Pan Tadeusz

By Adam Mickiewicz.

Translated by Maude Ashurst Biggs.

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Rules for Pronunciation of the Polish Words in the Text

The letters b, d, f, h, k, m, n, p, r, s, t, z, are pronounced as in English, except when modified, as several of them are, by particular dots or accents, necessary for the expressing of Slavonic sounds in Roman letters.

C is invariably pronounced soft, like tz, before all vowels and before consonants, even in cases where it is hard in other languages; as Soplica, pronounced Soplitza. Before the vowel i it has a palatal sound, not unlike c in Italian.

G is invariably hard, as in gill, get.

J has the same sound as in Italian or German.

K is used for the hard c of other languages, and in foreign words is substituted for it, as Catholic, written in Polish Katolik.

The letter l has two forms, one corresponding to our own; the other with a delicate stroke down has a peculiar sound, slightly resembling our w, scarcely ever mastered by foreigners. In the present work it has been judged best, owing to the impossibility of procuring suitable type, to use the simple i throughout.

N accented is pronounced like the Spanish ñ in cañon.

W like v.

Z as in English; when dotted ż, pronounced like j in French; with an accent ź the sound is sharper.

Sz has the sound of sh in English.

Cz is pronounced like ch in church.

Rz has the sound resembling that of the dotted ż or French j; thus the proper name of Dobrzynski is pronounced as if written Dobrjiñskee.

Szcz is pronounced with both sounds of sz and cz thoroughly distinct, so that the combination resembles shtch.

The vowels a, e, i, o, u, are pronounced as in all Continental languages, very broad and full. A and e are, however, susceptible of modifications, causing them to sound like en and in in French. Particular forms of the letters are used for these sounds in Polish; but in this translation the nasals are expressed by m or n, as Rembajlo, Czenstochowa⁠—a form of spelling warranted by Polish usage.

N.b.⁠—Consonants are pronounced far more lightly than in English.

Introduction

The Slavonic languages and their literatures are so little studied in our own country, that it is to be feared that many English men and women have not even heard the name of Poland’s greatest poet, Adam Mickiewicz. When, a few years ago, a tablet was affixed to the house at Rome in which the poet had for a short time lodged, there were many oracular utterances in the newspapers to make clear to wondering foreigners what sort of person that name implied. And yet the writings of Mickiewicz are well worth our attention. He is preeminently the national poet of Poland; in him is to be found the voice of its sufferings and struggles⁠—the echo of its history and long-cherished traditions. No writer has more faithfully reproduced the old Polish life and manners and the spirit of its national songs. He has himself beautifully said that in the popular lay lies hidden the weapon of the nation’s hero, and the woven thread of the nation’s thoughts⁠—

“With the wings and voice of the archangel
Sometimes also thou holdest the sword of the archangel;”1⁠—

and all this will assuredly be found in his own poetry, with its quaint tales of old Polish life and Lithuanian chivalry, its fantastic legends of enchanted lakes and oaks of immemorial sanctity.

It is probable that only the circumstance of his poems being written in a difficult language, which it is not the fashion to study in England, has kept them so absolutely unknown to our countrymen. Such is far from being the case in Germany and France. But in the words of doom, vae victis, may also be read the degradation of the language of the conquered. Polish, however, is not yet a dead language nor likely to be; it is still spoken by nearly ten millions of people, and boasts of many living writers of merit.

Let us hope then that our countrymen will welcome this work by Miss Maude A. Biggs, a lady already so favourably known by her version of “Konrad Wallenrod.” She puts before us a translation of a celebrated poem by Mickiewicz, Pan Tadeusz, a graphic picture of old Polish life in Lithuania before the invasion of Russia by Napoleon in 1812. During the independence of Poland this country had formed a very important portion of the republic; it is now divided into Russian governments.

Perhaps the novelty of the manners described in this poem, and the graphic pictures of earlier forms of society, may recommend it to the English reader. Miss Biggs has performed her task exceedingly well, although Polish is so difficult a language and the poem she has selected is national to the very core. For the rhyming lines of the original she has substituted blank verse, a metre with which Englishmen are familiar in long poems, and which allows a translator to be more literal by emancipating him from what have been called the tags of rhyme. She is always faithful to her author, and cleverly reproduces the spirit of his poem, although something must necessarily be lost in every translation. The manly sounds of the English language are fitter than those of many others for reproducing the echoes of the vigorous Polish tongue. It is impossible not to recall to one’s mind the fine words of Casimir Brodzinski, himself a poet of no mean order. “Let,” says he, “the Pole smile with manly pride when the inhabitant of the banks of the Tiber or Seine calls his language rude; let him hear with keen satisfaction and the dignity of a judge the stranger who painfully struggles with the Polish pronunciation, like a sybarite trying to lift an old Roman coat of armour, or when he strives to articulate the language of men with the weak accent of a child. So long as courage is not wanting to our nation, and our morals have not become degraded, let us not disavow this manly roughness of our language. It has its harmony and its melody, but it is the murmur of an oak of three hundred years, and not the plaintive and feeble cry of a reed, swayed by every wind.”

The life of Mickiewicz, who died thirty years ago, was a very sad one. He was born in 1798, and at an early age became an exile, never seeing his native country after 1829. How great were his longings to revisit it, we find by the commencement of Pan Tadeusz, which breathes all the despair of an exile. He settled in Paris and became a professor of the Slavonic languages and literatures at the College de France. This office, however, he was compelled to resign on account of his identifying himself with the strange views of Towianski. His wife afterwards became He insane, and we have a pathetic portrait of the poet towards the close of his life in the Memoirs of Herzen, published originally in the Russian magazine Polar Star (Poliarnaia Zviezda). He appeared to the Russian politician as a man bowed down with troubles, prematurely grey, and lost in the labyrinths of religious mysticism. In 1855 he was sent to Constantinople to assist in forming a Polish legion to serve against the Russians in the Crimean War, and died there.

Mickiewicz is altogether a strange and interesting figure, and deserves to be known much more widely than in the comparatively narrow circle of his compatriots. He has shown excellence in many fields of literature, but especially in his ballads and narrative poems. The exquisite grace and finish of his sonnets, especially those inspired by the poet’s visit to the Crimea, will be acknowledged by all acquainted with his writings; they are the finest in any Slavonic language, and may be compared with some of the best Italian and English compositions of the same kind.

With the good wishes of a few hearty admirers of the poet this version of one of his most striking productions is venturesomely sent forth to the great English-speaking public.

Translator’s Preface

In order to have a clear understanding of the spirit in which this poem is composed, it will not perhaps be considered irrelevant to prefix a short abstract of the historical events on which it is founded, and to which reference is made in the course of the story. The wars of Napoleon, and the relation these had to the politics and prospects of the Polish nation, form the historical groundwork of the poem, which may therefore be taken as representing a portion of European history at present little known and studied. It is, however, generally admitted that for the right understanding and just appreciation of the literature of a people a certain knowledge of their past and present history is absolutely necessary, and of no people is this more true than of the Poles, whose literary works, even such as, strictly speaking, cannot be classed as historical, abound with references to the past, and are replete with allusions to historical and traditional names and events, almost every one of which must require explanation to those not previously acquainted with the subject. It is scarcely possible to study any classical work in this, perhaps the richest and most highly cultivated of all the Slavonic languages, without as it were half-unconsciously acquiring some knowledge of the traditions to which such frequent allusion is made. No further excuse it is therefore hoped will be necessary for commencing this work with an account of the chief circumstances which transpired from the year 1794 or 1795 to the beginning of 1812, between which the whole interest of this story is comprised.

After the battle of Maciejowice and capture of Warsaw, many of the Poles took refuge in France, since they imagined that the republic would no doubt immediately commence a crusade against the enemies of Poland, and therefore readily offered their services in the French armies. At this period a regulation existed forbidding the French Government from receiving foreign troops into their service. The difficulty was evaded by proclaiming the Polish exiles citizens of the Cisalpine Republic, one of the short lived states created about this time by Bonaparte. They were formed into legions, marching under their own colours, and bearing in addition the motto, “Gli uomini liberi sono fratelli.” The legions were commanded by Henry Dombrowski, who for some time had held a command in the Saxon army, and, strange to say, spoke German better than Polish. They greatly contributed to the success of the French in Italy, but on the cessation of hostilities by the treaty of Campo Formio, found their expectations deceived. No mention was made of Poland in the articles of peace.

It was not however long before hostilities were resumed. Suwarow, being despatched to the help of the Austrians, in 1799 defeated the French in several battles. The Poles, venturing again to trust those who had once deceived them, entered once more into the service of France, this time as part of the French army, since Napoleon, after subverting the Directory, had abolished the regulation relative to the employment of foreign troops. The first legion of the Poles threw themselves into Mantua, which was besieged by the Austrians, and on its capitulation were delivered into the hands of the enemy by the French, who had bound themselves by a secret treaty to restore to the Austrians their deserters, namely those Poles who had escaped from their ranks to join the French. The remainder, under Dombrowski, took refuge in France, and after many changes of fortune were formed into one legion, part of which was detached to form the so-called Legion of the Danube under General Kniaziewicz. Dombrowski had conceived a plan for reaching Poland through Bohemia and Moravia. But it was soon manifest that no solid assistance was to be expected from Napoleon, who regarded them merely as instruments of his own projects. A number of the Legion of the Danube were at Genoa for Haiti, for the forcibly embarked quelling of the insurrection successfully carried on by Toussaint L’Ouverture. Numbers of the Poles succumbed to the climate, and few returned to their own country. A certain number preferred to remain in Haiti, and make common cause with the negroes, instead of opposing those who had in no way injured their cause.

Nevertheless, the legions of the Poles continued, hoping against hope, to fight the battles and support the cause of Napoleon. One alone was wiser. Napoleon at one time endeavoured to obtain the support of Kosciuszko, but the veteran hero refused the prestige of his name to his designs. Bonaparte nevertheless was still able to preserve the belief of the exiles in his benevolent intentions, and thus waste their strength and lives in aiding his schemes of conquest.

Still after the battle of Austerlitz, wherein the German powers were for the time being crushed, Posen became independent, and Napoleon soon entered Polish territory with the legion of Dombrowski, as we find related in Book VII of the poem. The Poseners at once joined with their countrymen and the French to conquer East Prussia, and to besiege Dantzig. The Russians now came to the assistance of Prussia, and thus the French were at war with both powers at once. The battles of Pultusk, Eylau, Friedland, followed in quick succession. It seemed probable that Napoleon would soon cross the Niemen, and enter Lithuania; but instead of this he held a personal conference with Alexander I at the bridge at Tilsit, where they arranged the articles of a peace, July 7, 1807. By this treaty a considerable portion of Poland was taken from the King of Prussia, and erected into the Duchy of Warsaw, but part of the Polish territory was still left in the hands of the Germans, and the province of Bialystok was detached to form part of the Czar’s dominions.

Shortly after this Napoleon was at war with the Austrian Emperor Francis, and while the Emperor of the French was fighting his way towards Vienna, the Archduke Ferdinand proceeded towards Warsaw, with an army four times larger than the handful of Polish troops, who alone remained to guard the newly created Duchy of Warsaw. The Poles made a gallant stand at Raszyn against the Austrian troops, so much so that the Archduke accepted a convention by which, Warsaw being surrendered to him, he bound himself not to act against Praga, on the other side the river. Dombrowski hastened to Great Poland, or the Grand Duchy of Posen, and Prince Joseph Poniatowski crossed the Vistula with part of the army. Then followed an astonishing campaign, in which a small handful of Polish troops quickly spread themselves over a vast extent of country, defeated and scattered Austrian troops many times more numerous, and conquered province after province with surprising rapidity. In one month they had taken Lublin, Sandomir, Zamosc, and Leopol, and fresh troops from these provinces swelled their forces into an army equal in size to the Austrian. The Archduke was forced to abandon Warsaw. The Russians entering at this point into the struggle captured Leopol, but shielded the rest of Galicia from any further attack. On the 15th of July Poniatowski took Krakow, but the news of an armistice stayed further operations. Peace was concluded in Vienna on the 14th of October. The conquests of Poniatowski included Krakow, and half the salt-mines of Wieliczka were joined to the Duchy of Warsaw, but the other half and all the territory known as Old Galicia were left to Austria. Napoleon detached the circle of Tarnopol, which he gave to Russia.

All of Poland that at this time boasted of independence was comprised in the small Duchy of Warsaw, which had a special constitution granted by Napoleon. The Elector of Saxony was sovereign of the new state, with a French administration, wherein the deputies of the nation had but little power. The army alone was purely Polish, consisting of 90,000 men, but a considerable portion of these were despatched to Spain, and while thus condemned to combat free men, who had in no way injured the Polish cause, left their own country almost without defenders.

Still a general impression prevailed that something more decisive would be done, and through five years warlike operations went on apace in the Duchy. It became day by day more apparent that Napoleon would soon break off all agreements with the Czar, and throughout the year 1811 diplomatic negotiations were carried on, the ultimate ending of which was variously conjectured. But day by day the real intentions of Napoleon became plainer. The Polish forces in the heart of Spain, at the furthest bounds of Europe, begun to move towards their own country. At length in August war was finally declared between France and Russia. Napoleon entered into a secret treaty with Austria to give up Illyria or Dalmatia in exchange for Galicia. On the 24th of June 1812 the French and Polish armies crossed the Niemen, on the 28th Napoleon himself entered Wilna, and the union of Lithuania with Poland was proclaimed.

The further progress of the campaign and its terrible conclusion are matters of history, and have nothing to do with the plot of the poem now before us; they need not therefore be further particularised. No allusion is therein made to the retreat from Moscow; the future is only, as it were, intimated in far-off dim perspective beyond the bright conclusion of the story. It is said that at one time Mickiewicz intended to write another epic as a sequel to “Thaddeus,” carrying on the adventures of his hero over the time of the Congress of Vienna, and up to the events of 1831, but from various causes this design never was carried out. The poem we have was completed with difficulty, amid hindrances of various kinds-illness, poverty, political and literary engagements, and interruptions under which the exercise of the poetic faculty was well-nigh impossible. Little of poetical value ever proceeded from the pen of the author later than the production of this his greatest work; and as the wonderful dramatic poem of the “Ancestors” remains incomplete and fragmentary, it represents the consummate effort of this sublime genius. a picture of old Polish life, and the manners and customs, thoughts and feelings, of the Poles at the epoch of which it treats, it stands unrivalled; and as a national epic, the greatest work of the greatest poet of the Polish nation, occupies a high position in European literature, similar to that which the principal epics of ancient and modern languages have always done. It is to Polish not only that which the Iliad is to Greek, the Aeneid to Latin, the Niebelungen to Germany, the Divina Commedia to Italy, but also that which the Canterbury Tales and Shakespeare’s historical plays are to England, and Don Quixote to Spain. It is therefore to be hoped that this attempt to introduce for the first time into this country an image of the thoughts and feelings of a people, whose literature is only neglected because they have no recognised position among nations, may not be wholly unwelcome. The literature of any country seldom receives more important additions than in faithful translations of the standard works of other tongues, and whatever may be the shortcomings of the following translation, it is hoped that indulgence may be shown in consideration of being an attempt to introduce into the circle of English literature one element hitherto unknown to it.

Whatever faults the critical eye may discern must be laid rather to the charge of the translation than to that of the original, of which the exquisite beauty in execution, and marvellous artistic finish, cannot be appreciated except by readers of Polish. The greatest care has, however, been taken to ensure exact and literal rendering of every phrase, and full explanatory notes have been added, for the elucidation of matters unfamiliar to English readers. In proof of this it may be mentioned that some of the information upon scientific subjects has been kindly afforded by the Academy of Sciences at Krakow. For assistance, however, in the preparation of this work for the press, as well as in contributing a large share of the notes, the translator is above all indebted to Mr. Edmond S. Naganowski, for whose unvarying kindness and valuable help in literary work she cannot express sufficient thanks, and only trust that as displayed in the result they will meet as cordial a recognition from the public as from herself.

Litva! my country, like art thou to health,
For how to prize thee he alone can tell
Who has lost thee. I behold thy beauty now
In full adornment, and I sing of it
Because I long for thee. O holy Virgin!
Thou, who defendest Czenstochowa bright,3
And shinest in the Ostra Gate, who shieldest
The castled town of Nowogrodek with
Its faithful people; as by miracle
Thou didst restore me as a child to health,
When by a weeping mother, I, confided
To thy protection, raised my half-dead eye,
And to the threshold of thy sanctuary
Could go at once on foot to offer thanks
To God for life returned;4 do thou likewise
Restore us thus by miracle unto
The bosom of our Fatherland! Meanwhile
Bear thou my soul, consumed by longing, to
Those wooded hills, unto those meadows green
Broad stretching on the azure Niemen’s shore;
Towards those fields, rich hued with various grain,
Golden with wheat, and silvered with the rye,
Where amber rape, where buckwheat white as snow,
Where with a maiden blush the clover glows,
And all, as with a ribbon girdled by
A green ridge, whereon pear-trees far apart.
Amid such fields, years since, upon the brink
Of running water, on a hill not high,
Among a birchen thicket; framed of wood,
There stood a noble’s mansion, underbuilt
With masonry; the whitened walls gleamed far;
And whiter from the contrast they appeared
Against the dark-green poplar tree that shielded
The house from blasts of autumn. ’Twas not large,
The dwelling-house, but all round neat and clean.
It had a great barn, and three stacks beside
Of garnered corn, that underneath the thatch
Could not be placed. ’Twas seen the region round
Was rich in corn, and from the corn-stooks thick
As stars, appearing all their length and breadth
Upon the clearings: from the many ploughs,
Those dark-green fallows turning up thus soon,
Which to the mansion surely appertained;
’Twas seen that order and abundance reigned
Within this house. The gate half open stood,
Proclaiming unto all who travelled by,
Its hospitality, inviting all.

