sharing your crude drinking bouts,
Your booze-ups, which result in behaviour of louts.
You will pay for this slight to my family tree;
Au revoir, until sober-Gerwazy! With me!"
This reply the old noble, who just then his glass
Refilled, never thought likely, nor would allow pass;
By Count's rudeness, as by a thunderbolt, struck,
With flagon on his wine-glass in mid-motion stuck,
He inclined his head sideways, one ear outstretched far,
His eyes bulging like cart-wheels, his lips half ajar,
Kept quite still, but his goblet he squeezed with such power
That the glass, tinkling, burst, in his eyes sprayed the shower,
You would say, with the wine, fire poured into his soul,
So his face flamed with fury, his eyes burned like coal,
He sprang to speak, the first words, disjointed, blurred, ground
In his mouth, till he squeezed them out through the teeth:
"Clown!
You-you countling! I'll show you! My sword, Tomasz! We'll,
Buffoon, soon teach you mores! I'll send you to hell!
Orders, offices, bore him? Such delicate ear!
I will soon these your earrings from your cranium shear!
Out of this place! To sabres! Quick, Tomasz, my sword!"
At this his friends scrambled about the old lord;
The Judge grasped his hand: "Stay, sir, your justified anger,
For this must be my quarrel. Protazy, my hanger!
I will get him to dance like a performing bear".
But Tadeusz restrained him: "My dear uncle, sir,
Good Sir Chamberlain, your honour, does it right appear
You to challenge this dandy? Aren't there young men here?
Leave him to me, and I shall soon give him his dues;
And you, brave sir, who elders to fight with would choose,
We shall see if you prove such a terrible knight;
Place and weapons tomorrow we'll choose for our fight.
Now go, while in one piece!"
This advice made good sense;
For the Warden and Count had poor lines of defence.
At high end of the table one hears but loud cries,
From the bottom end many a bottle now flies
About the Count's head. Women, alarmed, cry and fuss
And implore; Telimena, exclaiming: "Alas!"

Raised her eyes, half-rose, fainted away in alarm,

And, her long neck inclining across the Count's arm,
Upon his chest reclined she her own swan-like breast.
The Count reined in his anger, indeed did his best,
Began chafing, reviving.
During this entr'acte
On Gerwazy's head bottles and settles were cracked,
He already swayed, tottered; fists clenched, servants' ruck
Pummelled him from all sides, when, at last, by good luck,
Zosia, seeing this onset, hops up, with compassion
Shields the old man, extending her arms in cross fashion.
They held back; and Gerwazy withdrew step by step,
Vanished! When they looked, under the table he'd crept;
From the other side bursting, as from underground,
His strong arms a bench lifted and whirled it around
Like a windmill, half hallway in one huge swing cleared,
Seized the Count, by bench covered, the two of them steered
Their way towards the side door, they nearly were there,
Gerwazy paused, once more at the enemy stared,
Pondered whether retreat, while still armed, was best, or
Whether with his new weapon seek fortune in war.
Chose the latter; already the bench, backward sent
Like a battering ram for more power, head bent,
His breast thrust out, leg lifted, was ready to start
An assault... saw the Tribune... felt fear in his heart.
Sitting quiet, the Tribune, with both eyes half-closed,
Seemed immersed in deep reverie, appeared to have dozed;
Only when the Count taunted the Chamberlain, and said
To the Judge those words nasty, the Tribune his head
Turned, and snuffed some tobacco, his eyes rubbed, and chin.
Though the Judge to the Tribune was but distant kin,
He his welcoming home now for many years shared,
For his old friend's well-being immensely he cared.
So he now watched the conflict with interest, and
Lightly stretched on the table his fingers and hand,
Placed a knife on the palm, with the hilt to the tip
Of his long index finger, the blade pointing up,
Then the hand he rocked gently, the palm upward bent,
As in play, but was watching the Count with intent.
The old art of knife-throwing, for close fights perfected,
By then in Lithuania was somewhat neglected,
Known but to the old, tried once in some tavern brawl
By the Warden, the Tribune surpassed in it all.
One could tell from the arm's sweep he'll strike a hard blow,
And from his eyes too, the Count was the mark of his throw,
(The last of the Horeszkos, though on distaff side).
Less keen-eyed youths the old man's move had not descried;

Now Gerwazy grows pale, shields the Count with the board,
He withdraws to the doorway-and "Catch!" cries the horde.
As a wolf by its carrion, jumped on by a pack,
Of dogs craving his dinner, will launch in attack,
Blindly chase, to maul ready, when through the dogs' yap
It may hear a gun clicking, the wolf knows that snap,
Peering keenly soon sees at the writhing pack's rear
Half-crouching and half-kneeling, a huntsman quite near
Taking aim with his rifle to let off a round.
The wolf, sobered, tail under its legs, with one bound,
Is off, in noisy triumph pursues him the pack
At his shaggy flank snapping; the beast but turns back
Squinting and with jaws snapping, white fangs bared, and
growling,
He needs only to threaten, they scamper off yowling:
Thus Gerwazy withdrew in such menacing way
With his eyes and bench keeping assailants at bay,
Till the Count and he hid in some dark deep recess.
"Catch them!" they again shouted. Short was their success:
For, overhead, the Warden, above the whole crowd
Beside the old choir organ loomed, then came a loud
Crash, when he the old lead pipes began to remove.
Would have wrought greater havoc with blows from above,
But the guests were now leaving the hall in a throng,
And the scared servants dared not maintain their ground long
And, grabbing some plate, did as their masters had done,
Even with most utensils and plate left foregone.
Who stood firm in this battle, when everyone ran
From threats and blows? Brzechalski Protazy's the man.
By the Judge's chair stood he, unmoved and unshaken,
His curial declaration in Usher's tones making,
His task done, he the empty now battlefield quit,
With corpses, ruins and wounded remaining on it.
No loss there of life human, but benches and chairs
Had legs broken; such wounds, too, the long table bears,
Stripped of cloths and of covers, fell on the plates dying,
Wet with wine, as a knight on bloody bucklers lying,
Among numerous chickens and turkeys stripped nude,
From whose breasts, transfixed lately, forks stiffly protrude.
Shortly, in the Horeszkos' deserted old house
All again relapsed into its wonted repose.
The gloom thickened; feast's remnants, once grand, lie bereaved
Like that banquet nocturnal on Forefathers' Eve
To which dead bewitched souls, it is said, are enticed.
Already from the garret the owls hooted thrice

Like warlocks hailing moon-rise; the moon's arrows strike

The table through the window; lie trembling there, like
Some dead souls purgatorial; from cellars, through holes,
Leapt and bounded out rats like a host of damned souls:
Gnaw, drink; sometimes, forgotten, in some dark nook lain,
Pops a toast to the spirits a flask of champagne.
But on the second storey, in room known to all,
Though no mirrors were there, by the name 'mirror hall',
Stood the Count on the gallery; the gateway it faced,
The wind cooled him; one arm through one coat-sleeve he placed,
Other sleeve and lapels round his neck he had draped,
The coat covering his chest as if it were a cape.
With great paces Gerwazy about the room pressed;
Deep in thought too; and thus they each other addressed:
The Count: "Pistols, say I, or swords, if they prefer".
The Warden: "To the Castle and village you're heir".
The Count: "Uncle and nephew, the whole tribe call out",
Cried the Warden: "The Castle and fields roundabout,
Village, too, you must take, sir!" He turned on the spot:
"If it's peace, you want, Dear-boy, you must grab the lot.
What's the good of court actions, it's as the day clear:
The Castle's been your family's this four hundred year!
The estate part sequestered was at Targowica,
Given, as well you know, sir, to that there Soplica.
But not that part take only, take all that is left,
For the cost of the court case, to punish the theft,
I've always said sir, all those court actions evade,
Always told you sir, you should blockade, raid, invade;
That's how it was of old: who possesses the land,
Is owner: win the battle, courts, too, you'll command.
With regard to our older disputes with this clan,
My Penknife can do much more than any court can;
And if Maciej his Switch lends, that will be enough
For us two the Soplicas to chop up like chaff."
"Bravo!" said the Count, "your plan so Gothic-Sarmatian
More my taste suits than lawyers' jejune altercations.
Hey, what? In Lithuania our foray will raise
A noise louder than any, from earliest of days,
And ourselves amuse also. Two years here I sit,
And what battles have seen? With boors over a bit
Of land. Our venture surely some spilled blood foretells,
As once during my travels abroad me befell,
A Sicilian duke's guest once, now some years ago,
Brigands in the hills kidnapped the duke's son-in-law,
And, insolent, a ransom from kinsfolk demanded;
Having post-haste the servants and vassals commanded,
We surprised them; with my hand I slew two or three,
Was first into their camp, set the prisoner free.

Ah, Gerwazy! How shone then splendidly and brightly

Our triumphal home-coming, so feudally-knightly!
Folk us greeted with flowers-duke's daughter appears,
To the rescuer grateful, embraced me with tears.
In Palermo my tale was in every gazette,
Women's glances and pointings I everywhere met.
The whole escapade even appeared there in print,
In a romance, and I was identified in't.
The book titled: 'The Count, or The Mysteries True
Of Birbante-Rocco'. Are there dungeons here too?"
"There are cellars", the Warden said, "under this hall,
But all empty! Soplicas have guzzled it all".
"Retainers", the Count added, "the valets we'll arm,
From the village, call vassals!" "God save us from harm!"
Said Gerwazy. "Such foray, is that a mere squabble?
Who would plan an incursion with servants and rabble?
My-dear-boy, you know naught that on this subject touches;
Moustaches-that is different, we need some moustaches;
From settlement, not village; not peasant, nor flunkey,
From Dobrzyn, from Rzezikow, Cietycze, Rabanki;
Ancient gentry, in whose veins but noble blood flows,
And all of the Soplicas' inveterate foes,
Well-disposed to Horeszkos and what their cause touches.
From there I'll gather surely three hundred moustaches;
That's my business. Return, sir, go home, go to bed
And sleep well, for tomorrow there's great work ahead;
You like sleep sir, it's late now, it's second cock-crow;
I shall stand here on guard till the morning light's glow,
And at dawn at Dobrzynski clan's riding will stand."
At these words, the Count stepped from the gallery; and
Just before he departed, through a crenel gazing,
And seeing in Soplicas' house many lights blazing,
"Blaze away!" cried, "tomorrow at this time will many
Bright lights shine in this castle, yours will not show any!"
On the ground sat Gerwazy, against the wall leant,
And down onto his breast the old thoughtful head bent;
The bright moonlight illumined Gerwazy's bold pate,
On which Gerwazy's finger traced lines intricate;
One could see he wove plans for the morrow's campaign.
His eyelids grew more heavy, like sacks full of grain,
Head on flabby neck sagged, sleep crept up unawares,
He from habit recited his evening prayers:
But between Pater Noster and second Hail Mary
Strange apparitions loom up around him and harry:
The Warden sees Horeszkos', his old masters' faces,
These accoutred with sabres, those carrying maces,
Each one twirls his moustache with a threatening face takes
Up his guard, points his sword, or his mace grimly shakes-

Past these flickered one silent disconsolate shade,

A stain on its breast, bloody. Gerwazy, dismayed,
Knew the Pantler; began to make signs of the cross,
And, to banish more surely this dread dream of loss,
For the souls purgatorial a litany said.
His eyes dimmed again; there was a noise in his headSabres gleaming, a horde of mounted gentry speed:
A foray! At Korelicz! Rymsza in the lead!
And he sees himself there: how, upon his old gray,
With his terrible rapier raised up for the fray,
He rides: his taratatka, wind-blown, flies and flaps,
On one ear falls askew his confederate cap,
Still rides, and foot and horseman knocks into the mire,
At last burns that Soplica inside his own byreTill his head with dreams heavy inclined on his breast,
And Horeszkos' last warden his eyes closed for rest.

Book Six

THE SETTLEMENT

First hostile steps of the foray - Protazy's expedition - Worm and

the Judge deliberate matters of state - Continuation of Protazy's
fruitless expedition - A digression on the subject of hemp - The
settlement of Dobrzyn - A description of Maciek Dobrzynski's
homestead and person

From its moist gloom, unnoticed, at last dawn stole by,

Leading day in, no blush and no gleam in its eye.
It's been day for some time, but it does not seem such.
Fog still covers the land, as there hangs a straw thatch
On a poor Litwan's cottage; and looking out east,
One can tell from the rim where the light has increased,
The sun's risen indeed, and will step to the ground,
But moves joylessly, nodding still on its way down.
Taking cue from the heavens all also was late
On earth, pasture-bent cattle delayed at the gate,
Catching hares at late breakfast: it gave them a fright;
These are used to returning to woods at first light;

Today, by the mist covered, crunch chick-weed; some hares

Dig burrows in the pasture and, keeping in pairs
Might enjoy in the open a nice interludeBut with coming of cows must return to the wood.
Hushed is the wood. The wakened bird does not yet sing,
Shakes the dew from its feathers, tight to its tree clings,
Tucks its head in its down, and half-closes its eyes
And waits for the sun. Somewhere, at puddle's edge, cries
Clacking stork; on a haystack drenched crows, huddling, sit,
Beaks wide open, hold lengthy discussions on it,
To the farmers obnoxious as omens of rain.
The farm-hands have long been at their labours again.
Women reapers already begin their sad song,
As moist day gloomy, yearning, monotonous, long,
Sadder still, as no echo comes back in the moist;
In the field sound the sickles, the meadow gives voice;
The serried reapers scything the manifold grain
Whistle songs and, when ending each plaintive refrain,
Stop to sharpen the blades in a percussive chain.
All are hid in the fog, only scythes, sickles, and
Songs are heard, like the music of some hidden band.
In their midst, on a sheaf, sits the Steward, and sighs;
Turns his head here and there, bored; for work has no eyes,
At the main road casts glances, or at the cross-road,
Along which some unusual activities show.
Both the main and side roads from the day's very start
Are in unwonted motion; a countryman's cart,
Like the post flying, rumbles; a britzka speeds, spurred
To full gallop, and passes a second and third;
From one side, like a courier, a messenger courses,
From the right hand there canter some several horses,
Each his different path follows, it's beyond belief!
What means all this? The Steward gets up from his sheaf,
To look closer, inquire; he stands long in the way,
Vainly calling out, cannot get any to stay,
Nor, in the mist, know any. Like ghosts, they pass by,
He hears drumming of hoof beats, before they too die,
And, what is even stranger, the clanking of arms:
This both pleases the Steward-and also alarms.
For though then Lithuania was peaceful, no doubt,
About war long have rumours been bandied about,
Of Dabrowski, Napoleon, the French, more than once!
And are these war's precursors? These riders? These guns?
To the Judge ran the Steward, these strange things to tell,
And expecting he'd also learn something as well.

In Soplicowo after last night's bitter brawl

Hosts and guests both awoke out of sorts, and glum all.
Vainly the Tribune's daughter 'tell fortunes' suggests,
Cards for 'marriage' are vainly set out for male guests.
None will play, but in corners keep quietly sitting,
Men, with pipes lit, the women bent over their knitting;
Even flies sleep.
The Tribune, fly-swat tossed away,
Peeved by silence, withdraws to the servants' domain.
In the kitchen would rather hear housekeeper's cries,
The cook's threats and blows, cookboys' vociferous replies;
Until slowly lulled into a calm reverie
By roast joints on spits turning monotonously.
The Judge, shut in his room, much since morning has written;
Waits the Usher, since dawn, on a window bench sitting;
The Judge, his summons writ, gives the Usher a shout,
And his plaint 'gainst the Count he in loud voice reads out:
For injury to honour, insulting words uttering,
And the plaint 'gainst Gerwazy, for mayhem and battery;
For menaces against both; the costs of the action
To be paid by the authors of this great infraction.
Protazy must in person the summons now bear
Before sunrise. The Usher, with dignified air,
Stretched out ear and hand when he the summons had sighted;
Solemn stood, but for joy could have jumped, so delighted.
At the mere thought of lawsuits his old back unbent,
He recalled, when with summons he once would be sent
To receive knocks, but also a generous pay.
Thus a soldier, his life spent in fracas and fray,
And in veterans' hospice, disabled, now found,
Let him but hear a trumpet or drumbeat resound,
Starts he from his bed crying: "At Moscow, advance!"
And will straight from his sick-bed on wooden leg prance
With such speed, young men cannot keep up in pursuit.
Protazy sped to put on his old usher's suit:
Though not tunic nor kontusz would this time put on,
For a courtroom show only such fine dress he'd don;
For travel a garb different: capacious, broad breeches
And a jerkin with tails that he to his belt hitches;
It can thus be worn shortened or left free to swing;
And a cap, ear-flaps tied on its top with a string,
Which are raised in fine weather, let down when it's rough.
Thus clad, took up his cudgel and on foot set off,
For ushers before law-suits, and spies when wars loom,
Go concealed under various disguise and costume.
It was well that Protazy so promptly had acted,

Or small joy from this summons he would have extracted.

In Soplicowo changed were the plans of campaign;
Worm accosted the Judge in a quite thoughtful vein,
Said he: "Judge, we'll have worries with this Auntie yet,
With this your Telimena, that giddy coquette.
When Zosia was a child, in a poor situation,
Jacek trusted this 'auntie' with her education,
Reputed decent, knowing much of worldly matters;
But I now see she's starting to muddy the waters,
She is plotting, and tries our Tadeusz to tame,
I've watched her; she may also the Count have in aim,
Or, both maybe; so somehow we means should contrive
To be rid of her, on such much gossip may thrive,
Bad example, among youth may cause altercations,
Which may threaten your suit and your negotiations",
"Negotiations?" shouted the Judge, with much heat,
"Finis to negotiations, it's over, finit!"
"What's this now?" Worm cut in, "where's the reason, the sense?
What on earth are you babbling, what new violence?"
"Not through my fault," the Judge said, "the court will show all:
The Count, this puffed-up idiot, is cause of this brawl,
And Gerwazy, the court now shall deal with the rascal.
Pity, Father, you came not to sup at the castle,
For you then would have witnessed the Count's brazen doings."
"Why did you, sir", Worm cried out, "crawl into these ruins?
You know I hate the castle! From now in that quad
I'll not set foot. A fresh brawl! A judgement of God!
What's the story? To fix this I must know the facts,
I am sick of observing these fatuous acts,
I have more things to do than make hotheads agree,
But I'll make peace one last time."-"Peace? Fiddle-de-dee!
Go to hell with your wretched peace-making, what bunk!"
Thus the Judge, cut in, stamping his foot, "drat the monk!
Because made welcome here, he'd lead me by the nose!
Sir, I tell you, Soplicas are not among those
Who settle; if sued, must win; one man's litigation
May drag on till it's won in the sixth generation.
I've done follies enough, due to your, sir, advice
In the Chamberlain's Court suing, not once, twice, but thrice.
From today, no agreements: no, no, not one more!"
(And he paced the room shouting, feet stamping the floor).
"Besides, for his discourteous behaviour, the fool
Must apologise now, or, there will be a duel!"
"But, Judge, what about Jacek, when this is disclosed,
He will die of despair! Have Soplicas not caused
Enough harm in this castle! Enough to lament!
Brother! I will not mention that dreadful event.
You well know, that a part of the castle's enclave
Targowica took and to Soplicas then gave.
Jacek, his sin repenting, to gain absolution,

Had to vow to effect a complete restitution.

So he took our young Zosia, Horeszkos' poor heir,
To bring up, and paid much for her schooling and care.
Wished to match his Tadeusz with her as his bride,
Thus these two hostile houses through love make allied,
And, no shame, to the heiress past plunders restore."
"What do you now", the Judge cried, "tell me all this for?
Jacek I know not, nor saw, and hardly a word
About his old rumbustious and brawling life heard,
At the Jesuits' school did my stint at that stage,
Later, I at the Voivode's have served as his page.
I was told to take land-good; to take Zosia-fine,
I took, nurtured, her future hold always in mind;
All this old women's history to tears bores me here!
And why, out of the woodwork, did this Count appear?
Ten degrees to Horeszkos has of separation
With what right to the castle? He's no near relation!
He insults me-and I for agreement should plead?"
"Brother!" said the Priest, "there are good reasons indeed:
You recall Jacek first planned his son to enlist
But, instead, left him here: and the cause of all this?
Because he to our country more use will be here.
You have surely heard what's now discussed everywhere,
And of which news some snippets I sometimes let fall:
The right hour has now struck! It is time to tell all!
Great things are afoot, brother! War, war, is in train!
War for Poland! O brother, we'll Poles be again!
War, certain! When, with secret commission endued,
I sped here, the first vanguards on Niemen's bank stood;
An enormous new army Napoleon assembles
Such as no man has seen, at which history trembles:
With the French comes the Polish entire army's might,
Our Jzef, our Dabrowski, and our eagles white!
They are on their way; will at Napoleon's one word
Cross the Niemen-and brother: our nation's restored!
The Judge listened, and slowly his glasses let fall,
Gazing hard at the almsman, did not speak at all,
But he sighed very deeply, big tears dimmed his sight...
Grasped the priest by the neck and squeezed with all his might,
"My dear Worm", he cried out, "but, is this really true
My dear Worm!" he repeated, "is this really true?
We so often were cheated! You know how they prated,
That Napoleon's coming! And we, we just waited;
They said: he's in the Kingdom! The Prussians he's gored!
He is coming! And he?-signed the Tilsit Accord!
So, is this true now? Not just by hope fooled again?"
"True, true", cried out Worm, "true, as there's God above men!"
"Blessed forever be lips that such thing prophesy!"
Said the Judge, his hands raising in joy to the sky.

"Worm, your embassy to us you will not regret,

Nor will your house: two hundred choice sheep you will get
For your monastery. Father was struck yesterday
With my chestnut, and also gave praise to the bay,
They at your almsman's wagon today will be prancing;
Today ask, and you'll have it, whatever you fancy,
I'll not grudge! But concerning this thing with that rude
Count, just leave it, he wronged me, and so I have sued,
Let it be!"
The priest lifted his hands up amazed,
And then, shrugging his shoulders, he at the Judge gazed:
"So, when our land Napoleon to freedom invites,
When the world trembles, you can still think of your rights?
After what I just told you, you can without qualms
Sit here peaceful and quiet, just folding your arms?
When it's deeds we need!"-"What deeds?" the Judge asked,
perplexed.
"You've not guessed", said Worm, "nor in my eyes read the text?
If your heart says naught, brother, it is a sad blow!
Should a drop of Soplica blood in your veins flow,
Just attend: if the French from the front now attack,
What if there is a general uprising at back?
What d'you think? If Pursuit neighs, if loud roars the Bear
Of Samogitia! If but a thousand men dare,
Or just five hundred would from the rear pour some lead,
The uprising, like wildfire, would everywhere spread,
And when we, having captured the Russ flags and guns,
Victors, our country's saviours to welcome advance?
We march! Napoleon, seeing those lances emergent,
Asks 'what troops are these?' and we cry boldly: 'Insurgents!
Glorious Emperor! Litwans we are, volunteers!'
'And who leads you?' he asks, 'Judge Soplica!'-all sneers
Among mankind are silenced, that stain disappears!
Brother, while stand Ponary and Niemen does flow,
So long shall in this country Soplicas' name glow;
The city of Jagiellos for ever will be
Pointing to your own grandsons: 'A Soplica, he!
Of Soplicas, who fired the uprising's first shot!'"
Said the Judge: "About men's talk I care not a jot,
I have never tried greatly world's praises to win,
God my witness, I'm guiltless of my brother's sin,
With political issues I've not played around,
Holding office and ploughing my small piece of ground;
But, am of good blood, fain would wipe off this dark blot;
I'm a Pole, for the country would venture somewhat,
My life even. For sword-play I've no great panache,
Though there's some who from me have received the odd slash;

All know, at the last diet, that I, nothing loath,

Called out both Buzwik brothers, and wounded them both,
Who then... but these are trifles. How would you proceed?
We'll at once to the saddle; is that what you need?
Call up rifles? That's easy; I've powder; the priest
At the presbytery hides two small cannons at least.
I recall Jankiel saying, he has somewhere hid
Points for lances, which he will give to me, if bid;
These he had from Krlewiec brought over on rafts
In secret; we shall take them, at once make the shafts,
Of sabres there are plenty; all gentry to horse,
Nephew and I shall lead, and-we'll manage, of course!"
"O Polish blood!" the monk cried; with joy on his face,
And with arms opened wide leapt the Judge to embrace,
"True child of the Soplicas! God you did ordain
To cleanse your errant brother's soul of sin's black stain;
I have always respected you, but now shall bear
Such great love to you as if we two brothers were.
Yes, prepare what we can, but it is not time yet,
I, myself, shall the time and the place for this set.
The Czar sent to Napoleon his couriers, I heard,
To ask for peace; so war has not yet been declared;
But Prince Jzef had word now from a Monsieur Binion,
A Frenchman, in the Council, who voiced the opinion,
That these negotiations will soon peter out,
That war's certain. The Prince sent me here as a scout,
To order Lithuanians to show they can prove
To Napoleon, who is now preparing to move,
They would join with their sister, the Crown, in accord,
To demand that all Poland should now be restored.
With the Count, meanwhile, brother, one must get along;
He's a crank and a little fantastic, but young,
And a good Pole, right-minded, we need even such,
In rebellions, cranks even can aid the cause much,
This from experience; even the fools are of use,
If good-hearted, of course, and not led by some goose.
A great lord is the Count, has the gentry's respect,
The whole shire will him follow, if he so direct;
Every gentleman, knowing his riches, will say:
"This must be a sure thing, if lords join in the fray,
I will join him at once". "Yes, but let his first worry
Be to come here", the Judge said, "and say the word 'sorry',
After all I'm the senior, with rank in the nation!
With regard to the suit and proposed arbitration..."
The Bernardine the door slammed.-"Good trip, and good day!"
Said the Judge.
The priest vaulted straight into a shay,

Used the whip, with reins touched the nags' flanks; with a jerk
The shay shot off, and vanished in mist and in murk,
Only sometimes the grey-dun monk's cowl could be seen,
As above clouds a vulture, above the murk screen.
The Usher by now sidled towards the Count's house.
As a wily old fox, whom the bacon's smell draws,
Hastens near, but of huntsmen's tricks being aware,
Runs and stops, sits still sometimes, with brush in the air,
Waves the breeze to its nostrils, as if such fan could
Ask the wind if the huntsmen have poisoned the food:
Protazy left the roadway, and by a hayrick
Sneaks around the house, twirls in his hand a stout stick;
He pretends he sees cattle there up to no good,
With this skilful move, soon by the garden fence stood;
Now he bends, runs, you'd say he's engaged stalking crakes,
Then, at once, jumps the fence and he for the hemp makes.
In this verdant, and fragrant, and dense growing field
Near the house, various beasts can stay safely concealed,
As can men too. Espied in the cabbage, a hare
Jumps to hide in the hemp, for it's much safer there,
For through its perfumed jungle no greyhound fain went,
Nor a foxhound would venture in that heady scent.
In the hemp a man-servant, escaping the knout
Or fist, sits hid, till master's ill temper burns out,
Even runaway peasant recruits there may flit;
While the state combs the woods, they within the hemp sit.
And hence, at time of battles, forays and coercions,
Both sides will not be shy to use utmost exertions
The position to gain that the hemp field controls,
Which most commonly reaches up to homestead walls,
And at rear, where it often meets up with the hops,
Conceals thrust, and withdrawal, from enemy troops.
Protazy, though courageous, was nervous as well,
Occasioned as he was by the plant's unique smell
His adventures as usher, long past, to recall;
The one after the other, the hemp witnessed all:
A Telsz gentleman served once, who loud did protest,
Forced him under the table, with pistol to breast,
To bark out that the summons had no legal force,
So, in haste, to the hemp fled the Usher, of course.
How, later, Wolodkiewicz, proud, insolent lord
Who broke up local diets, courts bullied, ignored,
Being so served a summons, it into shreds tore,
And, with a club-armed heyduk before every door,
Over the Usher's head he a naked held rapier,
Shouting: "Either you're mincemeat, or you'll eat this paper".
Feigning eating, the Usher, a man of good sense,

Stealing up to a window jumped in the hemp thence.

True it was, in Lithuania, old ways were let slip,
Such as warding off summons with sabre or whip,
And an usher would sometimes now only be cursed:
But Protazy was not in the new customs versed;
Could not be, for it's long since he with one proceeded.
Though always ready, though with the Judge for it pleaded,
The Judge, with due regard for his age, had rejected
This request so far, this time his offer accepted
As his need is so pressing.
The Usher peers, waitsAll is still-with his hands he the hemp separates,
The stalks pushing apart, in this thicket tries hiding,
Like one fishing, who under the water is gliding;
His head raised now-all's quiet, he peers through a paneAll still hushed-he examines each corner againNot a sound-on the porch now, the latch, not undaunted,
He unlocks-all is empty, a palace enchanted;
Takes his summons and loudly reads out, sheet by sheet,
A loud clatter is heard, his heart misses a beat,
Wants to flee; when a man, at the door, met his eyesBy good fortune, familiar! Worm! Both were surprised.
Obvious, that the Count's people and he were all gone,
And in great haste, door open, the latch left undone,
And one sees there's been arming: twin-barrels, and stocks,
And carbines on the flooring, with ramrods and cocks,
And a gunsmith's tools also for mending such gear;
Powder, paper: they must have made cartridges here.
Did the Count with his escort ride off on a chase?
But then, why all the side arms? Of swords here a brace,
Without hilts, and quite rusty; there lies an epe,
They were choosing arms, doubtless, from this disarray,
And old armouries even ransacked for their hoards.
So, intently Worm surveyed those matchlocks and swords,
And then, to ask the servants, proceeded towards
The farmhouse, to find out where the Count could have gone;
At the empty farm found he but two ancient crones,
And he learned that the Master and his complement,
In a body, all armed, by the Dobrzyn road went.
Dobrzyn settlement famous is along the Niemen
For men's valour, and beauty of its gentlewomen.
Once populous and mighty; when, rousing the nation,
King Jan the Third once ordered a mobilization,
The ensign of the district, from Dobrzyn alone
Brought six hundred armed gentry. Today, the clan, grown
Smaller, poorer; employed once at mansions, or riots,

Or the army, or forays, or helping at diets,

Off the fat of the land lived Dobrzynskis, but now
They, somehow, have to live by the sweat of their brow,
Like hired peasants! Although they wear no russet coats,
But instead they are clad in black-striped white capotes,
And on Sundays, kontuszes. Their ladies, as well,
Though the poorest, from peasant girls one can them tell:
As a rule they wear linen, or percale frocks, and
Herd cattle not in bark clogs, but slippers well-tanned,
And reap grain, even spin cloth, with glove covered hand.
The Dobrzynskis thus differed from neighbouring folk
In their stature, appearance, and manner of talk.
Of pure Polish blood they, with hair blacker than crows,
Deep black eyes, and high foreheads, and aquiline nose;
From the Dobrzyn lands they their ancestral line trace,
And though four hundred years they have lived in this place,
They preserved the Masovian old customs and speech.
When they're called at a christening to name a babe, each
Will select a saint's name with a Polish Crown bias:
Saint Bartholomew mainly, or else Saint Matthias.
Thus is Matthew's son always a Bartholomew,
And Bartholomew's Matthew, in turn, will be too;
Women would be named either Kasia or Maryna.
And, to tell one from t'other in such a dog's dinner,
They adopt various nick-names, for some known acumen,
Or defect, or a virtue, for both men and women.
More than one such odd nick-name a man sometimes gathers,
As a mark of respect, or contempt, from the others;
A gentleman will sometimes by one name be known
In Dobrzyn, while elsewhere he'll a different name own.
Imitating Dobrzynskis, among gentry near
Such soubriquets, or 'by-names', would also appear.
Now all families, nearly, use such soubriquet
Unaware that in Dobrzyn their origin lay,
And which there made good sense; while the rest of the nation
Used such also, but only through crass imitation.
Thus Matthias Dobrzynski, the head of his people,
In the settlement known was as 'Cock-on-the-Steeple'.
Later on, in the Seventeen Ninety Fourth year
Changing by-name, he as 'By-my-side' did appear,
While Dobrzynskis to call him 'The Bunny' preferred,
And Litwa on him 'Maciek-of-Macieks' conferred.
As he others ruled, his house the settlement governed;
Situated just halfway between church and tavern,
Seemed but rarely frequented, as if trash lived there.
Open, unfenced, the garden; the gate posts stand bare,
Nothing in the beds planted, instead, birches drowse;

Yet this farmhouse appeared as the hamlet's chief house,

As more shapely than others, more spaciously made,
The right side, with the parlour, of brickwork well-laid.
Cowshed nearby, a storehouse, a granary, pantry,
Packed together, as often the custom of gentry;
All uncommonly rotten, old; sunlight though played
On the many roofs as if of tin they were made,
But were moss and grass really, luxuriant, well-nourished,
Which as in hanging gardens upon this thatch flourished.
Various plants thrived: red crocus and nettles there grew,
Yellow mullein, green henbane's bright showy tail too,
Homes of all sorts of birds, in the roof pigeons nest,
Swifts in window reveals; at the front step, with zest,
Hop white rabbits and burrow in untrod turf patch;
In a word, seems the homestead a big rabbit hutch.
But, a fortified place once! Of traces, no lack,
It had seen off a frequent and fearsome attack.
By the gateway, in grass, like a baby's head round,
And as large, an iron cannon ball could still be found,
Relic of Swedish wars; once the gate, now long gone,
By that ball was kept open, as if by a stone.
In the courtyard among weeds and wormwood and mosses
Arise stumps, now time-rotted, of some dozen crosses,
In unhallowed ground; plainly these had been erected;
For all those in death fallen swift and unexpected.
One who closely examines house, granary and store,
Will see walls densely pock-marked from roof-beam to floor,
As by swarms of black insects; there sits in each spot
A ball, just like a bumble bee in its earth grot.
On the homestead's doors every hook, handle and clout
Had been chopped, or by sabres slashed badly about,
Perhaps testing the temper of 'Zygmunt' swords here,
Which a head off its clout can quite easily shear,
Or cleave steel hooks, and leaving not even a notch on
The blade. Over the door was Dobrzynskis' escutcheon,
But by shelves full of cheese had the arms all been covered,
And with their nests the swallows had plastered them over;
In house, stable and coach-house, were trappings of war,
Like the clutter you'll find in an old armoury store.
Four huge helmets are hanging from under the roof,
Ornaments of brows martial: Venus' birds now coo
Inside, pigeons are feeding their chicks; hangs aloft
In the stable a hauberk huge over the trough,
And a cuirass of ring-mail, down which catapults,
Tossed in by the boy, clover, the food for the colts.
The cook, at the range, rapiers, with no God nor wit,
Uses spoiling their temper, instead of a spit;
A 'buntschuk', Vienna war spoil, her hand-mill now dusted:

Thus had housewifely Ceres the god Mars long ousted,

And with Vertumna, Flora, Pomona, now reigns
Over Dobrzynski's house, barn, outhouses and wains.
But these goddesses also their place must now yield.
Mars returns.
Into Dobrzyn at daybreak there wheeled
A messenger on horseback, and at the still houses,
And as if for forced labour, the gentry arouses,
In the settlement's streets soon crowds gather and grow,
Cries are heard at the inn, at the priest's candles glow;
All rush, asking what means this, and what is the source,
Seniors gather; each youth runs to saddle a horse,
The women hold them tightly, boys scuffle and shout,
They are itching to fight, but with whom? What about?
They must stay, nonetheless. The priest's house is now used
For a meeting that's lengthy, tumultuous, confused,
Which, for lack of decision, resolved it was better
Before old father Maciej to place the whole matter.
Years full seventy-two hale old Maciej now wore,
Not tall, a Bar Confederate he had been of yore.
All his friends well knew, also his foes near and far,
The curved damascene steel of his sharp scimitar,
Which would steel pikes and bayonets like hay chop, and which
Had in jest once been given the modest name 'Switch'.
From Confederacy he was to Royal faction guided,
And with Tyzenhaus, Treasurer of Litwa he sided;
But when with Targowica the King threw his lot ,
Maciej straight his adherence to King's side forgot.
And, because he so often changed party and side,
He as 'Cock-on-the-Steeple' was known far and wide,
For he changed with the wind, like a roof weathervane.
The cause of all these shifts you will fathom in vain:
Perhaps Maciej was too fond of war, when defeated
On one side, with another again battle greeted?
Perhaps the times well judging, diplomatist shrewd,
He went where he could best serve the Fatherland's good?
Who knows why! This but sure, he was not led astray
By greed for reputation, nor ignoble pay,
In no Muscovite faction his trust ever placed;
At the sight of a Russian he frothed and grimaced,
So that after partition he one never saw,
And stayed home, as a bear stays and licks a sore paw.
The last time he saw service he went with Oginski
To Wilno, where both soldiers served under Jasinski,
With his 'Switch' he there wonders of valour had shown.
That he from Praga's walls leapt alone, is well known,
And thus succoured Pan Pociej, stretched out on the ground

On the battlefield, suffering his twenty-third wound.