This very moment, in a two-horse chaise,
A youthful gentleman approached the gate,
And traversing the courtyard came before
The gallery. He lighted from the chaise.
The horses, left there, ’gan to nip the grass
Before the door, at leisure. Empty seemed
The house; the doors were locked and fastened close
With bolts and padlock. But the traveller
Ran not unto the farm to call for servants;
But oped the door, and ran into the house.
He longed to welcome it, since he for long
Had not beheld his home. For in the city
Far off for education he had stayed;
The end long waited for had come at last.
He ran within, and eagerly he gazed,
And tenderly, upon those ancient walls
As old acquaintances. He viewed again
The self-same furniture, same tapestry,
With which he loved to play from swaddling-bands.
But less of size it seemed, less beautiful
Than formerly. And those same portraits hung
Around the walls. There Kosciuszko, clad
In the Cracovian czamara,56 raised
His eyes to heaven, and grasped a two-hand sword;
Such as when, on the altar-steps, he swore
He with this sword would drive the despots three
From Poland, or himself upon it fall.
And further Rejtan7 sat, in Polish dress
Grieving for freedom lost; he grasped a knife,
The blade towards his breast; before him lay
Phaedo and Cato’s life. Jasinski8 there
A beautiful and sadly-looking youth;
Beside him Korsak, his unsevered friend.
They stand on Praga’s ramparts, over piles
Of Muscovites, the foemen cutting down;
But Praga burned already round them.9 Even
The ancient clock with chimes the traveller knew
In wooden case, at the entrance of the alcove.
And with a childish joy he pulled the string
To hear again Dombrowski’s old mazurka.

He ran through all the house, and sought that room,
Where as a child he dwelt, long years ago;
Entered⁠—retired; his wondering glances flew
Around the walls; a woman’s dwelling here!
Whose was it? His old uncle was unmarried.
In Petersburg for years had dwelt his aunt.
’Twas not the housekeeper’s. A piano here:
Upon it books and music: strewn about
Without or heed or care⁠—a sweet disorder.
They were not ancient hands that strewed them so.
A white frock here, late taken from a peg
To indue, unfolded on a chair arm lay.
And in the window pots of perfumed flowers,
Geraniums, asters, wallflowers, violets.
And in one window stood the traveller.
New wonder! on a border once o’ergrown
With nettles, in the orchard, he beheld
A little garden crossed by garden walks;
All filled with flowers, with English grass and mint;
A wooden paling, with initials wreathed,
Gleamed with a hundredfold of ribbons gay.
The beds, ’twas seen, were freshly watered; near
There stood tin vessels full of water. Still
The pretty gardener nowhere might be seen,
Though she had passed but lately. Still the bushes
Were rocking to and fro, as lately stirred,
And near the trees a little foot’s light print
Upon the sand, shoeless and stockingless,
Upon the light dry sand, as white as snow,
An imprint plainly marked, but light; no doubt
Left in swift running by the tiny foot
Of one, who hardly even touched the earth.
Long in the window stood the traveller
Looking and dreaming: drinking in sweet breath
Of flowers, he bent his visage downward to
The violet plants; with curious eyes pursued
The tiny footprints on the path, and there
Once more he fixed them, thought of them and whose
They were;⁠—he had guessed. By chance he raised his eyes,
And on the garden wall, behold there stood
A young girl. Her white garment only hid
Her slender figure o’er the bosom, leaving
Unveiled her shoulders and her swan-like neck.
Such dress a Lithuanian woman wears
In the morning, and in such is never seen
By men. So though she had none there to see,
She laid her hands upon her bosom, thus
A veil supplying to the little frock.
Not loose in curls her locks, but twisted round
In little knots, and hidden from the sight
In white and tiny husks, that wondrously
Adorned the head; for in the sun’s bright rays,
They shone as shines the glory on a saint.
Her face was seen not. Turned unto the plain
She looked for some one, far below. She saw,
And laughed, and clapped her hands; then from the wall
She flew like a white bird, and glided o’er
The garden, over beds and over flowers,
And on a plank against the chamber-wall,
Before the traveller marked it, through the window
She darted, shining, sudden, silent, light,
Like to a moonbeam. Singing, she caught up
The frock, and ran towards the mirror. Then
She first perceived the youth, and from her hands
The garment fell, and pale she grew with fright
And wonder. And the traveller’s countenance
Glowed with a rosy colour, like a cloud
Which meets the morning dawn. The modest youth
Half shut his eyes and screened them. He endeavoured
To speak, entreat her pardon; but he only
Could bow and then retire. The maiden shrieked
Unmeaningly, like children scared in sleep;
The traveller looked alarmed, but she was gone.
He left the room confused, and felt his heart
Loud-beating; and himself he scarcely knew
If this fantastic meeting should amuse,
Or shame him, or rejoice him. But meanwhile
It ’scaped not heed upon the farm, that now
Some new guest to the gallery had driven.
The horses to their stable had been led,
And fed with plenty, as there was abundance
In this well-ordered house of hay and fodder;
For never would the Judge10 by following
New fashions, send the horses of his guests
Unto the Jews who kept the inn. The servants
Had come not forth to welcome, but think not
That in the Judge’s house was careless service;
The servants wait till the Pan Wojski11 come,
Who ordered supper now behind the house.
The master’s place he holds, and in his absence
Himself receives and welcometh all guests,
A distant kinsman being, and household friend.
On seeing a guest, he hastened to the farm,
Unseen, because he would not come to meet him
In cloth undress; so quickly as he might
He put his Sunday dress on; ready since
The morning, for he from the morning knew
He should with many guests sit down to supper.

The Wojski recognised the traveller
Far off, outspread his arms, and with a cry
Embraced and kissed him. Then began that rapid
Confused discourse, wherein we strive to enclose
The events of many years in few short words
And precious, in the course of stories, questions,
Of exclamations, sighs, and fresh salutings.
When the Pan Wojski had inquired enough,
Enough had learned, he at the end of all
The annals of this very day relates.

“ ’Tis well, my Thaddeus,”⁠—for such the name,
Kosciuszko’s name, by which the youth was called
As sign that in the war-time12 he was born⁠—
“ ’Tis well, my Thaddeus, thou cam’st home to-day,
While we have so many fair young ladies here.
Thine uncle thinks to make a wedding for thee;
There is good choice at hand; much company
Is gathered here some days since for the judgment
Of frontier, to conclude that quarrel with
The Count. The Count himself comes here to-morrow;
The Chamberlain13 already is arrived,
With wife and daughters. With their guns the youths
Have sought the forest; but the old men and
The women watch the reapers, near the forest,
And there await the coming of the youths.
We’ll go there, if thou wilt, and shortly we
Shall meet thine uncle and the Chamberlain,
His family,14 and all the honoured ladies.”

The Wojski went with Thaddeus by the wood,
And still they could not talk out all their fill.
The sun had reached the last degrees of heaven;
Less strong his blaze, yet broader than at noon,
All redly shining, like the hearty face
Of a husbandman, whose labour in the field
Is done, when he returneth home for rest.
The radiant round already sank upon
The summits of the pine-trees, and already
The misty twilight filled their crowns and boughs;
And bound in one the forest all, commingling.
Black grew the thicket like a mighty building,
The sun above like red fire on the roof.
Then in the depth he fell, between the trunks
Still gleaming like a candle through the crannies
Of shutters, and extinguished was. Forthwith
The sickles clashing in the corn, and rakes
Upon the meadow silent were, and stayed.
For so the Judge commands: with day for him
The labourer’s toils were over. The world’s Lord
Doth know the length of time for man to work;
And when the sun, his workman, leaves the sky,
Time ’tis earth’s labourer too should leave the field.
Thus used the Judge to say; the Judge’s will
Was sacred to the honest overseer.
For ev’n the wagons, wherein they but now
Began to lade the rye, half full set off
Towards the barn; the oxen did rejoice
To feel such light and unaccustomed load.

Now from the wood came all the company,
Joyful but yet in order. First the children
Came with their tutor; next the Judge, with him
The lady of the Chamberlain; beside
The Chamberlain with all his family.
The girls went close behind the elder women,
The youths beside the maidens, but these went
Before the young men by some half-a-step.
Thus decency commands. None held discourse
Of precedence, none ranked the men and women,
But each kept order due despite himself;
For in his house the Judge old customs kept,
And never suffered any lack respect
For age, for office, birth, or intellect.
’Tis by such order, said he, houses flourish,
And nations; by its fall they come to ruin.
The household and the servants thus were used
To order, and the guest but lately come,
Kinsman or stranger, all who visited
The Judge, received those customs, whereof all
Around was redolent. Short welcoming
The Judge had for his nephew, gave to him
With dignity his hand to kiss, and health
Wished unto him, with kiss upon his brow;
But though he spoke but little with him then,
From that respect he owed his guests, the tears
That with his garment’s15 hem he quickly dried,
Showed well how he loved Master Thaddeus.

And in the master’s traces everything
From forest and from pasture, mead and grove,
Forthwith returned. A bleating flock of sheep,
Here in the lane together hustling, raised
A cloud of dust. And further onward strode
A herd of Tyrol calves, with brazen bells;
There neighing horses from the new-mown mead
Flew; all together ran unto the well,
Whose wooden arm did forthwith creak, and pour
A stream of water in a wooden trough.

The Judge, though tired, though with company,
Missed not a farmer’s weighty duties. He
Himself betook him to the well. For best
At eventide the master may review
The state of his live stock; nor left he e’er
This overlooking to his servants; well
The Judge knew “master’s eye makes fat the horse.”16

The Wojski, with Protasius the Wozny,17
Await with lights within the hall; they stand
Conversing, and somewhat at variance.
For while as yet the Wojski stayed away,
The Wozny secretly had given orders
To bring the supper-tables from the house,
And swiftly as might be to set them up
In midmost of an ancient castle hall,
The ruins might be seen beyond the forest.
But why these changes? the Pan Wojski frowned,
And asked the Judge’s pardon; much the Judge
Did marvel; but ’twas so; the hour was late,
And change were difficult; he would entreat
The pardon of his guests, and lead them to
The desert place. The Wozny on the road
Unfolded to the Judge the cause which led him
To misconstrue his will. Within the house
There was no room which could a space supply
For guests so many or so honourable.
The castle had a great hall, yet preserved;
The roof was whole; one wall indeed had fallen.
The windows had no panes; but this in summer
Was of no moment; and the cellars’ nearness
Was for the servants a convenience great.
While saying this he winked unto the Judge,
And by his mien disclosed his mind concealed
Yet weightier causes. Some two thousand paces
A castle stood beyond the house. It was
A stately structure, by its mass imposing:
In former times it was the heritage
Of the Horeszkos’ ancient race. Deceased
Its last possessor in intestine wars,
The estates, by sequestration half destroyed,
By the trustees’ neglect, and law-decrees,
In part had fallen unto distant kinsmen
By spindle side, the rest to creditors
Had been divided. None would take the castle;
’Twere hard to spare the cost of maintenance
In noble state. But yet these old walls pleased
The youthful Count, a neighbour near, who when
He passed from tutelage, and late was come
From travel, said they were of Gothic structure;
Although the Judge made sure from documents
The architect a master was from Wilna,
And not a Goth at all. It was enough
The Count desired the Castle; and the Judge
Did suddenly conceive the same desire;
None knew the reason. So began a suit
Before the local, then the central court,
Then in the Senate, local court again,
And governor’s tribunal. And at last,
After great cost and many ukases,
This action to the local courts returned.

Well had the Wozny said that in this hall,
The guests invited, and a court of law
Alike might find a place. The hall was great,
Like a refectory; its arch swelled high,
Raised upon pillars; paved the floor with stone.
The walls were unadorned, but smooth and clear.
The horns of roes and stags were ranged around,
With legends, showing where these spoils were ta’en;
Each with its proper name stood there inscribed,
And on the arched roof gleamed Horeszko’s crest,
Polkozic.18 All the guests in order came,19
And in a circle stood. The Chamberlain
At table took the highest seat; this place
Was his by right of dignity and years.
In going there he to the ladies bowed,
The old men, and the youths. Beside him stood
A begging friar, beside the friar the Judge.
The Bernardine in Latin spoke short grace;
Then brandy to the men was given; all
Forthwith were seated, and in silence ate
The Litvin cholodziec20 with appetite.

Though young, by right of guest Thaddeus sat
Beside his uncle, and among the ladies.
Between him and his uncle there remained
An empty place, that seemed to wait its guest.
The uncle glanced at it, and at the door,
As sure of some one’s coming and desirous;
And Thaddeus followed too his uncle’s glance.
Strange thing: the places round were seats of maidens,
All highly born, and each one young and fair,
But Thaddeus gazed on that where none appeared.
This place a riddle was; young men love riddles.
Absent in thought, to the Podkomorzanka,21
His lovely neighbour, scarce few words he said;
Nor changed her plates, nor filled her glass with wine,
Nor e’er with courteous speeches entertained
The ladies, whereby they might recognise
His city breeding. But this empty place
Alone had power to charm him; not now void:
He had filled it with his thoughts; around this place
A thousand guesses ran, as after rain
Frogs on a lonely meadow; ’mid them queens
One solitary figure, as in sunshine
The lily of the lake her white brow lifts
Above the waters. Now the third course came.
And now the Chamberlain a drop of wine
Outpouring into Mistress Rosa’s glass,
And pushing to his younger daughter’s hand
A plate of cucumbers, thus said, “ ’Tis I
Myself must serve you, daughters mine, although
I am but old and clumsy.” Hearing this,
Some youths from table sprang, and served the ladies.
The Judge a side glance cast at Thaddeus,
And setting right the cuffs of his kontusz,
Poured out the wine of Hungary, and said,
“To-day, by our new custom, we send out
Our youth to study in the capital;
Not grudging they should have more lore from books
Than had their elders, but I see each day
How much from this young men are suffering,
For lack of schools to teach our youth to live
With men, and in the world. In former times
Young nobles went unto the courts of lords.
Myself a Wojewode’s22 courtier was ten years,
The father of our gracious Chamberlain.”
This saying, he pressed his friend upon the knee.
“His counsels formed me for the public service,
His favour left me not till made a man.
In my house ever be his memory dear,
Each day I pray the Lord God for his soul.
If in his court so much I did not profit
As others, worthier of the Wojewode’s grace,
Who after reached the country’s highest places,
At least I reaped this profit; in my house
None can reproach me, that I ever fail
In honour or in courtesy to any;
And this I boldly say, that courtesy
Is not an easy, nor a little thing.
Not easy, for ’tis not comprised in this,
To deftly lift a leg, or to salute
No matter whom with smiles. Such modish court’sy
Seems merchant-like to me, but not Old Polish,
Nor noble. Courtesy belongs to all,
But unto each another sort. For not
Devoid of courtesy is children’s love,
Nor for his wife attentions of a husband,
Nor of a master for his servants; still
There is in each a certain difference;
And long a man must study not to err,
And give to each the honour that is due.
Our elders learned it from discourse of lords,
The living history of the country, and
’Mid noblemen the annals of the district.
Thereby a nobleman might show his brother
All knew him well, and did not lightly prize him;
So nobles held their manners under guard.
Ask not a man to-day, Who is he? Who
Has been his father? With whom has he lived?
What are his deeds? Each enters where he will,
So he is not a governmental spy,
And not in poverty. As once Vespasian
Sniffed not at money, and would not inquire
Whence came it, from what hands, and from what country,
So men ask not a man’s race, or his customs.
Enough he seems important, and they view
The stamp upon him; so they prize their friends,
As Jews do money.” Saying this, the Judge
Looked round in order on his guests, for though
He ever spake with fluency and judgment,
He knew young folks impatient now-a-days,
And that long speeches, though most eloquent,
Do weary them. But all in silence heard.
The Judge seemed with the Chamberlain to take
Counsel by glance of eye; the Chamberlain
Would not by praising interrupt, though oft
Assenting by a nod. The Judge was silent;
His friend still gave assent by beckoning.
The Judge filled up his goblet and his own,
And then continued: “Courtesy is not
A little thing; for when a man has learned
To estimate as is becoming birth,
Age, virtues, customs in all others, he
Perceiveth then his own weight; as on scales
If we would know our own, we first must lay
Some other weight upon the opposing scale.
But, gentlemen, now of your special heed
The courtesy is worthy, which young men
Do to the fair sex owe, especially
When houses’ greatness, fortune’s bounties more
Light up the charms and virtues nature gave.
Hence is the way to love, and marriage thence,
Magnificent allier of houses. Thus
Our elders thought, and therefore”⁠—Here the Judge
With sudden turn of head to Thaddeus signed,
Threw a severe glance at him; as a sign
That he had reached the moral of his speech.

The Chamberlain his golden snuff-box tapped,
And said, “Good Judge, at one time ’twas far worse.
I do not know if we are changed by fashion,
We elder men, or if young men are better,
But now I see far less degeneracy.
I recollect the time, alas! when to
Our Fatherland French manners entered first.
When petty, foreign gentlemen, on sudden,
From stranger lands invaded us in hordes,
Worse than the Nogaj Tartars,23 persecuting
God in their country, their forefathers’ faith,
Their customs, laws, and even their ancient dress.
’Twas pitiful to see these dried-up youngsters,
Talking through noses, oft without their noses,
In brochures learnèd, and in the gazettes;
Proclaiming new beliefs, toilettes, and laws,
This rabble had great power upon men’s minds.
For when the Lord God lets chastisement loose
O’er nations, he bereaves them first of sense.24
And so the wisest dared not beard the fops;
And all the nation feared them like the plague,
Feeling disease’s germ within ev’n then.
They cried against the fashionable fops,
But took their pattern by them; changed their faith,
Their speech, their laws, their dress; it was indeed
A masquerade, a carnival of license,
For which a great fast followed⁠—slavery.

“I recollect, although but then a child,
When to my father’s house in Oszmiana,
In a French chariot the Podczaszyc25 came,
The first in Litva who wore French costume,
And all pursued him as small birds a kite.26
The houses envied were, before whose threshold
The two-horse chaise in which he rode stood still,
Which in the French tongue they called cariole.
Instead of lackeys sat two dogs behind,
And on the box a great and ugly German,27
Thin as a plank, with long lean legs like hop-poles,
In stockings clad, and slippers silver-clasped,
And wig with queue tied up into a bag.
Seeing this equipage, the old men snorted
With laughter, and the peasants signed the cross,
And said that there was riding o’er the world
A Venice devil in a German car.
What the Podczaszyc was ’twere long to tell;
Enough to us he seemed an ape or parrot,
In a great peruke, that he loved to liken,
He to the golden fleece⁠—we to the plica.28
If any one then felt our Polish dress
Was handsomer than aping foreign modes,
He dared not say so, lest the young men should
Cry out against it that it hindered culture,
It kept back progress, ’twas a treacherous thing;
Such was the power of that time’s prejudice.29

“Said the Podczaszyc that to reformate us,
He’d civilize and constitutionise us.30
He announced to us some Frenchmen eloquent
Had a discovery made, that men are equal;
Though in the law divine this long was writ,
And every priest from pulpit said the same.
Old was that knowledge; its fulfilment now
Concerned us; but at that time reigned such blindness,
That none believed the world’s most ancient things,
Unless they read them in a French gazette.
Despite equality, he took the title
Of Marquis; it is known that titles come
From Paris, and at that time there the title
Of Marquis was in fashion. So at last,
Soon as the fashion changed, this Marquis took
Title of Democrat; at length with change
Of fashion, when Napoleon reigned, the Democrat
Arrived from Paris as a Baron. Had he
Lived longer, with some other alteration,
He had rebaptized himself a Democrat.
For Paris glories in repeated change
Of fashion, and in what the French invent
The Pole delights. “Praise be to God that now
If our young men beyond the frontier pass,
’Tis not to seek for dress, or legislation
In shops of booksellers, or eloquence
To learn in Paris cafés. For Napoleon,
A prudent man and prompt, allows no time
To study fashions, or to chatter. Now
The sword resounds, and in us old men swell
Our hearts that once again the world is loud
With glory of the Poles. Now is there glory;
There will be therefore a Republic: since
From laurels ever blossoms Freedom’s tree.
Only ’tis sad, so many years drag on
For us, in idleness, and they still far!
So long to wait; even news so seldom comes.
Father Robak”31⁠—in a lower tone he spoke
Unto the Bernardine⁠—“I heard that you
Have news from that side Niemen; and perhaps
Your reverence knows something of our army?”
“No, nothing,” careless seeming answer made
The Bernardine; “I like not politics.
If I at times from Warsaw have a letter,
It is of things that but concern our Order,
Our Bernardine affairs, and wherefore talk
Of these at supper; all are laymen here,
Whom such affairs in no wise can concern.”

This saying, he looked askance where ’mid the feasters,
There sat one Russian guest, a Captain Rykow,
An ancient soldier, in the village near
He had been quartered. Him through courtesy
The Judge had asked to supper. Rykow ate
With appetite, scarce mingling in discourse;
But when they spoke of Warsaw, he rejoined,
Raising his head: “Fie! fie! Sir Chamberlain!
You are ever anxious about Bonaparte,
Always on Warsaw! what! your Fatherland!
I am no spy, yet understand I Polish.
Country! I feel all that! I understand it!
You are Poles, a Russian I; but now we fight not.
There’s now an armistice: we eat and drink
Together. Often on our outer posts
We chat with Frenchmen; and we drink our wódka32
Together⁠—now hurrah! and cannons sound!
A Russian proverb says: ‘With whom I fight,
I love him.’⁠—‘Love your wife like to your soul,
And beat her like your szuba.’33 I say we
Shall have a war. For Major Plut’s arrived;
The adjutant of staff came yesterday,
With orders to prepare to march. We march;
’Tis either on the Turks, or on the French.
That Bonaparte! perhaps he may out-trump us;
Without Suwarow. In our regiment they
Tell how as we were marching on the trench,
That Bonaparte used sorceries:34 well then,
Suwarow, too, used magic; so it was
A sorcery pitted against sorcery.
One day in fight⁠—wherever was he gone?
They sought for Bonaparte; he had changed himself
Into a fox, and so Suwarow turned
Himself into a greyhound; Bonaparte
Again did change himself into a cat.
So on to tear each other with their claws!
Suwarow changed into an ass. Now you
Shall see what later came to Bonaparte.”
Rykow broke off, and ate: then came a servant
In with the fourth course, and the side doors oped,
And a new person entered, young and fair.
Her sudden coming, stature, and her beauty
And dress turned every eye: all welcomed her;
It seemed, excepting Thaddeus, all knew her.
A slender shape was hers, and beautiful;
And gown of a rich stuff, a rosy silk,
The neck cut low, lace collar, and short sleeves.
She twirled within her hand a fan⁠—for pastime,
Since ’twas not hot⁠—she waved the gilded fan,
And scattered round a plenteous rain of sparks.
Her locks were wreathed in twisted braids and curls,
With rosy ribbons intertwined; among them
A brilliant, nearly hidden from the eye,
Shone like a star among a comet’s tresses.
It was a gala dress, and not a few
Whispered it was too fine for country life,
And for a working day. The eye perceived not
Her little feet, although the robe was short
For very fast she ran, or rather glided,
Like those small figures, which upon the feast
Of the Three Kings boys push along on skates.
She ran, and with light court’sy welcomed each,
Endeavouring to reach her destined place.
’Twas hard, for chairs were placed not for the guests;
Upon four benches in four rows they sat.
The row must either move, or bench be crossed.
She glided cleverly between two benches,
And then between those sitting and the table
She spun around most like a billiard-ball.
In running past, she touched our young man close,
Her flounce entangling over some one’s knee.
She slipped a little, and in this divergence
She leaned upon the arm of Thaddeus.
She courteously asked pardon, and sat down
Between him and his uncle, but ate nought.
She only fanned herself, and twirled the fan;
Now set to rights her Flanders lace, and now
With the light touching of her hand caressed
Her curls of hair, and knots of ribbons bright.

’Twas just four minutes this distraction reigned,
And meanwhile at the table’s further end,
First stilly murmurs were; at length began
A half-aloud discourse; the men related
To-day’s chase. The Assessor with the Regent35
Contested obstinately, ever louder,
The quarrel of a certain crop-tailed greyhound,
In whose possession the Pan Regent gloried,
And held that he to-day had seized the hare.
But the Assessor proved in his despite
This glory ’longed unto his greyhound Sokol.36
They asked of others sentence; so all round
Took either Kusy’s37 part, or that of Sokol,
As connoisseurs, or else as witnesses.
At the other end the Judge to his new neighbour
Said in a whisper: “I am very sorry;
We had to sit down, ’twas impossible
To put the supper off to any later.
The guests were hungry; they’ve been far afield.”
This said, he with the Chamberlain discoursed
Of politics, in low tones, o’er the goblet.

While thus both table-sides were occupied,
Thaddeus gazed long upon the fair unknown.
He recollected now at the first glance
Upon the place he from the first had guessed
Whose seat it was to be; he blushed, and now
His heart with unaccustomed violence beat.
So all his secret riddles thus were solved!
So thus it was appointed, at his side
Should sit that loveliness in twilight seen!
’Twas true she now appeared of larger growth⁠—
In full dress, dress both magnifies and lessens.
But why had one short locks and golden bright,
The other wreaths of long and raven braids?
That bright hue from the sunbeams was derived;
The sunset renders all things crimson bright.
He had not see her face, she fled too soon;
But thought evolves by guessing a fair face.
He thought she surely must have had black eyes,
A pale face, lips as red as cherries twin,
Since here he saw such eyes, and lips and cheeks.
In age perhaps was greatest difference;
The gardening nymph had seemed a little maid;
This lady was a woman grown in years.
But youth for beauty’s birth certificate
Doth never ask; all women to young men
Seem young, to boys each beauty doth appear
Of their own age, and to the innocent
Will every one beloved appear a maid.
Though Thaddeus numbered well-nigh twenty years,
And had from childhood dwelt in Wilna’s town,
He had a priest as tutor, who restrained him,
In strictest bonds of ancient discipline.
But Thaddeus from his parents had derived
A pure heart, lively spirit, innocent soul;
But yet of wilfulness had not a little.
He made a plan, at last he would enjoy
His long forbidden freedom, in the country.
He knew himself right handsome, strong and young;
Vigour and health he owned as heritage
His name Soplica;3839 the Soplicas all
As well is known are valiant, stout and strong;
First-rate as soldiers, but less skilled in learning.

Nor from his fathers Thaddeus was degenerate;
He rode on horse right well, walked far on foot.
Although not dull, in study little versed,
Though spared his uncle for his training nought.
For he preferred to shoot, or wield the sabre.
He knew they meant to fit him for the wars;
That so his father’s testament ordained.
He longed unceasing for the drum while yet
In school. But all at once his uncle changed
Those first intentions, ordered him to come
Homeward, and marry and to take up farming.
He promised he would give him to begin
A little village,40 later all his lands.

And all these virtues, all these qualities
In Thaddeus drew that heedful woman’s eye,
His neighbour. Closely did she scan his tall
And shapely form, strong arms, broad chest, and looked
Upon his visage, which a blush suffused,
Oft as the young man met her eyes; for now
From his first shyness he was quite restored;
And gazed with bolder glance, wherein burned fire.
And likewise she gazed, so the four eyes burned
Towards each other, bright as Advent candles.

She first began discourse with him in French:
He came from town, from school, so of new books,
Of authors, his opinion she inquired,
And from such sentence led new questions on.
But when of painting she began to speak,
Of music, drawing, and of sculpture even,
She seemed alike acquainted with the pencil,
With music and with books, till Thaddeus
At so much learning felt quite mystified,
And stammered like a boy before his master.
But the schoolmaster happily was pretty,
And not severe; his neighbour guessed his trouble,
And so began anew on other things.
Easier and not so learnèd; country life,
Its dullness and vexations; how one must
Divert one self, and how divide the time,
To make life merrier and the country gay.
So Thaddeus answered with more boldness; then
The thing went further, and in half an hour
They grew quite confidential, trifling jests
Began, and little quarrels in the end.
She placed before him three small pills of bread;
Three persons at his choice; he took the first;
At which the daughters of the Chamberlain
Both frowned; his neighbour laughed, but did not say
Who ’twas that lucky pellet signified.
At far end of the board was other talk.
For there, on sudden reinforced, the party
Of Sokol pressed the partisans of Kusy
Without compunction; high the quarrel rose;
They ate not of the latest dishes now;
Both sides disputed, standing up and drinking.
The Regent bristled like an angry woodcock.
Once he began, he pleaded well his cause,
Unbrokenly, and pointed it with gestures,
Expressively. The Pan Regent Bolesta
Was once an advocate, and called the Preacher,
Because he loved such gestures overmuch.
Now by his side his hands lay, and his elbows
Bent backward; underneath his arms his fingers,
And long nails put he forward; by this image
Two greyhound leashes he presented. Thus
His theme he ended: “I and the Assessor,
Each side by side, resembling triggers twain
Stirred by one finger on the self-same gun.
‘Vytcha!’41 they went, and started off the hare
Straight for the plain. The dogs here”⁠—Saying this,
He drew his hand along the board, with fingers
He showed a greyhound’s motions wondrously.
—“The dogs here.⁠—From the wood a piece divides them.
Sokol straight forward, fine dog! but too rash,
Got before Kusy, how much? by a finger.
I knew he’d miss! the hare was game enough!
He made straight for the plain⁠—the pack right after.
That hare was game! As soon as he got wind
Of all the greyhound pack, he doubled right;
A caper! After him the stupid dogs
Followed to right, again to right he doubled.
He cut two capers, dogs again to left!
He in the wood; my Kusy’s up with him!”
Thus shouting, bent the Regent o’er the table,
Ran with his fingers to the other side,
And shouted, “Up with him!” near Thaddeus.
And Thaddeus and his fair neighbour, sudden
By such a burst of voice right in the midst
Of their conversing startled, quickly drew
Their heads back from each other, like two treetops,
Together bound, when storm winds break them loose,
And their two hands that near each other lay
Beneath the table, suddenly drew back,
And one blush did their faces twain suffuse.

Not to betray confusion Thaddeus said:
“Most true, Sir Regent, true without a doubt;
Your Kusy is a fine dog by his shape;
And if as good at taking”⁠—“Good!” exclaimed
The Regent; “what! my favourite dog? how should he
Not be a good one?” Thaddeus again
Rejoiced so good a dog had no defect.
Regretted that he saw him but in passing,
Leaving the forest, so he had no time
To observe his good points. At this the Assessor
Trembled, and dropped his goblet, fixed a look
Like basilisk on Thaddeus. Far less loud
He than the Regent was, and far less restless;
More spare of form, in stature smaller; he
Was terrible at ball, redoubt, and sejmik;42
For of him it was said he bore a sting
Within his tongue; his skill was to compose
Such witty jests that one might print them in
The almanac, malicious all and sharp.
A rich man once, his father’s heritage
And brother’s fortune he had wasted all,
To make a figure in the world, and now
Had entered service of the Government,
To be of some importance in the district.
Much loved he hunting, for its joys in part;
Also that sound of horns and sight of toils
Recalled his youthful years when he maintained
A many huntsmen and renownèd dogs.
Of the whole kennel but two greyhounds now
Remained, and yet of that one they denied
The glory! Near he drew, and leisurely
His favourite stroking, answered with a smile,
And ’twas a venomed smile: “A tailless greyhound
Is like a nobleman without an office.
Likewise the tail much helps the dog in running:
You, sir, a crop-tail hold as proof of goodness,
We’ll ask your aunt’s opinion for the rest.
Though Mistress Telimena long has dwelt
Within the city, and not long ago
Came here, she better understands the chase
Than do our sporting youths; with years alone
Arriveth any learning of this sort.”
Thaddeus, on whom this thunderbolt had fallen,
Arose confused, and nothing said awhile;
But looked with rage increasing on his rival.
Just then, most happily, the Chamberlain
Three times did sneeze. “Vivat!” cried all; he bowed
To all, and on his golden snuff-box tapped;
A golden snuff-box, all with diamonds set,
In midst the portrait of King Stanislas;43
The king himself had given it unto
The father of the Chamberlain; the son
After his father held it worthily.
And when he tapped upon it, ’twas a sign
That he craved hearing. All at once were still,
And ventured not to ope their lips. He said:
“Most Powerful Nobles, Brothers, Benefactors,44
The meads and forests are the hunter’s forum,
So in the house I cannot judge such cause;
And till to-morrow I adjourn this court,
And no appeal will I allow to-day.
Wozny, call thou the action for to-morrow
Upon the plain. The Count comes here to-morrow
With all his hunting train, and you will go
With us, my neighbour, Judge, and all the ladies,
And Mistress Telimena. In a word
We’ll make a grand hunt ex officio.
The Wojski too will not his company
Refuse us.” Saying this to the old man
His snuff-box he presented. ’Mid the hunters
The Wojski at the table’s lower end
Was sitting, listening with half-shut eyes;
But not a word he spoke, although the youths
From time to time demanded his opinion,
For none knew hunting better than did he.
He still kept silence, while the pinch of snuff
He weighed between his fingers, meditating
Long, ere at length he tasted of the pinch.
He sneezed till all the room re-echoed loud
And shook his head, and said with bitter smile,
“Oh! how this saddens and amazes me!
An old man! what had said our elder hunters
To see, in such a noble company,
Among so many gentlemen, disputes
To be adjusted, of a greyhound’s tail?
What would old Rejtan say, could he revive?
He would return to Lachowicz and lie
Down in his grave again. What would the Wojewode,
Old Niesiolowski,45 say, who hitherto
Doth own the finest bloodhounds in the world,
And after lordly custom doth maintain
Two hundred huntsmen, and within his castle
Of Woroncza some hundred wagon-loads
Of nets possesses? But these many years
He keepeth like a monk within his home.
None may prevail on him to join the chase.
He would refuse ev’n Bialopiotrowicz.46
Fine glory ’twere for such a lord to ride,
A-hunting after this new present fashion.
In my time, sir, in hunters’ language, boars,
Bears, elks, and wolves were called noble game,
And beasts that had not tusks, or horns, or claws,
Were left for hired servants, or court menials.
No gentleman would take into his hands
A rifle, to disgrace it in such sort,
By pouring small shot in it. True, they did
Keep greyhounds, since in coming from the chase,
It well may happen, from the horses’ hoofs
A wretched hare may start. Then let they loose
The greyhounds on’t for pastime, and the boys
On ponies mounted did pursue the game,
Before their parents’ eyes, who scarcely deigned
To look upon these sports, far less dispute
About them. Therefore let the Illustrious
Most Powerful Chamberlain now condescend
To draw back his commands, and pardon me
That in such hunt I cannot ride; for ne’er
My foot therein shall stir. My name’s Hreczecha,
And since the days of King Lech47 no Hreczecha
Did ever go a-riding after hares.”

The laughter of the young men here did drown
The Wojski’s speech. All now from table rose,
The Chamberlain the first, this precedence
To him belonging from his years and office.
He passed, to ladies, old men, young men bowing.
Behind him went the Friar; the Judge beside.
The Judge upon the threshold gave his hand
To the Podkomorzyna;48 Thaddeus
To Telimena; the Assessor to
Krajczanka;49 and the Regent came behind
Leading Hreczanka,50 daughter of the Wojski.

Towards the barn proceeded Thaddeus
With some among the guests; he felt confused
And ill at ease, unjoyful; he in thought
Discussed that day’s events; the meeting, supper
Beside that lovely neighbour; but the most
Especially that one word “aunt” did buzz
Like to a tiresome fly around his ears.
He longed to ask the Wojski at more length
Concerning Mistress Telimena, but
Could not empannel him. Nor did he see
The Wojski, for at once with supper done,
All of the household went behind the guests,
As fitting is to servants, to assign
Rooms in the house for sleeping. The old men
And ladies slept within the mansion. Thaddeus
Received command to lead the younger men
Towards the barn to rest upon the hay.

In half-an-hour, it was as still throughout
The mansion, as within a convent when
Prayers have been sung; the silence only broken
By the night sentry’s voice. The Judge alone
Closed not his eyes; to-morrow’s expedition
He must ordain, and coming entertainment
Must plan within the house. He gave command
To bailiffs, overseers, to barn keepers,
To writers,51 to the housekeeper and huntsmen,
And stablemen; and all that day’s accounts
He must o’erlook. At last unto the Wozny
He said he would undress. The Wozny then
Unloosed his girdle, ’twas a Slucko belt,52
A massy girdle, gleaming with thick tassels,
Like plumy crests; on one side gold brocade,
With purple flowers, black silk on the reverse
With silver lattice work; a belt like this
May readily be donned on either side;
The golden on a gala-day, the black
For mourning. And the Wozny only knew
How to unloose this belt, or fold it on.
Now busy with this task, he thus did talk:

“How did I ill, that I transferred the tables
To the old castle? none will lose thereby;
And you, sir, may the gainer be. The suit
Concerns this castle; we have gained this day
A right unto the castle, and despite
The eagerness the other party shows,
I now can prove, that we are in possession.
For he, who to a castle guests invites
To supper, proves that he has ownership,
Or does assume it; ev’n the other party
We can as witness summon for ourselves.
Such things I can remember in my time.”