They all thought in Lithuania that neither would live:
But both came back, though each full of holes like a sieve.
At the war's end, Pan Pociej, a generous lord,
Wished his saviour Dobrzynski an ample reward,
A five-chimney farm offered for life in free-hold,
And a stipend of thousand of zlotys in gold.
But Dobrzynski said: "Better that in debt be Pociej
To Maciej, than should Pociej be patron to Maciej".
So the farm he refused and no money would take,
Returned home, made a living by things he would make:
He made hives for the bees, drugs for cattle prepared,
Sent partridges to market, which he himself snared,
And by hunting.
In Dobrzyn there were a good few
Prudent old men, sagacious, who some Latin knew,
Who from youth were experienced to speak at the bar;
In the clan there were many men richer by far,
But Maciej, poor and simple, more than held his own,
Not only as a bruiser his 'Switch' made well-known,
But as one of good judgement both prudent and sure,
Who knew his country's history, the family lore,
With the law well acquainted, and husbandry too.
Maciej secrets of healing, and hunting, well knew,
He was even believed (though the priest this denies)
To know things which no man can know, however wise.
This sure, changes in weather he could tell aright
More often than the farmer's own almanac might.
No surprise, that the starting of each season's sowing,
The dispatching of barges, the reaping or mowing,
The recourse to the law, or contracting a price,
Did not happen in Dobrzyn without his advice.
Such influence the old man did not seek, but tended
To avoid it in fact; and his clients offended,
And most often, in silence, would send the man home,
Advice seldom gave, not just to any who'd come,
And only in most serious agreements or cases;
When asked, gave his opinion, in just a few phrases.
It was thought he'd take charge of today's big affair
And would make himself leader of everyone there;
For when young he looked forward to fights and affrays,
And was ever a foe to the Muscovite race.
Just then the old man walked in the courtyard, alone,
Humming the tune: 'When early arose the fair dawn',
Glad the weather was clearing; the mist did not rise,
As so often it does when clouds cover the skies,
But sank down ever lower, wind stretched out a hand
And caressed the mist, stroked it, spread over the land;

The sun from on high, meanwhile, with myriad of rays

The warp pierces, gilds, silvers, with pink threads inlays.
As two masters in Sluck weave their wonderful sash:
The girl weaver below puts silk threads through the mesh,
Her hand smoothing the web, while the top weaver spreads
And throws down to her, silver, gold and purple threads,
Weaving colours and flowers: just so, the wind drew
Mist's warp over the earth, the sun weaving it through.
Maciej, warmed by the sun's rays, his prayers now ended,
To his housekeeping chores next he duly attended.
Bringing out leaves and grass, sat him down. At the sound
Of his whistling a rabbit swarm sprang from the ground.
Like narcissi that over the grass sudden sprung,
Long ears glimmering palely; below, brightly strung,
Like bright rubies, their gaudy eyes gleaming blood-red,
Thickly embroidered into their green velvet bed.
Conies now on their hind paws, each upright and listening,
Pay attention; the brood then, all white-furry, glistening,
Hop up to the old fellow by cabbage leaves drawn,
On his feet, knees and shoulders they hop, sit enthroned,
Himself white as a rabbit, he loves to convoke
Them around him, with one hand their warm fur to stroke,
From his cap with the other oats on the grass scatters;
Off the roofs then the sparrows' vociferous mob flutters.
While the old man enjoyment in this feasting found,
All the rabbits soon vanished back into the ground,
To the roof went the sparrows, escaping new guests
Who towards Maciej's farmhouse with rapid steps pressed.
These were, from the priest's house, by the council of gentry,
Envoys dispatched for Maciej's advice. Before entry,
The old gentleman greeting from far, their caps raised,
They said, to the ground bowing, "Lord Jesus be praised!"
"Ever and ever, amen", the old man replied,
When the mission's importance he'd fully descried,
Asked them in; so they entered, and sat down, and waited.
The chief envoy, still standing, their purpose then stated.
To the farm in the meantime much more gentry drew.
Nearly all were Dobrzynskis, of neighbours some few
From the settlements near, some bear arms, some with none,
Some in carts came, and britzkas, some rode there, some ran,
Some on farm wagons; horses to birches were tied,
Round the house they all circled, pushed, curious, inside,
Filled the room, then the hallway, and stood there compressed.
Stragglers gawked through the windows, with heads to heads
pressed.

Book Seven

THE MEETING

The salutary counsel of Bartek known as 'Prussian' - The fighting

words of Maciek 'the Baptist' - The politic words of Master
Buchman - Jankiel attempts to bring about consensus, is thwarted
by Penknife - Gerwazy's address, which demonstrates the
effectiveness of parliamentary persuasion - Old Maciej's
remonstrance - The sudden arrival of reinforcements breaks off the
debate - Down with the Soplicas!

It was Bartek's turn now to state his point of view;

He made trips to Krlewiec on rafts, not a few,
So was nick-named the 'Prussian' by people, in jest,
For all knew that the Prussians he loathed like a pest,
Though liked talking about them; in his sixtieth year,
Who had seen in his travels the world, far and near;
Of gazettes a great reader, knew matters of state:
So much light he could throw on the current debate.
Thus concluded he:

"This, good Pan Maciej, dear sir,

Brother dear, and our father, to whom all defer,
This is no trivial aid. On the French I'd depend
In a war as I would on four aces in hand:
A brave, warlike race, and from Pan Kosciuszko's days
The world not by another such chief was amazed,

By such genius at war as the great Bonaparte.

I recall when the French had crossed over the Warthe
-I was travelling abroad then-it was in the year
Of Our Lord Eighteen Hundred and Six; and I steered
On some business to Gdansk; and with relatives near
In Poznan, thought to pay them a visit, and went
With Grabowski, now colonel of our regiment,
Who then lived near a village, Obezierz by name.
We went hunting together there after small game.
There was peace in Great Poland; when suddenly rattled
All around us the tidings of some dreadful battle;
An envoy from Pan Todwen pulled up alongside,
Grabowski read the letter, and 'Jena!' he cried,
'The Kraut's beat neck and crop, he has fled like the breeze!'
I then, having dismounted, fell down on my knees,
Giving thanks to the Lord-and to town we then ride,
As on business, pretending to know naught beside;
And we see: all these landrats and other hofrats,
Herr Komissars and other such similar rats,
To the ground bow before us; they paled and they blanched
Like a fat Prussian cockroach with hot water drenched.
We all rub our hands laughing, and with great respect
Ask, if there is some news they from Jena expect?
When they hear this dire news, in their shock and dismay,
All those Germans start screaming: 'Her-got!' and 'O vey!'
Noses down, to their houses, rush out with huge loads,
Oh, this was a shemozzle! All Great Poland's roads
Full of refugees; Germans, like ants disturbed, crawled
Dragging vehicles that the folk thereabouts called
'Wagens', or else fornalkas; men, women, distressed,
With a pipe, and a kettle, with bedding, with chest,
Scamper off as they can, while we secretly meet:
Let's, to horse, make a mess of the German retreat;
What if we whip the landrats, strip off hofrats' trews,
And Herr Officers catch by their long plaited queues!'
And then General Dabrowski into Poznan flies
With the Emperor's order: 'All Poles are to rise!'
In one week did our folk have the Germans so beat
And chased off, that you could not find one in the street!
What if we, too, get busy, the right moment pick,
And in Litwa play Moscow the very same trick?
Heh? What do you think, Maciej? If with Bonaparte
Moscow picks a bone, joking with him is not smart!
World's greatest hero, soldiers unnumbered he gathered!
What do you think, hey, Maciej, our Bunny, our father?
He stopped. For Maciej's verdict they, anxious, stand by.
Maciej moved not his head, nor yet lifted his eye,
Several times, with his hand though, he struck at his side,
As if seeking his sabre (since liberty died

Wore it not; nonetheless from a habit ingrained,

At a mention of Moscow his hand reached again
For his left side, where once he his 'Switch' always found
And so named 'By-My-Side' in the country around).
He raised his hand, they listened in silence profound.
But Maciej disappointed the wish of his guests,
His brow clouded, again his head sank to his breast.
At last spoke, each word slowly, deliberately said,
Each word stressed, keeping rhythm with nodding of head:
"Silence! What is the source of this news just to hand?
How far are the French forces? Who is in command?
Is war on Moscow certain? And where, why, and when?
And what route have they taken? With how many men?
What infantry, what horse? Has this any here learned?"
They were silent and looked at each other in turn.
"I suggest", spoke up Prussian, "that for Worm we wait,
For from him the whole news seems to originate;
In the meantime send trusty spies over the border
And, in secret, put arms for us all in good order;
For with care we must meanwhile conduct the thing thus
That we do not betray our intent to the Russ."
"Wait? Prate? Debate?" another Maciek interrupted,
Named 'Baptist' for the massive great club he'd adopted,
And had baptised it 'Sprinkler', he brought it today,
Stood it upright in front, on its top his hands laid,
On the hands his chin resting, cried: "Wait, prate, delay!
Hold more meetings! Hem, trem, brem, and then run away?
I've not been there, the Prussians' brains may be germane
To their Prussia, but I have a gentleman's brain!
This I know, who would fight, takes a club in his fist,
Who would die; let the fellow call out for a priest!
Fight! Bite! Why the priest? Are we but schoolboys, to squirm?
What's this Worm to me! Why, it's our swarm will soon worm
Into Moscow's trunk! Trem, brem, spy, and reconnoitre,
You know what these mean?-That you're old beggars to loiter.
Heh, brothers! It's the hound's way to sniff out the prey,
And a monk's to beg alms, but my way is to spray,
Spray, sprinkle, that's all!"-Here his club gave a pat,
After him yelled the gentry: "Spray, sprinkle, that's that!"
Bartek 'Razor' now came to the Baptist's support,
For his sword named, and Maciek, called 'Bucket' for short,
For a blunderbuss he had, of such a wide bore,
From it, as from a can, could a dozen balls pour;
Both called out: "Hurrah, Baptist and Sprinkler, up boys!"
The Prussian wished to speak, but was drowned in the noise
And laughter: "Out", they shouted, "Prussian wimps, outside!
In a Bernardine cowl should all wimps go and hide!"

Then old Maciej again raised up slowly his head,

And, the hubbub about him subsiding, he said:
"Don't make fun of this Worm, men, I know him, he's shrewd,
That little worm has bigger than you walnuts chewed;
Only once have I met him, gave him but one glance,
And knew what bird we have here; he eyed me askance
Fearful that I might make him kneel down and confess;
But, this is not my business, I should not digress!
Call the Bernardine? Useless, he won't come, at least
If he's really the one who this news just released,
And who knows with what aim: it's one hell of a priest!
If except for this story you know nothing more,
Then what do you all want here? What did you come for?"
"War! War!" shouted they.-"What war?" he asked, and they
cried:
"War with Muscovites! Thrash them! Tan Muscovites' hide!"
Prussian cried to be heard, raised his voice ever higher,
Till he, partly by bowing, now gained his desire,
And partly with his diction quite piercing and shrill:
"I would fight too", he cried, struck his breast with a will:
"Though I carry no Sprinkler, once with a barge pole
I had christened four Prussians and sure made them bawl,
They tried drowning me, drunk, in the Pregel one day".
"Well done, Bartek", said Baptist, "just sprinkle away!"
"In the name of sweet Jesus! At least we should know
War with whom? And, why war? And must tell the world so"
Cried the Prussian, "else, how will we lead other men,
When we don't know ourselves where we're going, and when?
Gentlemen! Brother gentry! We need reason, sense!
My good friends! In some order should this be commenced!
A confederacy should, if it's war, be decreed,
Let's consider in what place, and under whose lead,
Thus it was in Great Poland-we saw a retreat,
Germans flee, what's to do? So we secretly meet,
Armed the gentry and peasants a few, all discreet,
And all ready we wait for Dabrowski's command,
And at last, to horse, brothers! We rose as one man!"
The Kleck manager called out: "I now ask the floor!"
A man young, and good-looking, who German dress wore;
Name of Buchman, a Pole though, born on Polish earth,
No one knew for sure whether he was of good birth,
But none asked, and Pan Buchman, by general accord
Had respect as one serving an eminent lord,
A good patriot, his mind full of every book knowledge,
Who abroad learned the science of farming at college,
The estate he looked after with skill and with care;

Of political matters was also aware;

Wrote in beautiful script, spoke with good style and worth,
And so all became silent to hear him hold forth.
"The floor!" said he twice more, then he twice cleared his throat,
Bowed once, and, silver-tongued, he began on this note:
"My precursors, in their full and lofty orations
Touched upon the main issues and considerations,
And raised this debate onto a very high plane;
I should merely bring into sharp focus again
The divergent opinions here ably expressed;
Hoping thus views contrary, to reconcile best.
Two clear in the discussions divisions appear,
The division so made, let me follow it here:
Firstly: what reason have we for this insurrection?
What spirit? This the foremost, and vital, election;
The second: 'who's the leader?' should really come first;
The division is proper, but should be reversed.
The authority's foremost-when that is in place
The uprising's sense, spirit, and aims I shall trace.
Authority, then-when I examine, survey,
The long history of mankind, what does it portray?
A race human, but savage, dispersed in woods, glens,
Assembling, and uniting for common defence,
Giving this due reflection-first council debates!
Then each man a small part of his freedom donates
For the common good: and we have here the first law,
From which, as from a spring, will all other laws flow.
Government, from this follows, is founded on pact,
And not, as is thought, wrongly, on God's will and act.
On a sound social contract must order depend;
Delegation is only a means to that end."
"So now, contracts! Of Kiev, or Minsk? What a lemon!"
Said Maciej, "a republic is here, fit for women!
Pan Buchman, it was God's will that governed we are
By the Czar, or was Satan's? This won't take us far,
Pan Buchman, tell us how to get rid of this Czar!"
"There's the rub!" shouted Baptist; "If I could but bounce
To the throne and the Czar just splash! Sprinkle! But once,
Then he would not come back here, not by Kiev tracts,
Nor by Minsk, nor by any Buchmanish contracts;
Him no pope from his coffin with God's help would winkle,
Or Beelzebub's help-he's my man, who will sprinkle!
Pan Buchman, this your discourse has very much merit,
But all fine talk's but hum-drum: Sprinkle! That's the spirit".
"Yes, yes!" squeaked Razor, rubbing his hands, in fine fettle,
As from Baptist to Maciek he ran, like a shuttle
From one side of the warp sent across to the other,

"If you, with your Switch, Maciej, and you, Baptist brother,
But agree, we with God's help will pound the Russ band
To a pulp: submits Razor to Switch's command".
"Command", butted in Baptist, "is good on parade,
There was but one command in the Kowno brigade,
Short, and to the point: 'Frighten, and do not feel frightHit, don't quit nor submit-and left, right, smite and smite;
Slash, bash!"-"That's", squeaked out Razor, "a good rule, I
think!
All these clauses and by-laws? Waste paper and ink!
A confederacy's needed? That is a bit rich!
We have Maciej for Marshal, for baton his Switch".
"Vivat Maciej!" cried Baptist, "God health to him grant!"
And the gentry responded: "All Sprinklers, vivant!"
In the corners some murmurs rose, elsewhere subdued;
One could see that the meeting was splitting in two.
Buchman cried: "With agreements I never agree!
That's my system!"-One shouted: "No, this must not be!"
Some veto'ed from the corners, till drowned by the voice
Of late-comer Skoluba, subsided the noise.
"What's this, Masters Dobrzynski! What's cooking here! So,
Are we newcomers treated as outside the law?
When our clan was invited to come here as guests,
And came due to the Warden Rembailo's request,
We were told that great things were about to transpire,
Not just for the Dobrzynskis, but for the whole shire.
The whole gentry's concern; Worm this too kept on muttering,
Though he never quite finished and just kept on stuttering,
And but dimly explained-and, as you have just heard,
We rode here ourselves and to the neighbours sent word:
So, Dobrzynskis, you are not the only ones here!
There came from other ridings two hundred men, near;
So we all must consult. If we do need a marshal,
Let's all vote, each vote's equal, choice must be impartial.
Equality's the thing!"
Then two Terajewiczes,
Four Stypulkowskis, also a few Mickiewiczes,
For Skoluba: "Hear, hear!" all cried out with one breath,
"Equality", cried Buchman, "is equal to death!"
Baptist shouted: "We'll manage without you, long live
Our new marshal, our Maciej of Maciejs, let's give
Him the baton right now!"-The Dobrzynskis: "Yes, do!"
While the visiting gentry cry "Veto!" Noise grew.
The crowd split, then divided, in separate factions,
And stood shaking their heads in two different directions,
These call loudly: "You shall not!"-the others: "We will!"

Old Maciej in the midst of all this sat quite still,

His the only head there that did not move at all.
Before him stood the Baptist, who both hands let fall
On the end of his club, his head on these located,
Like a gourd impaled on to a stick it rotated,
Or, alternately backward and forward he swayed,
And non-stop: "Boys, just sprinkle and sprinkle!" he brayed.
Busy Razor from one side to opposite flitting,
From the Baptist's bench ran to where Maciek was sitting;
While Bucket from Dobrzynskis' side once in a while
Walked across, as if factions he would reconcile;
One cried: "Splash!" without stopping-the other cried: "Shave!"
Maciej silent, but signs of impatience now gave.
Some time lasted this hubbub, when over the crowd
Between the heads, a gleaming steel column rose, glowed:
A huge sword it was, fully a whole palm-breadth wide,
Each edge sharpened so that it could cut from each side,
A Teutonic steel weapon, in Nuremberg made;
All stood silent, eyes fixed on the great awesome blade.
But who raised it? Not obvious, but soon they'd all guessed:
"That's the Penknife!" they cried, "long live Penknife, the best!
Vivat Penknife! Rembailos' chief jewel and joy!
Vivat Notchy Rembailo, Half-goat, My-dear-Boy!"
Soon Gerwazy (for 'twas he) had through the crowd crashed
To room's centre, the Penknife spun overhead, flashed,
Then, dropping the blade low to acknowledge the meeting
With Maciek, said: "The Penknife to Switch bows in greeting.
Brothers, Dobrzynski gentry! I shan't interfere,
Give no counsel, just tell you why I called you here,
But what you do, and how, you yourselves will decide.
These old rumours you'd know through our gentry spread wide,
That great things in the world are about to occur;
Father Worm spoke about this, some of you were there?"
"Yes, we know!" they all cried-"Good. For one clever head
It's enough", he glanced keenly, "if two words are said,
Is this not so?"-"It sure is", they said-"If from far,
The French Emperor comes here, as does also the Czar,
Then it's war, Czar and Caesar; a king against king
Will squabble, a quite normal among monarchs thing;
And we, shall we sit quiet? When pike attacks pike
Let us throttle the minnows, so like fights with like.
From above, and below, great with great, small with small,
Once we start swinging, all these rapscallions will fall,
And then-Joy! Our Republic will flourish anew.
Not true?"-"True!", they said, "as if in books printed, true".
"True! True!" Baptist repeated, "true, every drip-drop".
"To shave I'm always ready", said Razor, "full stop!"

"But, let's all agree", Bucket politely then said,

"Baptist, Maciej, please tell us, by whom we'll be led".
But Buchman interrupted: "Let donkeys agree,
No harm to public issues in talk frank and free,
So be silent! Let's listen! The subject gains too,
For the Warden sees things from a new point of view".
"Not at all", cried the Warden, "my view, as of old,
It's for great men great matters to plan and unfold;
For this are emperors, diets, the senate, and kings,
Krakw is, my-dear-boy, the right place for such things,
Or Warsaw; but not Dobrzyn, our riding's not it;
Confederacy acts are not with chalk on walls writ,
It is parchment, not parget, for these matters fit.
Not for us to write Acts, that's what scribes are there for,
Both the Crown and Lithuanian, thus was it of yore;
Mine to whittle with Penknife"-"With Sprinkler to dab",
Added Baptist-"And with Awl to pierce and to stab",
Shouted Bartek the 'Awl' with his rapier half-drawn.
"All here", ended the Warden, "I ask you to own;
Did not Worm tell us this, that before you presume
To ask Bonaparte in, you must clean out your room?
You all heard, but are blind to what here needs the broom?
Who's the trash of the shire? Who the traitor who spilled
The best Polish blood here, who had robbed him; who killed?
And would grab now what's left from the hands of the heir?
Who? Must I tell you all?"-"That's Soplica, it's clear",
Cut in Bucket, "a villain!"-"Oy, what an exploiter!"
Squealed Razor-Baptist cried: "Duck his head under water!"
"If a traitor", said Buchman, "He should hang, of course!"
"Huzza!" shouted they all, "At Soplicas, to horse!"
Nonetheless, now the Prussian did stand up and dare
To defend the Judge, raising his arms in the air:
"Brothers gentry! Oh! Oh! On Our Lord's wounds and pain!
What's this nonsense, Pan Warden, are you, sir, insane?
Was the question here that if one brother is banished,
Is a madman, should for this his brother be punished?
Is this the Christian way? I can see the Count's touch
In all this-That on gentry the Judge leans too much,
Is not true! For, good heavens, it's you who him sue,
While he always endeavours to seek peace with you,
He gives way to you-when there are costs, he pays such,
Litigates with the Count? And so what? Both have much;
Let the master fight master, how does this us touch?
The Judge a tyrant! He 'twas who said that no more
Shall a peasant before him bow down to the floor,
That this is a sin. Often, I've seen him admit
Peasant guests to his table, and together sit;

He paid the village taxes-in Kleck not the fashion,

Though you rule there, Pan Buchman, with German compassionThe Judge a traitor? We him from childhood well know:
A good-hearted child then, and now, too, it is so;
Poland loves he above all, her customs obeys,
He will never grant entry to Muscovite ways.
Each time I'm back from Prussia, its smell to erase,
I seek his house, the kernel of old Polish ways:
There man can breathe and drink in the Fatherland's praise!
By God, Dobrzynskis! I am your kin, but will not
Allow the Judge be wronged so, this must be forgot.
Such things, friends, never would in Great Poland befall:
What harmony! What spirit! It's good to recall!
None at meetings such nonsense would dare to bring up!"
"It's no nonsense", cried Warden, "such knaves to string up!"
The murmurs grew; then Jankiel next asked to be heard,
Onto a bench jumped, over their heads raised his beard;
That beard that like a thatch to his waist thickly grew;
With the right hand his fox-fur hat slowly withdrew,
With the left his yarmulke back into place stroked,
In his belt tucked his left hand, and thus to all spoke,
With hat paying obeisance first in order due:
"Nu, my masters Dobrzynski, I'm just a poor Jew;
Judge is no kith nor kin, I Soplicas hold dear
As my very good masters, and my landlords here;
I, too, Dobrzynski Macieks and Barteks hold high
As my old benefactors and neighbours for aye;
And I say this: if you, sirs, now get up and arm
Against the Judge, that's bad, and you may come to harm,
Get killed-and courts? Policemen? Tribunals? And prisons?
For in Soplica's village are soldiers in dozens,
All yaegers! The Assessor needs but wave his hat,
They will march up at once, are there as if for that.
And what will happen then? If you Frenchies await,
The Frenchman's far away still, the distance is great,
I'm a Jew, war's for others; but when I, for orders,
Met some Jews at Bielica, who came from the border;
The Frenchman, they said, stands by the Lososna River,
And war, if it does come, will in spring come, or never.
Nu, I say wait: Soplicas' big house, is no way
Some market stall; to fold up and trundle away
In a wagon: it is here, and will be, come spring;
And the Judge is no little Jew leasing an inn,
Will not run off, in springtime you'll find him again;
So let us all disperse now, such talking is vain,
About all this keep mum, let us not talk too free,
And you would honour me, sirs, if you follow me.
My Siora bore a little new Jankiel, today

I will stand drinks around, there'll be music, and play!

We'll have bagpipes, bass-viol, two fiddles will lead,
And my honoured friend Maciej likes old linden mead
And new mazurkas; of these I have eight or nine,
And I taught all my kiddies to sing extra fine."
This oration of Jankiel's, in high regard held,
Reached all hearts; there was shouting, the merriment swelled,
Now murmurs of approval beyond the house spread,
When Gervaze raised his Penknife above Jankiel's head.
The Jew leapt down and vanished; cried Warden: "Out, Jew!
Go! Do not stick your fingers in other folks' stew!
Just because Judge-Pan Prussian-lends you for your trade
Some piffling barges, your throat must come to his aid?
You've forgotten, my-dear-boy, how many a boat
Of Horeszkos' your father to Prussia did float!
Thus grew rich, and not just he, but family, as well;
Bah, as he helped all those who in Dobrzyn here dwell.
For the old still remember, the young have been told,
The Pantler was your father kind in days of old:
Who did he send to manage his vast Pinsk demesne?
A Dobrzynski. His books kept? Dobrzynski again!
Who his chamberlain? And who took care of his plate?
It's Dobrzynskis looked after his house and estate!
In courts he would assist you with his interventions,
From the king he himself would obtain for you pensions.
In droves in Piarist convents your children he would
Place, maintain at his cost; for their clothes paid, and food;
Grown up, he their careers would with gold help, and labour:
And why did this? Because he was aye your good neighbour!
Today Soplicas' boundary mounds touch everything!
And what did he do ever for you?"
"Not a thing!"
Interrupted him Bucket, "for he's one of those
Who rose, and now, phew, phew, phew, they turn up their nose!
You remember, I asked him to my daughter's wedding;
Hand him a glass, says he: "I'm to drink not as ready
As you gentry; you gentry all drink like a fish".
What a high-born we have here! What delicate dish!
Would not drink, so we forced him, he screamed and he fought!
Just wait till from my Bucket lead pours down his throat!"
"The sly knave", cried out Baptist, "I'll sprinkle his shnoz
For my own hurt. My son once a clever lad was;
Now he has grown so stupid, they call him the Chook,
And because of the Judge he had earned this rebuke.
I asked: 'Why to Soplicas you run and you crawl?
If I catch you again there, God help you, that's all!'
But, whoosh! He's off to Zofia, sneaks off through the hemp,

I caught him, grabbed his ears, and sprink-sprinkled him damp;

But he bellows and bleats, like a child full of woe:
'Kill me if you will, father', he sobs, 'I must go!'
'What's with you?' and he says, he this Zosia loves so!
Just would watch her! The dummy! Some pity I took,
And I say to the Judge, give your Zosia to Chook!
He says: 'she is too little, wait some three years, brother,
If she wants to'-The bastard! She's meant for another.
So I heard, and I'll manage to gate-crash that wedding
And will bless with my Sprinkler the pair's nuptial bedding."
"And shall such a great scoundrel", the Warden cried, "flourish
Over men of great name? Those more worthy impoverish?
Shall Horeszkos' name perish, their fame not endure?
The world's gratitude-dead now? In Dobrzyn, that's sure.
Brothers! You would cross swords with the Czar of all Russias,
But to fight with Soplicas, you're suddenly cautious?
Prisons fright you! But are you to robbery called?
God forbid! Brothers gentry! The law I uphold!
After all, the Count won, gained decrees by the ton;
They must but be enforced! Thus it used to be done:
The Court writes decrees, gentry will carry out same,
Especially Dobrzynskis, and that's why your name
Has grown in Lithuania! It's Dobrzynskis, they,
Gave the Russ such a fight at the Myski foray,
Who were led by their general, was named Wojnilowicz,
And his friend, the old scoundrel, Wolk of Logomowicz;
You recall how this Wolk we as prisoner took,
And intended to hang in the barn from a hook,
As a tyrant to peasants and Muscovite limb;
But those dim-witted peasants took pity on him!
(One fine day on my Penknife I'll bake him till tender).
I will not other forays recall, without number,
From which, as befits gentry, to us always came
Some profit, universal applause, and great fame!
But what's the point! Your neighbour the Count, will in vain
Go to courts, and decrees will in dozens obtain,
When this poor orphan none now will offer a hand!
And he heir of that Pantler, who fed all this land;
Except for me, the Warden, he has now no friend,
And this, my loyal Penknife, to guard and defend!"
"And the Sprinkler", said Baptist, "Gerwazy, where you
There go I; while my hand lasts, my splish-splash lasts too.
Two's better than one! By God, Gerwazy! Your sting
And my Sprinkler! By golly, I'll sprinkle, you'll swing,
So slish, slash, splish, splash; others can just talk and stay!"
"And Bartek", Razor said, "You would not keep away;
Or exclude; what you lather, this I will shave clean".
"And I too", added Bucket, "to move with you mean,

When they cannot agree on the choice of a marshal;

What's to me votes and ballots; to these balls I'm partial"
(Took a fistful of balls out, and made them ring all):
"Here are my ballots", cried he, "the Judge earned each ball!"
"We're with you", cried Skoluba, "with you, one, two, three!"
"Where you go", cried the gentry, "there also go we!"
Long live all the Horeszkos! Vivant the Half-Goats!
Vivat Warden Rembailo! Cut Soplicas' throats!"
Thus by smooth-tongued Gerwazy were all swept along:
For against the Judge each one remembered some wrong,
As neighbours will: some damage by stock, or a shoot,
Or about some wood-getting, or boundary dispute:
Anger stirs some; and others through envy irate
Of Judge's wealth-but all were united in hate.
Raising sabres and cudgels aloft press up close
To the WardenWhen Maciej, until now morose,
Motionless, from his bench rose, and with measured step
Came out into room's centre, put each hand on hip
And, looking straight before him and nodding his head,
Took the floor, slowly letting drop each word he said,
With frequent pause and accent: "So, stupid! And stupid!
Stupid fools you! Who has sown, it's you who will cop it!
When talk was to raise Poland again from this rubble,
And of common good, stupid, all you did was squabble,
No one could, stupid, either exchange proper views,
In some good order, stupid, nor properly choose
A chief over you, stupid! But should one by chance
Bring out your private hurts, fools, agreement at once!
Get out! For as I'm Maciej, you to umpteen millions
Umpteen thousand carts barrels drays wagons battalions
Of devils...!"
All stood still, as if struck by a bolt!
But great shoutings outside brought them to with a jolt:
"Long live the Count!" He cantered into Maciej's farm,
Armed, and after him, 'jockeys' ten, also well armed.
The Count astride a charger, besuited in sable,
Over all a coat nut-brown, of Italian label,
Wide and sleeveless, more shroud-like than like a full cape,
Pinned with buckle at neck, and down each shoulder draped;
His hat round and beplumed; he wheeled sharply toward
The group and then saluted them once with his sword.
"Long live the Count!" they shouted, "with him live and die!"
The gentry through the windows began then to try
And see what was afoot, with the Warden they rushed
For the doorway, behind him they shoved and they crushed,

Maciej drove out the remnant, door closed, both bolts pushed,
Looking out of the window, said "stupid!" once more.
And meanwhile all the gentry behind the Count pour
To the inn. There Gerwazy recalled days of old,
From three kontuszes Warden for three broad belts called,
On these up from the vaults three big barrels appear:
One of vodka, of mead one, the third full of beer.
Removed the spigots, three streams gushed, gurgled and sped,
One gold, one white like silver, and cornelian red
The third; with triple rainbow they sparkle and sing,
Into hundred mugs gush, in umpteen glasses ring.
The crowd seethes, one lot drinks, while another lot roars:
"Long live the Count", and all: "At Soplicas, to horse!"
Jankiel slipped off, bare-back; Pruss, too, tried to depart
Still not listened to, although he spoke with much art,
Cried the gentry: "a traitor!" and after him chased.
Mickiewicz stood to one side, his voice never raised,
From his face it was plain, though, he plots some deceit,
So, to sabres, and at him! He slowly retreats,
Is already cut, parries, backed into the fence,
When leapt Zan and three Czeczots out to his defence.
These were soon parted, although, before this would end
One was slashed in the ear, and two cut in the hand.
The rest mount.
With Gerwazy, the Count the mob calms,
Restores order, distributes commands, gear, and arms,
Down the settlement's main street they gallop pell-mell,
Shouting: "At the Soplicas! Let's send them to hell!"