Now slept the Judge. The Wozny silently
Went out into the hall, and sat him down
Beside a candle; from his pocket drew
A little book, which like a breviary
Did ever serve him; never thrown aside
At home or on a journey. It was the
Vocanda of the Tribunals;53 therein
Stood all those actions written, which the Wozny
By his own voice had summoned in the court,
Or those of which he later learned the names.
To eyes unlearnèd the Vocanda seemed
A catalogue of names; but to the Wozny
These sketches were of splendid images.
He read and thought: Oginski versus Wizgird,
Dominicans and Rymsza, Radziwill
And Wereszczaka, Rymsza, Wyzogird,
Giedrojc, and Rdultowski, Obuchowicz,
And the Kahal,54 and Juraha and Piotrowski,
Malewski and Mickiewicz; and at length
The Count against Soplica; and in reading
From all these names he conjured memories
Of those great causes; all the suit’s events,
And parties, court, and witnesses all stood
Before his eyes; he saw himself as in
A white zupan and kontusz of dark blue,
He stood before the court; with one arm laid
Upon his sabre, and the other leaning
Upon the table, having summoned both
The parties, “Silence in the Court!” he cries.
Dreaming and finishing his evening prayers,
Thus Litva’s latest Wozny sank to sleep.

Such were the sports and contests in those years
In a quiet Litvin village, while the rest
Of all the world was drowned in tears and blood;
While he, that Man, the god of war, with cloud
Of regiments circled, armed with thousand guns,
The silver eagles harnessed with the golden
Unto his chariot, flew from Libya’s wastes
To the Alps, sky-touching, thunder after thunder
Still hurling, at the Pyramids, at Tabor,
Marengo, Ulm and Austerlitz. Before him
Ran Victory and Conquest, and behind
The fame of such great deeds, in heroes’ names
Fruitful, that from the Nile with clamour went
Towards the North, and ev’n on Niemen’s shores
Resounded, as from rocks, from Moskpa’s ranks,
That guarded Litva, as with iron walls,
From news, to Russia dreadful as the plague.

Yet news not seldom, like a stone from heaven,
Fell into Litva. Sometimes an old man
Came begging bread, of arm or leg bereft;
Who having charity received, stood still
And heedfully did cast his eyes around.
And when he saw no Russian soldiers there,
Nor a jarmulka,55 nor a collar red,
He then told who he was; a legionist
His old bones bringing to that Fatherland,
That he no longer could defend. How then
The noble family around him pressed,
And all the household choking with their tears!
He sat at table and told histories
More wonderful than fable. He would tell
How General Dombrowski strives to march
To Poland from Italian land;56 how he
Gathers his countrymen on Lombard plain.
How Kniaziewicz commands from Capitol,
And victor, threw before the Frenchmen’s eyes
A hundred bloody standards,57 wrest away
From children of the Caesars. And likewise
How Jablonowski passed where pepper grows,
Where sugar melted is, and where the woods
Sweet-smelling flourish in eternal spring;
Our general with the Danube’s legions there
The Negroes threatens,58 for his country sighs.
The old man’s words in secret went around
The village; and some boy, who them had heard,
Was sudden lost from home; in woods and swamps
He lurked in secret; by the Muscovites
Pursued, he sprang to hide him in the Niemen.
And diving under, swam to Warsaw’s Duchy,
Where unto him a friendly voice did cry:
“Welcome unto us, comrade!” But ere parting
He mounted on a stony hill, and said
Across the river to the Muscovites:
“Until we meet again!” Thus stole away
Gorecki, Pac, Obuchowicz, Piotrowski,
And Obolewski, Rozycki, Janowicz,
And Mierzejewski, and Brochocki, and
Bernatowicze, Kupsc, and Gedymin,
With others whom I reckon not; they left
Their parents and their land beloved; and goods
Confiscate to the treasury of the Czar.
Betimes a wandering friar to Litva came
From a strange convent, and when he beheld
And knew the mansion of the village lords,
He showed them the gazette, which he unripped
From out his scapulary; therein stood
The number of the soldiers, and the name
Of every legion’s general, of each man,
News of his victory, or of his death.
Thus after many years a family
Received their first news of a son, his life,
Glory, or death; they put on mourning, yet
They dared not say for whom they mourning wore.
The neighbourhood could only guess, and so
The silent sorrow of their lords, or joy
Did form the sole gazette the peasants knew.

And such a secret emissary friar
No doubt was Robak, for he often held
A conversation with the Judge alone;
And after such discourse was always spread
Some news abroad, throughout the neighbourhood.
The Bernardine did by his action show
He had not always worn the cowl, nor in
The convent walls grown old; he bore a scar
Above the right ear, somewhat o’er the brow,
And on his cheek a trace of lance or ball,
Not recent; sure he never got such wounds
While reading missals. But not only dreadful
Was he by looks and scars, for in his mien
And voice was something soldierlike. At mass,
When from the altar with uplifted hands
He turned towards the people, while he said,
“The Lord be with you!”⁠—even there at times
He turned round nimbly with a single action,
As wheeling round at his commander’s call.
He spoke the words of mass in such a tone
As officers before their squadrons use.
The boys who served him at the mass knew this.
In politics was Robak better versed
Than in the lives of saints; upon his rounds
Going, he tarried in the district town
Full of affairs; he letters oft received
Which never before strangers opened he.
He sent off messengers, but where and why
He said not; often did he creep by night
To lordly mansions, and unceasingly
He whispered with the nobles, and he passed
O’er all the neighbouring hamlets there around,
Discoursing with the peasants not a little,
But always of those things which passed abroad.
And now he comes to wake the Judge, who for
The last hour was asleep; he has surely news.

Which of us does not recollect those years
When, as a lad, with rifle on his shoulder,
He went forth, whistling loudly, to the plain;
Where neither mound nor hedge a hindrance made
Unto his footstep; where, o’erstepping ridges,
Thou seest not that they mark a stranger’s land?
Because in Litva, like a ship at sea,
The hunter by whatever path he will,
Expatiates freely o’er the ample space,
Or like a prophet gazes on the sky,
Where in the clouds are many signs, beheld
By hunter’s eye; or like a wizard he
Converses with the earth, which, dumb to cits,
With multitude of voices whispers him.

There screeched the landrail from the mead; but vain
It were to seek him, for he glides away
In grass, as in the Niemen does the pike.
There overhead the springtide’s morning bell
Rang out⁠—the lark in heaven as deeply hid.
The eagle, with broad pinions through heaven’s plains,
High soars, affrighting sparrows, as a comet
Doth frighten princes;59 but beneath the bright
Blue sky, the hawk, like moth on pin impaled,
Flaps with his wings, till in the plain he views
A bird or hare, and on it swift descends,
Like to a falling star. Ah! when will Heaven
Permit us to return from wandering,
And dwell once more among our native plains;
Serve in that cavalry which wars on hares,
Or in that infantry which carries arms
Against the birds? To know no weapon-stores,
Except the scythe or sickle, nor gazette,
Except our household reckonings! The sun
Had risen o’er Soplicowo, and now fell
Upon the thatch, and through the crannies stole
Into the barn, and o’er the dark-green hay,
Fresh and sweet-smelling, whereof the young men
Had made their couch. The golden, sparkling streaks
Streamed widely from the opening in black thatch,
Like ribbons out from tresses; with the ray
Of morning light the sun the sleepers’ lips
Did tickle, as a maiden may awake
Her lover with a corn-ear. Now the sparrows,
Bustling, began to chatter ’neath the thatch;
Three times the geese did cackle; after them
A chorus like an echo woke, of ducks
And turkeys, and the oxen’s lowing rose,
While to the field they passed. The young men rose
Still Thaddeus lay asleep, for he had sunk
To slumber latest; from last night’s repast
He came back so unquiet, that at cock-crow,
He opened not his eyes, and on his couch
He turned and turned again, and in the hay
He plunged as though in water, and slept sound,
Until a chilly wind blew in his eyes.
The creaking barn-door opened with a crash,
And in Friar Robak came, with knotted girdle,
Exclaiming: “Surge, puer!” and unwound
Roughly the knotted girdle on his shoulders.

Now in the court were heard the hunters’ shouts:
They led the horses there, drove carriages
Up to the gate; scarce might the courtyard hold
So large a company; the horns awoke,
Kennels were opened, and the greyhound pack
Rushed forth, with joyous whinnying, as they saw
The hunters’ horses and the prickers’ leashes;
The dogs, as mad they whip about the court,
Then haste, and clap the collars on their necks.
All this portends a hunting excellent.
At last the Chamberlain gave forth command
To set out. Slowly then the hunters marched,
One following the other. But when passed
The gate, the long file scattered far and wide.
Midmost the Assessor by the Regent rode;
Though each on each at times misliking looked,
They held discourse of friendship, as beseems
All men of honour, going to decide
A mortal quarrel; none might from their words
Discern their hatred. The Pan Regent led
Kusy, the Assessor Sokol. From behind
The ladies came in carriages; the youths
Trotting beside the wheels, held converse with
The ladies. Through the court Friar Robak paced
With rapid strides, his matins finishing;
But cast a glance on Master Thaddeus,
And frowned, and smiled. At last he signed to him.
Up then rode Thaddeus; Robak made a sign
Of threatening; but ’spite of questionings,
And prayers of Thaddeus, that the Friar would say
Plainly unto him what he would, the monk
Deigned not to look or answer; but he drew
His cowl around him closer, and his prayer
Concluded; and so Thaddeus rode away,
And joined the guests. The hunters then first held
Their leashes; each one moveless in his place
Remained, and to the other made a sign
Of silence; all their eyes turned to a stone,
On which the Judge was standing. He observed
The game, and by the beckoning of his hand
Expressed his orders. Each one understood.
They stood still; in the centre of the plain
The Assessor and the Regent ambled now.
Being nearer, Thaddeus forestalled them both;
He stood beside the Judge, and looked around.
’Twas long since he had been afield, and on
The wide grey space, ’twas hard to see the hare,
And more so ’mid grey stones. The Judge to him
Pointed it out. The poor hare crouching sat
Beneath a stone, and pricking up its ears,
Its crimson eye the hunters’ glances met,
And as enchanted, and its destiny
Foreseeing, still it could not turn its eyes
Away from theirs for very fright, and sat
Beneath the stone, lifeless itself as stone.
Meanwhile the dust drew ever nearer on
The plain. On Kusy flew, and Sokol after;
Hard following the Assessor and the Regent,
Together shouting “Vytcha!” from behind;
They vanished with the dogs in clouds of dust.

While thus they chased the hare, the Count appeared
Beneath the forest by the castle.
The neighbourhood well knew this gentleman
Was never punctual to the appointed time,
And he this day had overslept the dawn.
So he his servants rated, and beholding
The hunters in the field, made haste to join them.
His surtout long and white, of English cut,
Flew with loose skirts upon the wind behind;
And mounted servants followed him, who wore
Hats shaped like mushrooms, shiny, black, and small,
Short jackets, and high top-boots, and white trousers.
Those servants whom the Count in such wise clad,
Were in his palace jockeys60 called. They flew
Over the meadow, when the Count remarked
The castle, and he stayed his horse. He now
First saw the castle in the morning light;
And scarce believed they were those same old walls,
So had the dawn their outline beautified.
The Count much wondered at a sight so new,
The tower to him far-off seemed doubly high,
For clear it stood against the morning mists.
The metal roof shone golden in the sun;
In window-grates below the remnants gleamed
Of shivered glass, that broke the eastern rays
In many rainbows various. A veil
Of morning mist the lower storeys wreathed,
And hid their rents and breaches from the eye;
The hunters’ far shouts, driven by the wind,
Were echoed frequent from the castle walls.
Thou hadst sworn the shout proceeded from the castle,
And underneath the veiling of the mist,
The walls were built, and peopled once again.
The Count loved novel and unusual sights,
Called them romantic, and was used to say
That he had a romantic head; in truth
He was a strange man, for not seldom he,
When following a fox, or after hares,
Would suddenly stop still, and mournfully
Look upward to the sky, like to a cat,
When on a lofty pine she sees a sparrow.
He often wandered without gun or dog,
Among the thicket, like a ’scaped recruit;
He often sat unmoving by a brook,
With head bent o’er the stream, like to a heron,
Who’d swallow all the fishes with his eye.
Such were the Count’s strange habits. Every one
Said he lacked something; still they felt respect
For him, since he was from his ancestors
A lord, and rich, and good unto the peasants,
Kind to his neighbours, even to the Jews.

The Count’s horse, turned aside, along the field
Ambled straight onward to the castle doors.
Being now alone, the Count did heave a sigh,
Gazed on the walls, then from his pocket drew
Paper and pencil, and some figures traced.
Then did he look aside, and saw a man
Some twenty paces off, who, like himself,
A lover of fine views, with head upraised,
Appeared to number all the building’s stones.
At once he knew him, but the Count must call
A many times aloud, before Gervasy
Could hear his voice. He was a nobleman,
A servant of the castle’s former lords,
The last remaining courtier of Horeszko,
A tall old man, and hoary, with a face
Hearty and healthy, ploughed with wrinkles, sad,
Severe; though once for joyousness renowned
Among the nobles; but aye since that fight,
In which the castle’s lord had lost his life,
Gervasy totally was changed, and now
For many years had neither been to fair
Or wedding; from that time his witty jests
No more were heard, and nevermore was seen
A smile upon his face. He ever wore
The ancient livery of Horeszko’s house;
A yellow jacket, with long hanging skirts,
Bound round with lace, which, now a faded yellow,
Had once been golden. Round his neck were broidered
Half-goats, armorial bearings of that house,
Thence all the neighbourhood called the old man
Polkozic,61 also from a word which he
Repeated ceaselessly, Mopanku,62 called him;
Notchpate63 at times, from his bald pate all covered
With seams and scars; his true name was Rembajlo;
His crest unknown. He called himself the Klucznik,64
Because he held that office years ago,
And still a bunch of keys wore at his girdle,
Bound by a cord with silver tassel, though
He nothing had to open, for the doors
Stood open in the castle. Yet he found
Two doors within, and at his own expense
Repaired and set them up, and every day
Amused himself with opening these doors.
He for himself an empty chamber chose,
Within the castle, for his private dwelling.
Although he might have eaten bread of favour
In the Count’s house, he would not, for he felt
Homesick, and unwell everywhere, if he
Breathed not the air of the old castle. Soon
As he perceived the Count, he doffed his cap,
Honouring with reverence his lord’s far-off kin;
Low bending his bald pate, that gleamed afar,
And like an axe by many sword-blades scathed,
He stroked it with his hand, approached, and low
Bending once more, said in sad tones: “Mopanku,
Panisko,65 pardon me that thus I speak;
Illustrious Sir Count, it is my custom,
Not disrespectful, for the Horeszkos all
Were used to say Mopanku; the last Pantler,66
My master, always would employ that word.
Is it true, Mopanku, that you grudge the cost
Of lawsuits, and will give this castle up
To the Soplicas? I would not believe it.
But thus they say in all the district.” Here,
Gazing upon the castle, without ceasing,
He sighed. “What wonder,” said the Count, “the cost
Is great; the trouble greater still; I want
To end it. But that tedious old noble
Is obstinate; he did foresee he could
Weary me out; and I in very deed
No longer will oppose him. I to-day
Lay down my sword, accepting such conditions,
As shall be offered to me by the court.”
“What, peace!” exclaimed Gervasy; “what, Mopanku!
Peace with Soplicas!” As he uttered this,
He writhed his lips, as greatly marvelling
At his own speech. “What, peace, and the Soplicas?
Mopanku and my dear lord, you are jesting!
How? shall the castle, shall Horeszko’s stronghold
Pass into the Soplicas’ hands? My lord,
Deign but dismount. Go we into the castle.
Let but my lord consider. He knows not
That which he does. My lord, refuse not me.
Dismount.” He held the stirrup for descent.
They went into the castle. There Gervasy
Stood on the threshold of the hall awhile.
“Here,” said he, “by their court surrounded, sat
The ancient lords, in high chairs. After dinner,
The lord would judge the quarrels of the peasants;
Or, if in a good humour, to his guests
Related curious histories, or else
Would entertain with merry jests and tales.
But in the courtyard would the young men strive
At single-stick, or rode on Turkish ponies,
Expressly bred for noblemen.” They entered
The hall. Gervasy said: “In this great hall,
Stone-paved, we find not now so many stones,
As they broached wine-casks in the good old times.
The noblemen invited to the diet,
Or sejmik, on the name-day of my lord,
Or for the chase, drew beer-tubs from the cellars,
Tied to their girdles. And while passed the feast,
Musicians stood within that lofty choir,
The organ playing,67 and other instruments;
And when a health was drunk the trumpets brayed
In chorus, as upon the judgment day.
Each vivat went around in order due,
The first health to his Majesty the king
They drank, and next the Primate’s health,68 and after
Unto her Majesty the queen, the health
Of all the nobles, and the whole Republic.
When the fifth bumper had at length been drained,
They raised the toast of ‘Love we one another.’69
Vivat unceasing sounded till the dawn;
And each one’s equipage all ready stood,
To bear each reveller unto his house.”

They now had passed some chambers. Silently
Gervasy now his glance fixed on the wall,
Now on the archèd roof, recalling here
A tragic memory, and now one dear.
And then as he had said, “All now is o’er,”
He nodded grievingly his head; at times
He waved his hand; remembrance visibly
Was torture to him, and he fain would chase it.
At length they stayed their steps, in a great hall
Above, once lined with mirrors, but to-day
The frames stood empty of the looking-glass,
Long torn away; the windows held no panes.
A balcony stood opposite the door.
Here entering, the old man bowed his head,
And in his hands concealed his face, and when
He did unveil it, on it was a look
Of deepest sorrow and despair. The Count,
Though ignorant what this should signify,
Yet looking on the old man’s countenance,
Felt strangely moved, and pressed his hand. Awhile
This silence lasted, which the old man broke,
Shaking his right hand lifted. “There is no
Agreement for the blood of the Horeszkos
With this Soplica. In your veins, Mopanku,
The blood of the Horeszkos flows. You are
A kinsman of the Pantler from your mother,
Who the Lowczyna being,70 was derived
From the second daughter of the Castellan,71
Who was, as well is known, my master’s uncle.
Listen, my lord, to your own kindred’s story,
Which in this chamber, and no other, passed.

“The Pantler, my late master, chiefest lord
Here in this district, rich and of high race,
Had but one child, a daughter, beautiful
As an angel; so brave noblemen and lordlings
Courted the Stolnikowna.72 And among
The noblemen was one great rioter,
A quarreller, Jacek Soplica, named
The Wojewode⁠—in jest⁠—but yet in truth
He was of great importance in the region,
Because he held beneath his captaincy
The clan of the Soplicas, and could rule
All their three hundred votes at his own will;
Though for himself, beyond a bit of land,
His sabre, and a mighty pair of whiskers
From ear to ear, he was possessed of nought.
And yet the Pantler often had as guest
This brawler, and received him in his palace,
Most at the time of sejmiks. Popular
For his relations and supporters, soon
This whiskered fellow so puffed up with pride
Became, by cause of these receptions gracious,
He took into his head the Pantler’s son
To be. More often without invitation
He rode unto the castle, and at last
He made his nest among us, as though in
His own house. And he had declared his wish,
But that already they had taken heed,
And served him at the table with black broth.73
May be he pleased the Stolnikowna’s eye,
But she concealed the matter from her parents.
Those were Kosciuszko’s times; my lord supported
The ordinances of the Third of May,74
And had already gathered noblemen
To march to help of the Confederates;
When suddenly the Muscovites by night
Surprised the castle; scarce was time to fire
A mortar off, in signal of distress;
To bar the lower doors, and with the bolts
To make them fast. In all the castle were
The Stolnik only, and myself, the lady,
The chief cook and two scullions (all three drunk),
The parish priest, two lackeys, and four heyduks,
The gallant men! So then unto our guns!
To the windows! There a crowd of Muscovites,
Shouting ‘Hurra!’ They from the gate rushed o’er
The terrace; we with ten guns, man for man,
Fired on them. Nought was to be seen from thence.
The servants fired off from the lower floors.
My lord and I fired from the gallery
Unceasingly; all went in order good,
Though in much fear. Upon this floor there lay
Here twenty guns; we fired off one; another
Was loaded quick; the priest himself in this
Service was very active, and the lady,
Her daughter, and the serving-maidens too.
There were three marksmen, and the fire went on
Unceasingly. The Muscovites below
Sent up a hail of bullets. We less often,
But with more judgment fired down from above.
Three times they burst out there before the door,
Three pairs of legs were kicking every time.
So underneath the storehouse soon they fled
For shelter. But already it was day.
The Pantler came forth joyous with his gun
Upon the balcony, and soon as peeped
A Muscovitish head from underneath
The storehouse, did he fire immediately,
And never missed. At every shot there fell
A black hat in the grass, and rarely now
Did any steal forth from behind the wall.
The Pantler seeing all his enemies
Thus struck with fear, to make a sortie thought.
And calling to his servants from above,
He gave commands, then turning round to me,
Said, ‘Follow me, Gervasy.’ At that moment
A shot came from the gate. The Pantler groaned,
Grew red, then pale, would speak, and coughed with blood,
I saw the ball, right in his very breast.
My lord, fast failing, pointed to the gate:
I knew that villain! that Soplica! knew him
By his whiskers and his stature! By his shot
The Pantler died! I had seen it. And the villain
Still held on high his lifted gun; the smoke
Still issued from the barrel! Him I took
For aim; the murderer stood as changed to stone.
Twice did I fire, but missed with both the shots;
From rage or grief I marked but ill. I heard
The women’s shriek⁠—I looked⁠—my lord was dead.”

Gervasy paused, and melted into tears;
Then said, concluding, “Now the Muscovites
Had stormed the gate, for with the Pantler dead,
I was as lost to sense, and knew not what
Was done around me. Happily arrived
Parafianowicz to us with succour,
And twenty of the house of Mickiewicz75
He brought from Horbatowicz, noblemen
Many and valiant, man for man, who hate
Soplica’s race since time began. Thus perished
A powerful lord, upright and pious, who
Had Chairs, and Staffs, and Ribbons76 in his house;
A father to his peasantry, a brother
Unto the nobles;⁠—and he left behind him
No son to swear revenge upon his grave.
Yet had he faithful servants! In the blood
Flowed from his wound I steeped my rapier, called
The Penknife77⁠—of my Penknife certainly
You have heard, my lord, renowned at every diet,
Market, and sejmik⁠—I did swear to notch
The blade upon the necks of the Soplicas.
I followed them at diet, foray, fair;
Two in a quarrel slew I, two in duel,
One burnt I up inside a wooden house,
When we with Rymsza harried Korelicze;
Like mud-fish was he roasted; and I count not
Those ears I cut off. One alone remains,
Who no remembrance yet has had from me;
Own younger brother to that whiskered rogue.
Yet lives he, and he boasts him of his riches;
His boundary corners touch Horeszko’s castle.
He has honour in the district, holdeth office,
He is a Judge. And will you give the castle
To him, my lord? Shall his most wicked feet
Efface my master’s blood from off this floor?
No! while Gervasy has a mite of soul,
And so much strength, as with one little finger
To stir his Penknife, hanging on the wall,
So long Soplica shall not get this castle.”

“Oh!” cried the Count, and raised his hands aloft;
“ ’Twas a good instinct, that I loved these walls,
Though knowing not what treasure in them lay,
Such number of dramatic scenes and stories.
Soon as I shall recover from Soplica
The castle of my ancestors, I will
Install thee in the palace as my Burgrave.78
Thy tale, Gervasy, has much taken me;
Pity thou didst not bring me here at night,
Draped in a mantle: I would sit on ruins,
And thou shouldst tell me of these bloody deeds.
Pity thou hast no great gift of relating.
I sometimes have heard such, and read, traditions.
In England and in Scotland every lord’s79
Castle, in Germany each noble’s court,
A theatre was of murders. Every ancient,
Noble, and powerful family had some
Report of blood or of some treacherous deed,
For which must vengeance fall upon the heirs,
As legacy. I hear for the first time
Of such in Poland. In me flows, I feel,
The brave Horeszkos’ blood, and I do know
That which is due to glory⁠—and my race!
Yes! I must break all compact with Soplica,
Although it come to pistols or the sword⁠—
Honour commands!” With solemn step he strode,
But in deep silence came Gervasy after.
Standing before the door, unto himself
The Count kept talking, and upon the castle
Gazing, he quickly mounted on his horse,
His solitary conversation thus
Absently ending: “ ’Tis a pity that
This old Soplica has no wife, fair daughter,
Whose beauty I might worship! Loving her,
And yet not able to obtain her hand,
Would bring fresh complication in the tale.
The heart here, duty there; love here, and there
Revenge.” Thus whispering he spurred his steed.
It flew towards the mansion, as up rode
The hunters from the other side. The Count
Loved hunting; when the hunters he perceived,
Forgetting all besides he sprang them toward.
He passed the gate, the garden, and the hedge
When, turning round, he looked about, and stayed
The horse before the hedge. There was the orchard!

The fruit-trees, set in rows, did shadow o’er
The broad fields; ’neath the trees the garden beds.
The cabbage here, its bald and hoary pate
Low bending, seems to meditate upon
The fate of vegetables; the slim bean,
Weeping its pods into the tresses of
The carrot green, did turn a thousand eyes
Upon it; there the Indian corn upraised
Its golden plume; and here and there was seen
A gourd’s fat belly, from its stalk detached,
Which to a distant part had rolled away,
Among the crimson beetroot as a guest.

The garden beds were parted by a ridge:
In every trench there stood, as though on guard,
The hemp in ranks; a cypress-seeming herb,
Quiet, and green, and upright. In its leaves
And odour garden beds do find defence,
For through these leaves no viper dares to creep;
Their odour also grubs and vermin slays.
White stalks of poppies tower further on;
Thou thinkest, swarms of butterflies thereon
Are sitting, fluttering their wings, whose lustre
Of precious gems doth change with rainbow tints.
With lively colours of much variousness
The poppy lures the eye. Among the flowers
Like the full moon among the lesser stars,
A sunflower, with its round, large, burning face,
From east to west twists, following the sun.

Beneath the hedge long, narrow, convex hillocks,
Without or trees, or flowers, or bushes, made
A garden there for cucumbers; they grew
Luxuriantly, with their large, wide leaves,
Covering the beds, like carpet with deep folds.
Among them walked a damsel, clothed in white,
Plunging in green luxuriance to her knees.
Down-bending in the furrows from the beds,
It seemed she walked not, but she swam through leaves,
While bathing in their colour. She had veiled
Her head with a straw hat, and from her brow
Two rosy ribbons waved, and some bright curls
Of loose dishevelled tresses. In her hand
She held a basket; she cast down her eyes,
And lifted her right hand, as though to seize;
Like to a child who bathing chases fishes
That play around her feet; so she each moment
With hand and basket bent down for the fruit,
Struck by her foot, or by her eye perceived.

The Count, enchanted by such wondrous sight,
Stood silent. Hearing trampling from afar,
Of his companions, with his hand he signed
To them to stay their horses; and they stayed.
He gazed with stretched neck, like a long-beaked crane,
Far from the flock, as sentry on one leg
Standing, with watchful eyes, and not to sleep,
Holding a stone within his other claw.

A rustle on his shoulders and his brow
Aroused the Count; it was the Bernardine,
Friar Robak, and he had within his hand,
Upraised, his girdle with its knotty cords.
“Do you want cucumbers?” he shouted. “Sir,
Here have you cucumbers!80 Beware of harm!
For in these beds there grow no fruits for you.
Nothing will come of this.” Then with his finger
He threatened him, drew down his cowl, and went.
The Count remained a while yet on the spot,
Laughing, and cursing too at the same time
This sudden interruption. To the garden
His glance returned; she was not in the garden;
Only in centre of a little window,
Flitted her rosy ribbon and white frock.
Upon the garden beds was visible
The way she fled by; for a green leaf, which
Her foot disturbed in running, trembled yet
A moment, until quiet, like the water
A bird hath cloven with its wings; and on
The spot where late she stood, the little basket
Of willow, with its under side upturned,
The fruit all spilled, was hanging on the leaves,
And ’mid the verdant billows still it rocked.

After a moment lonely everywhere
And gloomy ’twas. The Count now fixed his eyes
Upon the house, and pricked his ears up, still
In meditation, and the hunters stood
Yet motionless before him; till there rose
Within the silent, solitary house,
A murmur first, then noise, and joyous shout,
As in an empty hive, when bees fly in.
A sign was this the guests had come from hunting,
And servants hastened to get ready breakfast.

Through all the rooms a great confusion reigned,
They carried dishes, bottles, covers round.
The men, as they had entered, in green jackets,
With plates and glasses, walking through the rooms,
Ate, drank, or leaning on the window-sill,
Conversed of rifles, greyhounds, and of hares.
The Chamberlain, his wife, the Judge, together,
All three sat at a table; in a corner
The youthful ladies whispered to each other.
Such order as at dinner and at supper
Was not observed. This was a novel custom
In an Old-Polish house at breakfast time.
The Judge, though he unwillingly allowed
This great disorder, yet approved it not.

Dishes of various sorts for men and women
There were. Here trays were carried round about,
With the whole coffee service; large-sized trays,
With flowers beautifully painted. On them
Steaming with an aroma most delicious,
White metal coffee-pots, and porcelain cups,
From Dresden; near each cup a tiny vessel
Containing cream. Such coffee as in Poland
Is in no other country. For in Poland,
In a well-ordered house, by ancient custom,
There is a woman, whose especial labour
Is to make coffee, called the kawiarka.81
She brings from town, or from the barges chooses82
The finest coffee-beans, and secrets knows
How to prepare a drink, which has the blackness
Of coal, transparency of amber, odour
Of Mocha, and is thick as honey flows.
Well know we what to coffee is good cream;
This is not in the country hard to get.
The kawiarka, having early placed
The coffee-pots, the dairy visiteth,
And culls herself the light, fresh flower of cream,
For each cup in a vessel separate,
So each be clad in separate pellicle.

The elder ladies, having earlier risen,
Had drunk their coffee. Now they made a second
Dish for themselves, of warm beer, white with cream,
In which there floated many clots of curd.
But for the men there lay smoked meats at choice,
Fat breasts of geese, and ham, and wings of tongue,
All excellent, all by home method dried
In chimneys, by the smoke of juniper.
At length was brought the latest course of zrazy,83
Such were the breakfasts in the Judge’s house.

In the two rooms gathered two different groups;
The elder folks, around a little table,
Spoke of new farming methods, and of new
And aye more strict Imperial ukases.
The Chamberlain opinions gave of rumours
Of war impending, and deduced therefrom
Views upon politics. The Wojski’s daughter,
Wearing dark spectacles, with fortune-telling
From cards amused the Chamberlain’s lady, while
In the other room the youths discussed the hunt,
In tones more low and peaceful than was wont,
For the Assessor and the Regent, both
Great talkers, first in hunting, and best shots,
Sat opposite each other cross and angry.
Both well had pricked their dogs on; each was sure
His greyhound must be winner; when right in
The middle of the plain they found a row
Of peasant’s vegetables still unreaped.
Therein the hare rushed. Kusy now had hold,
Now Sokol, when the Judge the prickers stayed
Upon the ridge. They must obey, although
Their rage was great. The dogs returned alone,
And none might know if fled the game or ta’en,
No one could guess if into Kusy’s jaws
It fell, or Sokol’s, or in both at once.
Each side gave different judgment, and the quarrel
Remained to other times still undecided.

The ancient Wojski walked from room to room,
On both sides glancing with his absent eyes,
He neither mingled in the hunters’ talk,
Nor in the old men’s, and ’twas plainly seen
His head was taken up with something else.
He bore a leathern fly-scare,84 sometimes standing
Still in one spot, he meditated long,
And⁠—killed a fly that sat upon the wall.

Thaddeus and Telimena, standing in
The doorway right between the two rooms, talked
Alone to one another; no great space
Divided them from hearers, so they whispered.
Now Thaddeus learnt that his aunt Telimena
Was a rich lady, that they were not joined
By bonds canonical in too close kinship.
’Tis even uncertain if aunt Telimena
Be really aunt unto her nephew, though
His uncle call her sister, since their common
Progenitors once called them so, in spite
Of years’ disparity. That later on,
She, living in the capital, had rendered
Some service beyond measure to the Judge,
Whence much the Judge respected her, and loved
Before the world, perhaps from vanity,
To call himself her brother. Telimena
From friendship would refuse him not this name.
Relieved at heart was Thaddeus by these sayings,
And many things besides did they declare
To one another. All this came to pass
In one short moment. In the right-hand room,
The Regent careless said, to tempt the Assessor;
“I said so yesterday; our hunt could not
Be a success; it is too early yet.
The corn is standing yet upon its stalk,
And many rows unreaped of peasants’ gardens,
And therefore stayed the Count away to-day.
The Count in hunting is experienced,
Sometimes has talked of hunting, place, and time;
The Count from childhood has in foreign lands
Been living, and he says it is a sign
Of barbarism to hunt, as we do here,
Without regard to articles of law,
Or regulations of the government,
Respecting no one’s hillocks or his ridges,
To ride o’er stranger’s ground without his knowledge,
To course the plains and hunting forests in
The spring-time as in summer, or to kill
A fox when he his coat is shedding, or
To let the greyhounds worry hares with young,
Or rather torture them. The Count regrets,
That in this case the Muscovites to-day
Are far more civilised than we; for there
The Czar has put forth ukases on hunting,
There is police inspection, and for those
Who do transgress them there is punishment.”

Towards the left room Telimena looked,
Fanning herself with cambric handkerchief:
“As I my mother love, the Count mistakes not;
I well know Russia. You would not believe me,
When I have often said how praiseworthy,
For many reasons, is the vigilance
And strictness of their government. I was
In Petersburg, not only once, nor twice.
Sweet memories! sweet image of the past!
And what a town! None of you, gentlemen,
Have ever been in Petersburg? Perhaps
You’d like to see the plan? I have the plan
In my bureau. In summer all the world
Of Petersburg is used to live in ‘datshies’⁠—
That is, in country palaces, for ‘datsha’85
Means village. In a little palace I
Dwelt, on the river Neva, not too far,
And not too near the town, on a low hill
Raised artificially. Ah! what a house
It was! I have the plan in my bureau.
One day, to my misfortune, was a house,
In my close neighbourhood, hired by some petty
Czynownik86 who was sitting on commission.
He kept a many greyhounds. What a torment
To have a small czynownik and a kennel
To dwell near one! As often as I went
Into the garden with a book, to enjoy
The moonlight, and the evening cool, at once
A dog flew in, and wagged his tail, and pricked
His ears up, just as he were mad. Not seldom
Had I been terrified. My heart forebode
Some evil from the dogs, and so it chanced;
For as I walked one morning in the garden,
A greyhound strangled at my feet my pet
Bolognan spaniel. Ah! she was a charming,
Dear little dog! I had her as a present,
A token of remembrance, from Prince Sukin;
Intelligent and lively as a squirrel.
I have her portrait⁠—only I will not
Go for it to the bureau. Seeing her
Thus strangled, from excessive agitation
I had faintness, spasms, palpitations; and
Perhaps it had gone worse still with my health,
When happily upon a visit came
Kirylo Gawrylicz Kozodusin,
Master of Hunts at court. He asked the cause
Of my ill-humour, and he presently
Commanded the official to be dragged
There by the ears; he stood there, trembling, pale,
And almost lifeless. ‘How then didst thou dare,’
Exclaimed Kirylo, with a voice of thunder,
‘To hunt down in the spring a doe with young,
Under the Emperor’s very nose?’ In vain
The stupefied czynownik swore that he
Had not begun the hunting season yet;
That, with the Master of the Hunt’s permission,
The beast run down had seemed to him a dog,
And not a doe. ‘What!’ cried Kirylo; ‘villain!
Dost thou pretend to better understand
Hunting and species than I, Kozodusin,
Imperial Jägermeister? Let the Chief
Inspector of Police decide between us.’
They call the Chief Inspector, and command
To institute inquiry. ‘I bear witness,’
Says Kozodusin, ‘that it was a doe;
And he pretends ’twas a domestic dog.
Decide between us, who best understands
Hunting and game.’ The Inspector of Police
Well knew his duty; he considered well
The insolence of the czynownik, and
Conducting him aside he counselled him,
As a brother, to confess his fault, and so
Condone his crime. The Master of the Hunt,
Somewhat appeased, made promise he would be
An intercessor with the Czar, and get
Some little mitigation of the sentence.
It ended thus⁠—the dogs went to the rope,
And the czynownik had four weeks in prison.
This trifle entertained us all the evening.
Next day an anecdote was made of this;
The Master of the Hunt had gone to law
About my dog. I even know for certain
The Emperor himself has laughed at this.”