Book Eight

THE FORAY

The Tribune's astronomical lore - The Chamberlain's commentary

on comets - The mysterious scene in the Judge's chamber - Tadeusz,
expecting to extricate himself cleverly, falls into a nasty predicament
-The new Dido - The foray - The Usher's last protest - The Count
conquers Soplicowo -The assault and the slaughter - Gerwazy in
role of cellar master - The feast after the foray

Before storms there comes often a stillness and dread,

When the on-rushing cloud-mass stands still overhead,
And with ominous face checks the winds' breath at once,
Silent, the earth examines with lightning's quick glance,
Marking targets at which it its bolts soon will cast;
Now over Soplicowo such dead stillness passed.
You might think that the presage of strange things to come
To a dreamland raised spirits, and sewed the lips dumb.
The Judge, after the supper, with his several guests
Walks outside to enjoy there the evening's rest;
All sit down on 'turf benches' with fine grasses strewed;
The whole gathering, in gloomy and taciturn mood,
Watch the sky which appears to loom lower, sink down,
And to thicken, yet closer approaching the ground,
Until sky and ground, hid by the darkening veil
Begin telling, like lovers, each other some tale,
Making plainer their feelings in half-stifled sighs,
And in whispers, in murmurs, half-spoken replies,

Which compose the peculiar strange music of gloaming.

The owl started it, under the homestead roof moaning;
With flimsy wing bats whisper, and silently flit
To the house, where the windows and faces shine, lit;
And yet nearer, bats' sisters, moths, in a swarm press,
Hovering, fluttering, attracted by women's white dress,
And especially by Zosia; they at her cheeks make
A charge, at her bright eyes, which for candles they take.
In the open, immense clouds of insects buzz there,
A harmonica band that floats on the night air;
Zosia's ear can distinguish in multi-note drone
The flies' chord, and mosquitoes' off-key semitone.
In the fields now the concert soire has begun,
The players are now ready, their tuning-up done,
Thrice screamed the crake already, fields' first violin,
From the swamps now the bass line of bitterns joins in;
And the snipes rise now also, there suddenly comes
Their call, often repeated, like beating of drums.
For finale to midges' loud hum and birds' din
The twin ponds' double choir in ripieno joined in,
Like two lakes set, enchanted, in Caucasus' heights,
Silent throughout the daytime, resounding of nights.
One pond, which had clear depths and a shore of fine sand
Gave forth from its blue bosom moans, solemn, low, grand;
From the other's throat murky, on whose floor mud lies,
Came an answer in mournful and passionate cries;
In both ponds serenaded frogs' unnumbered hordes,
Two huge choirs attuned into two powerful chords.
One fortissimo thunders, the other but hums,
This one seems to be grumbling, from that one sighs come;
Thus the ponds, field to field, keep conversing together,
Like two Aeolian wind-harps, one answers the other.
Dusk thickened; in the forest, and there, by the stream
In the rushes, like candles, wolves' eyes burn and gleam.
And further, within narrowed horizon's confines
The campfire of a shepherd group fitfully shines.
At last the moon enkindled its silver flambeau,
Left the wood and lit heaven and earth with its glow.
Sky and earth, from the twilight uncovered, half-bare,
Slumbered on side-by-side like an old wedded pair,
A happy pair; the sky holds in its chaste embrace
The earth's bosom, now silvered by moon's lucent grace.
In the Moon's wake, already, first one, then a second,
Bright star flashes and gleams, thousands, millions wink, beckon,
In the van brothers Castor and Pollux shine bold,

Once were Lele-Polele by Slav nations called,

In the popular zodiac now different names own:
One is called L i t h u a n i a,the other the C r o w n.
Further off, the celestial S c a l e s' broad dishes shine;
On these God, at Creation, (so old folk opine)
Weighed, one after the other, the planets and Earth,
Till in heaven's abyss He at last had them berthed;
And when done, the scales golden He hung in the sky:
From these men learned, and since as a pattern apply.
In the north the star-studded S i e v e shines, hangs uplifted,
Through which God (so the tale goes) the grains of rye sifted,
When he cast them from heaven for our father Adam,
For his sins he from Eden expelled with his madam.
Somewhat higher, stands ready for use D a v i d's car,
Its long pole-shaft directly aimed at the North Star.
Old Litwans know the chariot the wrong title bears,
That in calling it "David's", the populace errs,
This an angels' cart, on it bold Lucifer fared,
Before time, when he God to a wrestling-match dared,
On the Milky Way galloped he to God's abode,
Till Michael knocked him off it, and threw off the road.
The cart, now out of order, among stars lies there,
And the Archangel Michael forbids its repair.
And, by old Lithuanians it also is known,
(And this knowledge, they say, was by rabbis passed on),
That this zodiacal S e r p e n t, so stretched out and stout,
Whose coils, star-flecked, twist over the sky, in and out,
By astronomers wrongly as S n a k e was enrolled,
For no snake, but a fish this, Leviathan called.
Once it lived in the ocean, but when earth went dry,
The Flood over, of thirst died; and now in the sky,
As a curio, and relic of those dreadful rains,
The angels had suspended its mortal remains.
Just as Mir's parish priest in his church hung donated
Giants' tibias and rib bones, of late excavated.
Suchlike tales of the stars, through books communicated,
Or passed down by tradition, the Tribune related;
In the dark, though, old Tribune had rather poor sight,
Through his glasses saw little in heavens at night,
But by form and by title knew each constellation;
And his finger could point to its path and location.
Today none paid attention, nor heeded his tales
Of the S i e v e,nor the D r a g o n, nor yet of the S c a l e s;

Tonight, the eyes and surmise of all occupies

A new guest, which not long is perceived in the skies:
It was a mighty c o m e t of first magnitude,
Which appeared in the west and towards the north skewed;
With eye bloody it looked at the C h a r i o t askance,
Lucifer's vacant seat it would take up at once,
Its long queue streaming after, appearing to take
Half of heaven its captive, caught stars in its wake,
All dragged in tow behind it, its head aiming far,
Ever higher, and shooting straight at the North Star.
With a wordless foreboding the people were driven
To watch out every night for this portent in heaven,
Other bad signs around them they also saw looming:
For now often were screams heard of birds of ill-omen,
Of which black flocks foregathered in bleak fields and copses,
Where they sharpened their beaks, as if waiting for corpses.
Now too oft was it noted how dogs pawed the ground
And, as if scenting death, howled with desperate sound:
Presage of war or famine; and foresters saw,
As the Maid of Contagion through graveyards moved slow,
Whose dread brow outsoars even the loftiest tree;
With her left hand a bloody-red kerchief holds she.
Various did the field-foreman conclusions draw thence,
Just come, rendering the farming report by the fence,
And the clerk, with the steward in converse discreet.
The Chamberlain, ensconced now upon the turf seat,
Interrupted guests' chatting, a sign he would speak;
So, flashed bright in the moonlight his snuff-box antique
(Wrought in gold, and with brilliants the setting set close,
In the centre a portrait of King Stanislaus),
He his fingers drummed on it, took snuff, and said: "Sirs,
Pan Tadeusz, your discourse about the stars errs,
But an echo of what they have taught you in schools.
About marvels I'd rather consult simple fools.
At astronomy I, too, for two years did sit
In Wilno, where a lady of fortune and wit,
Mrs Puzyn, two hundred souls' income donated
To buy telescopes, lenses, for us allocated.
To Poczobut, great cleric, the use of these fell
(He of the 'Akademia' was Rector as well),
Though, at last, with the lectern and telescope spurned,
To his cloister, his quiet cell, gladly returned,
And there died a good Christian. Sniadecki I knew,
Though a layman, he passed for a learned man too.
But astronomers, I think, such comets approach
Much as townsfolk observing a carriage, or coach,
They see that it arrives at the royal abode,

Or that through city gates it departs for abroad;

But, who rode in it, why? And talked he with the king?
Was it war, was it peace, which king's envoy would bring?
Such they don't ever ask. I remember the day
When Branecki for Jassy, in his cabriolet,
Set off. After that wicked black carriage there trailed
A tail of Targowicans, like this comet's tail;
The plain folk, though involved not in public affairs,
Guessed at once that this tail loads of infamy bears.
I believe that our comet folk 'broom' call today,
And foretell that a million it shall sweep away".
To this, bowing; the Tribune: "Indeed, with respect,
My Lord Chamberlain, I now come to recollect
What to me, though I was but a child, was once told,
Recall well, although I was then but ten years old,
When at our house I saw once, long gone now, dear sirs,
Sapieha, the commander of our cuirassiers,
Who as Marshal soon over king's court did preside,
And who as the Lithuanian Great Chancellor died,
Aged one hundred and ten. He, at time of King Jan
Had served at Vienna under the flag of Hetman
Jablonowski; this marshal then to us recounted,
At the very same moment King John the Third mounted,
And while the papal nuncio his setting-out blessed,
And as the Austrian envoy the royal foot kissed,
While Count Wilczek was helping to hand him the reins,
'Just look up at the sky, all!' His Highness exclaims.
They looked, and there a comet appeared overhead,
On the path that Mahomet's battalions were led
From east to west; and later Bartochowski, cleric,
For the Krakw great triumph wrote that panegyric
Titled 'Orientis Fulmen', in which he much said
Of this comet. Also in a book I once read,
Called 'Janina', there features, in great detail done,
The entire expedition of our late King Jan
And in which is Mahomet's Great Standard, too, graven,
And the comets, too, such as we see now in heaven."
"Amen, for what your omen brings I'm quite prepared"
Said the Judge, "...if the star brings as well John the Third!
In the west a great hero today rose, and may
Be led here by this comet; God grant it today!"
To this put in the Tribune, with head sadly bowed:
"A comet may bring war, or brings sometimes a row!
Not good, that Soplicowo lay under its track,
It some family mischief may bring on its back.
Yesterday we had plenty of row and dispute,

And both during the dinner and during the shoot.

The Assessor and Notary had words at the hunt,
In the evening Tadeusz had challenged the Count;
It seems this was all over the hide of a bear;
And if the Judge my patron had not stopped me there,
I'd have then and there settled the whole sad affair.
For a curious occurrence I will to you tell,
Which, like yesterday's rather, in my time befell
Two most eminent marksmen, I am now relating
The tale of Prince Denassow and Deputy Rejtan:
"The General of Podolia once travelled with great
Entourage to his Polish ancestral estate,
Or, to Warsaw, if I am not wrong, for the DietOn his way called on gentry, to have some fun by it,
Or else, to be remembered, so dropped in on Pan
Tadeusz, now of blessed remembrance, Rejtan,
Who sat for Nowogrdek as member a while,
(And at whose house I had been brought up as a child).
So Rejtan for the visit of Prince General
Guests invited-great numbers arrived for a ball:
There was theatre (the Prince loved the stage and the fete);
The fireworks furnished Kaszyc, from Jatra estate.
Pan Tyzenhaus sent dancers, Oginski a band,
As did Pan Soltan, master of Zdzieciele land.
In short, great entertainment and parties they threw
At home, and in the woods an enormous battue.
But you, sirs, would remember, that just about all
Czartoryskis, as far back as one can recall,
Though of Jagiellon bloodline, yet hunting's allure
Does not stir them that much, not from laziness, sure,
But from foreign tastes, rather; and Prince General busied
Himself more with his books than his kennels would visit,
Ladies' bedchambers rather than forests would view.
A German prince, Denassow, came with our Prince too,
Of whom went the tale that he in Libya once hunted,
Guest of blackamoor kings, and out hunting, accounted
With a spear for a tiger. Of this triumph since
Boasted on all occasions this Denassow prince.
It was boar-hunting season in our country now,
Rejtan killed with his carbine a monstrous big sow,
With great danger, for he was too close when he fired,
We the sureness of aim praised, the feat much admired.
Only German Denassow indifferently heard
Such praise, audibly muttered some words in his beard:
That such sure aim proves only a huntsman's sure eye,
While cold steel a bold arm proves; began by-and-by
Again talk of that Libya, about this his spear,
Of black kings and of tigers, his sporting career.

Pan Rejtan felt some chagrin at all this self-praise,

Was a quick-tempered man, so his sword smote and says:
'My lord prince! Who aims boldly, fights, too, without fear,
Boars are no worse than tigers, a sword than a spear'And a discourse, too heated, between them erupted.
By good luck the Prince General the thing interrupted,
Peace restored he in French: but his words none remembers.
Though this 'peace treaty' was but like ash over embers,
Rejtan took this to heart, vowed a moment to pick
When he'd pay back the German with some clever trick;
This clever trick had nearly him cost very dear,
And he played it the next day, as soon will appear".
Here the Tribune fell silent and raised his right hand,
For the Chamberlain's snuffbox politely asked, and
Took time over the snuff, to go on did not please,
As if listeners' impatience to hear more he teased.
Then resumed, when another caesura occurred
In a story so curious, with such interest heard!
For the Judge was told, someone waits outside the gate
With a business so urgent that it cannot wait.
The Judge left them, but bidding his guests "goodnight" first.
They in different directions all straightway dispersed,
Some to sleep in the house, or the barn, on the hay;
The Judge to the new caller, to hear what he'd say.
Others sleep now-Tadeusz still walks the hall floor,
Like a watchman parading outside Uncle's door,
For he must seek advice on big matters in talk
Today, before he sleeps-but does not dare to knock,
The Judge, door closed, with someone in secret confers;
Tadeusz waits his own turn, and pricks up his ears.
And hears sobbing within! So, not trying the latch
Careful, he through the keyhole a glimpse tries to catch.
And sees wonders! His uncle and Worm on their knees
Each embracing the other, with tears streaming; sees
Father Worm kiss the Judge's hands, all ashen-faced,
The Judge, weeping, the Priest's neck with both arms embraced,
When a quarter-hour had thus without speaking fled,
Father Worm to the other this quietly said:
"Brother! God knows, till now I have secretly worn
That oath, which in confessing my sin I have sworn:
To God and to our country my life to devote,
No false pride have I served, nor have earthly fame sought,
As a Bernardine lived I, and thus wished to die,
And my name hide not only from popular eye,
Even to yourself and my own son had to lie!
But the Father Provincial allowed that I might

In 'articulo mortis' my name bring to light.

Who knows if I come back! What will be the conclusion
Of Dobrzyn doings! Brother! It's all in confusion!
Bonaparte's still far distant, until snows depart
One must wait-but the gentry are itching to start.
Perhaps hints of revolt I too rashly let fall,
Perhaps they heard me wrongly! The Warden wrecked all!
This mad Count has to Dobrzyn gone racing, I hear,
I could not warn him. Why not? The reason is clear:
I think old Maciej knew me; if I show my face,
My neck under the Penknife I would have to place.
Nothing will stop the Warden! Not death I fear most
But with such a disclosure, the whole plot is lost!
Yet today there I must be! To see their day's work,
Though I perish; without me the gentry's berserk!
So, farewell, fondest brother, farewell, I must fly,
If I perish you only for my soul will sigh;
If war comes, what I started, you know now, so yet
A Soplica will finish! So do not forget!"
The Priest wiped his eyes, fastened his frock, donned his cowl,
The rear shutter swung, soundless, as soft as an owl,
One saw how from the sill in the garden he leapt;
The Judge, now left alone, in his chair sat, and wept.
A moment stood Tadeusz, then knocked on the door;
It was opened, he entered, bowed low to the floor:
"Dearest Uncle", began he, "days only a few
I spent here, days so pleasant, like moments they flew;
That I could not enjoy your house longer, I grieve,
And at leaving you, but I must straightaway leave;
Now, today, Uncle, at worst tomorrow I'll go:
That the Count we have challenged, you well, Uncle, know.
It's my business to fight him, the challenge I sent,
All duels, in Lithuania, incur punishment,
So I'll ride past the border of Duchy of Warsaw;
Sure, the Count is a braggart, were he even more so
He would come; he's no wimp, for all his gasconade,
We shall settle accounts; and if God my arm aid
I will chastise him; then, from the Lososna's banks
I'll swim to where await me our brotherly ranks.
I heard, in his will father had ordered me so
To serve, and who this cancelled I do not quite know."
"My Tadeusz, what's up? Did you fall in a tun
Of hot water; or twist like a fox on the run,
Which his brush to the left waves, but runs to the right?
It is true we have challenged, and one day should fight.
But to go off today, sir, why this sudden heat?

Before duels, the parties' friends most often meet

To negotiate, the Count may well apologise,
He may compensate; wait, there's much time for the wise.
Does some other prank, tell me now, give you the push,
If so, out with it frankly, why beat round the bush?
I'm your uncle, though old, can see under your skin;
Was your father, (he chucked him now under the chin),
My small finger already spoke words in my ear
That you, sirrah, with ladies had some intrigues here.
Zounds, youth soon with the ladies their luck these days tries!
So, Tadeusz, confess all, but tell me no lies."
"Sure", then mumbled Tadeusz, "there are reasons, true,
My dear uncle! Most likely, it's all my fault too!
An error! No, disaster! Too bad to make good!
Uncle dear, no, I cannot stay here if I would!
An error of youth! Ask me no more, Uncle, pray!
I must from Soplicowo get quickly away!"
"Ho!" said Uncle, "sure, these are some love tiffs and slips!
Yesterday, sir, I noted how you bit your lips
Scowling in the direction of certain young lass,
(I saw over her face, too, some sourish looks pass),
O, I know all this nonsense, a pair of babes fall
Into love, there's no end there of drama and gall!
Now they're happy, now cast down; now sulk, and now dote;
Now again, Lord knows why, they're at each other's throat;
Now stand sulking in corners, not speaking one bit
One to the other, sometimes into the fields flit,
If you are in the throes of just such a sad fit,
Just be patient, I may have a cure just for it;
I will take on to push all this to a good end.
All this nonsense I know, was once young myself, friend.
So, come out with all frankly, and I in return
Will confess to you too, and both of us will learn.
"Dear Uncle", said Tadeusz, (his hand gave a kiss,
And blushed), I will speak truly, because this young miss,
Zosia, Uncle's ward, struck me as extremely nice,
I like her much, though saw her but once, maybe twice:
But I heard say that Uncle would have me espouse
The Chamberlain's fair daughter, heir to a rich house.
But my match with Miss Rza cannot be arranged
When my heart is with Zosia-hearts cannot be changed!
It's not right, loving one, to another belong,
Time may cure me! I shall go, depart-and for long!"
"You, Tadeusz", said Uncle, "choose strange ways to prove
Your true love-to run off from the person you love.
Good you're frank; you see, you could do something quite silly
Thus leaving: what would you say, sir, if I were willing

To get you Zosia? Hey, won't you jump for sheer joy?"
Tadeusz paused, then: "Sir, your good will unalloyed
Amazes me! Alas, your kind consideration
Cannot at all avail me! Ah! vain expectation!
Telimena would never give Zosia to me!"
"We'll ask", said the Judge.

"Uncle, it never can be",

Interrupted Tadeusz, "no, I cannot wait,
I must quickly, tomorrow, be out of the gate,
Only give me, dear Uncle, your blessing today,
I've got everything packed and will go straightaway."
The Judge tugged his moustache, gave the boy a hard look:
"So that's your frankness, sirrah? Your heart's open book?
First, this duel! and then, next, there's love and affection!
Then this scurrying off; hey! Here's some dark direction.
I was told something of it, I your footsteps traced!
You're, sirrah, a seducer, Don Juan, two-faced.
And where went you last night, sir, on what mischief bent?
You, like a hound, have followed what new quarry's scent?
Oh Tadeusz! Perhaps you, sirrah, now want out,
Having turned Zosia's head, run away, you young lout!
That, sir, won't come off; like it, or not, as I said
And say again, you, sirrah, our Zosia will wed,
If not, the whip! Tomorrow will play bridegroom's part!
And he talks of his feelings-of unchanging heart!
You're a fibber! Pfui, you in my court shall appear,
I'll investigate you, sir, I'll box each your ear!
I've had enough for one day! My head aches, I'll weep!
And this boy won't allow me to go off to sleep!
Go to bed!" Saying this, he pushed out his young guest
And called out for the Usher to help get undressed.
Tadeusz withdrew speechless, his nose out of joint,
The awkward talk turned over in thought, point by point,
First time taken so sharply to task! Would admit
The justice of the censure, but still blushed for it.
What to do next? If Zosia learns all one fine day?
Ask her hand? Telimena, and what would she say?
No!-He in Soplicowo no longer could stay.
Thus, deep in thought, he moved but a pace, maybe two,
When something barred the way; he looked up-into view
There slid an apparition, in white, slender, and
Which was gliding towards him with outstretched white hand,
Tremulous moon reflecting; the pale shape had drawn
Now closer, and: "Ungrateful!" came in monotone,

"You have once sought my glance, now avoid it in fear,

You have once sought my voice, now you close up your ear,
As if my words, and glances, with fell poison ran!
Serves me right, should have known what you are!-You're a man!
I, in coquetry artless, no pain caused you, no,
Made you happy; thus you now your gratitude show!
Your heart hardened, when triumph too quickly it earned
Over heart won too easy, and too quickly spurned!
Serves me right! But, by bitter experience made wise,
Trust me, that more than you can, myself I despise!"
"Telimena", Tadeusz said, "my heart's not hard,
And I do not avoid you through some disregard,
But think of this yourself! How they watch us all day!
Carry on in plain view thus? What will people say?
After all, it's indecent, God knows it's a sin".
"It's a sin!" with a bitter half-smile she cut in,
"The innocent! The lamb! I'm a woman, who throws
All away for love, even if thus am exposed,
Though my name is held cheaply; but you? You, a man!
None of you would it harm, and admit it you can,
If you at the same time have ten mistresses kept?
Speak the truth!-You would leave me!"-She copiously wept.
"Telimena, and what would the world of one say",
Said Tadeusz, "who, healthy, of my age, today
Lived here farming, romancing-when so many fine
Young fellows, married men, leave wife, children, behind
And to the nation's banners across borders flee?
Even if I wished, does this depend upon me?
Father by his will ordered that I must enlist
In our army, now Uncle does also insist:
I leave tomorrow, this my resolve is and vow,
And by God, Telimena, I'll not change it now."
"I would not", Telimena said "wish to abort
Your chance of glory, nor would your happiness thwart!
You're a man; you will soon find a mistress somewhere
Of your heart one more worthy, one richer, more fair!
Only say, for my heart's ease, before we now part,
That you cared for me truly, with love in your heart,
Not just wanton lust only, and no idle jest,
But love; say, my Tadeusz still loves me the best!
Let me those words 'I love' from your lips once more catch,
To inscribe in my thoughts and within my heart etch;
I will easier forgive, though of love you me rob,
Recalling, how you loved once!"-She started to sob.
Tadeusz, seeing how she begs, how she sobs stifles,
And requires now from him, not much, only trifles,
Was moved, and overcome with real pity and sorrow,
And if in the recesses of own heart he burrowed,

Maybe he at this moment himself did not know

Whether loved he, or loved not-and said, with some show:
"Telimena may I be struck dead on the spot,
If it's a lie that, by God, I liked you a lot,
Or loved you: our shared moments, so short, did not last,
But for me, they so sweetly, so tenderly passed,
That they will long, will always, dwell in my thoughts yet,
And, God knows, you I never, can ever, forget!"
With a bound Telimena upon his neck fell:
"This is what I expected, you love, I live still!
For I decided this day my life I shall end on;
If you love me, my dear, can you thus me abandon?
You I gave all my heart, will give all I possess,
With you go everywhere, love a desert will bless,
The world's ends will be pleasant! From wilderness great,
Love, believe me, a vale of delights will create."
From this embrace Tadeusz, attempting to tear
Himself away, "How?" cried he, "Lost your mind? How? Where?
Follow me, a plain soldier? On my saddle carry?
A camp follower? You?"-"So, all right, we can marry!"
Said to him Telimena-"No, never, don't mention
This even", cried Tadeusz, "I have no intention
To wed, love-this is nonsense! Let's leave it alone!
I beg you, my dear, only consider! Calm down!
Marriage is out of question, my dear, have a heart!
I am grateful, let's love, yes, but sort of-apart.
I can linger no longer, cannot stay here, no!
Farewell, my Telimena, tomorrow I go."
So he spoke, pulled his hat down, turned partly aside
And would leave; Telimena, though, stopped him; wild-eyed,
With a face like Medusa's; and stay there he must
Willy-nilly; with fear he a glance at her cast:
She stood pale, without motion, no life, breath, or word!
Until, stretching an arm out, a transfixing sword,
At Tadeusz's eyes she a finger out-flung:
"This is what I desired", cried she, "ha, dragon-tongue!
Lizard heart! Is it nothing, that by you enchained,
I the Count, the Assessor and Notary disdained,
And now, that you seduced me, an orphan leave so!
It's naught! You are a man, I your shamelessness know,
As with others, on your faith one could not rely!
But I knew not how basely you learnt how to lie!
I heard all through the door! And this child you would dare...?
Zosia? She caught your eye? At her now set your snare?
So! Hardly one ill-fated life you have just wrecked,
Than, by her side, another you victim select!
Now run off, but my curses will yet reach their aimOr stay, but I your meanness to all shall proclaim;

Your arts deceived me, but will not others disgrace!

Begone! How I despise you! A liar, man base!"
At this insult, like death to a gentleman's ear,
Which no Soplica ever until now did hear,
Tadeusz trembled, growing as pale as a shroud,
Bit his lips, stamped his foot, and said "Stupid!" out loud.
Then left; but the words 'base man' still echoed; unnerved,
The youth shuddered and felt that these words were deserved;
Felt that to Telimena great wrong was committed,
That she justly reproached him his conscience admitted;
Yet felt, after her charges, the more by her sickened.
Of Zosia, alas, thought not, he was so shame-stricken.
This so beautiful Zosia, so sweet, full of life!
Uncle was for the match! She could have been his wife!
But for Satan, who trapped him in sin after sin!
In lie after lie tangled, then left with a grin.
By all spurned and held cheap! He, in days but a few
Wrecked his future! His crime had the punishment due.
In this tempest of feelings, an anchor of rest,
Flashed the thought of the duel, a welcome now guest:
"Murder the Count! That scoundrel!" he cried, "must be so!
Death or revenge!" The reason? Himself did not know!
And this great wrath with which he so suddenly shook,
Thus vanished; a great sadness him now overtook
He thought: "If this is true, what I yesterday noted,
That Zosia and the Count seem to be quite devoted,
What of that? The Count, maybe, indeed loves her truly,
Perhaps she holds him dear? Wants to marry him duly!
By what right I this marriage would seek to destroy,
And, ill-fated myself, would despoil others' joy."
He fell into dispair, and but one refuge craved:
Get away! And at once! But - where? Into a grave!
So, his clenched fist pressed tightly against lowered brow,
He escaped to the meadows where ponds glowed below,
And stood over the mudflat; its green coloration
With his greedy eye plumbed, and the swamp's exhalation
With gusto he breathed in, with a mouth opened wide:
For like any excessive man's act, suicide
Is mind-fashioned; and he, in emotions' mad flood
Had the subconscious yearning to drown in the mud.
But, Telimena guessed from the youth's distraught stance
His desperation; seeing him run to the ponds,
Though with justified anger she smouldered and smarted,
Was alarmed; for she really was quite tender-hearted.
She was vexed that another appealed to the boy;

Wished to punish, but did not intend to destroy;

So rushed after him raising both hands, crying: "What!
Don't do it! Stop! What nonsense! Get married, or not,
Love, or not! Go, or stay! But, just stop!"-But he raced
Away, and her outstripped, and-the waters now faced!
By the fates' strange decree, on the very same strand,
Rode the Count in the vanguard of his 'jockey' band,
And, bewitched and enchanted by evening so fair,
And the sweet underwater band's harmonies rare,
Of those choirs, which accords like Aeolian harps drew
(No frogs croak as divinely as Polish ones do),
He his horse checked, forgetting quite why he was there,
Turned an ear to the ponds and stood listening with care.
His eyes over the fields ranged the heavens' wide space:
He tried in his mind, doubtless, some paysage to trace.
For indeed, the surroundings deserved artists' labour!
Two ponds bent their two faces, the one to its neighbour,
Like a pair of fond lovers: the right pond displayed
Waters smooth, clear; like cheeks of a virginal maid;
The left pond somewhat darker, like a lad's face brown,
And already besprinkled with fine manly down;
The pond on the right bordered with gold sand around,
As with bright hair; the left pond's brow spikily bound
With bristling, prickly, osiers, with willows' long hair
In elf-locks tangled; both ponds bright greenery wear.
From these ponds two streams trickle, as if holding hands
Further on they embrace and the stream still descends,
Falls, but never to vanish, the channel's gloom yielding
To, floating on its surface, moon's generous gilding;
Fold by fold falls the water; on every such fold
Glow and glisten bright handfuls of moon-given gold.
The light then becomes splintered and broken, dispersed,
By the fleeing flood caught, and more deeply immersed;
From above are more handfuls of moonshine disbursed.
A Switez undine, you'd think, sits by the pond's shores,
From a bottomless ewer one hand water pours,
With the other hand, playful, she scatters untold
Handfuls from her large apron of enchanted gold.
Further, out of its sluice, on the plain, and now slowing,
It meanders, more calm, but still visibly flowing,
For its changeable covering still quivers, vibrates
With the shimmering moonlight, which gleams, coruscates,
Like, known there as 'givoitos' the handsome Zmudz snake,
Which, though seeming to slumber in heathery brake,
Still crawls, for it shows silver and golden by turn,

Till from sight disappearing among moss or fern:

Thus the stream hides mid alders its tortuous track,
Alders which at horizon's extreme show dim, black,
To the eye indistinct, they their misty forms raise
Like spirits only half-seen, half-hid in the haze.
Between the two ponds hidden a mill sits and quavers,
Like an old guardian spying upon the two lovers;
Listening in to their talking, it grumbles and frets,
Its head and its hands shaking it stutters vague threats:
And the mill shook of sudden its moss-covered brow,
Its great fist many-fingered began turning now,
It stirred, clattered, its gap-toothed jaws ponderously ground,
And at once all the love-talk of both ponds it drowned,
And roused the Count.

Who seeing how rashly right under

The feet of his armed escort Tadeusz had blundered,
Shouts: "To arms!" and: "men, seize him!" The 'jockeys' sprang
to,
And, before what had happened Tadeusz quite knew,
He was bound; to the house then! They into the yard
Clatter in, wake the homestead, dogs bark, shouts the guard,
The Judge rushes out, half-dressed; and sees a large band
All armed, and deems them robbers; the Count in command;
"What's all this?" asks-the Count, then, his bare epe flashing,
But seeing an unarmed man, cooled off in his passion:
"Soplica! My clan's foe from the earliest of times!"
Today", said he, "I charge you with old, and fresh, crimes,
Today from you the fortune you plundered reclaim,
Before I the dishonour avenge to my name!"
But the Judge crossed himself: "In the name of the Father!"
Have you, Lord Count, turned into some robber or other?
By the Lord! Does this fit with your standing and birth,
Your upbringing, the world's view of your name and worth?
I will not be so wronged!"-Then his servants at once
Ran up, some with stout sticks, and some others with guns,
The Tribune stood apart, and a curious glance threw
At the Count, with a knife in his sleeve, hid from view.
A fight was close, the Judge though them stopped, it was clear
A defence was quite useless, a new foe was near:
Something flashed in the alders; a matchlock gun stuttered;
The river bridge was rattled by cavalry's clatter;
And, "Hey, at the Soplicas!" a thousand throats screamed,
The Judge flinched; now Gerwazy's hand in this he deemed
"That's nothing", the Count said, "there'll be more of us here,
Surrender, Judge, before my confederates appear".

When ran up the Assessor: "You're under arrest!

In His Imperial Highness' name; Count, I request
Your sword yield, before I call the soldiers in aid!
Know, sir, he who at night dares to mount an armed raid
Is, by ukase one thousand two hundred and four,
As a robb..." The Count struck him with flat of the sword.
The Assessor fell stunned, and crawled into the nettle;
Was thought wounded, or else the first slain in the battle.
"To me", said the Judge, "this like sheer banditry seems".
All complained, but were deafened by Zosia's loud screams,
Who cried, while to the Judge she with both her hands clings,
Like a little child stuck by the Jews with sharp pins.
Telimena then, heedless, 'twixt horses descends,
Towards the Count outstretches her tragic white hands:
"Upon your honour!" she in shrill piercing tones cried,
With head thrown back, hair streaming behind her, wild-eyed,
"By all that you hold sacred, we beg on bent knee!
Count, darest thou refuse! Ladies kneel down here to thee!
Cruel man, first in us you must sink your sharp blade!"
And fell fainting-the Count then leapt down to her aid,
By the scene not a little surprised and dismayed,
And "Ladies Telimena and Zofia", said, pained,
"With defenseless blood never will this sword be stained;
Soplicas! You my prisoners for now shall remain.
Thus in Italy did I beneath that huge stone
Which as Birbante-Rocco by locals is known,
The brigands' camp I took; slew the armed men I found,
The disarmed I took prisoner and ordered them bound:
My great triumph they swelled when led after the horse,
And at Aetna's foot later were hung in due course."
It was for the Soplicas a piece of good luck,
That the Count, better mounted than rest of the ruck,
To be first at the fray, had raced off to the fore,
And outdistanced the gentry by some mile or more,
With his 'jockeys' who, well-trained, obedient and paid,
Formed a regular, as it were, army brigade;
While the gentry, as history of risings has shown,
Were lawless, and to hangings were very much prone.
The Count cooled in his passion, his purpose fulfilled;
Thought how best end the battle, no blood being spilled;
So he has the Soplicas, as prisoners of war,
Locked up in the house, placing some guards at the door.
When with "At the Soplicas!" the gentry rush in,
They surround the estate and by force entry win,
Easy, for the chief's taken, the garrison fled;
But some foe they must fight, so seek elsewhere instead.

Not let into the house, at the farm buildings drove,

To the kitchen-there pots, still arranged on the stove
Fire scarcely out-smells rising aloft from stacked coversCrunching sounds of dogs chewing the supper leftoversAll hearts touched, and the minds with a new thought imbued,
Cooled off anger, inflamed though the longing for food.
By the march, and the day-long discussions fatigued,
"Food! Food! Food"-thrice they cried in unanimous league,
The response came: "Drink, drink!" and, among gentry's gang,
Two choirs formed, these "drink!" bellowed, the others "food!"
sang.
The message flies with echo, wherever it sallies,
It causes mouths to water, wakes hunger in bellies.
At this signal from kitchens, of sudden, with courage,
The whole army dispersed now to pillage and forage.
Gerwazy, from the Judge's rooms by sentries barred,
Had to yield from respect which he owed the Count's guard.
Unable on the foe his revenge to exact,
The campaign's second aim wished to turn into fact.
As a man of experience, in law matters versed,
Would the Count in his heirloom install from the first
In form legal and formal; the Usher he strove
To locate, and soon found him behind a big stove.
To the yard by the collar he drags him in tow,
At his breast aimed the Penknife, and speaks to him so:
"The Count is so bold, Usher, to ask you this once
That before all the gentry you deign to announce
The Count's seisin of castle, of homestead, of village,
Of all fields sown, lands fallow, and land under tillage,
Cum gravibus, forestis, and cum bounderibus,
Peasantibus, bailivis, et omnibus rebus,
Et quibusdam aliis. As you know, so bark.
Leave out nothing!"-"But, Warden, sir, I must remark",
Answered Protazy boldly, his hands in his belt,
"I to do both sides' bidding by law am compelled,
But warn, such an act cannot achieve its planned aim,
When read out under duress, at midnight proclaimed".
"What duress?" asked the Warden, "here is no constraint,
Why, I asked you politely; if light is too faint,
Then such sparks shall my Penknife strike that they, like torches,
Shall so shine in your peepers, as in seven churches".
"My Gerwazy", said Usher, "why in such a fret?
I'm an usher, not my thing the matter to vet;
You know, one side the usher employs, and their claims
He sets down as they ask him, he merely proclaims.
Ushers are the law's envoys, are neutral of course,
So I'm at a loss why you hold me here by force;
If someone brings a lantern, the deed I'll indite
But now, brothers, some quiet, if I am to write!"

And, for his voice to carry, he stepped on a high

Stack of logs (by the orchard fence left out to dry),
He climbed these, and at once, as if by the wind snatched,
Vanished; but still was heard in the near cabbage patch;
Once again he was glimpsed in hemp's shadowy region,
His confederate cap flashed, not unlike a white pigeon.
Bucket shot at the cap, but the bullet miscarried;
Snap of stalks heard-Protazy through hopfields now hurried,
"I protest!" he cried; knowing his peril was over,
For now close to the osiers and swamps of the river.
After this protestation, which sounded somewhat
As upon captured ramparts the last cannon shot,
At the Soplica manor resistance now ceased;
Hungry gentry now pillage, maraud as they please,
In the barn Baptist greatly beasts' numbers decreased
'Sprinkling' heads of two oxen, two calves and one goat,
While Razor his sabre sank deep in each throat.
Awl, with his rapier, also ran up to their aid
Sticking old boars and piglets below shoulder blade.
Now death threatens the poultry-the geese, alert flocks,
Which once saved Rome from Gauls in the dark climbing rocks,
Vainly cackle for succour; no Manlius will come,
But leaps in the coop Bucket, the necks twists of some,
Ties live to his belt others, and though not struck dumb,
Vainly geese, hoarsely honking, their necks twist and crank,
Vainly ganders hiss, nipping the foe in the flank,
He runs on; well besprinkled with down like hoarfrost,
And upon wheeling goose wings uplifted and tossed,
Seems a gremlin, a 'chochlik', a winged evil ghost.
But the worst slaughter, though with least hullabaloo
Suffered hens. To the hencoop young Chook grimly flew,
With a noose from their perches he fishes out thence
Cockerils, and the rough-feathered, and big-crested hens.
He each bird in turn throttled and in one heap stacked,
Perfect poultry, which never for pearl barley lacked.
Thoughtless Chook, what wild frenzy possessed you, poor lover!
Henceforth never shall Zosia her anger get over.
Now Gerwazy the bygone old times recollects:
So, he belts from the gentry's kontuszes selects;
Soon, pulled up on these belts, from the cellar appear
Big barrels of grey vodka, oak vodka, and beer:
Some they broached on the instant, the others, with glee,
Busy as ants, the gentry seize, roll manfully,
To the castle: for night's rest there all congregated,
And there the Count's headquarters were also located.

They light a hundred fires, roast and boil without pause,

Tables groan under meats, like a river drink flows;
The whole night would the gentry drink, eat, and sing throughBut began soon to doze off, heads, eyes, heavy grew,
Eye after eye dims, closes, till company all
With heads nodding, wherever they sit, there they fall:
Over bowl, jar, forequarter, they drooped and they languished.
Thus by sleep, Death's own brother, the victors were vanquished.

Book Nine

THE BATTLE

Concerning perils which arise from an untidy encampment Unexpected relief - The sad state of the gentry - The almsman's visit
is a presage of rescue - Major Plut brings down a storm through his
excessive flirtaciousness - Discharge of pistol is call to arms - The
deeds of Baptist, the deeds and predicament of Maciej - Bucket, with
his ambush, saves Soplicowo -Mounted reinforcements, the attack at
the infantry -The deeds of Tadeusz - Duel of the leaders brought to
naught by treachery - The Tribune's decisive manoeuvre tips the
scales of the battle -Gerwazy's bloody deeds -The Chamberlain, a
generous victor

And in such deep sleep snored they, were not wakened then
By bright lanterns, and entry of some scores of men,
Who then pounced on the gentry, as wall-spiders leap,
Which are called 'daddy-long-legs', on flies half-asleep;
At the fly's slightest buzz, the long spider's legs wind
Round its prey, which it throttles, this master unkind.
The gentry's sleep was sounder than slumbering flies':
Buzzes not one, each, as if of soul bereft, lies,
Though with powerful arms they were grasped as they lay,
And were turned, as with pitchforks is bundled cut hay.
One only Bucket, and, at a banquet or wedding
You won't find in the shire one with head half as steady,

Bucket, he who could swallow two casks of lime mead,

Ere his tongue would get tangled and legs fail his need,
He, though long had he feasted and lifeless did lie,
Yet gave some sign of life; and forced open one eye,
And sees-two living nightmares! Two frightful mugs bear
Down upon him, each sports of mustachios a pair,
Pant above him, their whiskers are brushing his lips,
Like wings, weave their four hands round his arms and his hips;
Would cross himself in terror, the effort quite failed,
His right hand seemed affixed to his side, as if nailed;
Tried his left, but in vain! For the ghosts had, he found,
Held him tight, like a baby in swaddling-clothes bound.
Was the more panic-stricken, and, holding his breath,
Closed that eye quickly, lies there near freezing to death.
But sprang Baptist up, eager to fight-all too late!
From his own belt he could not himself extricate
And yet, coiling up, sprang he with such mighty bound
He on sleepers' breasts fell, on their heads thrashed around,
Flapping like a hooked pike on a river bank flung,
While like a bear he bellowed (he had mighty lungs),
"We're betrayed, comrades!" roared he-they all, with good
reason,
"Help!" respond in a chorus: "help! Rapine and treason!"
The shouts reach with their echoes the old mirrored hall,
Where the Count, and Gerwazy, and 'jockeys' slept all;
Gerwazy awakes, struggles in vain for a bit,
To his own rapier tied, like a roast on a spit;
Looks, and sees by the window big fellows with arms,
In short, black caps, and rigged out in green uniforms.
One, a sash round his middle, epe in his hand,
With its sharp point directed this ruffianly band,
Whispering: "Bind, bind!" Sheep-like, lie scattered around
The trussed 'jockeys'; the Count, though, just sitting, not bound
But disarmed; by him stand two with bare bayonet
Such bullies-them Gerwazy knew, to his regret!
Russians...!
Oft had the Warden in such straits been put,
More than once ropes constrained him, bound him hand and foot,
Yet he freed himself somehow; he knew secret ways
To break bonds, he was strong, and let nothing him faze;
Would save himself in silence, his eyes closed completely,
Feigning sleep, stretched his arms and his legs, but discreetly,
Drew his breath in, and pulled in both belly and breast,
His thews tensed till they bulged, he grew taut and compressed,
As a snake will its body coil up and contort,
Thus Gerwazy, long, thin, had become stout and short;
Stretched and lengthened the bonds, he could hear their slight

creak,
Yet they held firm! The Warden, in terror and pique
His face hiding, turned over; in this angry mood,
Eyes closed tight, he just lay there, insensate as wood.
When, at first slow and quiet, there suddenly comes,
Growing faster and louder, the beating of drums;
Then the officer issues commands at this call:
"Lock the Count and his 'jockeys', with guards, in the hall!
Let the second platoon mind the rest in the court!"
And in vain does the Baptist fret, struggle and snort.
The Staff stopped at the house and of armed gentry much:
Podhajskis, Birbasz, Biergiels, Hreczechas and such,
Either allies, or kinsmen, all sped there to snatch
The Judge from danger, having heard news of the battle,
And with Dobrzynskis having some old scores to settle.
Who the Russian battalion from quarters here led?
Who had neighbouring gentry so quickly here sped?
The Assessor, or Jankiel? Much was said thereafter,
But none found out for certain, either then, or after.
The sun's already risen with bloody-red gaze,
It's edge dull, as if it were bereft of its rays,
Half exposed, among black clouds the other half hidden,
As, midst coals of a smithy, a horseshoe glows, reddened.
Grew the wind fiercer, herding thick cloud-banks, which rushed
From the east, dense and ragged, like lumps of ice crushed;
Each cloud drops, as it passes, cold showers of rain;
Behind each flies the wind and the wet dries again,
Behind this wind another damp cloud appears yet:
So the day, turn about, was now chilly-now wet.

Meanwhile the Major orders logs from drying stacks

Be dragged hither; in each log be chopped with an axe
Semi-circular openings, in these openings claps
Captives' legs, while a second notched log their legs traps,
At each corner both timbers secured with two pegs
Snapped together, like dogs' maws, about prisoners' legs,
While the cords round their wrists were pulled tighter behind
The gentry's backs, the Major their torment refined;
Firstly ordered all caps off their heads to be ripped,
Off their backs coats, kontuszes and waistcoats be stripped,
Even vests. Thus the gentry, in stocks, and near-bare,
In a row sat, teeth chattering in chilly night's air,
Being soaked, for the weather grew ever more wet,
And in vain does the Baptist still struggle and fret.

And in vain for the gentry the Judge intercedes,

Useless Zosia's tears, vainly Telimena pleads
For the prisoners' welfare to have more regard,
Although Nikita Rykov, in charge of the guard,
Though a Russ, decent fellow, would fain stay his hand,
But could not, he too bound by the Major's command.
Now this Major, a Pole, from the township Dzierowicz,
His name (so one hears) being, in Polish, Plutowicz,
Had changed faiths; a great scoundrel: term justly applied
To Poles who in Czar's service become russified.
Plut, with pipe, by the porch stood, a hand on each hip,
And when anyone bowed, curled his nose and his lip,
And to prove his great anger to all, he replied
Just by belching great smoke-clouds, and strolling inside.
The Judge meanwhile had Rykov somewhat mollified
The Assessor as well he now took to one side;
Their aim, that without courts this be dealt with and solved,
With the government nowise becoming involved.
Captain Rykov therefore to the Major thus spoke:
"Major! What's the point holding these fellows all yoked!
Send for trial? From this for the gentry much trouble...
You yourself will then, Major, gain not one red rouble.
You know what, Major? Hushing this up makes good sense,
Sure, the Judge should be forced to make you recompense,
We will say, we dropped in, yes, just on our way through,
Thus the goat will stay whole, and the wolf be full, too,
Russian proverb: 'Can do all, but best done with wit';
And this: 'Do your own roasting upon the Czar's spit',
And this too: 'Fighting's good, but agreement is better';
'Tie the knot very well, put the ends in the water'.
We'll submit no report, so none will this discover.
'God gave us hands to grab with', is our Russian proverb."
At this up rose the Major, and with anger snorted:
"Are you off your head, Rykov? I'll have you reported!
'Who serves the state has no mate', old fool Rykov. No,
Are you mad, that you'll have me let mutineers go?
With war looming? Ha, Polacks, sirs, yes, I have come
Here to teach you rebellion! Ha, vile gentry scum!
Dobrzynskis, oy, I know them! Rogues, soak in the rain!"
(With a belly-laugh when he looked out through the pane).
"Why, this very Dobrzynski, one in the vest here,
-Hey, strip him of that vest!-at a masked ball last year
Picked a quarrel, and whose fault? Not mine! To be brief,
He cried, while I was dancing: 'Out, throw out that thief!'
That I just then by army inspectors was harassed
About some missing corps funds, I was much embarrassed,
I came there to mazurka, why stick in his nose?

He shouts 'Thief!' at my back-and the gentry applauds!

I was wronged-the squireen is now caught in my claws!
I said: 'Ey, ey, Dobrzynski, the mountain will come
To Mahomet, Dobrzynski, you'll get a sore bum!'"
Then, he to the Judge whispered low into his ear:
"If you'd rather this should be hush-hushed, Judge my dear,
Per head, a thousand roubles, Judge, yes, you have heard,
Thousand roubles, in cash, yes-and that's my last word!"
The Judge wanted to bargain; the Major nor spoke
Nor would listen, the room paced, belched out clouds of smoke,
Like some rocket, or else like a Catherine wheel,
In his wake ran the women, to cry, and appeal,
Said the Judge: "Major, if you invoke the full law,
What is in this for you? No great battle we saw,
No wounds; if on my chickens and geese they have dined,
Damages, by the statute, they'll simply be fined;
The Count I will not summons, make no allegation,
This was just between neighbours, a small altercation."
"Has the Judge", asked the Major, "the Yellow Book read?"
"And what 'yellow book' is that?" Judge Soplica said.
"One more clear than your statutes, it better sets out
At each second word: halter, Siberia, the knout;
The full code of law martial, in all Litwa now
Proclaimed; all your tribunals before it must bow.
According to law martial, for one such a prank
In Siberian forced labour you'll leg irons clank."
"To the governor I shall", the Judge said, "appeal".
"To the Czar appeal" Plut said, "if that's how you feel.
But know, that when the Emperor confirms his ukases,
By his grace he quite often the penalty raises.
Keep appealing, and I may yet find, if I try,
Your Honour, a good bait to catch you also by.
After all, the spy Jankiel, on whom we have kept
A close watch, holds your inn, and in your house has slept.
I could lock you all up in the care of my warders."
"Arrest me!" the Judge bristled, "You'd dare, without orders?"
From one word to another the quarrel progressed,
When into the home's courtyard drove up a new guest.
The entry strange and bustling. First, as vanguard scout,
Runs a black ram, enormous, from whose head there sprout
Four mighty horns, two of them, like whorled ivory shells
Twist about its ears dressed with small, multiple bells;
And two from the head sideways projected their points,
Little balls of brass tinkled and jangled like coins.
Sheep and goats behind oxen; and following this cattle
Four heavily packed wagons groan, lumber and rattle.

All guessed it was the almsman who thus arrived there.

So the Judge, of his duties as host well aware,
At the door stood to greet him. The priest in the first
Wagon rode, with his face in his cowl half immersed,
But was soon known: when passing the prisoners' line
Turned his face, raised his finger and made them a sign.
And the second cart's driver was, too, recognised:
It was old Maciej-Switch, as a peasant disguised;
When they saw him, the gentry again shouted, and
He said: "Stupid!"-and silence enjoined, with one hand.
On the third cart rode Prussian in old threadbare coat,
And the fourth by Pan Zan, with Mickiewicz, was brought.
In the meantime Podhajskis and Isajewiczes,
Birbaszes, the Wilbikows, Biergels and Kotwiczes,
Seeing Dobrzynski gentry in such woeful state,
Felt their ancient resentments begin to abate.
For Polish gentry, very rash and contradictive,
And hot-headed, is never intensely vindictive.
And so they to old Maciej for his counsel ran,
He this company stationed about every van,
Told to wait there.
The Almsman the room entered now,
Although dressed just the same, seemed quite different somehow,
A new mien he adopted; though always stern-faced,
And abstracted, today this with gaiety replaced;
Like a jolly monk's face, his cheeks shone from afar,
Before he started speaking, laughed:
"Ha, ha, ha, ha,
My respects, ha, ha, ha, oh, first-rate, a great sight!
My officers, you hunt not by day, but by night!
A good bag, ha, ha, ha, and the game's not too thin!

THE BATTLE
Oh yes, pluck, pluck, the gentry: indeed, skin them, skin,
O yes, bridle the gentry, a real fractious mount!
Sincere compliments, Major, you've caught the young Count,
He's a fat one, a rich one, a well-born. I'll bet,
Keep him caged and three hundred gold ducats you'll get!
When you do, to my order donate some three pence,
And to me, for I ever have prayed for your sins.
As I'm a friar, greatly for your soul I fear!
Death staff-officers also will grab by the ears!
Baka wrote well, that death will come after the varlet
And the scarlet; on velvet frock also will knock;
On a plain wrap will tap, and on cowl she will rap;

On girls' pretty locks knocks she, as on shoulder-strap,

Mother Death, says Baka, like an onion, a tear
Squeezes from whom she teases; and holds just as dear
A young baby who drowses and rake who carouses!
Today, Major, we think, and tomorrow we stink,
This ours only, which right now we eat and we drink!
It is breakfast-time now, Judge, I'm sure you'll agree.
I shall sit, and invite you to sit down with me;
Would you care for some fillets? We'll make it a lunch,
Captain, you won't say no to a bowl of good punch?"
Said both officers: "Father, indeed it's almost
Time to eat and to honour the Judge with a toast".
Amazed was the whole household observing Worm's queer,
Jaunty, unwonted bearing and all this good cheer.
The Judge straightway the eye of the servitors caught:
And soon bowl, bottles, sugar and sliced beef were brought.
Plut and Rykov so briskly set to cut and clink,
So to greedily swallow, so copiously drink,
That in half an hour twenty-three fillets they munched,
And downed half a huge bowl of most excellent punch.
Then the Major sprawled, sated, at ease in his chair,
Took his pipe, with a banknote lit up with great care,
Wiped his lips clean of food with the tablecloth's skirt,
And, eyes twinkling, turned now with the women to flirt,
"You, fair ladies, to me are as good as dessert!
By my epaulettes, after a man's drunk a jar,
With ladies quite as charming as you ladies are!
What about a small card-game? Twenty-one? Maybe, whist?
Or, best, dance a mazurka? By devils' whole list!
Among yaegers I'm known as the best mazurkist!"
After which he the ladies approached, bent in two,
At whom he, in turn, smoke-rings and compliments blew.
"Let's dance!" cried Worm, "a cleric, I too get the itch
When I've emptied a bottle, my cassock to hitch,
And will dance a mazurka! But, Major Plut, please,
Here we drink, while the yaegers stand outside and freeze!
Let's all have a good time! Judge, a barrel, I think,
Major's brave yaegers surely can do with a drink!"
"I'm obliged", said the Major, "with this I've no quarrel!"
"Roll out, Judge", Worm then whispered, "of spirits a barrel".
And so, while the Staff swallowed their fill in the house,
Rank-and-file outside set to imbibe and carouse.
Captain Rykov in silence kept drinking aside,
The Major drank, and ladies with compliments plied,
And his fancy for dance now too strong to resist,

Dropped his pipe, Telimena's hand grabbed to insist,

But she escaped; so Zosia was now in his sights,
Swaggered, staggered, and her to mazurka invites:
"Hey, you Rykov, stop blowing and puffing, you're best
Strumming the balalaika; your pipe give a rest;
Go and grab that guitar there, and play us at once
A mazurka! I, Major, shall lead off the dance".
Rykov took the guitar, strings adjusted and tuned,
Plut again Telimena to dance importuned.
"Take the word of a major, miss, no Russian, I,
I'm a son-of-a-bitch if I tell you a lie,
Ask my officers here, they will, without delay,
Bear witness, the whole army will, cross my heart, say,
That in Czar's Second Army, the Eleventh Corps,
In Second Foot Division, brigade twenty-four
Of yaegers, Major Plut is the best dancer, truly.
Come, come, come, Miss; a filly should not be unruly!
For in officer-style I shall punish you, miss..."
Saying this, he jumped close, and a broad smacking kiss,
He upon a white shoulder resoundingly clapped;
When Tadeusz sprang up, and his face loudly slapped;
Kiss and slap were together throughout the room heard,
The one after the other, as word after word.
The Major rubbed his eyes, stood transfixed, pale with anger;
Shouted: "Mutiny! Rebel!"-and reached for his hanger,
When the priest made a pistol from out his sleeve glide:
"Snuff him out like a candle, Tadeusz!" he cried.
Tadeusz seized it, took aim and fired; but the shot
Missed, though deafening the Major, and scorching somewhat.
With guitar sprang up Rykov, and: "Mutiny!" cried,
Grabbed Tadeusz; the Tribune from table's far side
Swung an arm from the shoulder; the blade flew and whirred
Between heads; hit a target before being heard,
The guitar's back it struck, and it pierced it right throughZ
Rykov dodged to one side, and Death passed him by, too.
He felt fear, shouted: "Yaegers! Revolt! God help!"-tore
His sword out, and defending, he made for the door.
When, from t'other side, numbers of armed gentry entered
With drawn rapiers, through windows, old Switch at the centre,
In the hall now, Plut bellows for help to his men,
The three nearest already ran up to defend:
Now three bayonets, glistening, glide through the door, slow,
And behind those, three shakos come, bent very low.
Maciej at the door waiting, pressed to the wall flat,
His Switch raised, cat in ambush awaiting the rat.
Then! Struck dreadfully, three heads at once might have rolled,
But whether too near-sighted, wrought-up, or too old,

Not on necks, but on shakos the dreadful stroke fell,

Tore them off; on the bayonets Switch clanged, like a bellThe Russians pulled back, Maciej the soldiers pursues
To the courtyardWhere matters were greatly confused,
Where the friends of Soplicas worked hard to compete
In removing the logs from Dobrzynskis' bound feet;
Seeing this, now the yaegers their weaponry drew,
First, the sergeant Podhajski with bayonet pierced through,
Wounded two other gentry, now shot at the third,
They ran off; by the Baptist's log all this occurred.
He now had both hands free and to join the fight fidgets;
So he rose, his arm lifting, clenched tight his long digits,
From above such a blow at the Russian's back swung,
Face and temple smashed into the cock of the gun.
The lock clicked, but the powder, blood-soaked, did not flash;
On his own gun the sergeant at Baptist's feet crashed;
Baptist bent, grasped the barrel with both strong hands bare,
Like the brush of a priest waved it high in the air,
Made a 'windmill'; two privates he straightaway whacked
And the corporal skittled with blows to his back;
The rest, frightened, retreated from stocks helter-skelter:
Thus the Baptist all covered with this mobile shelter.
Then the cords were cut, logs were soon hammered apart,
Now the gentry, freed, rushed to the alms-quester's cart.
There unloading swords, sabres, rapiers and cutlasses,
Scythes, and carbines too; Bucket found two blunderbusses
And some balls; and with these filled his own gun, and took,
Also loaded, the other, to give his son Chook.
Now more yaegers come, join in, all mingle confused,
Gentry's fencing skills can't in such mele be used,
Yaegers can't shoot; close combat, a hand-to-hand battle,
Steel on tooth, tooth on steel, meet, break, shatter and rattle,
Bayonet rings on the sabre, the scythe on sword bends,
Fist encounters a fist, arm against arm contends.
But Rykov with some yaegers runs to where a barn
Meets the fence; there he, halting, his men tries to warn
That in such fight chaotic they must not persist,
Without use of their arms they succumb to the fist,
Annoyed, his guns were useless, for in this pell-mell
From his Russians the Poles he himself could not tell,
So shouts: "Stroy, sia!" (in Russian this means 'to fall in')
But they can't hear his orders above all the din.
Old Maciej, who these days in close combat had found
No delight, withdrew making some room all around

To right and left; a bayonet with sabre tip flick

From the barrel shears off, as from candle its wick,
Here he slashed from the shoulder, there sabre's point thrust,
And thus the cautious Maciej to open field passed.
But in most dogged fashion upon him next bore
Old Gefreiter, instructor-in-chief of the corps,
A great master of bayonet; now watchfully stands,
Crouching low, he the carbine grasps in both strong hands,
His right at the lock, left on the barrel, half-way,
Pirouettes, sometimes squats, and, sometimes leaps away,
Drops the left, the right thrusting in front, as to make
Darting moves, like the sting from the jaw of a snake.
And again draws it back, then upon his knee rests,
And thus, twisting, and leaping, he Maciej invests.
Admitting his opponent's great skill, Maciej old
On his nose with the left hand his glasses installed,
His right holding the Switch, with the hilt his breast touching,
He retreated, the corporal's moves carefully watching,
Himself on his feet tottered, as if deep in drink;
Gefreiter pressed on faster, on victory's brink,
The easier the retreating old fellow to catch,
Straightened up, and to full length his whole arm he stretched
Pushing forward the carbine, and such effort spent
Lunging with the big weapon, that too far he leant:
Maciek, just where a bayonet on gun-barrel slips
Placed his hilt underneath and the blade upward tipped,
Then he dropped the Switch, slashing the Russ on the paw,
And, swinging from the shoulder, cut right through the jaw.
Thus in death's throes the foremost Russ fence-master tosses,
Chevalier of four medals and several crosses.
By the stocks in the meantime the gentry's left wing
Is now near total triumph, there Baptist's arm swings,
Seen from afar; there Razor between Russians threads
His steel, slicing trunks, while his old comrade pounds heads;
Like the engine by German mechanics invented,
And which by the name 'thresher' was by them patented,
But is also a 'chopper', knives and flails does ply,
At the same time the hay chops, and threshes the rye,
Thus do Baptist and Razor together toil; so
Slaying foes, this one topside, and that one below.
But now near-certain victory the Baptist foregoes,
Hastens to the left wing, where new danger now grows
For old Maciej: Proporszczyk runs up, at him hacks,
To avenge old Gefreiter; with spontoon attacks
(Spontoon is at the same time a pike and an axe,
Now already neglected, and but in the fleet
Used-in infantry corps then not yet obsolete).

Now the Ensign, a young lad, this weapon well plied,

When his enemy parried the thing to one side,
He drew back; slower Maciej was frustrated hence,
Since he couldn't attack, had to stay in defence.
The Ensign him already some injury caused;
With spontoon held high clearly new mischief proposed:
The Baptist could not reach them, stopped half-way almost,
Swung his weapon and under the Ensign's feet tossed,
Crushed a bone, the spontoon he let drop from his hand,
Swayed, was rushed by the Baptist, the whole gentry band;
From the gentry's rear new lots of Russians now ran,
And mingling round the Baptist new battles began.
Baptist, who'd lost his weapon in Maciej's defence,
For this good turn paid nearly with his own life since
On his back, from behind, fell a strong Russian pair
And four hands were entangled at once in his hair;
Their legs bracing, they pulled, as at taut ropes made fast
By two tow-men, attached to a river raft's mast.
Vainly Baptist behind him struck blind blows in fear,
He now tottered-then saw that Gerwazy fights near,
Struggling grimly cries: "Penknife! For Lord Jesu's sake!"
The Warden, now to Baptist's new peril awake,
Turns around, and the shallow, sharp weapon he sends
In between Baptist's head and the Muscovite hands;
With a dreadful loud outcry retreated the pair,
But one hand, more tenacious, entrapped in the hair,
Remained in there, suspended, blood spouting in spurts.
Thus a hawk, which one claw in a hare's back inserts,
As the other stays anchored in bole of a tree,
By the hare is split, trying to wrench itself free,
The right talon, stuck fast, in the forest will stay,
The beast, its left claw bloody, to fields bears away.
At last free, Baptist swivels his eyes right around,
For arms searches, for arms begs; but no arms has found;
With fists meanwhile he thunders, his legs planted wide
And, as best he can, staying by Gerwazy's side,
Until he his son Chook in the tumult espied.
Chook a blunderbuss aims with his right hand, and drags
A thick fathom-long timber, with knots and with knags,
Armed with flint and carbuncle, and armoured with stone,
(Of such weight none could lift it, but Baptist alone).
Baptist, with his beloved club, Sprinkler, in sight,
Quickly grasped it, and kissed it, leapt up in delight,
Whirled it over his head, and soon stained it in flight.
What havoc would wreak after, what epic tale weave,
It is vain to sing, for none the muse would believe,

As none trusted in Wilno the poor, aged crone

Who, on Ostra Gate standing, had witnessed alone
How the Muscovite general, Deyov, with a great
Troop of Cossacks, already had opened the gate,
And how one Czarnobacki, unsung in that war,
Killed Deyov and demolished the whole Cossack corps.
Enough, that all did happen as Rykov foresaw:
Yaegers were, in a melee, no match for their foe;
Twenty-three of them lying stretched out on the ground,
With some thirty-odd groaning with many a wound,
Some fled into the orchard, in hops lay inert,
In the house some sought shelter behind women's skirts.
Victorious gentry, cheering, run here and run there,
Some to casks; others booty from stricken foe tear,
Only Worm in their triumph does not claim a share.
He himself did not fight (for no canon allows
That a priest may bear arms), but, as person of nous,
Gives advice, field of battle surveys from all sides,
With eye and hand his warriors he rallies and guides,
And now calls out that they should around him collect
To rush Rykov, and thereby the victory perfect.
In the meantime tells Rykov that he should disarm,
Saying, if he does so, he will suffer no harm;
But he warns, if surrender is further delayed,
Worm shall have them surrounded and put to the blade.
Captain Rykov for quarter to beg had not bothered;
Having half a battalion around himself gathered,
Cried: "To arms!"-and their carbines the rank grabbed, held
steady,
The arms clattered, they all had been loaded already;
He cried: "Aim!"-barrels glistened at once in long rows,
He cried: "Squad, fire in turn!"-now gun after gun glows,
This man shoots, that man loads, and those to shoulder bring,
One hears whistle of bullets, locks click, ramrods ring.
The line looks like some reptile, fabulous and lithe,
Equipped with legs a thousand that glisten and writhe.
True, the yaegers were fuddled by drink quite a bit,
Aim badly, their mark missing, but few bullets hit,
Fewer kill, nonetheless now two Macieks were hurt,
One Bartholomew lying quite dead on the dirt.
The gentry, with its few guns, more seldom reply,
With its sabres would rather the enemy try,
But the elders restrain them; balls buzz past their ears,
Most missing, sometimes striking; the courtyard soon clears.
And now on homestead windows balls started to rattle.
Tadeusz had the ladies to guard, but the battle
Going ill, disregarded his orders, and flew

Towards the fighting; as did the Chamberlain too,

To whom Tomasz, at last, brought his favourite sword;
He runs, joins other gentry, and leads them toward
The soldiers, his sword upraised, they all follow suit,
The yaegers let them come close, a hail of lead shoot.
Fell Isajewicz, Wilbik; and Razor near died;
Then the gentry were halted, by Worm on one side,
On the other by Maciej, they cool a degree;
Look around, start retreating; the Russians this see,
Captain Rykov to strike now the final blow vows:
Clear the courtyard of gentry, then capture the house!
"Take up attack formation!" he cried, "Bayonets fix!
Forward!" Soon the line, barrels projecting like sticks,
Bend their heads, move off slowly, then quicken their stride;
Vainly gentry resist them, and shoot from the side,
The troop, unchecked, across half the courtyard now pour;
The Captain, his sword pointing towards the front door,
Shouts: "Give in, Judge, or I'll put your house to the torch!"
"Torch away", cries the Judge, "in this fire you'll be scorched!"
O Soplicowo homestead! If yet unharmed quite,
Your walls under the linden tree stand shining bright,
If the neighbouring gentry is still today able
To sit down at the Judge's hospitable table,
They drink Bucket's health surely, for all there allow,
Without him, Soplicowo would not be here now.
Bucket, till now, to join in the fighting refused;
Though of gentry the first from the stocks to be loosed,
Though at once, on a wagon, found under a rag
His blunderbuss beloved, and of balls a bag,
But would not fight; was, said he, not up to the task
After fasting; so found he of spirits a cask,
With his hand the stream deftly into his mouth turned,
And only when well-warmed, and his strength had returned,
Adjusted his cap, picked up his 'Bucket' again,
Rammed a charge with a ramrod, put more in the pan,
And the battlefield scanned: sees the bayonet charge batter
The gentry down, observes them now waver and scatter,
Against this tide he swims now, and bending down low,
Diving through the tall grasses that helpfully grow
In the big courtyard's centre, where sit clumps of nettles,
Gestures to Chook to join him, in one such clump settles.
With his blunderbuss young Chook before the porch stood
To defend it, for Zosia dwelt there, dear and good,
And even though his wooing had given offence,
He yet loved, and would die in his Zosia's defence.