A laugh arose in both the rooms. The Judge
Was playing with the Bernardine at cards,
And at that moment, with the spades as trumps,
He was about to lead. The priest scarce breathed;
The Judge had caught the story’s first beginning,
And listened so absorbed, that he sat still,
With head uplifted, and the card upraised,
Ready for playing; still he moveless sat,
And only caused the friar anxiety;
Till, the tale ended, he laid Pamfil down,
And answered, laughing: “Let who will extol
Civilisation of the Germans, order
Of Muscovites; let people in great Poland
Learn from the Swabians to make laws for foxes,
And call in soldiers to arrest a mastiff,
Who enters strangers’ thickets. Praised be Heaven,
In Litva we have ancient customs. We
Have game enough, both for ourselves and neighbours,
And never shall for this make inquisition;
And we have corn enough. Our dogs will not
Reduce us soon to famine, or devour
Green vegetables, or take life away.
O’er peasants’ acres I forbid all hunting.”

The Bailiff from the left-hand chamber spoke:
“No wonder, gracious sir, that for such game
You dearly pay. The peasants are right glad
Whene’er it happens that a greyhound springs
Among their vegetables; let him but
Disturb ten ears of rye, you give a sheaf
In compensation, nor even then are quits;
The peasant often gets besides a florin.
Believe me, sir, the peasantry will grow
Most insolent”⁠—But never heard the Judge
The rest of Master Bailiff’s reasonings,
For ’twixt the two discourses there began
A thousand murmurs, anecdotes, and tales,
And lastly, quarrels. Quite forgotten, Thaddeus
And Telimena thought but of each other;
The lady much delighted that her wit
So Thaddeus entertained; the youth returned
Her speech with compliments. With ever greater
Freedom spoke Telimena, and in tones
More low, and Thaddeus made believe that he
Could hear her not amid that crowd of talk.
So he drew nearer, whispering, so much
The nearer to her, that upon his face
He felt her brow’s sweet warmth. Restraining breath,
He caught her sighings with his lips, his glance
Seized eagerly the bright rays of her eyes;
When suddenly between their lips there flew
At first a fly, and then the Wojski’s fly-scare.
In Litva is abundance great of flies:
Among them an especial species, called
“Noble,” like all the rest in shape and hue,
But having broader thorax and abdomen,
And larger than the common sort. In flying
They make a great noise, and their humming is
Not to be borne. So strong, besides, are they,
They break through spiders’ webs, or if they should
Be caught in one, three whole days long they buzz,
And singly can they grapple with a spider.
All this the Wojski well had searched into,
And also said the lesser sort of flies
Were from these “noble” flies engendered; they
Were that among the flies that queen-bees are
Among a swarm of bees; that slaying them
Would cause the perishing of other vermin.
True, neither housekeeper, nor parish priest,
Believed in these discoveries of the Wojski,
And of the generation of the flies
Held differently; but never did the Wojski
Leave off his ancient custom. Scarcely saw he
A fly, when straightway he pursued it. Now
This very instant, past his ear a “noble”
Buzzed: twice the Wojski struck. Ashamed to miss,
He struck a third time, and nigh broke the window
Until the fly, by this great noise distraught,
Seeing two people standing on the threshold
Obstructing its return, did throw itself
Between their faces in despair; the Wojski’s
Right hand flew after it. So strong the stroke,
That the two heads sprang backwards, as the two
Halves of a tree by lightning severed; both
Rebounded with such force against the lintels,
That they retained upon them livid marks.
But fortunately no one marked this scene,
Because the conversation, which as yet,
Though loud and high, had yet been orderly,
Now ended in an outburst strong of noise.
Like hunters, who along the forest chase
A fox, while here and there is heard the crash
Of trees, the noise of shots, the bark of hounds:
But all at once, and unexpectedly,
A pricker starts a wild-boar; he gives sign;
A shout arises in the crowd of men
And dogs, as all the forest trees had voice.
So is it with discourse. It slowly moves,
Until it comes on some grand object, like
A boar-hunt. The wild-boar of this discourse
Was that fierce quarrel of the Regent with
The Assessor, touching their renownèd greyhounds:
It lasted but a short time, but they did
Much in one moment. For the two at once
Threw out so many words and loud abuse,
That they exhausted soon the first three parts
Of a dispute, jesting, and anger, challenge,
And it had come to fists already. So
All rushed towards them from the second room.
Like a swift billow, rolling through the doors,
They bore down the young couple on the threshold
Standing, like Janus, god of double face.

Ere Thaddeus and Telimena could
Compose the locks disordered on their brows,
The threatening voices all were still again.
A murmur mixed with laughter spread around.
Decision came to the dispute; the friar
Had quelled it. He was strong and active, though
An old man, broad in shoulder-girth. So when
The Assessor rushed up to the jurist, when
Both disputants were threatening one another
By gestures, suddenly he collared both
Of them behind, and twice he struck with force
Their heads together, one against the other,
Like Easter eggs; then spread his arms abroad
In shape of sign-post, threw the two apart
In separate corners of the room. Awhile
He stood upon the place with outstretched arms,
And “Pax vobiscum,” cried he; “peace be with you!”
Those present greatly marvelled, even laughed.
Through that respect they owed a ghostly man,
None dared to blame the monk, and after such
A proof of strength, none either had the will
To enter on a quarrel with him. But
Friar Robak, soon as he had hushed the crowd,
Sought not, ’twas seen, the triumph of the fray.
He threatened not the brawlers more, nor chid;
But drawing down his cowl, and planting both
Hands on his girdle, silent left the room.

Meanwhile the Chamberlain, likewise the Judge,
Between the two sides took their places. Then
The Wojski, as awoken from deep thought,
Stepped in the midst, his hoary whisker twirled,
Nor spared important mien; he circled round
The whole assembly with a fiery eye,
And wheresoever he a murmur heard,
As priest his aspersorium, he brandished
His fly-scare to command their silence.
Then, Raising its handle high with dignity,
Like marshal’s rod, he silence thus commanded.

“Be still,” repeated he, “and have ye care;
Ye, who are chiefest hunters in the district;
From your embittering quarrel what will spring?
Know ye? Why, that the young men, upon whom
Our country founds her hopes, who ought to make
Illustrious our forests and our toils,
And who, alas! so much neglect the chase,
Perhaps will reap a fresh occasion for
Despising it, on seeing how the men,
Who ought to give example to the rest,
From hunting only bring back quarrellings
And causes of dispute. And have respect
For my grey hairs; for I knew greater hunters
Than you, and often did I arbitrate
Between them. Who in Lithuanian forests
Was Rejtan’s equal, whether drawing in
The toils, or meeting with the beast? Or who
Can liken him to Bialopiotrowicz?
Where at the present day is such a marksman
As was the nobleman Zegota, who
Could with a pistol hit a running hare?
I knew Terajewicz, who when he went
To hunt the wild-boar, took no other arms
Than a mere pike: and Budrewicz, who with
A bear fought single-handed. Such the men
That once our woodlands saw. And if it came
To quarrelling, how did they settle quarrels?
They chose them judges, and laid pledges down.
Oginski lost a hundred hides of forest
About a wolf! badger cost some hamlets
To Niesiolowski! And you, gentlemen,
Follow the old example, and decide
Your quarrel, even though by lesser pledge,
For words are wind; word quarrels ne’er have end;
Pity to dry up lips about a hare.
So choose ye judges first to arbitrate,
And what they shall decree, religiously
Subscribe. I will entreat the Judge that he
Will not forbid the pricker even to
Ride over wheat. I’ll wager that I shall
Obtain this grace from him.” And saying this,
He pressed the Judge upon the knee. “A horse,”
The Regent cried, “I pledge a horse with trappings,
And will before the local court subscribe
Myself, that I lay down this ring, as fee
Unto the Judge.”⁠—“And I,” the Assessor said,
“Will pledge my golden collars, made of shagreen,
Inlaid with wheels of gold, a leash of silk,
Whose workmanship is wondrous as the stone,
That shines upon it. I had wished to leave
This set as legacy unto my children,
In case I marry. It was given me,
A present from Prince Dominik,87 when once
I hunted with him, and the Marshal, Prince
Sanguszko, and with General Mejen;88 when
I challenged all the others to a trial
Of greyhounds. There, by unexampled stroke
In annals of the chase, I coursed six hares
With one dog. At that time we hunted on
Kupisko’s plain. Prince Radziwill could not
Sit still upon his horse, but lighted down;
And taking in his arms my celebrated
She-greyhound Kania, he kissed her head
Three times, and three times clapping on her muzzle,
He said, ‘Henceforward I create thee Duchess
Of Kupisko. Napoleon thus gives dukedoms
Unto his generals, from the places where
They have won great victories.’ ” Telimena, weary
Of these o’er-long disputes, desired to go
Into the courtyard, but she wished companions.
She took a little basket from a peg.
“The gentlemen, I see, prefer to stay
Indoors, but I am going to pick mushrooms.
But they who please, I beg them follow me.”
She spoke while folding round her head a crimson
Shawl of Cashmere; the Chamberlain’s young daughter
She took by one hand; with the other gathered
Her robe about her ankles. Thaddeus
In silence hastened after her for mushrooms.

The notion of a walk rejoiced the Judge;
He saw therein a means of breaking off
This noisy quarrel; therefore he exclaimed:
“To the wood, gentlemen, for mushrooms; he
Who comes to table with the finest mushrooms,
Shall sit beside the fairest lady; he
Himself shall choose her. If a lady find them,
She shall herself select the finest lad.”

The Count returned unto himself, but still
He stayed his horse; and turning round his head,
He gazed into the garden, and one time
It seemed to him, that from the little window
Gleamed the mysterious white frock again,
And something light descended from above
Again, and in the twinkling of an eye
Coursed o’er the garden, shining once again
Among green cucumbers, like to a sunbeam
Stol’n from behind a cloudlet, when it falls
Upon a bit of flint upon a plain,
Or ’mid green meadows on a shallow pool.

The Count dismounted, sent his servants home;
Himself in secret towards the garden went.
He reached at length the paling, in it found
An opening, and silently crept in,
Like wolf into a sheep-fold. By mischance
He struck some bushes of dry gooseberry.
The pretty gardener, as though she feared
The rustle, looked around, but nothing saw;
Yet ran she to the garden’s other side.
But at her side the Count, among the sorrel,
Among the burdock leaves, among the grass,
Sprang onwards like a frog, on hands and knees,
Quite close to her, on, crawling silently.
At last he put his head out, and beheld
A wondrous spectacle. In this part of
The orchard, cherry-trees grew here and there,
Among them cereals of different kind,
Expressly mixed together; wheat and maize,
And beans, long-bearded rye, and peas, and millet
And even flowers and bushes. For the poultry
The housekeeper this garden had invented,
Her glory. Madame Poultry she was called,
And Mistress Turkey was her maiden name.
An epoch her invention constitutes
In housekeeping, now known to every one;
But at that time as yet a novelty,
Communicated to not many persons,
Under strict secrecy; before it was
Thus published in the almanac, by title;
“A remedy for hawks and kites, or a
New means of rearing poultry.” I was such
A garden as this one. Thus, scarce the cock
Standing as sentinel, and motionless
His beak upturning, and his crested head
To one side bending, so that he might aim
At heaven easier with his glance, may see
A hawk suspended in the clouds, he crows;
At once the hens take refuge in this garden,
Even geese and peacocks, and in sudden fright
Pigeons, who find no safety on the roof.

But now no foe was visible in heaven,
And only the fierce heat of summer burned.
The birds hid from it in that wood of corn;
Some lay among the grass, some slept in sand.
Among the birds’ heads, little human ones
Stood forth, uncovered; on them were short locks
As white as flax, necks to the shoulders bare.
Among them sat a damsel, one head taller,
With longer locks; behind the children sat
A peacock, with the circle of his plumes
Wide-spreading, in a rainbow many-hued,
On which the small fair heads, as on a picture’s
Background, against the deep blue, took on lustre,
Defined by circle of the peacock eyes,
Like to a starry garland; in the corn
They gleamed as though in a transparency,
Amid the golden stalks of Indian corn,
With silver streaks of English clover decked,
And coral mercury, and verdant mallow;
The mingled forms and colours seemed to make
A woven lattice-work of gold and silver,
That waved upon the wind like a light veil.

Above the thicket of the many-coloured
Corn-ears and stalks, hung like a canopy,
A shining mist of butterflies, those called
“Old women;” and whose fourfold wings, as light
As webs of spiders, and as clear as glass,
Suspended in the air, may scarce be seen;
And though they make a humming, thou wouldst think
They were immovable. The damsel waved
A plume of grey, uplifted in one hand,
Like to a bunch of ostrich feathers. She
Appeared therewith from off the infant heads
To chase the golden rain of butterflies;
And in her other hand a something gleamed,
Horn-shaped and shining. It would seem a vessel
For feeding children, for unto the lips
Of each in turn she neared it. In its shape
It looked like Amalthea’s golden horn.

Thus busied, ne’ertheless she turned her head
Towards the direction of that well-remembered
Trampling of gooseberry bushes; not aware
That the invader drew already near,
From the side opposite, and like a snake
On creeping, till he from the burdocks sprang.
She looked; he stood quite near; removed from her
Four garden beds apart, and low he bowed.
She turned away her head, and raised her arms;
And, like a frightened jay, she tried to fly.
Her light feet flew already o’er the leaves,
When, frightened by the coming of the stranger,
And by the damsel’s flight, the children shrieked
Most terribly. She heard it, and she felt
It were imprudent thus to leave alone
The little, timid children. She returned,
Herself controlling; but she must return,
Like an unwilling spirit, whom a wizard
Compels by adjuration; she ran up,
To play with the most noisy of the children.
She sat beside it on the ground, she took it
Upon her lap, the others she caressed,
With hand and fondling speech, until they all
Again were quiet, with their little hands
Her knees encircling, and their little heads
To her close-pressing, like to little chickens
Under their mother’s wing. She said: “Is it
Pretty to cry like that? Is it polite?
This gentleman will be afraid. He is
Not come to frighten us; he is not an old
And ugly beggar. He’s a visitor,
And a good gentleman: just look how pretty.”

She looked herself. The Count well pleased did smile,
And visibly was grateful unto her
For so much praise. She soon bethought herself,
Was silent, dropped her eyes, and like a rosebud
She blushed. A pretty gentleman he was
In truth, of right good beauty, with a face
Of oval form, pale cheeks, but of fresh hue;
Blue eyes and gentle; long, fair hair; thereon
Were leaves of plants, and grass-blades, which the Count
Had plucked away while crawling through the beds
Like woven wreath they decked his locks with green.

“O thou!” he said; “by whatsoever name
I may adore thee, be thou nymph or goddess,
Spirit or vision, speak! hath thine own will
Led thee on earth, or do a stranger’s bonds
Retain thee prisoner in this earthly vale?
Alas! I guess the truth! some lover scorned,
Some powerful lord, or envious guardian,
Holds thee enchanted in this castle-park!
Thou art worthy gallant knights should fight for thee,
To be a heroine of sad romance!
Unfold to me, O fair one, all the secrets
Of this thy cruel fate, and thou shalt here
Find a deliverer! Henceforth at thy beck,
As thou dost rule my heart, rule thou my arm!”
And forth he stretched his arm. With maiden blush
She listened, but with merry countenance,
As children love to see bright-coloured pictures,
Or can amusement find in shining counters,
Before they learn their worth. These words sweet-sounding
Thus did caress her hearing, though she knew not
Their sense. At length she asked him: “Whence, sir, come you?
What are you seeking in the garden beds?”
The Count his eyes wide opened. Much confused,
Astonished, he was still; then lowering
The style of his discourse: “I beg your pardon,”
He said; “young lady! I perceive that I
Have troubled pastime. Oh! I beg your pardon.
I am this moment hastening to breakfast;
I am already late; I wished to come
In time. You know, young lady, how the road
Goes circling round. The garden seemed to me
A shorter way to reach the house.” The girl
Replied: “The way is here, sir, but you must
Not spoil the garden beds. There is the path
Among the turf.” “Is it to left or right?”
The Count demanded. Lifting her blue eyes,
The gardening-nymph appeared to search him through
With curiosity. For there the house,
A thousand paces off, stood plainly seen,
As though at arm’s length; yet he asked the way.
But yet the Count must absolutely talk
With her, and sought for this some fresh excuse.
“Live you here, lady, near the garden? or
There in the village? How then has it chanced,
I have not seen you at the manor-house?
Have you not long been here? new come perhaps?”
The damsel shook her head. “Pray, pardon me,
Young lady; is not that your chamber there,
Where stands that little window? But he thought
Within his heart, “If not the heroine
Of a romance, she seems a very young,
And very pretty girl. Too often does
A great soul, a high mind, in solitude
Concealèd, blossom like a rose among
A forest; ’tis enough to bring it forth
Into the world, and place it in the sun,
And make beholders wonder at its thousand
Bright colours.” Meanwhile silently uprose
The gardening maiden; on her shoulder lifting
One child, another taking by the hand,
Driving the rest like geese before her, she
Passed through the garden. Turning round she said,
“Sir, cannot you drive back my runaway
Poultry into the barn?” “I drive the poultry!”
The Count exclaimed in wonder. She meanwhile
Had vanished, in the shadows of the trees;
And yet awhile from the espalier yet,
Through wreaths of foliage, something gleamed athwart,
As though it were two eyes. The Count alone
Stood long yet in the garden. And his spirit,
Like to the earth when once the sun is down,
Grew gradually colder; sober hues
Assumed. He now began to dream, but he
Had very disagreeable dreams indeed. He woke,
Not knowing against whom he felt such rage.
Alas! he had found so little; he expected
Too much! For when he crept through rows of plants
Towards that shepherdess, his head did burn,
His heart within him jumped. So many charms
In that mysterious nymph he gazed upon,
He clothed her in such marvels, guessed so many,
And all things he found out were otherwise!
She had indeed a pretty face, a slender
Figure, but how unformed! and such a plumpness
Of cheeks, and that deep red, depainting such
Excessive vulgar happiness; sure sign
Her mind yet slept, her heart was still unstirred.
And those replies, so vulgar, country-like!
“Wherefore delude myself?” he cried; “I have guessed
Too late. And my mysterious nymph, no doubt
Is the goose-girl!” With the nymph’s vanishing,
The magical transparency all changed!
Those ribbons, those resplendent lattices
Of gold and silver, all, alas! was straw!

Wringing his hands, the Count gazed on a bunch
Of grass, that formed a broom, which he had taken
For ostrich feathers in the damsel’s hand.
The vessel he forgot not, made of gold,
That horn of Amalthea!⁠—it was a carrot!
He saw the children gorge it eagerly.
Then all the charm was over! the enchantment!
The wonder! Even so when a boy perceives
The flowers of succory, with soft, light blue
Tempting his hand, and longs to grasp them; near
He comes, he breathes, and with the breath the flower
In light down vanishes in air. And now
The seeker over-curious beholds
Only a naked, grey-green stalk of grass,
Left in his hand. The Count pressed down his hat
Upon his brows, and by the way he came
Returned, but shorter made the road; he trod
O’er vegetables, flowers, and gooseberry bushes;
Till, o’er the paling sprung, he breathed at last.
Then he remembered that he spoke of breakfast
Unto the damsel. Every one, may be,
Now knew the story of this meeting in
The garden, near unto the house. Perhaps
They now were coming out to seek for him.
They saw his flight, who knows what they may think?
So it behoved him to return. Down bending
Along the hedges, ’twixt the ridges and
The plants, he made a thousand turns, yet glad
He was, when he at last attained the path,
Which straightway to the mansion courtyard led.
He went beside the hedge, but from the orchard
He turned away his head;⁠—a thief resembling,
Who looketh from the granary away,
To give no trace of wish to visit it,
Or that he has already visited.
So prudent was the Count, though no one tracked him,
That towards the quarter opposite the garden,
Towards the right he looked. A sparse-grown thicket
Was there, all paved with turf, upon whose carpets,
Across the white stems of the birchen-trees,
Beneath a tent of hanging leafy boughs,
A multitude of forms were moving round,
With actions strange, like dances, and strange dress.
They seemed like spirits wandering by the moon,
Some clad in black, tight garments, some in long
And flowing robes, all shining⁠—white as snow;
One underneath a hat like spreading hoop,
Bareheaded one; and others, as though wrapped
In clouds seemed walking, long veils on the wind
Let fly, far streaming like a comet’s tail.
Each in a different posture; one as grown
Fast to the earth; his eyes alone cast down
Upon the earth do circle round about;
One looking straight before him, forward strides,
As though in sleep, in a straight line; nor turns
Aside to right or left. But all bend down
To various sides, unto the very ground,
As though they made deep bows. If they draw near,
Or meet each other, they do neither speak,
Nor do salute each other. Deep in thought,
Buried within themselves, the Count beheld
In them an image of Elysian shades,
Who, though by pains or fears unreachable,
Wander on peacefully and still, though gloomy.

Who would have guessed these scarcely moving folk,
Those silent people, were our old acquaintance,
The Judge’s friends? They from their noisy breakfast,
Went forth unto the solemn ceremony
Of mushroom-gathering. Like heedful folk,
They knew how they should mark their speech and action,
So as to suit them both to place and time,
In every circumstance. And for this reason,
Ere to the thicket followed they the Judge,
They took on different forms, and change of dress,
Rain-cloaks of linen, that for walking served,
Wherewith they hid the top of the kontusz,
And on their heads indued they hats of straw;
Thence seemed they white, like purgatory souls.
All the young people likewise seemed disguised,
Excepting Telimena and some others,
Who wore the French costume. The Count this scene
Could comprehend not, neither did he know
This country custom, so in measureless
Amazement he unto the thicket ran.

Of mushrooms there was plenty!89 Krasnolice90
The lads collected, and the lisice,91
Renowned in Lithuanian songs; they are
Emblem of maidenhood, for never grubs
Devour them; and more wondrous, never insects
Upon them sit. The youthful ladies seek
The slim borowik,92 which the song extols,93
As colonel of the fungi. But all search
For agarics; which, humbler in their growth,
And less renowned in songs, yet most delicious
Are, whether they be eaten fresh, or salted,
In autumn or in winter. But the Wojski
Collected muchomory. Others form
The commonwealth of mushrooms, in the mass
Despised for harmfulness, or evil taste.
But yet they have their uses; food for beasts,
And insects’ nests, and ornaments of groves.
On the green table-cloth of meadows, like
A row of table vessels they appear.
The silvery surojadki, red and yellow,
Appear like tiny goblets filled with wine,
The kozlak like a swelling cup reversed,
Lejki like slender glasses of champagne,
Bielaki, round and white, and broad and flat,
Like Dresden cups filled to the brim with milk,
And a round ball, filled with a blackish dust,
Purchawka,94 like a pepper-castor; other
Names are there, known in tongue of wolves or hares,
By men unchristened;⁠—but they have no number,
And no one condescends to touch the hare
Or wolfish mushrooms; and whoever stoops
Towards them, and perceiveth his mistake,
In anger breaks the fungus, or upon it
Tramples, and spoiling thus the grass, he acts
Very imprudently. But Telimena
Collected neither human mushrooms nor
Wolfish; she, absent-minded, weary, looked
Around her, with her head uplifted. Angry,
The Regent said that she was seeking mushrooms
Upon the trees; the Assessor likened her,
With greater malice, to a hen-bird, seeking
Around to find a place to build her nest.

However, it appeared she sought for silence,
For solitude; for slowly she withdrew
Herself from her companions; and she went
Along the wood, towards a low-sloped hill,
O’ershadowed, for the trees grew thickly there.
A grey stone midmost; from beneath the stone
A streamlet murmured, gushed forth, and at once
As though it sought for shadow, hid itself
Among the herbage thick and growing high,
Which, drunk with water, round luxuriated.
There the swift, wilful stream in grasses swaddled,
And laid on bed of leafage, motionless
And noiseless, unperceived, and scarcely heard,
Did whisper to itself, like crying child,
When laid down in its cradle, while the mother
Above it curtains binds of foliage,
And scatters leaves of poppy on its head.
A tranquil, lovely place; here Telimena
Oft hides herself, and calls it Sanctuary
Of Meditation. Standing by the brook,
She from her shoulders threw upon the grass
Her lightly-waving shawl, like bloodstone red.
And like a swimmer, who doth bend her down
Unto the chilly water, ere she dare
The plunge, so she knelt down, and gradually
Bent to one side. At last, as borne away
By a coral torrent, on the shawl she fell,
And lay extended; on the grass her elbow,
Leaning her brow upon her open hand,
Her head bent downward to the ground, and on
The ground beside her head there gleamed the white
And vellum paper of a French book. Over
The alabaster pages, wreathed the black
Ringlets and rosy ribbons. In the emerald
Of the luxuriant grass upon the shawl
Of bloodstone-red, in a long garment, as
Within a coral covering, wherefrom
Her locks appeared at one end, at the other
Was a black slipper; at the sides gleamed white
Her snowy stocking, handkerchief, and whiteness
Of hands and face; she well might seem afar
A many-coloured caterpillar, crawling
Upon the green leaf of a maple-tree.

Alas! the charms and beauties of this picture
In vain sought connoisseurs; none heeded them.
All were so busy with their mushroom hunt.
However, Thaddeus regarded them,
And glanced aside, and daring not to go
Straightway, he glided sidewards to the place.
As does the hunter, in a leafy booth,
Movable, planted on two wheels, when he
Follows the trail of game; or in pursuing
Plovers, upon the saddle lays his gun,
Or underneath the horse’s neck; now seems
To drag a harrow, now along the ridge
To ride; but every move draws nearer to
The spot where sit the birds. So Thaddeus
Stole up. The Judge disturbed his ambush, and
Cutting across his way, made haste unto
The fountain. With his sarafan’s95 white skirt,
And a great handkerchief, the end of which
Was bound unto his girdle, played the wind.
A straw hat, bound beneath his chin, from his
Swift movement, like a leaf of burdock, in
The wind waved to and fro; now on his shoulder
It fell, and now again upon his eyes;
A great stick in his hand: thus strode the Judge.
He stopped, and in the streamlet washed his hands;
Then on the great stone close by Telimena
He sat, and both hands on the ivory head
Of his enormous cane supporting, he
Began with such preamble. “As thou seest,
Since Thaddeus came here as guest, I have had
No small anxiety. I am an old
And childless man; he is a good boy, truly
My only consolation in the world,
And future heir unto my fortune. I,
By heaven’s grace, shall leave no bad provision
Of noble’s bread behind me; ’tis now time
His future to consider, and his settling.
But judge of my distress. Thou knowest well
Pan Jacek, my own brother, and the father
Of Thaddeus⁠—a man most singular,
’Tis hard to know the meaning of his plans⁠—
Will not return unto his native land.
Heaven only knows where he has hid himself.
He will not even tell his son he lives,
But is continually disposing of him.
He first desired to send him to the legions;
And greatly this tormented me. Then he
Agreed that he should stay at home and marry
He should indeed have got a wife already.
I looked for a good match. No dweller here
In birth is equal, or in parentage
Unto the Chamberlain; his daughter Anna
Is marriageable, beautiful, well-dowered.
I wished to”⁠—Telimena here grew pale,
Laid down her book, half rose, again sat down.

“As I my mother love,” said she, “are you,
My brother, in your senses, right in heart?
Think you that you will be a benefactor
To Thaddeus, if, being yet a lad,
You make of him a buckwheat sower? You
Debar him from the world. Believe me, he
Some time will curse you for it. Such a talent
In rooms to bury, and in garden ground.
Believe me, in so far as I have seen,
He is a boy of some intelligence;
It is worth while for him to get some polish
In the great world. You would do well, my brother,
To send him to some capital, for instance
To Warsaw. Or, do you know what I think?⁠—
If ’twere to Petersburg? This winter I
Shall probably be going there on business.
Let us together settle what to do
With Thaddeus. I know many people there;
I have influence; it is the surest way.
By my assistance he will find an entrance
In the best families, and being known
To persons of importance, he will get
An office, or an order; let him then
Leave, if he will, the service, and come home,
Having already some importance, and
Some knowledge of the world. What think you, brother?”
“Ay, in one’s early years,” the Judge replied,
“It is not wrong a boy should air himself
A little, and look round him in the world,
And rub a little among folk. Myself,
When young, o’er not a little of the world
I travelled, went to Piotrkow and to Dubno;
Now as a pleader with the tribunal,
Promoting now my own affairs, I went
As far as Warsaw. As a man, not little
I profited thereby. I should desire
To send my nephew also among people,
But simply as a traveller, like to
A journeyman, who ends his term of years,
To get a little knowledge of the world,
And not for rank or order. With respect,
This Russian rank or order⁠—how should that
Confer importance? Of our ancient lords,
Why, even of the new ones, who among
The somewhat higher nobles of the district,
Cares for such trifles? Yet, however, they
Are in esteem with mankind, for in them
They honour family and a good name,
Or office, but a native one, conferred
By citizen’s election, not by any
Favour whatever.” Telimena here
Broke in: “If thus you think, so much the better,
My brother; send him out then as a traveller.”
“Thou seest, sister,” sadly spoke the Judge,
Scratching his head; “I should desire it much.
But what avails this, with new hindrances?
Pan Jacek will not from his own control
Release his son, and has just sent to me
The Bernardine, this Robak, who is come
From that side Vistula; my brother’s friend
Is he, and cognisant of all his thoughts;
And they between them have already settled
The destiny of Thaddeus, and desire
That he shall marry⁠—that he wed Sophia,
Your ward. The two will have, besides my fortune,
A capital as dowry by the favour
Of Jacek; for you know the capital
Is his, and by his favour I enjoy
Its interest nearly all. He therefore has
The right of disposition. You consider
How this result, with the least trouble, may
Be brought about. They must become acquainted.
’Tis true, they are very young, especially
Sophia; but this need be no obstacle.
And it is time to bring Sophia out
From her seclusion, for indeed she now
Is growing out of childhood.” Telimena,
Astonished and half-frightened, half arose,
And knelt upon the shawl; at first she heard
Attentive; then with motion of her hand
Protested; with impatient movement shaking
Her hand above her ear, as though to chase
Like insects the displeasing words away,
Back to the speaker’s lips. “Ah! ah! this is
A new thing! Let it injure Thaddeus,
Or injure not, yourself can judge the best.
Thaddeus to me is nothing; you yourselves
Dispose of him; make him an overseer,
Or put him in a tavern; let him sell
Liquor, or carry game home from the forest.
With him do what shall please you. But Sophia,
What is Sophia to you? I shall dispose
Of her in marriage, I alone! Because
Pan Jacek gave some money to bring up
Sophia, and a little yearly pension
Assigns to her, and deigns to promise more,
Still for all that he has not purchased her!
And for the rest, you gentlemen both know,
And all the world knows well, your liberal gifts
To us are not bestowed without a reason.
For something the Soplicas owe unto
The race of the Horeszkos.” To this portion
Of her discourse, with scarcely understood
Trouble, and grief, and horror visible,
The Judge attended, and as though he feared
The rest of the discourse, he bowed his head,
And, with his hand assenting, deeply blushed.

But Telimena finished speaking thus:
“I have been her guardian, am a relative,
Sophia’s one protector. I alone
Shall think about her happiness.”⁠—“But if
She find her happiness in this same marriage?”
The Judge said, raising up his glance; “suppose
That she likes Thaddeus?”⁠—“Like him, that’s a pear
Upon a willow;96 like or not like; ’tis
A weighty thing to me; Sophia will not
Be richly dowered, in truth; but then she is
Not of a petty village, or a mean
Nobility. She comes of the Illustrious
Most Powerful, she is a Wojewode’s daughter,
Born from a Horeszkowna; she will get
A husband⁠—we have taken so much pains
About her education⁠—only if
She have not here run wild.” The Judge with heed
Listened, and looked into her eyes; he seemed
Appeased, for pretty cheerfully he answered:
“Well then, what must we do? Heaven knows that I
Sincerely wished to get the business done;
But only without anger. If you do not
Agree, you are right; ’tis sad, but ’tis unfitting
Angry to be. I counselled this, because
My brother ordered it; there’s no compulsion.
If you refuse still Master Thaddeus,
I will write back to Jacek, that ’tis not
My fault his son’s betrothal to Sophia
Does not take place. Now will I counsel take
With myself only. Possibly I shall
Begin arrangements97 with the Chamberlain;
And all the rest we will decide upon.”

Meanwhile had Telimena cooler grown:
“I refuse nothing, brother dear,” she said;
“But gently! you yourself have said it is
As yet too early; they are both too young.
Let us look round, and wait; nought hinders that.
Make the young people known to one another.
We will consider well, we cannot risk
The happiness of others thus on chance.
I only warn betimes; do not, my brother,
Over-persuade now Thaddeus, nor compel him
To love Sophia; for the heart is not
A servant, neither owns a master’s reign,
Nor can be bound by violence in a chain!98

Thereon the Judge, uprising, full of thought
Departed. Master Thaddeus drew near
From the opposing side, pretending that
The search for mushrooms drew him to the spot;
And in the same direction came the Count
Now slowly forward. Hidden by the trees,
While Telimena and the Judge disputed,
The Count had stood, much wondering at this scene.
At length he drew out from his pocket paper
And pencil, implements he always carried
Along with him; and spreading out the paper,
Over a tree-trunk bending, sketched the picture,
Saying unto himself: “As though they were
Thus grouped on purpose; he upon the stone,
She on the grass; a group most picturesque!
Characteristic heads, the contrast marked.”
He came up, stopped, and put his eyeglass on;
He rubbed the lenses, and looked more and more.
“Will this miraculous, this lovely sight
Perish, or be transformed if I approach?
This velvet grass be only beet and poppies?
And in this nymph shall I but recognise
Some housekeeper?” Although the Count had often
Seen Telimena in the Judge’s house,
Where pretty often he had been, he little
Had her esteemed; and most astonished was
To find in her the model of his picture.
The beauty of the place, and her position,
The charming, tasteful dress had so transformed her,
She scarcely might be recognised. There yet
Shone unextinguished anger in her eyes.
Her face, enlivened by the wind’s fresh breeze,
Discussion with the Judge, and by the sudden
Arrival of the young men, deeply blushed,
More deeply than her wont. “Madam,” the Count
Said, “Deign my boldness to forgive. I come
At once to ask your pardon and to thank you.
Pardon, for that I tracked your steps by stealth;
To thank you that I have been witness of
Your meditation. Much as I offended,
So much am I your debtor. Interrupting
An hour of meditation, unto you
I owe an hour of inspiration, and
A blessèd moment. Be the man condemned;
The lover of the arts awaits your pardon.
Much I have ventured; I will venture more.
Judge.” And he knelt, and offered her his landscape.

Then Telimena gave, in courteous strain,
Her judgment on the attempt, but spoke as one
Who understood the art; of praises sparing,
But sparing not encouragement. “Bravo!”
She said; “I compliment you; not a little
Of talent. Only this forget not; most
’Tis needful to seek out the fairest nature.
O happy skies of Italy! the Caesars’
Gardens of roses! classic waterfalls
Of Tivoli! and fearful rocky tunnels
Of Posilipo! There, Count, is the land
Of painters. But in ours the Muses’ child,
Put out to nurse in Soplicowo, must
Die certainly. I’ll frame that picture, Count,
Or place it in my album, with a number
Of drawings, which I have from everywhere
Collected; I have many in my bureau.”

So they began to talk of those blue heavens,
Murmurs of seas, and sweet winds, rocky heights,
Commingling here and there as travellers wont,
Laughter and railing at their native land.
Yet round them the Litvanian forests stretched,
So full of beauty and of dignity;
The cherry-tree with garland of wild hops,
Woven around it, and the service-tree,
Fresh-blushing like a shepherdess; the hazel,
Like maenad, with green thyrsis, decked about
As by a garland, with its pearly nuts.
And lower grew the forest children; blackthorn
In the embraces of the briony;
Aspen, whose black lips pressed the raspberries;
The trees and bushes joined their leaves like hands,
Like youths and maidens standing for the dance,
In circle of the married pairs. There stands
One couple, raised o’er all the forest crowd,
By slenderness of shape, and charm of colour,
The white birch, bride-like, with her spouse the hornbeam;
And further, like old people looking on
Their children and grandchildren, silent sitting,
Here reverend beech-trees; there the matron poplars;
And oak with mosses bearded, with the weight
Of five long ages on his humpy back,
Leaning, as though on columns of a grave,
On fossil trunks of oaks, his forefathers.