Now yaegers reach the nettles, march in, row by row,

When Bucket touched the trigger, and from the gun's maw
A dozen chopped balls into the Muscovites loosed,
Chook sent another dozen, the yaegers, confused,
Recoil; shocked by the ambush the line sheds and spills
Dead and wounded; the wounded the Baptist soon kills.
The barn now distant; fearing retreat there too rash,
For the garden fence Rykov decided to dash,
From there calls to the fleeing, towards him they run;
To some order restores, but a now different one:
Makes a triangle: apex in front, with good sense
Its base at rear protected by that garden fence.
And did well, the light horse now would press his men hard.
The Count, kept at the castle by Muscovite guard,
Once these ran away, frightened, told his men to mount
And, hearing shots, they galloped towards them; the Count
Himself in front, steel brandished above his head high.
When "Half-battalion, fire!" came Rykov's reply.
Along line of locks sputtered a fiery thread
And from black levelled barrels three hundred balls sped.
Three riders fell off, wounded, one dead, by the guns;
Fell Count's horse, fell the Count, screams the Warden and runs
To the rescue, for yaegers aim straight at the hide
Of the last live Horeszko, though on distaff side.
Worm was nearer, in Count's stead received the full force
Of the volley, then drew him from under the horse,
Leads him off; first tells gentry not to bunch, but scatter,
Not to waste ammunition, aim slower and better,
To hide behind the barn walls, the well, or the gate;
The Count's horsemen a fitter occasion should wait.
Worm's purpose grasped and carried it out to a T,
Tadeusz: behind wooden old well-head stood he:
And quite sober, a marksman much better than fair
(He could hit a gold zloty thrown up in the air),
Did dreadful work on Moscow: selects the top brass,
With first shot the field-sergeant stretched out on the grass.
With both barrels he then of two sergeants disposed,
Aimed now at the gold braid, now the troop's centre chose,
Where stood the staff; so, furious, Rykov huffs and blows,
Stamps his feet in frustration; his rapier's hilt gnaws.
"Major Plut", he calls loudly, "how will all this end?
Soon there'll be no one left here to be in command!"
And so Plut to Tadeusz with great anger cried:
"Sir Polack, it is shameful behind trees to hide,
Do not skulk, in the open fight for your good name,
Like a knight"-From Tadeusz this answer soon came:

"Major! If you are really so valiant a knight,

Then why behind your yaegers keep you out of sight?
I'm not scared; it is you at your fence skulk in fright,
It's you who got your face slapped, I'm ready to fight!
Why spill blood! You and I had sparked off this discord,
Let the pistol decide it, or, maybe the sword:
I leave you choice of weapons, from cannon to pin;
If not, I'll pick you all off like wolves in the den."
This said, he fired again, and his aim was so good,
That he hit a lieutenant near where Rykov stood.
"Major, you", whispered Rykov, "Must go out and fight
And take revenge upon him for this morning's slight.
If someone else dispatches this man in your place,
You see, Major, this shame you will never efface.
This young gent must out into the open be lured,
If the bullets don't touch him, a sword must make sure.
'A big noise is for boys, while I like a sharp spike',
Used to say old Suvarov, so, go, Major, strike!
Or he'll pick us all off; look, he's now taking aim."
To this the Major: "Rykov! Dear friend, you're so game,
With the sword such a champion, so you go, dear friend!
Or, you know what? One of our lieutenants I'll send.
I'm a major, deserting my troops would be wrong,
To me does the command of this unit belong."
At this raised his sword Rykov, stepped out with firm tread,
Ordered cease-fire, white kerchief he waved overhead,
Asked Tadeusz what would be his weapon preferred;
After some negotiations at swords both concurred.
Tadeusz was without his; when for one they sought,
The Count leapt out, armed fully, and all brought to nought.
"Pan Soplica!" he cried out, "I will be so bold,
You have called out the Major! I prior claim hold
On the Captain, 'twas he who my castle invaded...
("You mean", broke in Protazy, "our castle he raided")
At the head of his cut-throats", the Count now wound up,
"He, I recognised Rykov, my jockeys bound up,
I'll trounce him, like the brigands beneath that huge stone
Which as Birbante-Rocco to natives is known."
All became still, the firing allowed to subside,
Both troops keenly the meeting of their leaders eyed:
The Count and Rykov sideways to each other stand,
The adversary threatening with right eye and hand,
Then with left hands their heads they uncovered in greeting,
And bowed courteously, (as is done at such a meeting:
Before murdering each other, one should be polite).
The swords clashed now already, are hungry to bite;

The knights, each one foot raising, now pivot, now turn,
Right knee bending leap forward, and backward return.
But Plut, seeing Tadeusz, in plain view in front,
On the quiet consulted with Corporal Gont,
In the unit reputed as their champion shot.
"Gont", said the Major, "just there! You see that bad lot?
If you, there, place a bullet, right on that breast pocket,
You will four silver roubles find in your pay packet."
Gont his carbine cocked, crouched low above the gun's barrel,
His loyal comrades covered him with their apparel;
He aims, not at the heart, at the head aims instead,
Fired, and hit his mark, nearly, the hat, not the head,
Tadeusz spun around, and the Baptist then made
A rush at Rykov, others cry: "We've been betrayed!"
Tadeusz shields him; Rykov indeed hardly could
Get away, and retreat to his own ranks make good.
Dobrzynskis and Lithuanians compete now and vie,
And despite their disputes from the days long gone by
Fight like brothers, encourage, each other egg on,
Dobrzynskis, when Podhajski, as in a dance, spun
Before yaeger line, scything them down like mown wheat,
With joy shouted: "Long live, you Podhajskis, you're neat!
Forward you Lithuanians, our brothers for ever!"
Skoluba, seeing Razor, how he, with no quiver,
Although wounded, the yaegers with raised sabre pressed,
Shouted: "Hurray the Macieks! The Mazurs are best!"
Giving heart to each other, they Russians attack;
Vainly Worm and old Maciej try holding them back.
While under this onslaught the yaegers' line reels,
The Tribune leaves the battle, to the garden steals;
With him careful Protazy kept pace alongside,
And the Tribune with orders him quietly plied.
There then stood in the garden hard by the same fence
On which Rykov's triangle had based its defence,
A cheese-house, built of lattice, big, heavy with age,
Of timbers cross-wise fastened, not unlike a cage.
In it shone many dozens of white cheeses lying,
While suspended around them big bunches hung drying
Of wild thyme, sage, cardoon, and of fennel and bennet,
Miss Hreczeha's home drugstore all hanging within it.
The cheese-house at the top was six yards square almost,
And all built on the top of a single thick post,
All not unlike a stork's nest. The old oaken mast
Leaned to one side, half-rotten, until it at last
Was dangerous. Though the Judge had quite often been told
To demolish a structure so weakened and old:
He always answered that he would rather repair

Than demolish it, or else rebuild it elsewhere.

Reconstruction deferred to a time better fit,
For the meantime inserting two props under it.
Thus the shored but precarious old edifice dangled
By the fence, overlooking that Rykov's triangle.
The pair towards the cheese-house in silence advance,
Each armed with an enormous wood pole, like a lance;
The housekeeper behind through the hemp stole along,
And the scullion, a small lad, but for his age strong.
Once there, they aimed their poles at the half-rotten wood,
On the other end hanging pushed hard as they could,
Like raftsmen who from shore with long barge-poles would keep
Their barge away from shoals, and push into the deep.
The post cracked: now the cheese-house sways, totters and falls,
With load of logs and cheeses, on Muscovite polls,
Wounds, crushes, slays, and where once the serried ranks stood,
Lie beams, corpses, and cheeses snow white, now by blood
And brains stained. The triangle into fragments crashes,
And in its midst thumps Sprinkler, Razor gleams and flashes,
Chops the Switch, then more gentry from courtyard pour out,
While Count's horse chase the fleeing, completing the rout.
Now, with one sergeant, only eight yaegers remained
Still defending; the Warden ran at them; they trained
Standing boldly, nine barrels straight at Warden's head;
To meet the volley, whirling the Penknife he sped.
The priest sees this, the Warden he reached in one bound,
Himself falls, and Gerwazy he knocks to the ground.
They fell, when the platoon had just opened their fire,
Lead whizzed by, and the Warden sprang up from the mire,
And leapt into the smoke, and two heads at once slashes:
They flee awe-struck. The Warden them chases and thrashes;
Down the courtyard they run, he behind them not far,
Then rush through barn house doors that were standing ajar;
From the barnyard Gerwazy rode in on their backs,
Was swallowed by the darkness, but ceased not the whacks,
Through the door one hears screaming, more blows, and a groan.
Then all grew still; emerged but Gerwazy, alone,
Sword all bloody.
The gentry had now gained the field,
Chase and slash scattered yaegers; Rykov does not yield,
Though surrounded, refuses to lay down his sword,
Till the Chamberlain gravely approached, and implored,
And his sword raising thus spoke in dignified strain:
"Captain! Accepting quarter your name will not stain,
You gave the proof, ill-fated, but valorous knight
Of your courage, abandon this unequal fight,

Yield your arms while without force we this yet allow,

You preserve life and honour: my prisoner are now!"
Rykov won by the other's demeanour most grave,
Bowed, and his naked sword to the Chamberlain gave,
To the hilt with blood spattered. "Brother Poles", said he,
"Shame, I did not have even one cannon with me!
'Mark this well, comrade Rykov', Suvarov said once,
Against Poles you must never proceed without guns!'
But then! The yaegers were drunk! The Major allowed!
Oh, Major Plut, today he would not be too proud!
He will to the Czar answer, he was in command,
I, Pan Chamberlain, want to shake you by the hand.
Russian saying is: 'He whom you love extra well,
He', Pan Chamberlain, 'also can fight you like hell'.
You are good at a tipple, and good at a battle,
But now please to stop killing my yaegers like cattle."
The Chamberlain, sword raised, when he Rykov's speech heard,
Through the Usher a general then pardon declared,
Had the wounded looked after, ground cleared of the dead,
And the yaegers, disarmed, to confinement were led.
They searched long for Plut: he, in a nettle bush lying,
Burrowed deeply, and lay there as if dead or dying;
At last ventured out hearing no more cries and blows.
The last foray in Litwa thus came to a close.

Book Ten

EMIGRATION
JACEK
Council held how best to protect the future of the victors Negotiations with Rykov - The parting - An important disclosure Hope

Those cloudlets of the morning which, first scattered, fly

Like blackbirds, to the highest far reaches of sky,
Now bunched up; the sun hardly commenced dropping over
The noon's summit, when this flock a half-sky had covered
With a cloud black, enormous: the wind swifter swung.
The cloud grew ever denser, still lower it hung,
Until, with one edge roughly from upper sky rent,
Earthward leaning, and now of tremendous extent,
Like a great sail; all winds it within itself wrapped,
From the south to the west now across the skies swept.
And there came a hushed moment; the air now become
Still and silent, as if by some terror struck dumb,
And the wheat fields, which earlier would bow to the ground,
Then spring upright, their golden plumes waving around,
Seething wildly, like billows, now stand motionless

And their stalks stiffly bristling, the heavens assess.

And green poplars and willows that had by the wayside
Stood like several paid mourners surrounding a graveside,
Their heads striking the ground and arms wrung in despair,
Letting loose to the wild winds their silvery hairNow as dead stand, in dumb show of mourning and grief,
Like Sipylian Niobe in marble relief.
Only the trembling aspen its grey foliage shakes.
The cattle, which slow progress home usually make,
Now throng home in a huddle, nor shepherds await,
And, abandoning forage, escape to the gate.
The bull, hoof and horn plying, paws, digs, ploughs the floor,
And alarms the whole herd with his ill-boding roar;
The cow raises her large eye at times to the sky,
Her mouth opens in wonder, and heaves a deep sigh;
And the pig comes last, grumbles and grunts on his way,
Stealing odd sheaves of barley, for stashing away.
Birds seek shelter in trees, 'neath the thatch, between stalks,
Save the crows, which, encircling the ponds in large flocks,
Back and forth with their serious and measured pace step,
Their black eyes on the black clouds unblinkingly kept,
From a throat wide and thirsty their dry tongue protruding,
And, awaiting rain, pinions outspread, sit there brooding.
Even these by the prospect of storm too fierce cowed
Now repair to the woods, an ascending black cloud.
The last of birds, the swallow, of his swiftness proud,
A sharp arrow-bolt, pierces the darkening cloud,
Like a spent bullet falls.
And while all this went on
Gentry's terrible combat with Moscow was done;
All seek shelter in buildings and barns opportune,
Leave the field of the combat, where elements soon
Will do battle.
The earth, splashed by the sun still, with gold in the west,
Was with gloomy sheen shining, in yellow-red dressed,
Now that cloud, which long shadows like fishing-nets flung,
Catching the light's last remnants, sped after the sun,
Seemed bent upon its capture before it could set.
Below, several gales whistled, no sooner they met,
One wind chases the other, and gale follows gale,
Flinging large, bright, round drops, like glass granules of hail.
Now the winds clash together, to grips come and wrestle,
They wheel, struggle about in enormous arcs, whistle,
Cloud the ponds to their depths as they over them pass,
Fall on meadows, run swishing through osiers and grass,

Snapping willow twigs, flinging grass tufts all about,

Like hair flying, by handfuls in fury pulled out,
With elf-locks of sheaves tangled: winds, howling like hounds,
Fall upon tilled earth, wallow, root into the ground,
Tear up clods, and make way for a third whirlwind's gust,
Which tears out of the earth like a pillar of dust:
Like a moving cone, spinning on, still it would rise;
Drills the ground with its head, and kicks sand in stars' eyes,
With each step swelling bigger, top turns funnel-form,
And sounds through this huge trumpet the forthcoming storm.
Until, in all this chaos of water and dust,
Hay, leaf litter and branches, turf ripped by the blast,
The winds into the thicket and heartwood now smashing,
Like the forest bears roared,
And the rain kept on splashing,
As large drops from a sieve fall: until thunder roared!
And the drops coalesced; now like taut ropes they poured
And conjoined sky and earth with their watery tresses,
Now, as from upturned buckets, in deluge-like masses,
Till all heaven and earth were quite covered from sight,
Night them hid with a tempest much darker than night.
Sometimes cracks the horizon between its two ends,
And the angel of storms, like a huge sun, extends
Its face shining, then once more concealed in a shroud,
Flees skyward, slams with thunder the doors of the cloud.
And again swells the tempest and downpour immense,
And the darkness, impervious, near palpable, dense;
Then again rain subsides and the thunderbolts hush;
Till they wake, roar once more, and with more water gush,
And at last all grows quiet; and trees only sough
Round the homestead, and only the rain murmurs now.
On this day the most stormy of weather was best;
With the battlefield hidden within a dense mist,
The thick downpour roads flooded, did bridges great harm,
An impregnable fortress it made of the farm.
And so, what in Soplicas' camp had just occurred,
In the neighbourhood none could have possibly heard,
Just when the gentry's fate hung on none getting word.
In the Judge's room vital discussions take place;
The Bernardine lies supine, worn out, pale of face,
And though bloody, in mind still quite up to the task,
Issues orders, the Judge does all as he is asked.
The Chamberlain he summons, the Warden calls, caused
Rykov to be brought in, and the doors he wants closed.
A whole hour then continued the secret conclave,
Till at last this rejoinder the Captain them gave,
Throwing down on the table of ducats a purse:

"There's a saying among you, I know, Polish sirs,

'Every Russian's a robber', so tell people of
Army captain Nikita Nikitich Rykov,
With whom you were acquainted, a Russian, had eight
Medals and seven crosses, which kindly relate.
This medal for Ochakov, this one for Ismailow,
This for battle of Nova, this for Preussisch-Eylau,
And for Korsakov's famous retreat, this award
Gained at Zurich; for bravery awarded a sword,
And who from the Field-Marshal had three commendations,
From the Czar himself two, and had four gazette mentions,
All was set down on paper..."
"But, but, Captain, friend,
But how", Worm interrupted, "will all this now end,
If we don't reach agreement? Your word you gave, man,
To look after this thing."
"True, and give it again",
Says Rykov, "there, you have it! Why me do you harm?
I good-natured; to you, Poles, I feel very warm!
You a merry lot, brave lot; not easy to rattle,
You are good at a bottle, and good at a battle.
Russian proverb: 'Sometimes you on top of the dray,
Sometimes it runs you over: who in front today,
Behind later; now giving, now getting the blows';
What cause there to get angry? So soldier's life goes!
Where will you find enough of bad humour and spite
To feed every lost battle! The Ochakov fight
It was bloody, at Zurich our foot was all lost,
At Austerlitz, my troop was all wiped out, almost,
At Raclawic, Kosciuszko for sure made us writheI was sergeant then-cut my platoon down with scythes.
So? At Maciejowice was our turn again,
I killed with my own bayonet two brave gentlemen,
One was called Mokronowski, who led them, and whose
Scythe a gunner's hand cut off, together with fuse.
Oy! Fatherland! You Polaks, I, Rykov, feel, too,
The same way-but Czar's orders! Am sorry for you!
What's our business with Poland? In our Russia stay we,
Poles in Poland; but no way: the Czar won't agree!"
The Judge thus replied: "Captain, we must have it so;
That you are a good fellow, all people here know
At whose homes you've been quartered for years now on end;
Do not frown that this gift we collected, dear friend,
No offence is meant; take then the ducats, you can,
We press this knowing full well you're not a rich man"
"O, my yaegers!" cried Rykov, "my troopers all gone!
The entire troop skewered! Plut has all this done!

He's in charge, to the Czar he will answer for this!

You your pennies take back, sirs, I'll give them a miss,
I have my captain's pay, though it may be so-so,
It does for a small punch and tobacco also.
You folk I like, I with you will eat and clink glasses,
Have a good time, a chin-wag, and so my life passes;
So, you have my protection when there's an inquiry,
Word of honour, at such I for you will be firing.
We'll say, here on a visit, we drank the odd glass,
Danced a little, we, maybe, drank too much, alas,
And Plut gave, accidentally, an order to fire,
Bang! Bang! And the battalion just melted entire.
You, gentlemen, the process should grease with some gold,
Things will somehow get twisted. Now you should be told,
And to this your long-rapiered friend's notice I drew,
That here Plut is commander, and I'm number two.
Plut remains still alive; may well play you a trick,
One that will quite destroy you, he is a sly stick;
You should stuff up his mouth with a wad of bank paper.
Well, and what, my friend Polak, you, with the long rapier,
What about Plut? You saw him? How was your debate?"
Gerwazy looked about him, and stroked his bald pate,
His hand carelessly waved, which his message assisted
That all has been disposed of-but Rykov persisted:
"Well, will Plut keep his mouth shut, did he give his word?"
The Warden, peeved that Rykov this matter still stirred,
Bent his thumb to the ground in a solemn retort
Then, by dismissive gesture with hand, cutting short
Further questioning, said: "By this Penknife I swear
That Plut will disclose nothing! Tell no one, nowhere!"
Then he dropped his hands, snapping his fingers, to mean
He of some murky secret thus shook his hands clean.
The Warden's dark drift grasped, they all stood there amazed
As in turn at the others each searchingly gazed;
The gloomy silence lasted a minute or two,
Then Rykov: "The wolf hunted, wolf's now in the stew!"
"Let him rest in peace!" added the Chamberlain, "Yes,
The Judge finished, "The Lord's hand was surely in this!
But I knew nothing of it, this blood did not spill!"
The Priest rose on his pillows, sat gloomy and still.
At last spoke, while directing his glance Warden's way:
"A great sin this, an unarmed, bound captive to slay!
Christ forbids vengeance, even to punish our foe!
Oh Warden! You will answer to God for this blow.
But there is one proviso: you salvage your honour
If done not for revenge, but pro publico bono".
Warden with head and hand twice, or thrice, acquiesced,

And "pro publico bono" he blinked, "for the best!"

Major Plut was not mentioned among them again;
They sought him through the homestead the next day in vain,
In vain offered rewards for the corpse to be found,
But the Major had gone, as if sunk underground;
Just what had to him happened, each man had his view,
But whether then, or later, not one really knew.
All in vain they the Warden with questions would ply;
He "Pro publico bono" would only reply.
The Tribune knew the secret, but he his word gave
Of honour, so the old man kept mum to the grave.
The agreement concluded, left Rykov the room,
The ex-combatants Worm then commanded to come:
Them the Chamberlain gravely in these words addressed:
"Brother gentry!-Today God our arms kindly blessed,
But, of this I must warn you, good sirs, no disguise,
That from this ill-timed battle much harm will arise.
We all erred, and without fault not one can be found:
Father Worm, who too keenly the news spread around,
Warden, gentry, all muddling completely its sense.
War with Russia's not likely for months to commence;
So he, who a too active part took in the fray
In Lithuania can no more without danger stay:
You must now to the Duchy escape, my good sirs,
Namely that Maciej, nick-named the Baptist, then there's
Tadeusz, Bucket, Razor, let these straightway wend
To the Niemen's far side, where our forces now stand;
We will then on those absent the total blame fling,
And on Plut, thus protecting the rest of your kin.
So farewell for the moment; hopes are, that next spring
When it comes, shall the dawning of liberty bring;
That Litwa, which farewells now your wanderers' feet,
Will you soon as victorious deliverers greet.
The Judge shall, for your journey, now everything plan,
I'll with money assist you, as much as I can."
The Lord Chamberlain's advice was agreed to be wise;
It is known, who a spat with the Russian Czar tries
Has small chance of true peace on this earth ever got,
And must either fight, or in the taiga must rot.
Saying nothing, they looked at each other, resigned,
Then sighed, and in agreement heads sadly inclined.
The Poles, although renowned they among nations stand
That they more than their life love their own native land,
Each is ready to leave it, run to earth's frontiers,
In misery and wanderings to spend many years,
Fighting mankind and fate, if, while tempest wild blows,

The hope shines that he serves yet his Fatherland's cause.

They declared they were ready to leave in all haste.
But this was not, however, to Pan Buchman's taste:
Pan Buchman, man of prudence, joined not in the fight,
But, hearing of a meeting, was soon in full flight.
Found the project good, wished though to phrase it again,
More precisely develop, more clearly explain,
First elect a committee to legally frame
And decide emigration's chief purpose and aim...
Sadly, only the shortage of time then prevented
Buchman's sage advice being in full implemented.
Gentry said goodbyes quickly and on their way trudged.
But Tadeusz was kept in the room by the Judge,
Who told the Priest: "It's time that I now to you say
What, no doubt, you discovered yourself yesterday:
Our Tadeusz loves Zosia with all his young heart.
Let him make a proposal, before he depart.
Telimena I sounded: she is not too displeased,
And Zosia with her guardians' wish also agrees,
If today we can't have them with marriage wreaths crowned
They can now by betrothal, dear brother, be bound
Before he leaves; a heart young, on peregrinations,
You know well, can be subject to various temptations;
But when he at that circle, that ring, casts his eye,
And the young man remembers his promise thereby,
Straight the thought of some foreign seduction subsides;
In a gold ring, believe me, much power resides.
I once had a great fondness, some thirty years gone,
For Miss Marta, whose heart I believed I had won.
Were engaged; the good Lord, though, alas, did not bless
Our union, like an orphan left me, comfortless,
And to Heaven permitted my darling to pass,
My friend's, Tribune Hreczeha's, most beautiful lass.
Only memories of her great virtue remained,
Of her charms, and this golden ring, as yet unstained.
Whensoever I looked at it, always her face
Would before my eyes rise up, and thus, by God's grace,
I my faith to my darling have kept till today,
And, though never a husband, a widower stay,
Though the Tribune another fair daughter has here,
And in looks not unlike to my sweet Marta dear."
And so saying, a tender glance gave to that band
And some tears wiped away with the back of his hand.
"Brother", ended he, "shall we betroth them with speed?
He's in love, and both aunt and the girl have agreed".

But Tadeusz stepped forward to eagerly say:

"How can I, my good Uncle, you ever repay,
Who has ever so laboured to benefit me!
Ah, my good Uncle, happiest of men I would be
If you promised me Zosia, today, for my wife,
If I knew that with her I would spend all my life.
But I must frankly say: this betrothal, this bliss,
Cannot happen today, there are reasons for this...
Do not ask more. If Zosia to wait will agree,
She may soon me a better, a worthier, man see,
Perhaps my constant love she'll with her love return,
Perhaps with some fine deed I some honour may earn,
Perhaps soon we'll return to our own native land;
Then, upon this your promise, I, Uncle shall stand,
Shall then greet my sweet Zosia upon bended knee
For her hand ask her humbly, if she be but free;
Now I must leave Lithuania, return-who knows when,
Zosia may come to fancy another by then;
I would not bind her now; to request her affection,
Which I have not deserved yet, would be a base action.
When the young man these words said, with evident feeling,
In his eyes brightly glistened two globules, came stealing
From his great eyes of sky-blue, and soon downward raced,
Like two pearls, rolling quickly down his ruddy face.
But Zosia, very curious, within alcove's hollow,
Through a gap the mysterious talk hungrily followed.
She heard Tadeusz simply and boldly deliver
This his love declaration, her heart in her shivered,
And those two great big tears in his eyes she could see,
Although she to these mysteries could not find a key:
Why did he come to love her? Why does he now leave?
For what reason? And knowing he'd cause her to grieve?
She the first time from lips of a young man did hear
The news, great and amazing, that he held her dear.
So, she ran to the altar that stood in a nook,
And an icon she from it, and small casket, took:
On one, Saint Genevieve was depicted in paint,
In the other, a piece of the robe of the Saint
Joseph the Bridegroom, patron of bride and of groom;
And with these holy objects she entered the room.
"You are leaving so soon, sir? I, sir, for your way
Have a small gift, and also have something to say:
Keep this relic upon you; from it do not part,
And the picture-and Zosia-please keep in your heart.
Let Lord God in good health and good fortune you guide
And may He bring you safely soon back to our side."
She was silent, her head drooped; her eyes of sky-blue

Barely closed, when a shower of tears from them flew;

And Zosia stood there, silent, with eyelids closed tight,
Shedding tears, like small diamonds, in everyone's sight.
Tadeusz took the gifts, and, in kissing her hand,
Said: "Panna Zofia! I must now leave you, dear, and
Stay well, do not forget me; and say, I implore,
A prayer for me! Zofia!" He could not say more.
The Count, with Telimena come in, with a sigh,
Having witnessed the couple's sad, tender good-bye,
Was moved; at Telimena directed his eyes:
"How much beauty", said he, "in such simple scene lies!
A shepherdess's soul, and a brave warrior's heart,
Storm-tossed ship and its life-boat must drift far apart!
Indeed! Naught the heart's feelings does so set ablaze
As when soul from its soulmate regretfully strays.
Time is wind: a small candle t'will snuff out with ease,
But a great conflagration is fed by its breeze,
My heart with fiercer love can from faraway flame.
Pan Soplica! My rival I deemed you and blamed;
This error had once caused our sad discord to grow,
Which has forced me against you my sharp sword to draw.
My fault I see: you had to the shepherdess sighed,
And my heart this most lovely of Nymphs deified.
In the blood of our foes let our blood-feud find end,
We with murderous steel shall now never contend,
Let our amorous contest decided be thus:
Yes, we'll fight! How in love one'll the other surpass!
We shall leave here behind us our love's objects dear,
And both hasten off chancing the sword, mace and spear;
Let us vie in devotion, in suffering, in rue,
While with our manly arms we the foe shall pursue".
He spoke: at Telimena he ardently gazed,
But she answered him nothing, completely amazed.
"My Count", put in the Judge, "why this eagerness great
To leave, when you can safely stay on your estate?
The government a poor squire can scourge, skin and fleece,
But you, Count, can be certain to stay in one piece;
You know the rule we're under, are wealthy, a bail
Of half your yearly income will keep you from jail."
"With my character such course can never agree,
If I cannot be lover, a hero I'll be:
Among love's woes, I comfort shall look for in fame,
Though my heart shall be wretched, great will be my name".
Telimena asked: "Pray, what now bids you to wait,
Spurning love and contentment?"-"The power of fate",

Said the Count, "a foreboding, which in strange ways leads

Me towards foreign lands, and to unwonted deeds.
I confess, I today, in this fair lady's name
Would have gladly ignited the Hymeneal flame,
But too fine an example this young man set now,
Himself tearing the wedding wreath off his own brow,
His heart by trials testing, by hastening away
To war's changeable fortunes and bloody affray.
And a new epoch also for me dawns today!
Echoed Birbante-Rocco with my arms' renown,
Let now throughout all Poland this echo resound!"
He concluded, and proudly the rapier's hilt found.
"And, for sure", said Worm, "hardly one blames such intent;
Go, take money, you'll furnish a nice regiment,
Like Wlodzimierz Potocki, who Frenchmen amazed
With a million's gift; or, Prince Radziwill, who raised,
By pawning his estate and also every chattel,
Two regiments of uhlans all ready for battle.
Go, do, but take the money; of hands there's less need,
But gold's scarce in the Duchy; go, sir, and Godspeed!"
Telimena a mournful glance sent, said: "Alack!
I can well see that nothing will now hold you back!
My knight, when into combat lists bold you advance,
At your mistress's favour spare one tender glance!"
Here, detaching a riband, she made a rosette
And upon the Count's breast she it solemnly set.
"Let this rose lead you safely at guns' fiery train,
Against javelins flashing, and sulphurous rain!
And when your valiant deeds are renowned the world over,
And with laurels immortal shall evermore cover
Your bloodied casque and helmet in victory sublime,
Let your eye then revisit this knot one more time,
Then remember, whose hand has pinned on your breast this!"
She extended her hand-kneels the Count, plants a kiss,
Telimena a kerchief applied to one eye,
With the other the Count she regarded from high,
Who was deeply affected by this long farewell.
Telimena sighed, shrugging her shoulders as well.
But the Judge said: "Dear Count, it is late, please make haste",
And priest Worm: "Quite enough now!" called to them, sternfaced,
"Hurry up!"-Thus the order, the Priest's and the Judge's
Sunders the tender couple, and from the room nudges.
In the meantime Tadeusz his uncle embraced
With some tears, on Worm's hand a respectful kiss placed;
Father Worm the boy's head pressed against his own breast,

And upon his head cross-wise his hands letting rest,

Raised to heaven his eyes, said: "God keep you, my son!"
And then wept... but Tadeusz already was gone.
"What's this?" asked the Judge, "brother would not tell him
aught?
Even now? And the poor boy is still to know naught,
Not a word, before parting?" "No word, I forbid",
Said the Priest, and long wept, face within his hands hid.
"And why should the poor fellow know he has a father
Hid from all like a scoundrel, or murderer rather?
God knows how I would wish it; but such ease forsake
And to God for my past sins I'll sacrifice make."
"Now's the time to think, Jacek, about your position,
Mark, a man of your age and in your poor condition
Can't with others escape, now, at once, helter-skelter;
You have mentioned a house where you can find a shelter;
Tell me where, let us hurry, a gig's harnessed, but
Are the forests not better? In some woodsman's hut?"
Worm shook his head once, saying: "Till morning at least
I have time; now my brother, do send for the priest,
That with sacraments come here as soon as he may;
All may leave. Only you and the Warden to stay.
Close the door".
The Judge carries out all Worm's commands
On the bed by him sits, while Gerwazy yet stands,
On his rapier's hilt resting his right elbow now,
And upon both his hands was supporting his brow.
Worm, his gaze, before speaking, on Gerwazy's face
Fixed, mysteriously keeping his silence a space.
Llike a surgeon will softly his patient's flesh feel
Ere he makes his incision with sharp edge of steel:
Thus Worm softened his eyes' keen expression a tone,
For a long time the Warden's gaze held with his own,
At length, as if to strike with a heavy blind blow,
One hand covering his eyes, and with strong voice, spoke so:
"I am Jacek Soplica..."
The Warden turned white
At these words, and then stooping, with half body's height
Leaning over, on one leg stood still, forward bent,
Like a boulder impeded in downward descent;
With his mouth gaping wide, white teeth bared in a threat,
With moustache fiercely bristling, eyes staringly set:
Having let go his rapier, before it reached ground,
His knees caught it, its pommel his right hand then found,

Tightly gripped; and behind him swung slow the sharp blade;
Left and right, back and forth, its outstretched black point
swayed.
And the Warden was like a hurt lynx, on a branch
Of a tree poised, and gathering its purpose to launch
Its coiled strength at the huntsman; its blood-shot eyes glow,
Its whiskers twitch, it thrashes its tail to and fro.
"Pan Rembailo, the Priest said, "I am not afraid
Of men's anger, for under God's hand I'm now laid;
I beseech you in His name, who this world to save
Gave His life, on the cross He His butchers forgave
And the robber's plea granted: be not too severe
And this, which I shall tell you, with kind patience hear;
I confessed who I am: for my conscience' sake, for
Earning pardon, or pardon, at least, to implore;
Listen to my confession; then after, may do
With me what you wish". Stopped then, and joined his hands two
As if praying; the Warden drew back, at him gazed,
Struck his head, shrugged his shoulders, and stood there amazed.
And the priest of his sometime intimacy told
With Horeszko, and of his great love overbold,
Which to this fatal feud with the Pantler had led.
But confusedly spoke, would complaints voice instead
Of confession; regrets aired; would stop as if done;
As if all had been said, but again would press on.
The Warden, who Horeszkos' tale had well in mind,
The whole story, though badly entangled and twined,
Rearranged, could with memories it all complement;
But the Judge failed to follow what much of it meant.
Both attentively listened, with heads forward bowed,
While Jacek words uttered more sluggishly now,
Often halting completely.

"Dear Gerwazy, you'd know how the Pantler me praised,

And invited to banquets; my health how he raised,
How he often would cry, with a goblet in hand,
That than Jacek Soplica he'd no better friend;
How he then would embrace me! Who saw all this there,
Might have thought with this Jacek his soul he would share.
He, my friend? He knew well what within my soul passed,
He, a friend!

***
Meanwhile, travelled the whispers the whole neighbourhood;

Some would say: 'Pan Soplica, no good ever could

Of your wooing come; magnates' front steps are too steep
For the Cupbearer's Jacek to try to o'erleap.'
I laughed; feigned I made light of such persons high-born,
And of their stuck-up daughters; held magnates in scorn;
If I visited, it was for friendship, or sport,
And the wife I chose would be but of my own sort.
Yet, to my very soul it pierced such jests to meet;
I was young, I was daring, the world at my feet
In a land, where, you well know, a gentleman can
Be elected to kingship like any great man!
After all, once Teczynski to ask the king came
For his daughter, who gave her without any shame!
And are not the Soplicas' distinctions as great
In blood, family, and loyal support of the state!

***
How easily some others' sweet future we wreck
In a trice, which a long life can never correct!
But one word from the Pantler, one word, would have given
Such great joy! And who knows? We might all still be living;
Perhaps he, gladly dwelling by his darling child,
His fair Ewa, with grateful new son reconciled,
Would have grown old in peace! With his grandchildren toyed,
In his arms nursed them! Now though? Us both he destroyed,
And he himself-that killing-those crimes, which were seeds
Of all later transgressions, my miseries, misdeeds...
I've no right to accuse, played a murderer's part...
I've no right to accuse, I forgive from my heart,
But, he too...
If he had, in all frankness, but once me refused,
For he knew of our feelings; did he but not choose
To receive me; who knows? I may have gone away,
In anger, uttered curses, forgiven one day;
But he, arrogant, cunning, new plots hatched instead:
And pretended it would not come into his head,
That I'd even consider his daughter to wed.
But he had a use for me, I carried some weight
Among gentry, was liked by the local estate.
So, as if of my love he were quite unaware,
As before, made me welcome, would even declare.
I should visit more often; whenever we spoke
Man to man, when he saw me tears trying to choke
With my heart over-burdened and ready to burst,
Sly old fox, he a random would word toss in first
About court actions, hunting...

***
Ah, but not once, while drinking, when in maudlin mood,
First he hugged me, and then with his great friendship wooed,
When in need of my sabre, or vote in the Diet,
And the hug I returned, as if taken in by it,
Malice so seethed within me, that I nearly spilt
Spittle out through my teeth, and grasped at my sword hilt,
And would spit at this friendship, my sword give an airing:
But dear Ewa, observing my looks and my bearing,
Guessed, I do not know how, that my patience had failed,
And looked with such entreaty, her rosy cheeks paled;
And this so fair a lambkin, of such gentle mien,
With her gaze, oh, so kindly! So mild, and serene!
So angelic! I couldn't, I had not a crumb
Of nerve to cause her anger, alarm-so stayed dumb.
And I, roughneck notorious in lands far and near,
Before whom lords, the greatest, would tremble in fear,
Who did not let a day pass without brawl or fight,
From the Pantler, nay, king, would not suffer a slight,
Whom a mere disagreement would throw in a fit,
Then, I, Jacek, drunk, furious, sat still under it,
As if I at the Holy Host gazed!

***
Often, how I my heart wished to open, and more,
There before him to humble myself, and implore,
But encountering a gaze when I looked in his eyes
Cold as ice, in me shame at my weakness would rise;
So again with him coolly I discoursed, and spoke
Of court matters, and diets, and even would joke.
All this, sure, from false pride, so as not to detract
From the name of Soplica, not bowing one's back
To a lord with vain pleading, not let him say 'no',
Because what sort of tales would among gentry grow
If it were known, that I, Jacek...

***
The Horeszkos denied me the girl! Had the nerve
Me, me, Jacek, a bowl of black gruel to serve!
At last, I, quite uncertain what course to pursue,
Had the thought to collect of like spirits a few,
And, for good, leave the shire and our country's domains,
And to move into Russia, or wild Tartar plains,

Start some war. To the Pantler, for adieus, with pain

And the hope that he seeing his old friend again,
His old comrade, one almost a part of the house,
With whom he for so long had campaigned and caroused,
Now departing, to world's end, perhaps, somewhere blown,
-The old man perhaps to some emotion may own,
Perhaps by him some human soul, heart, may be shown,
As a snail shows his horns!
Ah! Who for his friend holds in the depths of his heart
A spark, even, of feeling, when from him must part
That spark shall be revealed at those final good-byes,
Like a life's fading flicker, before it, too, dies!
For the last time embracing an old comrade's head
Oft the coldest of eyes will a heart-felt tear shed!

***
The poor girl, upon hearing I leave for good, paled
As if swooning, near lifeless, her strength her quite failed,
Could not speak, but I saw from her eyes gush sincere
Streams of tears and I learned then, how she held me dear!

***
I recall, first time ever, my face tears then laved
Both for joy and despair! I forgot myself, raved,
Would again throw me down prone at her father's feet,
Like a snake, at his knees coil, cry out: 'Father sweet!
Your son make me, or kill me!' He stood, dark as night,
Like a pillar of salt, cold, indifferent, polite,
Began conversing-of what? What? His daughter's match!
Her wedding! O Gerwazy! And think, friend, at such
A time! You are not heartless!
The Pantler asked: 'Pan
Soplica! The Castellan, to plead for his son,
Sent an envoy; friend, what would you do in my place?
As you know, I've a daughter, good dower, fair face,
But, Castellan of Witebsk! That seat's rather low
In the Senate; advise, shall I say yes, or no?'
Not a word I remember I then to him said,
I believe, nothing-mounted my chestnut, and fled!"

***
"Jacek!" cried out the Warden, "you've wise reasons built,

One by one, but not one will diminish your guilt!

For the world often witnessed how once in a while
Someone loved a high-born or, indeed, royal child,
Tried by force to possess, or by stealth got his will,
Or, by fair means avenged-but, so cunningly kill!
A Polish lord! In Poland! With Russians to plot!"
"I was in no plot!" Jacek, with grief answered, "what,
Take by force? Yes, I could, from behind bar and lock
Pull her out, grind to powder his proud castle's rock!
Four settlements, and Dobrzyn, I could bring along.
Ah, had she but been more like our gentry's girls, strong
And healthy! If she'd feared not the flight, the alarms,
The pursuit, not be deafened by clanking of arms!
The poor thing! Her the parents with such care beset,
She, so delicate, timid! No butterfly yet,
But a spring caterpillar! And, this child to grab,
To defile with armed hand, is as bad as to stab;
I could not. No!
To take open revenge, to storm, smash the whole pile
Would be shameful, as if I revenged the denial!
Warden, your honest heart can thus never be tried
By the hell which exists in humiliated pride.
Better schemes then suggested this demon of pride:
To take bloody revenge, but the cause of it hide,
Not to frequent the castle, love in one's heart smother,
Blot out memories of Ewa, for wife take another,
And find later, much later, another pretext.
And vengeance.
And it seemed at once that I commenced a new life,
And was pleased with my concept, and-took as my wife,
The first penniless girl who then happened along!
And did wrong-and how punished I was for that wrong!
Tadeusz's poor mother no love had from me,
Though to me most devoted, none kinder could beBut I simmered with old love, and hate, in my heart,
I was as one demented, in vain played my part,
And attempted to farm, or some business addressed,
All in vain! By the Devil with vengeance obsessed,
Bad tempered and morose, I some comfort could win
In no thing on this earth-so, from sin into sin,
And I started to drink.
And soon after from sorrow my wife's life was doomed,
She left this child; and I by despair was consumed!
***

How ardently I must have adored that poor lass,

So many years! Where have I not ventured! Alas!
Till now cannot forget her, and her image sainted
Before my eyes stands clearly as though it were painted!
I drank, but the remembrance I never have drowned,
Nor am free of it, though ran the world twice around!
But now, in the Lord's service this habit I wear,
On this bed, this blood... Too long spoke I now of her!
At this moment, to speak of such things? Lord me spare!
But you must learn, in what grief, what sorrow, despair,
I committed...

***
And all this followed shortly my loved one's betrothal;
Everywhere they kept talking about this betrothal,
They said Ewa, when taking the ring, had collapsed
At the Voivode's feet fainted, in fever had lapsed,
Fell into a consumption, and ceaselessly wept;
They guessed she for another a secret love keptBut the Pantler, as usual, good-humoured, sedate,
In his castle gave balls, and asked friends to the fete,
Me, he did not invite:-why now try to be nice?
My domestic disorder, and my wretched vice
Exposed me to scorn, laughter, the whole world's rebuke!
Me! Who, and I'm not boasting, the whole shire once shook!
Me, whom Radziwill used to address as 'My dear'!
Me, with whom, when I rode forth, such throngs would appear,
Had a more numerous court once than any prince might!
When I reached for my sabre, a thousand swords bright
Flashed about me, and frightened the homes of the great!
-And later, village children would mock me and bait!
Thus in everyone's eyes I was worthless, decried!
Jacek Soplica!-Who knows the sense of false pride..."
Here the Almsman grew weak and fell back on the bed,
"Great indeed are God's judgments!" the Warden, moved, said.
"True, indeed! Is it really you, Jacek? No qualms,
Soplica? In a cowl? And soliciting alms?
You, who I well recall, when in pink of rude health,
Handsome fellow, were courted by magnates of wealth,
When women raved about you! Beyond all belief!
And yet, not long ago! And you aged so from grief!
How did I not straight know you right after that shot?
When you hit the bear plumb through the one vital spot?
For, than you, Lithuania no better shot knew,
And, after Maciek, you were the best swordsman too!
It's true! Did our girls not about you songs make?

'Jacek twirls his moustache, and the settlements quake,

And for whom on his whisker a knot Jacek ties,
He trembles, although he in Radziwill's bed lies'.
And against my old master you tied such a knot!
Unhappy man! And it's you! Brought to such a lot!
Jacek 'Whiskers' an almsman! Let God's will be done!
And now, ha! Retribution you cannot outrun!
For I swore: 'who one drop of Horeszko blood spill...'"
The Priest, meanwhile, sat up with an effort of will:
"I rode around the castle; by more imps possessed
In head and heart, than Satan himself could have guessed!
The Pantler! Kills his own child, me too he destroyed!
-I ride up to the gate, there by Satan decoyed.
Look, how each day he revels! Feasts, drinking, and balls,
What candles shine, what music resounds through the halls!
And will this castle not crash upon his bald pate!Think of revenge, and Satan will not make you wait.
I thought but the thought, Satan the Muscovites sent,
I stood, watched the assault; you know how the siege went,
But it is false that I with the Muscovites schemed.

***
I looked on! Various thoughts in my head spun and teemed.
First gazed with foolish smile as a child at the sight
Of a fire, than a hellish experienced delight
While waiting: it'll soon start to burn and collapse!
At times the thought came: rush in, and save her, perhaps
Even the Pantler-

***
You defended, you well know, with vigour, and sense,
I was staggered; the Russians fell round me, those dense,
Stupid cattle, aim badly!-at this their defeat
Madness by the throat seized me-that Pantler, not beat,
But victorious! Will he here thus always succeed?
After this dreadful foray, on fresh triumph feed?
In my shame, I was riding off-it was now dawn,
When on the porch I saw him-he stepped out, alone,
And sparked his diamond tie-pin, and shone in the sun,
And he twirled his moustache, and his gaze proudly flung,
And it seemed that he me thus disdained and defamed,
That he knew me, towards me his outstretched hand aimed
With derision:-I pick up a Muscovite gun,
Barely raised, scarcely aimed-it went off, the deed done!

You know the rest!

Those fire-arms accursed! Who with the sword would kill, must
Take his guard, then attack, he will parry, then thrust,
May disarm his opponent, sword half-way arrest,
But those fire-arms, enough just the trigger to press...
But one moment, one spark...
Did I flee when you took aim at me from above?
My eyes on your twin barrels I fixed, did not move,
From despair, or grief, stood there, as if made of wood;
Why, oh my dear Gerwazy, was not your aim good?
It would have been a kindness! For my sins, the pain...
I had to..."
Here breath failing, he stopped once again.
"God this knows", said the Warden, "I tried to aim true!
With how much blood your one shot the earth did imbrue!
For us, and for your family, how much wreck and ruin!
And it was all, Pan Jacek, through your bloody doing!
Yet today, when the yaegers to kill the Count tried,
The last of the Horeszkos, though on distaff side,
You shielded him, and when they discharged guns at us
You threw me to the ground, both our lives saving thus.
If it's true you wear rightly a monk's and priest's cloth,
Your frock's sure to protect you from my Penknife's wrath.
Fare you well, it's the last time my foot here has trod,
We are quits now-the rest, let us leave to Lord God."
Worm stretched out a hand-drew back Gerwazy a step:
"A hand stained by such murder I cannot accept,
Can't touch, without discredit to name and to honour,
For private ends, and not done pro publico bono".
But, sunk down in bed, Jacek, to sit up too frail,
Turned now to the Judge, growing each moment more pale,
Again anxiously asking for news of the priest,
And cried out to the Warden: "Stay, Warden, at least
A little, I'm near done, just strength left that I might
Say all I must-Pan Warden-I shall die tonight".
The Judge cried out: "What, brother? The wound is not much,
I saw it, what's this nonsense about priests and such!
Perhaps was not well dressed-for a doctor, at once,
I have in my chest..."-"Brother", the Priest said, "no chance,
I an earlier wound carry, at Jena had been,
Ill-healed, now aggravated again-it's gangrene
Set in-on wounds I'm expert, see, this black blood here,
Like soot, forget the doctors, but this is small beer,

We die once, whether this day, or that yield the ghostPan Warden, do forgive me, I'm finished, almost!
***
There's some merit in that one's hand never had strayed
Against country, though all had cried once: "he betrayed!"
One especially in whom such pride its head reared!
***
Like the plague, the word 'traitor' to my skin adhered.
The citizenry from me their faces would turn,
All erstwhile friends would now forsake me, and spurn,
Timid ones, from afar greet, and quicken their pace;
Any Jew, any peasant, would bow to my face,
Then aside, when he'd passed me, with sneering laugh pierce;
That word 'traitor' would echo and ring in my ears
At home, and in the fields; and from morning to night
Ran before, like a spot in a sick man's eyesight.
Yet my country I never betrayed.
Moscow suddenly saw me as ally and mate,
To Soplicas gave much of the dead man's estate,
The Targowicans then, too, engaged to provide
Me with office.-Had I then become russified!
Satan counselled so-I was rich, powerful, feared;
Had I turned then a Russian, the greatest lords here
Would ask my favours; even the gentry, my peers,
Even commons, so prone to disparage their own,
Those more lucky, in Moscow's pay-leave well alone!
I understood this, and yet-I could not.

***
I fled the country!
Where did I not go, what did I not suffer!
Till God willed the one soothing balm then to reveal;
To mend one's ways was needed, and also to heal.
As much as in one's power...

***
The daughter, with the Voivode her husband, exiled
To Siberia, died young there, but leaving a child
In this part of the country, our little girl, Zosia,
I had her well looked after.

***
Not for love, more from stupid false pride came this murder;
For humility, contrite, I entered the order,
I, once of my birth proud, I, a hero confirmed,
My head lowered, an almsman, I called myself Worm,
For, like a worm in the dust...
Bad example to country, incentive to treason,
To expiate by example to Heaven more pleasing,
By blood, by self-sacrifice...
I fought for this land; how? No matter; 'twas not
For earthly fame oft ran I at steel and at shot.
I would rather recall, not these deeds of renown,
Bruited wide, but the actions more useful, unknown,
And those sufferings, which no one...
I, with hardships, won through, more than once, to our nation,
Carried generals' orders, brought back information,
Conspiracies contrived-in Galicia they know
This monk's cowl-in Great Poland they know it also!
Toiled with barrows a year in a fortress in Prussia,
Thrice they laid bare my back with their batons in Russia,
Once on track for Siberia; then our Austrian neighbour
Had me buried in Spielberg, in mines, at hard labour,
-But, God, by his great wonder, had saved me again
And allowed me to die here, among countrymen,
With holy sacraments.
Maybe, even now, who knows? I sinned and did wrong!
Maybe pushed, beyond orders, the rising along!
This thought, that the Soplicas will kindle the blaze.
That the first Pursuit banner my kindred shall raise...
This thought... I would think, pure...
You craved vengeance? You have it! Of God's punishment
You the tool were! With your sword my plans God had rent,
You my scheme's thread have tangled, long years by me spun
That purpose great, for which all my life's race was run,
Which yet remains as my life's last earthly emotion,
Which, I, as to a dearest child, gave my devotion,
In its father's sight you killed, and I forgive you!
You..."
"If so Lord God only deign to forgive too!"
Interrupted the Warden, "if the Eucharist
You receive now, I, Father, am no atheist!

Who a dying man saddens, I know, risks his soul,

I shall tell you a something, it may you console,
When my late master fell on the ground, I, distressed,
Knelt beside him, and bending low over his breast,
Swore revenge, in his wound's blood immersing my sword,
Master shook his head sideways, a hand stretched toward
The gate, in which you stood, made a cross in the air;
Could not speak, but the sign his forgiveness made clear.
I well understood, but was with anger so mad,
That about this cross never a word have I said."
And here all talk ceased due to the sick man's distress,
And there followed a lengthy hour of quietness.
They the priest thus awaited, when hoof-beats drummed loud,
And the innkeeper, breathless, knocked on the door, bowed,
Holds a grave letter, only for Jacek, no other,
Jacek orders the contents be read by his brother.
The letter was from Fiszer, the chief-of-staff under
Prince Jzef, then the Polish armed forces' commander,
It states that the imperial closed council is set
On war; that now the Emperor has to the world let
It known be; the Great Diet in Warsaw recalled,
With Mazovian Estates, which in joint session hold
For Crown and Lithuania to be re-united.
Jacek, quietly listening, his prayers recited;
The consecrated candle grasped close to his breast,
Towards Heaven his eyes, by hope kindled, addressed,
Flooded with the last tears from an over-full heart:
"Now in peace, Lord", he said, "let your servant depart!"
All knelt down; a bell's tinkling was heard at the door;
This a sign that the priest had arrived with the Lord.
Just then night fled; the sky turned a milky-rose hue,
And across it the first rays of sunlight now flew;
They the panes pierced like diamond-tipped shafts; found the
bed,
Reflected there, they circled the dying man's head
And adorned face and temples; and so they rained down
That he shone like a saint in a fiery crown.

Book Eleven

YEAR 1812

Spring auguries - Entry of the troops - The service - Official

rehabilitation of the late Jacek Soplica - From Gerwazy and
Protazy's conversation one can deduce an early end to the lawsuit The wooing of uhlan and girl - The end of rivalry between Bobtail
and Hawk -After which the guests gather for the meal - The
betrothed pairs are introduced to the leaders

O fateful year! Who saw you then walk through our fields!
By the people still known as the year of good yields,
'Year of War' by the soldier; till this day among
The aged, of you are tales told, of you songs are sung.
Long announced by strange portents in heaven's vault read,
By dull rumours preceded among the folk spread;
Litwan hearts in spring's sunshine were wrapped, but in some
Strange forebodings, as if the world's end were to come,
By strange anticipation, both sombre and glad.
When, the first time that springtime, the cattle were led
To the field, it was seen that, though famished and lean,
They did not seek the sprung grass, at last to be seen,
But lay down on the ground, and, with head lowered, would
Bellow sadly, or else on their winter cud chewed.

And the villagers, pulling their ploughs out at last,

Do not, as wont, rejoice that cold winter has passed,
Sing no usual songs, work unwillingly, slowly,
As if sowing and harvest they had forgot wholly.
They, at each step, their oxen and harrows arrest
To cast with apprehension a glance to the west,
As if from that direction some wonder would come,
And observe with misgiving the birds winging home.
For the stork has already outspread its wide wing
On its native pine, early white standard of spring;
And behind him, in noisy battalions there follows,
Mustering over the waters, an army of swallows,
Which to build their nests gather mud from frozen ground.
Heard among reeds at evening, the woodcock's soft sound,
And wild geese in flocks rustle above the old wood,
Until tired, with clamour, they dive down for food,
In the depths of the dark sky the cranes moan and groan.
Hearing this, scared night-watchmen ask, in a hushed tone,
Why such, in the winged kingdom, is heard hurly-burly,
What wild tempest has driven these birds out so early?
Now fresh flocks, like formations of finches and plover
Or starlings; swarms of pennons and plumes cover over
With their brightness the hillocks, to meadows descend.
Cavalry! With strange weapons, strange dress, without end,
Corps rides after corps; by them, like spring-melted snow,
Along roads, shod with iron, more serried ranks flow;
Black caps darken the forest, steel bayonet rows gleam,
The uncountable ant swarms of infantry teem.
All moving northward; seemed it, as earlier from heaven
Came the birds, mankind too was now to our land driven,
Driven by some unfathomed, instinctual might.
Horses, men, cannon, eagles, by day and by night
Keep flowing; the sky flashes with sheet-lightning's flare,
The earth shakes, one hears thunder boom loud here and there.
War! War! In Lithuania, no corner of ground
Was not reached by its roar; in the dark woods it found
The peasant, whose own parents and granddads had died
In those woods, without having adventured outside,
Who, than the winds, no other knew noise from the skies,
Nor roars, on the ground, other than animals' cries,
Than his wood-dwelling neighbours no other guests saw.
He now sees in the night-sky strange fire-flashes glow,
Hears in thickets a thudding: some cannon-ball rude
From a battlefield straying now into the wood,
Tears stumps, breaks twigs. The bison, grey-bearded old sir,
Lying in the moss trembles, and bristles his hair,
Half risen, on his front legs his huge carcass raised,
And, his shaggy beard shaking, he watches amazed

Through the undergrowth sudden and bright cinders flare:

It was a stray grenade. It whirls, whistling, and there
Bursts with thunder-like thudding. The bison felt dread
The first time in its life, and to deeper woods fled.
Battle! Where? North, or south? Ask the young men, and fly
To grasp weapons; the women raise hands to the sky;
All, of victory certain, cry out with tears thus:
"God is with Napoleon, Napoleon's with us!"
O Spring! Who had then witnessed you walk through our fields,
Spring of war unforgotten, spring of bounteous yields!
O Spring, who'd seen you blossom abundantly then
With corn and with green grasses, and glittering with men,
Profuse with events, pregnant with hope unfulfilled!
O fair phantom of dreamland, I can see you still!
I, in slavery born, and then swaddled with chain,
Only one such spring knew, and will not know again.
Soplicowo lay close by the great eastern road,
Along which from the Niemen the two leaders strode:
Our Prince Jzef, and king of Westphalia, Hieronym.
All Lithuania was theirs, from Grodno to Slonim,
When the king his troops ordered three days rest; despite
Their fatigue, Polish soldiers so spoiled for the fight,
They complained that the king was just holding them back;
So keen were they the Russians at once to attack.
The Prince's general staff stopped in near-by small town,
In Soplicas' fields forty-odd thousand camped down,
There with own staff were quartered the generals Dabrowski,
Kniaziewicz, Malachowski, Giedrojc and Grabowski.
It was late when they came; so each, as space allows,
Shelters inside the Castle, or else in the house;
Quickly orders are issued, the watch set with care,
And, all tired, to the quarters allotted repair.
With the night all grows silent: camp, homestead, and field;
Like vague shadows, night sometimes patrols would reveal,
And one sees, in the distance, the campfires' red shine
And hears, from post to post passed, sign and countersign.
All now slumber: the soldiers, the leaders, the host;
But the Tribune's eyes close not for sleep at his post;
For he plans now the feast for the following day,
Which will make the house famous for ever and aye:
Feast befitting these guests so to Polish hearts dear,
Worthy of such a day of observance and cheer,
Which for church and for family's a great holiday;
For three couples' betrothals would take place next day,

And, too, General Dabrowski said, that for the fete

He would like Polish cooking.
Although it was late,
The Tribune some cooks quickly from neighbours collects;
Soon has five, and they labour, while he them directs.
As the chef, a white apron he tied round his waist,
Pushed his sleeves to his elbows, a white nightcap placed
On his head; held a fly-swat, and with it drove back
Greedy insects which fain would the dainties attack;
A well-wiped pair of glasses he placed on his head,
Drew a book from his bosom, unwrapped it, and read.
The volume was entitled: The Excellent Cook,
Every known Polish dish was writ down in this book
In detail; Count of Teczyn would have it on hand
When he planned those great dinners in Italy's land
Which Holy Father Urban the Eighth so amazed;
Karol-My-Dear-Radziwill on it later based
His reception at Nieswiz for King Stanislaus,
That most famous of banquets, the fame of which glows
In Lithuania today yet in popular tale.
What the Tribune's perusal makes known, without fail
The skilled cooks at once carry all out to the letter.
The work hums, on the tables some fifty knives clatter,
Small scullions, black as Satan, run, bustle and scurry,
These with wood, those with pailfuls of milk or wine hurry,
Into pots pour, and cauldrons; steam gushes; two fellows
Take a seat by the range and work hard at the bellows;
The Tribune, that the firewood more easily should
Catch alight, bids that butter be poured on the wood
(In a well-to-do house such waste can be forgiven).
The scullions pitch dry bundles of twigs in the oven,
Yet others, huge roasts onto enormous spits drag
Of veal, venison, haunches of wild boar and stag;
They pluck mountains of game birds, great down clouds arouse,
All denuded lie heath cocks, and chickens, and grouse.
But not much poultry, for since the slaughter that, gory,
Chook Dobrzynski had wrought at the time of the foray,
Havoc made in the henhouse, and Zosia's small farm
Wrecked, despoiled, leaving not one to raise an alarm,
Time for new birds to blossom had not been allowed
To Soplicowo, once of its poultry so proud.
For the rest, of all viands there was a great stock,
Put together from larder, and from butcher's block,
From the forests, from neighbours, from far and from near:
You would say, only bird's milk could be lacking here.
Two things a generous lord to a feast can impart,
Unite in Soplicowo: there's plenty, and art.

Dawned the most solemn day of Our Lady of Flowers;

Indeed, the day was lovely, the dawn's early hours,
The sky cloudless, and stretched out above the earth, gave
The mirage of a sea, calm, suspended, concave;
Some stars shone from its depths, like pearls from the sea-bed
Through the waves; to one side a small, milky cloud sped,
Now approached, pinions dipping into the sky-blue,
Which seemed a Guardian Angel's swift fading wings, who
On mankind's evening prayers much time having lost,
Hastens to reunite with the heavenly host.
The last star-pearls were fading on heaven's bed now,
Dimming one by one; pales now the mid-heaven's brow,
Its right temple on pillow of shadow still laid,
And still dark; the left turning a rosier shade;
And beyond, like an eyelid, the curve of the sky
Parts, and shows in its centre the white of its eye,
Shows the iris, the pupil-a ray from it dashed,
Bending over curved heavens it suddenly flashed,
In the little white cloud its gold arrow immersed.
At this bolt, the day's signal, massed fireworks now burst,
Rockets, criss-cross, by thousands, the world's arc traversed,
The sun's eye arose, opened-still sleepily shivering,
Still blinking its bright lashes, still tremulous, quivering,
And with seven tints radiant: here glows sapphire-blue,
Here, you see blood-red ruby; here, topaz's hue,
Till it, like crystal lucent, grew ever more bright.
As a diamond now brilliant, with fiery white light,
Like a star sparkling, large as the moon, now strode by
The solitary sun over the limitless sky.
Today Litwan folk from the entire neighbourhood
Before dawn round the chapel assembled, and stood
As if the priest would publish a miracle new.
This gathering was, in part, to their piety due,
To curiosity also: for at mass today
Would be present real generals, they heard others say,
Famed commanders, these men, of our own legions dear,
Whose names people knew well, and like saints' names revered,
And whose each campaign, battle and peregrination
Were in Litwa as gospel held by the whole nation.
Some officers arrived; troop of soldiers came too;
The folk surround them, hardly can trust what they view:
Their uniformed compatriots here standing among
Them armed, free, and conversing all in Polish tongue.
Mass began-the small chapel just cannot compass
This entire congregation; they kneel on the grass,

They gaze through chapel doorways, in prayer, heads bared:

Lithuanian folk's hair, flaxen-white, or very fair,
Like a stand of ripe wheat shines in golden sun's light;
Here and there, like a flower, a maid's head blooms bright,
With fresh blossoms dressed, or with a peacock scarf worn,
Or, with plaited braids, which loose, gay ribbons adorn,
Like cornflowers and cockles among the men's heads.
The throng, multi-hued, kneeling, the field overspreads
And, as at sudden breeze, when the little bell pealed,
All the bright heads bent over, like wheat in the field.
To the altar of Mary the peasant girls bring
Sheaves of greenery, the first, fresh, oblation of spring;
All today is bedecked with a garland, or flower,
Altar, icon and even the porch and bell-tower.
Sometimes, a morning breeze from the east gently blows,
Parts the garlands, their petals on kneeling folk throws,
And, as if from a censer, a sweet odour flows.
And when the mass, and sermon, were over and done,
Rose the chief of this gathering before everyone,
The Chamberlain, whom lately the local collected
Estates had as their Marshal-Confederate elected.
In Voivode's dress: a tunic set off with gold braid,
A fine gros-de-tours kontusz, a sash of brocade,
On which hung a long sword, with its hilt of shagreen,
At his neck was a diamond set in a gold pin;
A white confederate cap, with a bunch of the best
Costly plumes set upon it, a white heron's crest
(Only gala days sanction such splendid panache,
Each small feather on which costs a ducat in cash)
Thus attired, he in front of the church, on a mound
Stepped up, soldiers and peasants all crowding around,
And spoke:
"Brothers! The priest now did news to you bring
Of our Kingdom, set free by the Emperor-King,
Now Litwa, now all Poland, has thrown off the yoke,
Now all Poland's free; also, the priest just now spoke
Of writs, whereby the Diet is forthwith convoked.
I'll now say but a few words to you people here,
With regard to the family Soplica, your near
Squires and neighbours.
Our district remembers the various
Crimes that Jacek Soplica had made so notorious;
But while his many sins are well known everywhere,
The world should of his virtues be also aware:
The generals of our army are with us today,

And from them I heard all I to you now convey.

Jacek died not in Rome then (as rumour had said),
But changed name and estate, and a different life led;
And all sins against God, and against Fatherland,
He made good by life holy and by exploits grand.
'Twas he at Hohenlinden, when ringed, and half-beat,
General Rynszpans had nearly proposed a retreat,
Unaware that Kniaziewicz with aid now advances;
He 'twas, Jacek, as 'Worm' known, between swords and lances
Brought the news from Kniaziewicz for Rynszpans's ear
Which informed him our men had attacked the foe's rear.
He in Spain, where our uhlans in desperate fight
Stormed and took Samosierra's well-fortified height,
By Kozietulski's side was twice wounded in action.
And then later, as envoy with secret instructions,
He rushed hither and thither, men's hearts for to sound,
And would secret societies inspirit and found;
At last in Soplicowo, his father's nest cherished,
While a rising he planned, in the foray he perished.
And the news of his passing just reached Warsaw, where
At that moment the Emperor had deigned to confer
On him, for his heroic past deeds him to thank,
Of the Legion of Honour the Chevalier's rank.
Taking all of these matters in consideration,
I, who hold the chief rank in this shire for the nation,
With my confederate baton announce in this place:
That Jacek's loyal service, and Emperor's grace,
His infamy erases, returns to good fame,
In the ranks of good patriots again writes his name;
Know that, who dares remind now the late Jacek's kin
Of his old, expiated, forgiven old sin,
Will fall under the burden of civil offence:
Gravis notae maculae in statute, and hence
Touching both the militem and the skartabella
Any such who with slander traduces his fellow;
And, as now we are equal, so Article Three
Binds the peasants, as also it binds burghers free.
This decree of the Marshal the Clerk shall now frame
And in minutes inscribe, and the Usher proclaim.
As for the Cross, the Legion of Honour, the fact
That it late comes does no way from his fame detract;
If it cannot serve now to adorn Jacek's breast,
Let it serve for memorial, and on his grave rest.
Three days here we shall leave it; and after, shall carry
To the chapel, as votum, for our Virgin Mary."
Having spoken, the order he took from its case
And upon the grave's humble wood cross he it placed;

On a crimson-red ribbon cockade, the renowned

Starry cross of the Legion hung, white, golden-crowned;
To the sun the star's radiance emitted bright beams
Like Jacek's earthly glory's penultimate gleams.
Meanwhile, the people, kneeling, the Angelus say
For the sinner, and for his eternal rest pray.
The Judge among his guests and the villagers passed,
And asked to Soplicowo, to break the day's fast
On the home's turf seat, meanwhile, two oldsters, at ease
Were seated with full beakers of mead by their knees;
They gazed into the orchard, where midst poppies red,
An uhlan, like a sunflower stood, shako on head,
With much gilding resplendent, and cock-feather crest;
Close by him a young maiden in simple green dressed,
Stood and lifted her eyes, like the violets blue,
Towards the lad's; and, not far, there wandered a few
Ladies gathering flowers, their heads turned away
From the lovers, so these could in peace have their say.
But the old ones drink mead, turn by turn passing over
A snuff-box made of bark, and keep up their palaver.
"Yes, yes, Protazy dear", said the Warden Gerwazy.
"Yes, yes, Gerwazy dear", said the Usher Protazy.
"Yes, yes!" this observation a few more times passed,
Heads would nod in assent, till the Usher, at last:
"That our process ends strangely, I will this accept,
Precedents for this, certes, I do recollect
In which parties the mark more than here overstepped:
Yet a contract of marriage brought strife to an end;
Thus the Borzobohatys made Lopot a friend,
The Krepsztulows the Kupskis; Putrament-Pikturno;
With Odyniec-Mackiewicz; with Kwilecki-Turno.
Yet! Between Poles and Litwans worse squabbles there were
By far, than the Horeszko-Soplica affair.
But when our Queen Jadwiga applied her sharp wits,
She resolved the whole problem without court or writs.
With a maid in one party, or widow, with luck,
Be these nubile, then always a deal can be struck.
The longest suits, most always, with clergy begin,
That's with Catholic priests, or with nearest of kin,
For then matters cannot be made good with a ring.
Thus, the Poles and the Russians are enemies sworn,
From Lech and Russ descended, so are brothers born;
Hence, too, of Lithuanians the suits long went on
With Priest-Knights of the Cross, till Jagiello had won.
Hence, lastly, long pendebat, so famed in court lists,
Rymszas' lengthy suit with the Dominican priests,
Till the Abbey's own lawyer had won, Father Dymsza,
Hence the saying, that 'greater is God than Pan Rymsza';
I would add: Penknife's good, but mead better by far!"

Saying this, to the Warden he drank a half-jar.

"True! True!" answered Gerwazy, much moved, "We've all seen
How most strange have the fortunes of our Kingdom been,
And of our Lithuania! They're like man and wife!
God unites, devil parts; God and devil in strife!
Ah, my brother Protazy, what now stands before
Our old eyes! That these Kingdom lads visit once more
Our land! I once served with them, a long time ago,
Brave confederate lads, they put on a good show!
If my master, the Pantler, were still here with us!
O Jacek, Jacek-why, though, still blubber we thus?
Since the Kingdom and Litwa today tie the knot
By the same token all's now forgiven, forgot!"
"And strange, too", said Protazy, "that of Zosia, whom
To court our Tadeusz has been given room,
Once an omen there was, like a sign from the sky..."
"Panna Zofia", the Warden cut in, "she should by
All be called, for grown up now, is no hoyden wild,
And, besides, she is high-born, the Pantler's grand-child."
"Once", Protazy continued, "I saw a clear sign
Of her future, a portent, with these eyes of mine.
This day twelvemonth the staff sat out here, in fresh air,
('Twas a feast-day), drank mead: when there plopped down a
pair,
From the eaves, of old sparrows, which spitefully fought;
One, perhaps, a bit younger, with greyish dark throat,
Black the other; they tumbled and bounced in the yard,
Turning cartwheels, dived into the dust, pecked and sparred;
We looked on; and the servants then one and all reckoned,
The black one was Horeszko, Soplica the second;
So each time the grey bird was on top, they all bellowed:
'Vivat Soplica! Pfui, all Horeszkos are yellow!'
And they cried, when it faltered: 'Get on with your game!
Do not let a lord win, to a gentleman's shame!'
So, laughing, we sat watching for who wins the fight;
Until Zosia, with pity for wee birdies' plight,
Ran up, with her hand covering the two knights from view;
In her hand they still bickered, until feathers flew,
Such great rancour the little scamps' passions still fed.
Wenches, looking at Zosia, to each other said
That it's surely the mission of yonder girl-child
The two quarrelling families to make reconciled.
And I see that the women's prognostic came true.
Though, indeed, it's the Count, whom they then had in view,
Not Tadeusz at all."
And the Warden then said:
"Strange things happen in this world, who knows what's ahead!

I, too, will tell you something, though not such a wonder

As your omen, but something which still makes one ponder.
As you know, the Soplicas I'd once have been glad
To drown all in a puddle, but this likely lad,
This Tadeusz, from childhood my fancy quite caught.
I remarked that whenever he other boys fought
He would thrash them; so when to the castle he went,
On some dare-devil errand I always him sent.
And he always succeeded; the pigeons he'd poke
Off the tower, or mistletoe strip off the oak,
Or would steal a crow's nest from the highest of pines,
He did all that, and I thought: a lucky star shines
On that youngster, a pity he's one of that brood!
Who'd have guessed as the Castle's new master I should
One day greet him, the husband of my Ladyship!"
Here they finish their converse, just sit, muse and sip.
One can but the disjointed and short phrases hear:
"Yes, yes, my dear Gerwazy", "yes, Protazy, dear".
The bench stood by the kitchen, whose windows entire
Were wide open, and smoke belched as if from a fire,
And among the smoke's coils, like a white mother-dove,
The white cap of the head-chef flashed, gleaming, above.
The Tribune through the window had stuck out his head
O'er the oldsters' heads, silent, heard all that was said,
At length passed them a saucer with biscuits: "You need
Something rather substantial to go with your mead,
While I to you recount now an int'resting story
Of a conflict which could all have ended quite gory,
When Rejtan, hunting game in Nalibock woods thick
Played on the Prince Denassow a noteworthy trick.
For this trick himself nearly with life paid as well;
I these lords reconciled, and how, will now you tell..."
But the cooks came, disturbing the old Tribune's fable,
Asking, whom he would order to set up the table.
The Tribune left.-Mugs topped up, the Usher and Warden
Full of musing, directed their gaze to the garden,
To where that smart young uhlan conversed with the miss.
Just then, the uhlan pressing her left hand with his,
(His right, wounded, it seems, in a sling letting rest),
He the following words to his lady addressed:
"Zofia, you absolutely must say, yes or no,
Before rings we exchange, I for certain must know.
What of that, that last winter you were quite prepared
To pledge your word? I would not bind you to that word:
What use such word to me, when forced out in some ways?
In Soplicowo spent I then but a few days;

I am not quite so vain, nor am so self-deceived,

That my one glance would in you a grand passion leave;
I'm no braggart, and through my own merits would wake
Your affection, although this a long time may take.
You are gracious enough now your word to make good:
But how have I such favour deserved as I should?
Perhaps not from attachment you now me accept,
Only that aunt and uncle have urged such a step;
But marriage is, my Zosia, a thing very great,
Your own heart consult only, not persons of weight;
Heed not uncle's threats, neither your auntie's advice;
If good will's all you're feeling, this does not suffice,
We can leave the betrothal to some future date;
I would not bind you over, we can, Zosia, wait.
There is no need for haste, since I, late yesterday,
To instruct local forces was ordered to stay
In the regiment here, till my wounds are all cured.
And so, my dearest Zosia?"
And Zosia, demure,
Her head raising, and, timid, her eyes meeting his:
"I do not quite remember what happened then. This
I just know that all said that it's you, sir, should be
My husband: I with dictates of heaven agree
And the will of my elders". Her eyes letting fall,
She went on: "Before leaving, if you, sir, recall,
After Father Worm died, that night stormy and wet,
I saw, sir, at this parting you showed much regret.
There were tears in your eyes, sir, those tears, I must say,
Fell right into my heart; and I thought that you may
Truly like me; and since then, I've prayed every day
That you prosper; before my own eyes would appear
Sir, your face, on your cheek a large glistening tear.
Lady Chamberlain did later to Wilno adjourn,
Had me there the whole winter, but always I yearned
For this our Soplicowo, and that little chamber
Where, sir, you had first met me, and, as I remember,
Where you said farewell later; that memory of you,
Like a small tender seedling, from that last adieu,
In my heart set in autumn, so through winter's freeze
Grew, that as now I tell you-I yearned without cease
For this small room and something kept whispering to me
There again I should find you-so it came to be.
In my head your name buzzing, it frequently passed
Through my lips, too-in Wilno then, after the fast,
All the girls would insist I'm in love; and if true,
Sure, if I'm in love truly, it must be with you."
Tadeusz, well content with such proof of her love,

Took her arm, squeezed it gently, and both left the grove,
And returned to the boudoir, a room which we know,
Where Tadeusz had lived once, some ten years ago.
There presided the Notary, most splendidly clothed,
And diligently aiding his lady betrothed,
Running hither and thither, and handing her rings,
Powder, jars, little bottles and patches and things,
Eyes, triumphant and gay, on his bride-to-be set.
The bride sat at the looking-glass, at her toilette
And was gravely consulting the Graces of Beauty;
Curling irons in hand, maids discharged there their duty
Of reviving tired curls and restoring their bounce,
Others busy, while kneeling, adjusting the flounce.
While the Notary thus was engaged with his bride
A scullion rapped the window: a hare was espied;
Stealing out of the osiers, streaked over the field
And jumped into the orchard, in young greens concealed;
There it sits-would be easy to start from his niche,
And be coursed, while still keeping the hounds on the leash.
Runs the Assessor, pulling his Hawk by the collar.
Behind hurries the Notary, who for Bobtail hollers,
Men and hounds by the Tribune behind the fence kept,
While himself with his fly-swat midst orchard trees stepped
Stomping, whistling and clapping, the beast sorely frightened;
The huntsmen, each his grip on his dog's collar tightened,
Fingers aimed at the spot whence the hare would appear,
Then each gave a low whistle, hounds pricked up their ears,
With their muzzles to windward, impatient to spring,
Both a-tremble, two arrows held taut on a string.
Then, the Tribune, cried: "Get him!"; hare: whoosh! From the
wall,
In the meadow, hounds follow, no zig-zag at all,
Hawk and Bobtail together upon the hare spring
From two sides at one moment, like raptor's two wings,
Both sank teeth like sharp talons deep in the back-bone.
The hare, like a babe new-born, gave one small low moan,
A sad moan! Run up huntsmen: he lies lifeless, gory,
And the hounds the white coat on his underside worry.
Each huntsman his dog patted, the Tribune then felt
For the small huntsman's dagger, which hung from his belt,
Cut their hind legs off: "Equal hounds' share in the game",
He announced, "equal share have they earned of the fame,
To their toil and their fleetness is equal praise due;
Palace worthy of Pac, Pac of palace is too,
The hounds worthy such hunters, the hunters such hounds;
Thus your old bitter quarrel is over, by zounds!
I, the judge, with whom both chose your wager to place,

At last publish my verdict: you've both won your case!

I return all the pledges, let each keep his own,
And both sign a pact"-Moved by the old man's firm tone
Each huntsman viewed the other with greatly cheered look,
And each other's long-sundered right hand gladly took.
"Horse and harness I wagered", the Notary exclaimed,
In the registry office I pledged my good name
That the Tribune receive my prized ring, as his fee;
A collateral, once pledged, then withdrawn cannot be.
So, you, Tribune, this ring, as a keepsake, please wear
And your name engrave on it, or, if you prefer,
It instead can Hreczehas' own coat-of-arms hold;
The carnelian's a beauty, the setting fine gold;
The uhlans have now taken the chestnut for theirs,
But the harness remains, praised by all connoisseurs,
For it's easy, and sturdy, and as smart as smart:
Seat narrow, wrought inTurkish and Cossack-style art,
And within the front pommel are set precious stones,
A small pillow of damask is kind to the bones,
When you leap in the saddle, for this I can vouch,
You repose in such comfort as if on a couch;
And when into a gallop..." (here, Notary, who,
That he loved using gestures it is nothing new,
Legs spread wide, mimicked mounting, and then while he talked,
Recreating the gallop repeatedly rocked),
"And when into the gallop, the harness indeed
Sparkles brilliantly, as if gold dripped from your steed,
For gold leaf very thickly the leathern girths covers
And the broad silver stirrups are gilded all over;
On the bridle and halter, and, too, on the spur
Glitter numerous buttons of mother-of-pearl,
On the breastplate a crescent, Leliwa, is pendant,
In the shape of a new moon. This outfit resplendent,
And captured (they say) in the Podhajce campaign
From a very distinguished Turk gentleman slain,
Take as token, Assessor, of my deep respect."
The Assessor then, well-pleased such gift to collect:
"And I wagered the collars, the same that I hold
As gift from Prince Sanguszko, superb to behold,
All inlaid with shagreen and with gold bosses rich,
And a leash of silk woven, of workmanship, which
Is as fine as the precious large jewel it bears.
This equipment I wished once to leave to my heirs;
Children I well may have, for I marry today,
This equipment, though, Notary, I hope that you may
In exchange, deign accept now, for your valued gift,
As a reminder, also, of many years' rift,
That dispute, which with honour concluded this hour

For us both.-Let between us now harmony flower!"

And they went home, at table to tell every friend
That the Hawk-Bobtail dispute was now at an end
There were tales that the Tribune had nurtured this hare
And released to the garden, with no one aware,
To reconcile the huntsmen by this easy catch.
The old man played his ruse out with secrecy such,
That the whole Soplicowo he fooled, to a man.
The scullion dropped, years later, some word of this plan,
With intent to make trouble between them again;
This tale, slighting to both hounds, quite vainly he spread it,
For the Tribune denied it, so none gave it credit.
In the great hall already the gathered guests sat
And awaiting the banquet talked of this and that,
When the Judge, in official dress, came into sight
With Tadeusz and Zosia on his left and right.
Tadeusz, smartly touching to brow his left hand,
As a soldier saluting his chiefs in command;
Zosia, lowering demurely her gaze to the ground,
Blushing, bobbed many curtseys to guests gathered round,
(Such manners Telimena her very well taught).
On her head wore a wreath, as a bride-to-be ought,
For the rest, the same dress which at mass she had worn,
When the spring sheaf to Mary she offered that morn.
For the guests she had, too, picked of green a fresh sheaf,
With one hand to each offers a bloom, or a leaf,
With the other adjusts her bright sickle brow-band;
The great leaders accept these, while kissing her hand!
Zosia blushes in turn, drops more curtseys with charm;
When General Kniaziewicz takes her by both arms,
And he plants on her forehead a fatherly kiss,
Lifting onto the table the still-blushing miss,
And they all, clapping loudly, cried out their bravos,
Enchanted by the maiden's great beauty, her pose,
And, specially, her artless, sweet country attire;
Because these great commanders, whose lifetime entire
Was in exile spent, travelling the world's foreign climes,
In the native dress found an attraction sublime,
Bringing memories back of long-gone youthful times
And their youthful loves also, that almost in tears
They all crowd round the table; each tries to get near;
Some ask Zosia to kindly raise somewhat her brow
Her eyes showing thus; others, that Zosia would now
Turn herself about. Bashful, she follows commands,
Turns around, but then covers her eyes with both hands.
Tadeusz, glad, his hands rubbed, and well-pleased looked on.

Had someone prompted Zosia this garment to don?

Or divined she by instinct (a woman, by some
Instinct always will guess what her looks will become),
Suffice, that for the first time, her auntie had cause
To scold Zosia that morning, who dug in her toes,
Stylish dresses refused, till she had her own way,
By her sobs, in her country apparel to stay.
She wore a long,white kirtle; a short dress she chose
Of soft green camlet fashioned, and bordered with rose;
Green was also the bodice above the slim waist,
Criss-cross, up to the neckline with pink ribbon laced;
Under this the breasts snuggled, like buds under leaves,
A blouse, fluffed out at shoulder, displayed its white sleeves,
Like a butterfly's wings, wide extended in flight,
Gathered well at the wrist and with ribbon held tight;
The neck, too, by the blouse's white collar close rimmed,
And the collar was by the same pink ribbon trimmed;
Earrings cunningly carved from two stones of the cherry,
For the making of which Chook Dobrzynski was very
Justly famed (two hearts joined, these, with flame and with dart,
Given Zosia when young Chook still vied for her heart);
Round the collar two bright strings of amber beads swung,
From her temples a garland of rosemary hung;
She the hair ribbons over her slim shoulders threw,
And upon her brow placed, as the reaper-girls do,
A curved sickle, which polished by grass-cutting, shone
As shines on Dian's forehead the crescent new moon.
All applaud, cheering. One of the officers took
A portefeuille from a pocket, from it a sketch-book,
Spread it, sharpened a pencil, then licked the point wet,
Looked at Zosia, and sketched. And as soon as Judge set
Eyes on paper and pencil, the artist he knew,
Though the change in him great, to his colonel's dress due,
Rich epaulettes, mien really an uhlan's, quite dashing,
And a blackened moustache, beard in Spanish trimmed fashion.
The Judge hailed him: "Your lordship, and how do you do?
In your cartridge belt, plainly, you now carry too
Your artistic gear?"-This was indeed the young Count,
Joined up lately, but had spent a tidy amount,
Out of his own vast income a regiment raised,
In his very first battle was justly much praised,
And the Emperor today had him colonel created:
So, the Judge the Count welcomed and congratulated.
Meanwhile the second couple walked in through the doors:
The Assessor, once Czarist, today Emperor's
Loyal servant, in charge of a troop of gendarmes,

And although but hours twenty his new title bears,

With Polish facings he now his uniform wears,
Drags a sabre behind him, and jingles his spurs.
By his side with mien stately his lady-love strode,
Tekla, Tribune's fair daughter, and dressed a la mode;
For he long Telimena's attractions had spurned,
And so that this coquette a good lesson would learn,
He towards Miss Hreczeha his amorous thoughts turned.
A miss not too young, of some at least fifty years,
A good manager though, well regarded by peers,
And well-off, she a village held in fee, her own,
With the Judge's gift, also, her dower had grown.
They await the third couple a long time in vain.
The Judge grows more impatient, sends servants again;
These return: the third husband-to-be lost, they say,
While out hunting the hare, his gold ring on the way,
And is in the field, searching; the Notary's fiance
Is still in her room, dressing, and, try as she may,
And though several handmaids attend to her yet,
She has far from concluded her final toilette:
And will scarcely be ready before four o'clock.

Book Twelve

LOVE
AND FRIENDSHIP!
The last old-Polish feast - The centrepiece masterpiece Explanation of its personae - The procession of the season - A
present for Dabrowski -More about the Penknife - A present for
Kniaziewicz - Tadeusz's first official act as landlord - Gerwazy's
observations - The concert of concerts - The Polonaise - To Love
and Friendship!

With a crash the hall's portals at last open fly,

Enters the Tribune wearing his cap, head held high,
He greets none, at the table does not take his place,
For the Tribune today wears a different face:
That of court-marshal: holding in one hand a large
Staff of office, and with it, as person in charge,
Shows the company their places, and seats every guest.
Foremost, as in the shire he outranks all the rest,
Takes the Chamberlain-Marshal the chiefest seat there:
With arms fashioned of ivory, a plush, velvet chair;
Next to him, on his right hand, the general Dabrowski,
On his left sit Kniaziewicz, Pac and Malachowski,

Madam Chamberlain, the ladies in Sunday attire,

Then the officers, gentry and neighbouring squires,
All paired, so by each lady is placed a male guest;
All sit down in good order at Tribune's behest.
The Judge bowed, and did not in the chamber remain;
He a large group of peasants would now entertain
In the courtyard, at table two furlongs at least;
At one end sat he, and, at the other, the priest.
Not Tadeusz nor Zofia sat down to the food,
Busy serving the people, they ate when they could.
For the old custom was that new lords of the land
At their first feast the peasants served with their own hand.
The guests meanwhile, awaiting their meal in the hall,
With surprise let their gaze on the centrepiece fall,
Which fine metal and just as fine handcraft displayed.
Prince Radziwill-the-Orphan, it's said, had made
To his order in Venice; so had it created
To his plan, in the Polish old mode decorated.
This centrepiece, in Swedish wars carried away,
To this gentleman's home, none knows how, found its way;
Taken out of the strongroom today for this meal,
The table's centre graced like a huge carriage wheel.
Rim to rim this grand object, replete with the glow
Of meringues and white sugars, fine, powdered like snow,
To perfection a winter's cold landscape portrayed;
With a black wood, enormous, of confiture made,
By whose edge stood, in hamlets and settlements, homes
Not with frost covered, rather with sugary foams;
Round the edge of the platter stood neatly displayed
Scores of little blown figures of porcelain made,
Dressed in Polish apparel, like actors on stage,
In some major event they seemed to be engaged;
Each small gesture with art caught, their colouring choice,
They appeared almost living, and lacked but the voice.
"What do these represent?" The guests, curious, demand.
And thus answers the Tribune, raised staff in his hand,
(While the guests were served vodka as aperitif):
"If I, most honoured sirs, your permission receive,
These so numerous personae you see here in action
Represent the whole course of a local election,
Consultation and voting, the triumph, the pain;
I myself guessed its meaning, and now shall explain.
On the right, here, some squires can be readily sighted:
For pre-election banquet there doubtless invited;
There, a set table waits: but none shows them their place,

In small groups they stand, each group confers face to face.

Note well how in each cluster, at centre, there stands
One with wide-opened mouth and upraised restless hands,
An orator! Eyes bulging, explaining, perhaps,
Aiding tongue with the finger he on his palm taps.
These their candidates' virtues with fervour propose,
But with varied success, as each face plainly shows.
In fact, this group of gentry attentively hear,
One with thumb in his belt tucked, stands, pricks up an ear,
With hand cupping it, silent, his whiskers he twirls,
All the verbiage he gathers and treasures like pearls;
The orator rejoices that this lot are caught,
Pats his pocket, for in it he now holds their vote.
But the third group, alas!-is beginning to melt:
Here the speaker his audience must hold by the belt,
Look how these pull away and would block up their ears!
And look! How very angry this listener appears,
Would shut the speaker's mouth, him defies with arms raised,
He had, no doubt, just heard his adversary praised;
This other, like a bull, with head down, bristled hair,
You'd say, that he the speaker would toss in the air;
Some here run for their sabres, and some for the gates.
But one gentleman, silent, between the groups waits;
Of no party, one sees; he's unsure, hesitates;
Whose name to tick? With own self he struggles, in doubt,
Consults fate: his hands raises, both thumbs sticking out,
With eyes shut he one thumb at the other thumb aims,
Plainly, he his decision entrusts to such games:
If the thumbs meet, his vote to the 'yeses' will go,
If they miss, he'll be guided to put down a 'no'.
To your left, to the convent refectory make entry,
Now turned into a voting hall for local gentry.
All the seniors on benches, the younger men stand
Where they may a good view of the centre command;
In the centre the marshal, with urn in hand, towers,
Counting votes which the gentry's gaze, eager, devours;
He just shook out the last one; the ushers the name
Of the new office-bearer with unction proclaim.
But the common will this squire just cannot abide:
See him through kitchen window his head poke outside,
See his bug-eyed stare; note how his blood's boiling hot,
Mouth wide-open, as if he would swallow the lot;
It's quite obvious that this squire had 'Veto!' cried out;
Just see, how at this sudden, provocative shout
The mob crowds through the door, for the kitchen, we guess,

Swords are drawn, there's no doubt there'll be bloodshed, no less.

But you'll note in the passage, if sirs do but glance,
This old priest in his vestments with purpose advance,
That's the prior-the Host from the altar he brings,
While a boy in a surplice his path clears and rings
A small bell: sheathed are sabres, men cross themselves, kneel,
While the priest turns wherever he hears more cold steel;
But appears, and he calms all, the brawling soon ends.
Ah! You would not recall this, my dear youthful friends!
How among our self-willed and so quarrelsome gentry,
To the teeth armed, no need was to give police entry;
While religion still flourished, the laws had effect,
There was freedom with order; with plenty, respect!
In some other lands, I hear, the countries keep swarms
Of constables, tough fellows, policemen, gendarmes;
And if thus for their safety a sword must them guard,
That these countries have freedom-to credit is hard!"
Just then tapping his snuffbox, the Chamberlain said:
"My dear Tribune, some later time tell us instead
These old tales; that election's quite curious, we grant,
But just now we are hungry; it's food that we want."
To this answered the Tribune, bent low with a bow:
"My most honoured sir, this boon to me pray allow,
The last scene of this diet now very soon ends;
Here we see the new Marshal, borne high by his friends,
From the refectory carried, just see how his peers
Toss their caps in the air, mouths agape, each man cheers!
While on the opposite side, the outvoted one, glum,
With his cap jammed down tight stands there lonely and dumb;
His wife waits on the porch; she has guessed what is what,
Poor lady! In her maid's arms she faints on the spot!
A Right Honourable would be, and now it appears
But an Honourable stays she for three more long years!"
Here the Tribune, quite done, with his staff gave a sign,
And the house-servants entered in pairs, in good line,
And began serving: 'barszcz' soup, called 'royal', to start,
Or the old-Polish clear broth, prepared with great art,
Into which, by a secret old recipe, threw
The Tribune a gold coin and of pearls not a few.
(Such a broth the blood purges, improving one's health),
Followed by other dishes, but who can them tell!
Who now comprehends all these, to our times quite strange,
These huge platters of 'kontuz', of 'arkas', blancmange,
And then cod with its odorous and rich stuffing comes,
With musk, caramel, civet, pine nuts, damson plums;

And those fish! Great smoked salmon from Danube afar,

Caspian sturgeon, Venetian and Turkish caviar,
Pike and cousin luce, each one a full cubit long,
The flounder and mature carp, carp 'royal' and young!
Last, a master-chef's tour de force comes into view:
A fish uncut, with head fried, its middle baked through,
At its tail end and swimming in sauce, a ragout.
The guests neither inquired what this dish might be called,
Nor the curious receipt did their interest hold,
On the food they with soldiers' good appetites fell,
And with copious Hungarian wine washed it down well.
But the centrepiece meanwhile was changing its hue,
And, of winter's snows stripped, it rich greenery grew.
For, gradually warmed by the heat of the day
The light sugary ices had melted away
And disclosed a foundation till now hid from view;
So the landscape now mimicked a season quite new,
Gleaming with multi-coloured and verdant spring show.
Various grain in the fields sprout and like mushrooms grow,
Saffron flourishing wheatfields their golden wave ears,
A rye-field, in apparel of silver, appears,
Also buckwheat, created from chocolate with care,
And orchards blooming richly with apple and pear.
The guests have no time Summer's rich gifts to enjoy,
Plead, the Tribune should not let cruel Autumn destroy
Summer's bounty; but vainly! Relentlessly rolled
On their courses the planets; the grain, painted gold,
Slowly melts while absorbing the warmth of the hall,
The grasses had now yellowed, leaves redden and fall
As if they were knocked off by a stiff autumn breeze;
Until, finally, these once magnificent trees
Now, as if stripped completely by hail, winds and rains,
Stand quite naked-enacted by cinnamon canes;
And, imitating pines, some small branches of laurel,
But with carraway seeds, and not cones, for apparel.
The guests started, while drinking, the woods to attack,
Breaking off roots and branches and stumps for a snack.
The Tribune the board circles, and, full of joy, rests
Eyes, triumphant and proud, on his bevy of guests.
Henryk Dabrowski put on an air of amaze:
"My dear Tribune, are these some Chinese shadow plays?
Did Pinety his fiends lend to follow your will?
Can such gems in your Litwa encountered be still?
And do all of you banquet in such antique mode?
Tell me, for I have spent my entire life abroad."

The Tribune, with a bow, said: "Lord General, no,

You may, sir, rest assured this is no godless show!
It is but a reminder of those famous boards
Once set out in great houses of our ancient lords,
When our Poland the first rank among nations took!
What today I've achieved, I have read in this book.
You ask, if in all Litwa this custom is kept?
Alas! Now even here have the new fashions crept.
Any lordling here cries that he hates all excess,
Eats like a Jew, and offers his friends less and less;
He begrudges Tokay, and his palate will stain
With that devil's brew, modish, false Moscow champagne;
Then, come evening, will lose such a fortune at dice
That for feasting two hundred good friends would suffice.
And even (and I wish to speak frankly today,
And the Chamberlain shan't mind what I have now to say),
When I took this great wonder from its hiding place,
Even you, Chamberlain, you had a smile on your face!
Saying that it is tedious, and quite out-of-date,
Looks a plaything for children, for so many great
And distinguished guests, really completely unfit!
You too, Judge, said the guests will be wearied by it!
And yet, as I now gather from your, sirs, amaze,
This fine craft is still worthy of viewing and praise!
I doubt if such occasion will come once again
That we guests of such standing shall here entertain.
You must give many banquets, so, Sir, don't refuse
To accept this book, General; it should come of use
Whenever foreign monarchs you need entertain,
Or a feast even, bah, for Napoleon ordain.
But allow me, before you receive it, to tell
You by what chance this volume into my hands fell."
When a noise rose behind-doors, loud voices of people
Crying out jointly: "Long live our Cock-on-the-Steeple!"
The throng pushes in, Maciej walked in at its head.
The Judge took his guest's arm, to the table him led,
Seating him with the leaders, at high end, and said:
"Pan Maciej, you are such a bad neighbour, for you
Come so late that for dinner you're well overdue".
"I'm well on time", said Maciej, "and not for food's sake,
It's curiosity caused me this visit to make,
To see our national army, in fact, was my wish;
And when all's said and done, sir, it's not fowl or fish!
If the gentry had let me, I'd give this a miss,
You, sir, sat me at table-thanks, neighbour, for this".
Having said this, his plate he reversed upside-down
A sign he would not eat, and sat still, with a frown.

"Master Dobrzynski", General Dabrowski then says,

"So you're that famous fighter from Kosciuszko's days,
That Maciej, nicknamed Switch! I know you from the tale.
And, my goodness, you still are so robust, so hale!
How the years have flown! See, how much older I've got!
See Kniaziewicz's hair is now grizzled somewhat!
And you still could your arm 'gainst the younger men chance,
And your Switch, it still blossoms as it used to once;
I heard that you've taught lately the Ruskis a lesson.
But where are these your brethren? It would be a blessing
These Penknives and those Razors at last to behold,
Last exemplars remaining of our Litwa of old."
Said the Judge: "General, after inflicting that rout
The Dobrzynskis have hid in the Duchy no doubt;
And to join there the legions for sure would have tried".
"Well, indeed", the young squadron commander replied,
"To my troop a bewhiskered great scarecrow did come,
A Staff-Sergeant Dobrzynski, called Sprinkler by some,
While my Mazovians call him 'the great Litwan bear'.
If the General orders, we'll have him appear".
"There are", said the lieutenant, "some other ones, though,
From Lithuania; there's one they call Razor I know,
And, with blunderbuss, one who rides wide on the flanks;
Also, two grenadiers in the rifle corps ranks,
Dobrzynskis..."
"Yes, yes, but I would hear of their head,
Of this 'Penknife' would hear now", the General said,
"Of whom so many wonders the Tribune has told,
Like a myth of some fabled great giant of old".
"Penknife", answers the Tribune, "though not then exiled,
Fearing Moscow's inquiry, stayed hidden awhile;
A whole winter, poor fellow, had roamed the woods' core,
Only now has emerged; and in these days of war
He could still be of use, for a brave man, and proud,
Though today he is sadly by years somewhat bowed.
But there stands he!-and pointed to outside the door,
Where of servants and peasants there stood a good score,
And above whose heads just then appeared a bald pate
Like a full moon's orb rising, effulgent and great.
Thrice appeared, and thrice vanished within the heads' cloud;
The Warden bowed, advancing, till out of the crowd,
And thus spoke:
"Hetman, if I may be so allowed,
To address you thus, General, no matter at all,
It is Slasher Rembailo stands here at your call
With my Penknife, which not on some fine jewelled hilt,

Or rich graving, but temper, its credit has built,

So that even Your Highness of its fame has heard.
If it only could talk, he would tell you some word
To the credit of also this old withered hand,
Which gave long, loyal service to our Fatherland,
God be thanked, and the family Horeszko as well,
Whose remembrance to this day in people's hearts dwells.
My-dear-boy! You'll not find an estate-clerk as smart
At preparing quills, as he can trunks and heads part!
Beyond counting! And stacks of chopped noses and ears!
And not even a notch on this Penknife appears,
And never was it stained by act wicked or cruel;
Only in open warfare, or else in a duel.
Only once! And God grant him perpetual rest,
An unarmed man it dispatched! This sin I confessed,
It pro publico bonowas, God knows this best."
"So, let's see it!" Dabrowski said laughing, "My word!
This is some lovely penknife, a real headsman's sword!"
Awe-struck at the great rapier he turned it about,
And to officers round him in turn pointed out;
Every man-jack there tried it, but hardly was there
Even one who could lift it aloft in the air.
They said, only Dembinski, with arms like a bear,
Could have lifted the sabre, but he was not there.
Of those present, the squadron commander Dwernicki,
And platoon leader, broad-backed Lieutenant Rzycki,
Were successful in swinging the huge iron mast;
Thus the blade, for their trial, from hand to hand passed.
But then General Kniaziewicz, the tallest man there,
Showed that no arm with his arm in strength could compare;
He the sword, like an epe, grasped lightly and raised,
Over heads of the guests like a lightning-flash blazed,
Showed the old Polish tricks of the science of fence:
The 'cross-stroke', the 'slash', 'parry', the 'windmill' defence,
The 'sly thrust', and all counters and tierces, which knowledge
He had ably acquired at the Military College.
While he practiced so, laughing, Rembailo knelt down,
His knees grasping, with tears in his eyes gave a moan
At each pass of the sword: called out: "General, well done!
Were you once a Confederate? This beats everyone!
This thrust was the Pulaskis'! Dzierzanowski thus fought!
This thrust Sawa's! But whose hand could thus have you taught?
Only Maciej Dobrzynski's! And this? Holy Ghost!
My invention, God help me! And I do not boast,
In my settlement this thrust is practised alone,
After me as 'My-dear-boy' is everywhere known;
But who taught it you, Sir? This is my stroke," he gasped,

"Mine!"-He rose and the General by both shoulders clasped.

"Now I can die in peace! This world still holds a man,
A swordsman, who shall cherish my darling again;
For, till now, night and day grieve and sorrow I must
For that when I am dead, this my sword will be rust!
Now, it shall not so rust! It Your Highness befits,
General, please do forgive me, dispense with those spits,
German needles: a gentry's child ill can afford
To tie on such a stick!-wear a gentleman's sword!
Now I this my old Penknife here lay at your feet,
This my friend, of all comrades to me the most sweet,
No wife had I, no child to continue my race,
He was wife and child to me; from my fond embrace
Never was far away; from dawn till eventide
I embraced him; at night time he slept by my side!
And he, when I grew older, hung over my bed
As do the Lord's commandments above a Jew's head!
I planned he with this arm should be laid in the earth
But I've now found an heir-let him serve you, henceforth!"
Then the General, half laughing, (and quite moved indeed):
"Comrade", said, "if to me you your wife and child deed,
For the rest of your lifetime on this earth you would
Remain old, lonely, orphaned, in widower-hood!
Say, how for this great gift I can make due repair,
How can I your bereavement make easier to bear?"
"Am I Cybulski?" said then the Warden, much peeved,
"Whom a Russian of wife once at cards had relieved?
(As the ballad runs)-It is enough for me, when
This my Penknife once more shall flash bright before men
Held in such a hand!-let though the General make sure
That the strap should be slack, not too tightly secured,
For it's long; and should slash from the left ear and cut
With two hands, then you'll cleave 'em from head through to
butt."
The General took the Penknife, but, too long to wear,
Had it sent to the wagons into servants' care.
What its fate was, his own view had every debater,
But none found out for certain, not then and not later.
Said Dabrowski to Maciej: "Why, comrade, so sad?
It would seem that our coming did not make you glad?
Still so surly and glum? Why does your heart not jump at
All the eagles, gold, silver? When fife, drum and trumpet
The Kosciuszko reveille blare into your ear?
Maciej! I thought we had a more daring man here;
If you don't grab your sabre and leap on your horse,
At least gladly with comrades, and not as by force,
To Napoleon's health drink and to Poland's hopes dear!"

"Ha!" said Maciej, "I've heard, see, what's going on here!

But, master, no two eagles will nest, side by side!
A lord's favour does, Hetman, a piebald horse ride!
A great hero the Emperor? A 'yea' or a 'nay'?
I recall the Pulaskis, my friends, used to say
Of Dumouriez, when people admired all that he did,
That a Polish-born hero for Poland is needed,
Not a French, or Italian, but only a Piast,
A Jan, Jzef, or Maciek-and this is a must.
The army! Call it Polish? But these fusiliers,
Or those grenadiers, sappers and those cannoneers!
One hears more of those German strange names in this rabble
Than those of our own land! Who them now can unravel!
And I see that some Turks or some Tartars you lead,
Or schismatics, with neither true God nor true creed:
I've seen our village women molested, this mob
Even passers-by plunders, our churches they rob!
The Emperor's off to Moscow! A long road, no doubt,
If His Imperial Highness without God sets out!
I have heard, he had under the bishop's curse passed;
It's all up my..." Here Maciej stopped, dipped a bread crust
In his soup and, while eating, more words did not waste.
Maciej's speech was not much to the Chamberlain's taste,
The young started to murmur; the Judge then and there
Calmed the squabblers, announcing the third betrothed pair.
'Twas the Notary, as such self-announced at the door,
For none knew him; till now he the Polish dress wore,
But his bride, Telimena, now made him dispense
(A clause in their agreement) with kontuszes hence;
And to dress in the French mode; loath was he to wear it.
The frock-coat, one sees, drained him of half of his spirit,
As if a stick he'd swallowed he slowly advanced,
Like a crane; and he neither to right nor left glanced,
His face set, but the torture was plain on the face,
Knowing not how to bow, where and how hands to place,
He, who had so loved gestures! Thumbs stuck in his beltBut there's no belt-so only his stomach he felt;
Knew his blunder, confused, like a boiled lobster blushed,
And then into one pocket both nervous hands pushed.
Steps, like running the gauntlet, midst whispers and mockery,
Of his tails ashamed, as of some jiggery-pokery;
-Then met he Maciej's eyes and from fear inward quivered.
With the Notary had Maciej in friendship dwelt ever,
But he now a look gave him with such menace fraught,
That the Notary paled, started to button his coat,
Thought Maciej's stare would strip him of clothes on the spot;
But Dobrzynski twice uttered aloud the word "Clot!"

Notary's fancy-dress filled him with such strong distaste,

That, without taking leave, he just stood up in haste,
Slipped out, mounted his horse, and departed from there.
Meanwhile, next to the Notary, his lady-love fair,
Telimena, displays all her beauties unflawed,
And her clothes', head to toe dressed in latest of mode.
How depict her coiffure, what her hose, what her dress,
Describe it all in vain, this no pen can express,
Perhaps brush could limn better those tulles, appliqus,
Pearls, cashmeres, precious stones, and batistes and chambrays,
And the countenance rosy, and spirited gaze.
The Count knew her at once, with astonishment pale
Rose, and felt for his sword, cried: "And do my eyes fail?
And is this really thou! With bare-faced shamelessness
Thou, here, now, in my presence, another's hand press?
O forsworn, faithless creature! O, changeable soul!
And shouldst thou not thy face hide for shame in some hole?
Of thy vows so unmindful, so recently sworn!
O, you credulous man! Why these favours I've worn?
But the rival beware who dishonours me so!
Only over my corpse to the altar he'll go!"
The guests rose, with the Notary put out and upset,
The Chamberlain, the rivals to pacify yet,
Ran up; but Telimena the Count took aside:
"Till now I'm not", she whispered, "the Notary's bride,
If you have an objection, then answer me deign
With an answer immediate, short, and in words plain:
Do you love me, and is your affection quite steady?
Would you marry me? Now? Are you willing, and ready?
I shall give up the Notary, at once, if you will".
The Count answered: "O woman, inscrutable still!
Time ago, in your feelings you were quite poetic,
And now seem quite prosaic, no feeling, no ethic;
What indeed is your 'marriage', if not but a chain,
Which the hands binds together, but not spirits twain?
Trust me, there be avowals, without a proposal,
Duties be undertaken, without an espousal!
Two fond hearts brightly burning at earth's two extremes
Speak, like stars, of their yearning with tremulous beams.
Who knows! Perhaps the Earth to the Sun its course steers,
And thus by the Moon constant is always held dear,
Because they, trading glances, the shortest way try
One another to reach! And yet, cannot come nigh!"
"That's enough!" she broke in, "I am, clearly, no planet,
By God's grace I'm a woman, Count, and not some comet;
The rest I guess-pray spare me those ramblings absurd.
But I give you this warning: say even a word,

To endanger my marriage, by Heaven I swear,

With these fingernails, I shall leap at you, and tear..."
-"I would not", the Count answered, "your happiness mar!"
Eyes with scorn filled, and sadness, he focused afar,
And, in order to punish his faithless old flame,
At the Chamberlain's fair daughter took amorous aim.
The Tribune, to effect peace between the young men
By the use of examples, began once again
His account of the boar-hunt in Nabolick woods,
And Prince Denassow's quarrel which therefrom ensued
With Rejtan; but the guests to the courtyard repaired,
Having finished their ices, to taste the cool air.
There folk, dining done, pass jugs of mead hand-to-hand,
Players tune up, make signs that the dance should start, and
All there look for Tadeusz, who stood to one side,
Whispering something of moment to his future bride.
"Zofia! We must consult on a great matter, so
Let us talk. I asked Uncle, he does not say no.
You must know, a large part of the villages due
To me, should all by right have devolved now to you.
These are not my, but your serfs. I could not with ease
Change their status unless their own mistress agrees.
Now that our precious country we have once again,
With this wonderful change, shall our peasants but gain
Only this, they another task-master obtain?
True, they are now ruled kindly; when I die, alas,
The Lord only knows into whose hands they may pass;
I'm a soldier; we both in the earth shall be laid,
I'm but human, of my own caprices afraid.
It would safer be, if I gave up my control,
Let the peasants' care under the country's laws fall.
Free ourselves, let our peasants no longer be bound,
Let them own, and their sons own, the parcel of ground
That bore them, which with bloody toil worked they, from which,
So reclaimed by them, they us all feed and enrich.
But I must warn you, Zofia, if these lands we give,
Then our means will be less, we must modestly live.
I am used to life frugal from quite early years,
But you, Zofia, are well-born, descendant of peers,
In the capital early youth spent, yet now say
You would dwell on the land? From the world far away?
Like a peasant!"
Then Zosia thus shyly replied:
"I am a woman, and therefore not I should decide;
You're my husband-to-be; I am young and inept,
What you decide, I shall with my whole heart accept!

If by freeing the serfs you become rather poorer,

Then you will be, Tadeusz, to my heart much dearer.
Of my birth I know little, and care not much for;
Only this know, that I was an orphan, and poor,
That I at the Soplicas from babyhood grew,
Was in this house raised, here I betrothed was to you,
I'm not scared of the country, if I've lived in town,
That is over, forgot, to the country I'm drawn;
And believe me these chickens' and cockerels' brood
More fun gave me than all those Saint Petersburgs could;
If I pined for society, or, sometimes, for fun,
That was childish; I know now I'm bored when in town;
I found out during winter, when some time I stayed
In Wilno, that for village life I had been made;
For Soplicowo, while at gay parties, I longed,
And I'm not scared of work, for I'm young, and am strong,
I can walk about stately, with keys at my waist,
I'll learn housekeeping, you'll see, you'll not be disgraced!"
When Zosia to the end of her story had come,
To her came up Gerwazy, astonished and glum:
"I have heard the news", he said, "this 'liberty' talk!
The Judge spoke of it, what's it to do with the folk?
It all seems somewhat German for our Polish country!
Freedom's not for the peasants, it is for the gentry!
While it's true that we all from old Adam have come,
Yet I've heard that the peasants are issue of Ham,
Jews of Japhet, we gentry from eldest of brothers,
Are of Sem, and as eldest rule over the others.
Though the priest something different now teaches the nation...
Says, that this was but under the Old Dispensation,
But as Lord Christ, though royal, upon sheaves of corn,
Among Jews, in a peasant's rough stable was born...
Let it be so, if there can be no other way!
And especially when, if it's true what they say,
Lady Zofia with all this new business agrees,
Mine to do, hers to order; she'll do as she please.
But I warn: let's not make all these liberties new
Just be words vain and hollow, as Muscovites do:
Late Pan Karp too took serfdom off his peasants' backs,
And the Muscovite starved them straight with triple tax,
And I therefore give counsel that, as once was wont,
We ennoble them and our own coat-of-arms grant.
Lady Zofia on some will confer the Half-Goat,
Pan Soplica to others would grant his own coat,
Leliwa; then Rembailo will serfs see as equal
When he sees them as gentry, with bearings. In sequel,
The Diet will confirm this.
And, Sir, do not fear

That this gifting of lands may well cost you too dear;
God forbid, that a daughter of such noble race
Would her fine hands with housework be seen to disgrace.
But this can be prevented-I know of a chest,
In which lies of Horeszkos' old silver the best,
And with this various bracelets and signets, a hoard
Of caparisons, helms, and of marvellous swords,
The Pantler's treasure, hidden from thieves in the earth,
And now yours, Pani Zofia, as heiress by birth.
I watched these as I care for the eyes in my head,
Of the Muscovites, and you Soplicas, in dread.
I've a pouch full of thalers as well, not a few,
Emoluments of service, and master's gifts too;
And intended, when we had returned to these halls,
That the money be used for repair of the walls;
But it seems it should meet now the new household's needAnd so, Master Soplica, a new cause I plead:
That I at my new mistress's table shall feed,
And the Pantler's descendant shall rock on my knee,
And my mistress's child to the Penknife trained be,
If a son, which is certain, for war's in the air,
And in wartime, it's always been sons women bear."
And the last words were hardly pronounced by Gerwazy,
When in dignified manner stepped forward Protazy,
Who bowed, and from his kontusz importantly took
A panegyric, lengthy, best part of a book,
By a youngish subaltern concocted in rhyme,
In the capital famed for his odes at one time,
Who then joined up, remained though a litterateur still
Making verses-the Usher read three hundred, till,
When he came to the verse: "Thou, whose marvellous charms
Awake painful delights, and ecstatic alarms!
When Bellona's grim ranks your enchanting face view,
Soon the javelins shatter, and shields break in two!
You, through Hymen, Mars conquer; from Hydra's dread hair
Let your hand hissing serpents of discord now tear!"Tadeusz clapped with Zofia till his hands were sore,
As if praising, in fact, to avoid hearing more.
Then the priest, from a bench, at the Judge's command,
To the peasants made public Tadeusz's plan.
They but heard the great news, when the peasants, pell-mell,
Their young master besieged, at the lady's feet fell,
"Long life to our kind masters!" with tears they all call,
Cried Tadeusz: "Good health, dear friends, citizens all,
And all free, equal Poles!"-"I the people's health raise!"
Said Dabrowski; the folk cried: "To our leaders praise!
Vivat Army and people, vivat each Estate!"
From a thousand throats thundering the 'healths' alternate.

Only Buchman shared not in the general delight,

Praised the project, but would some amendments indite,
Had, firstly, a judicial commission in sight,
Which would then... One regrets, that time only prevented
Buchman's plan from becoming at once implemented.
For in the castle courtyard, pairs in dancing mood,
Girls with soldiers, and ladies with officers stood:
"Polonaise!" the whole crowd, as with one voice, demand.
So, the officers called for the military band;
But the Judge whispered into the General's ear:
"Order them not to bring yet your orchestra here,
As you know, it's my nephew's betrothal today,
And it's been since the old days our family's way
To betroth and to wed with the villagers' band.
There a fiddler, a piper, and cymbalist stand;
Worthy fellows-already they fidget and fret,
The bagpiper bows mutely, and looks quite upset:
If dismissed, the poor lads will start bawling at once;
Folk to no other music will frolic and dance.
Let these start, let the folk have their merry tunes, and
We shall then have the pleasure of your splendid band."
He signalled.
Then the fiddler his sleeves rolled up, pressed
His fingers to the fiddle, his chin on its rest,
And the bow, like a charger, across the strings raced
At this sign the two pipers their bagpipes embraced,
Like the beating of wings their arms flutter and flap,
Their breath filling the bellows, cheeks more air entrap;
You'd expect that those two would rise up in the air;
Like the chubby-faced children of Boreas; but there
Was no cembalo.
Many cymbalists were there,
But when Jankiel was present to play none would dare
(Where had Jankiel spent winter was never quite clear,
With the General Staff he of a sudden appeared.)
It's well known that not one on this instrument will
Equal him in sheer talent, or taste, or great skill.
They entreat him to play, and the cembalo pass,
The Jew much demurs saying his hands have grown crass,
That he is out of practice, unworthy to play
With such lords present; bowing, tries stealing away;
Seeing this, Zosia runs up, in one white hand brings
Hammers, with which the master awakens the strings;
With the other caresses the old man's great beard;
With a curtsy she pleads: "Be so kind, Jankiel dear",
Please, this is my betrothal, so, dear Jankiel, play,

You had promised to, often, for my wedding day!"

Jankiel loved Zosia greatly, he nodded his head
As a sign he yields, so to the centre is led,
The cembalo is brought him, to sit he's invited,
It is placed on his knees-he looks down, much delighted,
And proud too; as a veteran to service recalled,
When the grandchildren drag his big sword off the wall,
Grandad laughs, has not held it for many a day,
But feels yet his hand will not the weapon betray.
At the cembalo, meanwhile, two young pupils kneel,
The strings one by one tuning, they twang them with zeal.
Jankiel sits without moving, with eyes nearly closed,
Says naught, motionless hammers between fingers poised.
Then dropped them! At first beating a triumphal strain,
Then he struck the strings thickly, like torrents of rain;
All were puzzled-it turned out this was but a try,
For he soon paused, both hammers again lifted highAgain plays; the twin hammers touch slightly the strings
Which, as if being brushed by a fly's shivering wings,
Emit only the faintest and gentlest vibration.
The master still to heaven gazed for inspiration,
His instrument he measured with one lofty glance,
Raised his hands, smote the strings with both hammers at once,
All amazed were the hearers...
From all strings there sprang,
Like janissary band music, and swelled out, and rang,
As from cymbals, and drums, and from flutes, and from bells,
-'Third of May Polonaise'!-And the sprightly air swells,
Breathing rapture, with pleasure the listeners ears fill,
Girls would dance, and the fellows just cannot keep still,
But these sounds for the elder folk old memories raise,
When the Diet and Senate, in those happier days,
On that first Third of May, in the City Hall feted
King and People at last in sweet concord united!
When they sang thus while dancing: 'Long prosper our great,
Our dear King, Diet, Nation! Vivat each Estate!'
The master plays more forte,the tempo now quickens,
When a false chord, a snake's hiss, the ear shocks and sickens,
Like steel grating on glass-and an ill shudder spreads,
With the gaiety commingles a foretaste of dread.
Disturbed, shaken, uncertain, the listeners doubt:
Does the master so err? Is the instrument out?
No, such master errs not! With intent he thus touches

This most traitorous string and the melody scratches,

Aggravating more loudly that discord ill-fated,
Against the notes harmonious so confederated;
But the Warden knew, covered his face, his cry came:
"I know this sound ill-omened! Targowica! Shame!"
Then the ill-boding string broke with twang and a hiss,
Now he runs to the trebles, breaks cadence, from this
The trebles now abandons to hammer the bass.
One hears thousands of clamours, noise growing apace,
Marching rhythms, siege, firing, hears storm and disaster,
Children's groans, mothers' weeping-so well the great master
Siege and slaughter presented, the girls' hearts beat faster,
Remembering and lamenting with tears on cheeks pale
The massacre of Praga-from song known and tale.
Glad, at last, when the master made all strings resound
Like thunder, then cries stilled as if thrust underground.
Hardly out of their awe had the listeners come,
When again changed the music-once more the slight hum,
Light and gentle, as several thin strings now complain,
Like trapped flies, which from cobwebs would freedom regain.
Now more strings join; the scattered notes hurry towards
Other notes, and make legions from separate chords,
Now in rhythm concordant in step march along,
And the sad air emerges of that famous song:
Of that wanderer-soldier, who through wood and moor
Struggles on, close to dying, so hungry and poor,
At last falls at the feet of his pony so brave,
And the pony's hoof digs for its master a grave.
Old, old song-to the Polish armed forces so dear!
And well known to the soldiers-the lads clustered near
The master; as they listen, they sadly remembered
That hour when on the grave of their country dismembered
They this song hummed, and left for the world's end in tears;
They recall all their wanderings through long tedious years,
Over land, over sea, desert sands, cold, and damp,
Among strangers, where often in midst of their camp
They were cheered, moved to tears, by the songs of the nation.
And they lowered their heads in a sad meditation.
But soon lifted them; Jankiel now raises the pitch,
Plays forte, changes tempo, has new things to teach,
Again glanced from aloft, judged the strings yet again,
Joined his hands, and two-handed with hammers struck twain!
The blow struck with such skill, with such force unsurpassed,
That the strings rang out boldly, like trumpets of brass,
And from them to the heavens that song wafted, cherished,
That triumphal march: Poland has never yet perished!
...March Dabrowski to Poland!-The audience entire
Clapped, and all "March Dabrowski!" cried out as a choir.

The musician, as if at his playing amazed,

From his fingers both hammers let fall; his hands raised,
From his brow to his shoulders his fox-fur cap shifted,
Wafted gravely his beard, to the heaven uplifted,
To his cheeks, reddish rings of unwonted blush came,
His glance, with spirit brimful, with youthful glowed flame,
And when he in Dabrowski his old eyes immersed,
Soon them covered, through both hands a stream of tears burst,
Said he, "General, long Litwa awaited the news
Of your coming, as of the Messiah we Jews,
You 'twas, among the people were long prophesised
By the bards, you by signs were foretold from the skies,
Live and fight, O, our own!" And his tears thickly fell,
The good Jew, good Pole also, his homeland loved well!
Dabrowski his hand offered, and thanked him for this,
He, removing his cap, the great leader's hand kissed.
For the polonaise now-so the Chamberlain leaves
His seat, tossing back lightly his kontusz's sleeves,
And, twirling his moustache, he to Zosia advanced;
With a fine bow, invites her to lead off the dance.
In the Chamberlain's train soon a chain of pairs gathers,
The sign's given for dancing-he leads all the others.
On the emerald-green turf his red polished boots flash,
Light gleams, beaming from sabre and from his Sluck sash,
And he steps slowly, careless it seems, no emotion,
But from every proud step, and from every small motion,
Can the dancer's intentions and thoughts be unmaskedHere he stops, as if wishing his lady to ask
A something; his head lowers, bends down to her ear;
The lass turns her head shyly, refuses to hear,
He doffs his cap, bows humbly, an answer would seek,
The lady deigns to look, but refuses to speak;
He slows down his step, follows with eye all her glances
And at last, laughs aloud-well content with her answers,
Now he steps quicker, gazing at rivals with scorn;
His confederate cap, square-topped with heron plumes, worn
Pulled down over his eyes, or swept off with panache,
Over one ear now cocks, and he twirls his moustache.
He strides on; all him envy, his steps try to trace,
He would thwart them, his lady would keep, so his pace
Varies, or halts completely; hints humbly that they,
Do not wait for them, rather enjoy right of way;
Sometimes plots he a clever manoeuvre aside,
Changes course, would be glad from the company to hide,
Those importunates chase them, and catch up at once,
From all sides soon surround with the coils of the dance;
So he's angry, and grips his sword's hilt with right hand,

As if saying with scorn: "Just beware, envious band!"

With a haughty look turns, with a taunt in his eye,
To the throng, which clear passage him dares not deny
But steps out of his way-then, with order re-found
Starts again in pursuitOn all sides cries resound:
"Ah, perhaps he's the last! Look, young people, pay heed,
The last, perhaps, who thus can the polonaise lead!"
And pair after pair followed, with clamour and mirth,
The coil unwound, and re-wound, upon the green earth,
Like a huge snake, whose thousand coils writhe, twist and spiral,
Shimmer the rainbow hues of their mottled apparel,
Ladies', gentlemen's, soldiers', like glistening scales shone,
Gilded by the last radiance of westering sun,
With the dark-green turf backdrop contrasting this wealth.
The dance swirls, there is music, and clapping, and healths!
Only young Chook Dobrzynski, now corporal, hears none
Of the music, or dancing, nor joins in the fun,
He stands, hands behind folded, ill-humoured and rude,
And recalls the time he had himself Zosia wooed:
How he'd bring to her flowers, how small baskets wove,
Robbed birds' nests, fashioned earrings, and all this for love!
Ungrateful! Though so many and vain gifts he made,
Although she him avoided, though father forbade!
All no use! On the fence how he often would sit,
To glimpse her through the window; through hemp he would flit
To just watch her while she her small garden would weed,
Pick her cucumbers, or she her cockerels would feed!
Ungrateful! A mazurka he whistled, head bent,
Pulled his shako down over his ears, and then went
To the camp, where the watch stood on guard by the cannon;
There, to ease his mind, joined in a game of backgammon
With the soldiers, assuaging his grief with a potionSo steadfast was to Zosia Dobrzynski's devotion.
Zosia dances with joy: yet though in the first pair,
Barely seen from a distance; so spacious the square
Of the overgrown courtyard, that, in green chemise,
All adorned with bright daisy-chains and flowery wreaths,
Among grasses and blooms she, unseen, moves in flight
The dance guiding, as angels guide stars in the night:
You guess where she is, to her are all eyes directed,
Arms stretched out, and around her the crowd is collected.
The Chamberlain, in vain, would stay with her-but can't,
From his leadership envious ones soon him supplant;
Nor did happy Dabrowski drink long from this cup,
She was claimed by another; the third soon ran up;
This one, also supplanted, left hopeless, upset,

Until Zosia, now weary, in due progress met

Her Tadeusz, and fearful more changes to chance,
In her wish to stay with him, she ended the dance.
She now moves to the table, guests' goblets to fill.
It was sunset, the evening was balmy and still,
The great round of the heavens with random clouds dressed,
Overhead of blue azure, rose-pink in the west;
Cloudlets presaged fine weather; there, like flocks of sheep
On the turf, light and gleaming, they lay fast asleep,
Some, like coveys of teal flew. The west skies were filled
With a cloud like a curtain, hemmed, folded and frilled,
Translucent, pearl on surface, in fold upon fold,
Its depths of richest purple, with edges of gold,
Still with brilliance of sunset glowed, burnt, this array,
Until slowly it yellowed, and paled, and went gray:
The sun lowered its head, in a cloud itself wrapped,
And one last warm breeze sighing-it finally slept.
But the gentry keep drinking, and raising more toasts:
To Napoleon, Tadeusz and Zosia, the hosts,
Then, in turn, to the three pairs, whose troths had been plighted,
To guests present, to all those who had been invited,
To all friends, those yet living, remembered again,
And those dead now, whose memory did sacred remain.
I, too, was there indeed, drank the wine and the mead,
What I saw and heard wrote here for all you to read.

The End

EPILOGUE

What should one dream of on this Paris street

Bringing, from town, ears chock-full of deceit,
Curses and clamours, untimely intentions,
Too-late regrets, and confounded contentions!
Woe that, deserters, when pestilence spread,
Abroad each carried his timorous head!
Fear strides before us wherever we go,
In every neighbour encounter a foe,
Till like a chain-gang we're bound, and our host
Bids us to hurry and give up the ghost!
And when the world has no ear for the lost!
When every moment of fresh terrors tells,
Tolling from home like a cemetery bell,
When the guards only our speedy death crave,
When, there, foes beckon-by freshly dug grave!
When they see even no hope out of heaven!
Not strange, to hating the world and self driven,
Their minds unhinged by long torture, a brother
At brother spits, each devouring the other!
I wished to bypass, a bird of small flight,
Avoid the regions of storm and of night,
And seek out only cool shade and days fair,
Days of one's childhood, and one's cottage there...
He only happy, who when dusk descends
By glowing fire-side sits down with good friends,
The door shuts tightly against Europe's noise,
His thought sends flying to seasons more joyous,
And dreams, and muses, about his own land...
But of that blood, that so freshly lies spilled,
The tears, with which now all Poland is filled,
And of the glory, whose voice is not stilled!
Of these to think now-we had not the heart!
The nation suffers such infinite smart
That when she lowers her eyes to its pain,
Then even Valour her hands wrings in vain.
Those generations in black mourning dressed,
That air, by curses uncounted oppressed,

There-one's thought had not the courage to wander,

To spheres feared even by storm-birds of thunder.
O Mother Poland! So freshly entombed,
-One has not strength now to speak of your doom!
Alas, whose lips to such art can presume
Of, today, finding those heart-felt words there,
Words which would soften the marble despair,
And this great tombstone remove from the heart,
And loosen eyes that with unshed tears smart?
And cause the tear, half-congealed now, to flow?
Till these are uttered, an era must go.
Some day-when lions of vengeance have spoken,
Trumpets are silent, and the ranks have broken,
When the foe utters his last cry of pain,
Is still, and nations know freedom again;
When our white eagles with lightning-swift flight
On Chrobry's ancient frontier-posts alight,
Human flesh feed on, and bloody their breast,
And, at last, fold up their pinions for rest!Then, oak-leaf garland bedecking their brow,
Their swords discarded, unarmed shall sit now
Our knights! They songs now shall gladly allow!
When all their present lot envy at last,
That shall the time be to speak of the past!
Then can they weep for their forefathers' pain,
This tear, then only, their cheek will not stain.
Today here for us, world's guests uninvited,
In all our future, and our past blighted,
There remains only one country, the sole
Land where some gladness remains for a Pole!
Land of one's childhood! She only will prove
Holy and pure, as the very first love;
Never by memories of past errors hounded,
Nor by illusion swayed of hopes unfounded,
Nor by the stream of events soon confounded.
Where wept I rarely, nor teeth ground in pain,
This land my thoughts would now visit again,
The childhood country-the land one ran through
As through a meadow and flowers only knew
Little and lovely, the harmful passed by,
Towards the useful did not turn one's eye.
That land, so happy, so poor, so outgrown!
As Earth is the Lord's, so it was our own!
How we remember all that was around:
From the linden, that, so splendidly crowned

On village children kind shadow had thrown,

Even to every small stream, every stone,
How every nook was familiar and dear,
Up to its boundary, the neighbours' homes near!
And but the dwellers in that happy land
True friends, they only today by us stand,
Allies sure, only they still to us cling!
For who had dwelt there?-Mother, brothers, kin,
And the good neighbours. When one passed away,
How we would speak of him day after day,
How many memories, what grieving profound!
There, man to master is more closely bound
Than wife to husband in other lands cleaves;
There, soldier longer for lost armour grieves
Than here for father, a dog is mourned there
More than folk here for a hero's death care.
And my good friends assisted me then with their tongue
Throwing word after word for me into my song;
As the fairy-tale cranes from wild marshlands far-flung,
When, one springtime above a bewitched palace flying,
And then hearing the spell-bound young lad's plaintive crying,
Each bird to him then one feather had thrownHe made him wings and returned to his own.
O that I win to this pleasure some day,
That these books under thatched roofs find their way,
That village girls, at the spinning wheel sitting,
When once they've sung their favourite ditties:
About the maiden, who so loved to play
That while she fiddled her geese ran away,
About this orphan, who, fair as the dawn,
Her geese went herding at evening aloneO that at last to their hands time may bring
These books, as artless as the songs they sing!
Thus in my day, when the village had time
For fun, and sitting down under the lime,
They would hear Justin's, or young Wieslaw's story;
And not the bailiff, who sat gently snoring,
Nor yet the steward, nor even the squire,
Would object; rather himself would admire
The poem's beauties, forgive a mistake,
And make plain meanings for young hearers' sake.
And the youth envied the poets their glory,
Which there still echoes through forest and heath,
And to whom more than Capitolline wreaths
The wreath by village girls' hands woven through

With azure cornflowers twined with green rue.

(1834)