Thaddeus was restless, not a little tired
Of this long conversation, in which he
Could take no share. But soon as they began
To celebrate the woods of foreign lands,
And count in turn all species of their trees,
The orange, cypress, olive, almond-tree,
Cactus, and aloe, and mahogany,
Sandal and citron, ivy, walnut, figs,
Exalting all their forms, and shapes, and stalks,
More restless still was Thaddeus, and at last
No longer could restrain himself from rage.

Simple he was, but strongly could he feel
The charms of nature; on his native forest
Looking, he spoke with inspiration full:
“I have seen those celebrated trees at Wilna,
In the botanic garden, those that grow
In the east, and south, and in that beautiful
Italian land. But which of them can be
Compared with our trees? Can the aloe, with
Long rods, like a conductor? or the citron,
A dwarf with golden balls, with lacquered leaves,
A short and dumpy thing, like a short woman,
Ugly, but rich? or can that much-praised cypress,
Long, thin, and lean? It does not seem the tree
Of sadness, but of weariness. They say
That it looks very sad upon a grave.
’Tis like a German lackey in court mourning,
Who dares not lift his hands, or turn his head,
Lest he should sin against court etiquette.

“Is not our honest birch-tree fairer far,
Like peasant-woman weeping for her son,
Or widow for her husband; wringing hands,
While the long streams of her dishevelled hair
Fall o’er her shoulders down unto the ground?
Mute with her sorrow, yet how speakingly
Her form seems sobbing. Wherefore then, Sir Count,
If you love painting, paint you not our trees,
Among which you are sitting? In plain truth,
The neighbours will make jest of you, that while
You live upon the fertile Litvin plain,
You only paint some sort of rocks and deserts.”

“My friend,” the Count replied; “fair nature is
The form, the background, the material part;
But inspiration is the soul, which, borne
Upon the wings of the imagination,
By taste is polished, and by rules supported.
Nature is not sufficient, nor sufficient
Enthusiasm; the lover of the arts
Must fly into the sphere of the ideal;
Not all things beautiful are fit to paint.
All this from books you’ll learn in your own time.
As to what touches painting; for a picture,
Are necessary points of view, and grouping,
Ensemble, and atmosphere; the atmosphere
Of Italy! And therefore in the art
Of painting Italy is, was, and shall be,
The fatherland of painters. For this reason,
Excepting Breughel, but not Van der Helle,99
The landscape painter, for there are two Breughels,
And Ruisdael, where is there, in all the north,
A landscape-painter of the highest power?
The sky, the sky is necessary.”⁠—“Our
Painter Orlowski,”100 broke in Telimena,
“Had the Soplica taste. For you must know,
That it is the Soplicas’ special sickness,
Except their native land that nothing please them.
Orlowski⁠—who his life in Petersburg
Spent a most famous painter; I have some
Sketches of his in my bureau⁠—lived near
The emperor, at court, as though it were
In Paradise, but you would not believe,
Count, how he for his country longed, and loved
Continually to recall his youthful years,
Exalting all in Poland, earth, sky, forests!”

“And he was right!” cried Thaddeus with warmth.
“For that Italian sky of yours, so far
As I have heard of it, so pure, so blue,
Must be like standing water. Are not wind
And storm a hundred times more beautiful?
With us it is enough to raise one’s head!
How many sights, how many scenes and pictures,
Even in the very changing of the clouds;
For every cloud is different. For instance
The autumn cloud crawls like a lazy tortoise,
Heavy with rain, and from the sky to earth
Lets down long streamers, like dishevelled hair.
They are floods of rain. A hail-cloud with the wind,
Flies swift like a balloon, round, darkly blue,
Midmost it shineth yellow; a great murmur
Is heard around. But even every day,
Look ye, these small white clouds, how changeable!
First like a flock of wild geese, or of swans,
And from behind the wind like falcon drives them
Together in a flock; they closer press,
They thicken, they grow larger⁠—newer wonders,
They have archèd necks, their manes fly loose, they put
Forth rows of legs, and o’er the arch of heaven
Fly like a troop of wild steeds o’er the steppes,
All white as silver; they have mingled; now
Masts spring up from their necks, and from their manes
Broad sails. The troop is changed into a ship,
That proudly sails on, silently and slow,
Across the plain of heaven’s blue expanse.”

The Count and Telimena looked on high,
And Thaddeus pointed with one hand the cloud,
The other pressing Telimena’s hand.
Some moments passed by in this silent scene.
The Count spread out his paper on his hat,
And drew his pencil forth. Then to their ears
Tormenting, loud the bell resounded, and
The stilly wood at once was full of shouts
And noise. The Count said in a solemn voice,
Nodding his head, “Thus fate is used to end
All things on earth by ringing of a bell.
The calculations of great minds, and all
Imagination’s plans, and innocent
Pastimes, and friendship’s pleasures; the outpouring
Of tender hearts. When far off roars the bronze,
All is confused, and broken off, and troubled,
And vanishes!” And here on Telimena
Casting a tender glance, “What shall remain?”
And she replied to him, “Remembrance stays.”
And wishing somewhat to alleviate
The sadness of the Count, she plucked, and gave
To him a blossom of forget-me-not.
This the Count kissed, and pinned unto his breast.
And Thaddeus on his side, now open bent
A green bush, seeing through it something white
Winding towards him; ’twas a little hand,
White as a lily; this he seized, and kissed,
And silently his lips upon it dwelt,
As a bee plunges in a lily’s cup.
Upon his lips he felt a something cold.
He found a key, and a white paper folded
In trumpet-shape; it was a little note.
He seized and hid them in his pocket; what
The key should mean he knew not, but that white
Paper would unto him explain the whole.

The bell kept ringing on, and as an echo,
Resounded from the deeps of the still woods,
A thousand shouts and uproars. ’Twas the sound
Of seeking and of calling, being token
The mushroom-hunt was ended. Not at all
A sad noise, neither a funereal,
As to the Count it seemed; convivial rather.
This bell each noontide shouting from the garret,
Invites both guests and servants unto dinner.
Such was in ancient, peopled courts the custom,
And in the Judge’s house it so remained.
So from the thicket came the assembly forth,
All carrying baskets, handkerchiefs, together
Bound at the ends, and all of mushrooms full.
But the young ladies carried in one hand,
Like to a folded fan, the widely spreading
Borowik; in the other, bound together,
Like field-flowers, opienki, surojadki,
Of various hues; a muchomor the Wojski.
All empty-handed Telimena came,
And following her the two young gentlemen.

The guests in order came in, and around
Stood in a circle. Then the Chamberlain
At table took the highest seat; this place
Was his by right of dignity and years.
In going there he to the ladies bowed,
The old men, and the youths. Beside him stood
The begging friar, beside the friar the Judge.
The Bernardine in Latin spoke short grace,
Then brandy to the men was given; all
Forthwith were seated, and in silence ate
The Litvin cholodziec with appetite.

They dined in greater silence than their wont,
And none would talk, despite the host’s inviting
The different parties who took interest
In the dispute about the dogs, were thinking
About to-morrow’s contest and the pledges;
And Telimena, talking constantly
To Thaddeus, was obliged to turn away
At times unto the Count, and even glance
At times upon the Assessor. So the fowler
Gazes upon the snare wherein he will
Lure goldfinches, but looks at the same time
Upon a bait for sparrows. Both the Count
And Thaddeus, each contented with himself,
Both happy, and both full of hope, were not
Ready to talk for that. The Count with pride
Looked on the little flower, and Thaddeus
Upon his pocket furtively, half doubting
That little key were lost. He seized and twisted
The paper round, which yet he had not read.
The Judge kept pouring the Chamberlain
Both champagne and Hungarian wines; he served him
Attentively, and pressed his knee, but had
No inclination to converse with him.
’Twas seen he felt some trouble inwardly.

In silence still the plates and courses passed.
At length an unexpected guest broke in
Upon the weary course of dining. ’Twas
The forester, who rushing headlong in,
Did not consider it was dinner-time.
He ran up to his master; from his action
And his demeanour it was plain that he
Bore some important and unusual news.
The eyes of all the assembly turned on him.
He, having taken breath a little, said,
“A bear, most gracious sir!” All knew the rest.
The beast from the Matecznik101 had come out,
And was endeavouring to steal past into
The forest land beyond the Niemen. He
Must speedily be followed up. This all
At once acknowledged, though they neither did
Consult together, nor consider it;
Their broken words made visible the thought
Common to all; their lively gestures, countless
Commands, that going forth tumultuously,
At once from lips so many, hastened yet
All to one common aim. “Send to the village!”
The Judge exclaimed; “to horse! the setnik102 call.
To-morrow is the beating, but we want
Some volunteers. Who comes forth with a spear,
To him two days of road-work be excused,
And five days of forced labour.”103 “Quick!” exclaimed
The Chamberlain; “and saddle the grey horse,
And gallop to my house; bring those two bulldogs
Renowned throughout the neighbourhood; the male
Is Sprawnik called, the female is Strapczyna.104
Muzzle their jaws, and tie them in a bag.
Bring them on horseback here for greater haste.”
“Wanka!” the Assessor cried unto a lad,
In Russian, “pass my Sanguszkowa cutlass
Upon the grindstone; thou dost know that cutlass,
I had as present from the prince; look well
Unto the belt, that each charge have a ball.”
“Rifles!” cried all; “have them in readiness.”
The Assessor kept on shouting, “Lead! lead! lead!
I have a mould for bullets in my pouch.”
“Let notice to the parish priest be given,”
Added the Judge, “that he to-morrow morning
Shall say mass in the chapel by the forest.
For hunters a short offertory be it.
St. Hubert’s customary mass.” When given
These orders, silence followed; every one
Fell deep in thought, and cast his eyes around,
As though he sought for some one; gradually
All eyes the Wojski’s venerable face
Draws to itself, and all unanimous.
This was a sign that they a leader sought,
To head the coming expedition; they
Unto the Wojski did confide the staff.
The Wojski rose, he understood their will,
And striking solemnly upon the board,
He from his bosom drew a great gold chain,
Whereon a heavy watch hung like a pear.
“To-morrow,” said he, “half-past four, beside
The forest chapel meet the brother hunters
The force of beaters.” Thus he spoke, and left
The table; after him the forester;
Both must think over and direct the hunt.
Like generals, when battle is ordained
Upon the morrow, while throughout the camps
The soldiers clean their arms, and ride about,
Or sleep on cloaks and saddles, void of care;
But in their silent tents the generals
Awake and meditate. They broke off dinner,
And all that day in shoeing horses past,
And feeding dogs, gathering and cleaning arms.
At supper hardly any came to table.
And even the partisans of Kusy and
Of Sokol ceased to-day to agitate
The great dispute. The Regent and Assessor
Went, arm in arm, a-seeking out the lead.
The others with their labours wearied out,
Went to sleep early to awake at dawn.

O ye contemporaries of our great
Litvanian princes, trees of Bialowiez,
Switez, Ponary, and of Kuszelew,
Whose shadow fell upon the crowned heads
Of threatening Witenez and great Mindowe,105
And Gedymin, when on the Ponar mount,
Beside the hunter’s fire, upon a bear-skin
He lay, and heard the song of sage Lizdejko.
And lulled by sight of Wilia,106 and the murmur
Of the Wilejka, had the dream concerning
The iron wolf,107 and waking, by the god’s
Expressed commands, the city Wilna built,
Which sitteth ’mid the forests, as a wolf
Among the bisons, wild-boars, bears. And from
This city Wilna, as the Roman she-wolf,
Came Kiejstut, Olgierd, and the sons of Olgierd,108
As great in hunting as renowned in war,
The foe pursuing, or the savage game.
The hunter’s dream to us the secrets showed
Of future times, that ever unto Litva
Forests and iron shall be necessary.

Forests to hunting in you rode the last,
The last king, who the kolpak109 wore of Witold,
The last of the Jagellons, happy warrior,110
And the last hunter-monarch in Litvania.
My native trees! if Heaven yet permit
That I return to gaze on you, old friends,
Shall I yet find you there? do you still live,
You, whom I crept about once as a child?
Lives the great Baublis,111 with the mighty trunk,
Hollowed by years, wherein, as in a house,
Some twenty guests might at a table sup?
Does Mendog’s thicket flourish yet hard by
The parish church?112 and thither in the Ukraine,
Before the mansion of the Holowinskis,
Upon the banks of Ros, stands yet that elm
So widely spreading, that beneath its shade
A hundred youths, a hundred maidens might
Stand up to dance? Our monuments! how many
The Russian’s or the merchant’s axe each year
Devours! nor leaves unto the woodland singers
A refuge, nor unto the bards, to whom
Your shade was dear as ’twas unto the birds.
Witness that linden-tree in Czarnolas,
Responsive to the voice of John,113 that formed
The inspiration of so many rhymes.
Witness that oak that sings so many wonders
Unto the Cossack bard.114 O native trees,
How much I owe to you! Indifferent sportsman,
Escaping from my comrades’ mockery,
For missing game, I in your silence chased
Imaginings; forgetting all the hunt,
I sat within your close. The greybeard moss
Spread silvery round me, mingled with deep blue,
And black of rotten berries; and with red
The heathery hills were glowing, decked with berries,
As though with beads of coral. All around
Was darkness; overhead the branches hung
Like green, thick-gathering, low-lying clouds.
The storm somewhere above their moveless arch
Was raging, with a groaning, murmuring,
Howling, and rattling loud, and thunder-peal,
A wondrous deafening roar. To me it seemed
A hanging sea was raging overhead.
Below, like ruined cities, here stood up
The o’erthrow of an oak from out the ground,
In likeness of a mighty hulk; thereon
Leaning, like fragments of old walls and columns,
There, branchy trunks, and there half-rotten boughs
Enclosed by pale of grasses. In the midst
Of this intrenchment fearful ’tis to look,
For there the rulers of the forest sit⁠—
Boars, bears, and wolves; and at its entrance lie
The bones half-gnawn of some imprudent guests.
At times upspurt, ’through verdure of the grass,
As ’twere two waterspouts, two horns of stags,
And flits between the trees some animal
With yellow girdle, like a sunbeam, that
On entering is lost among the wood.

And once more all is silent down below.
The woodpecker taps lightly on the pine,
And flies off further; he is gone, is hidden.
But still his beak goes tapping ceaselessly,
As children hiding to each other call
To seek them out. More near a squirrel sits,
Holding between her paws a nut, and gnaws,
Hanging her bushy tail above her eyes,
As falls a helmet-plume upon a cuirass.
Although thus veiled, she gazes heedful round.
A guest is seen⁠—the woodland dancer springs
From tree to tree, like lightning flitting by.
At last she enters an invisible
Opening within a tree-trunk, like a Dryad
Returning to her native tree. Again
’Tis silent. Presently, a branch disturbed
Is quivering among the sundered crowd
Of service-trees; and rosier than their berries
Are shining cheeks; it is a gatherer
Of nuts or berries⁠—’tis a maiden. She
In basket of rough bark doth proffer berries
Fresh-gathered, fresh as her own rosy lips.
Beside her is a youth; he bendeth down
The hazel-branches, and the damsel catches
The nuts that twinkling fly. Then, hear they sound
Of horns and dogs’ loud baying, and they guess
The hunt is coming near to them; and fearing
They vanish from the eye, like forest gods.

In Soplicowo was great stir. But not
Baying of dogs, or neigh of steeds, or creaking
Of carts, nor sound of horns the signal giving,
Could draw forth Thaddeus from his couch. All dressed
He had fall’n upon the bed, and slept as sound
As marmot in its hole. No one among
The young men thought to seek him through the house;
And each one, taken up but with himself,
Made haste wherever ordered; they completely
Forgot their sleeping comrade. He lay snoring.
The sunbeams through an opening in the shutter
Cut out in heart-shape, fell into the darkness,
In fiery pillar on the sleeper’s brow.
He still desired to sleep, and turned him round,
To avoid the sunshine. All at once he heard
A knocking, half awoke; a joyful waking
It was. He felt himself as full of life
As a young bird; he lightly drew his breath;
Happy he felt, and to himself he laughed,
Thinking of all that happened yesterday.
He coloured, and he sighed, and his heart beat.
He at the window looked; oh! wonderful!
In a transparency of sunbeams, in
That heart, shone two bright eyes, wide-opened as
The eyes of those who pierce from daylight clear
Into a shadow. And a little hand
He saw, that, like a fan, beside the face
Was spread towards the sun, to shield the eyes.
The slender fingers to the rosy light
Turned, through and through were reddened ruby like.
Lips curious, questioning, he saw, a little
Apart, and tiny teeth that gleamed like pearls
Among the coral, and a face which, though
Protected from the sun by rosy hand,
Itself blushed like a rose. Beneath the window
Lay Thaddeus, hidden in the shadow; lying
Upon his back, he marvelled at the wondrous
Vision, and saw it right above himself,
Almost upon his face. He knew not whether
It were a living thing, or if he dreamed
Of one of those sweet, bright, and childlike faces,
That we remember to have seen in dreams
Of innocent years. The little face bent down.
He gazed, with terror trembling, and with joy.
Alas! he saw too plainly; he remembered,
He recognised those short locks, brightly golden,
In tiny, twisted papers, white as snow,
Like silvery husks, that in the sunlight shone,
Like aureole on the picture of a saint.

He started up; at once the vision fled,
By the noise terrified; he waited, yet
It came not back; he only heard again
A knocking thrice repeated, and these words:
“Get up, sir; it is time for hunting. You
Have slept too long.” He sprang up from his couch,
And with both hands he pushed the shutter back,
Until the hinges shook, and flying wide,
It struck both walls. He sprang out, and looked round,
Thoughtful, confounded; nothing did he see,
Nor trace perceived of aught. Not far beyond
The window stretched the paling of the orchard.
Upon it leaves of hop and flowery garlands
Waved to and fro; had some light hands disturbed,
Had the wind stirred them? Thaddeus long gazed
Upon them, but he ventured not to pass
Into the garden; only leaned against
The garden wall. He lifted up his eyes,
And with his finger on his lips commanded
Silence unto himself, that he might not
By ev’n a hasty word the silence break.
Then sought he in his forehead, knocked at it,
As if for memories long laid to sleep.
At last his fingers gnawing ev’n to blood,
“ ’Tis well, ’tis well, thus!” shouted he aloud.

And in the mansion where a while ago
Was so much shouting, now ’twas void and still
As in the grave; all to the field had gone.
Thaddeus pricked up his ears, and placed both hands
As trumpets to them, listening till the wind
Bore towards him, blowing from the forest land,
The clamour of the horses, shouts of all
The hunting crowd. The horse of Thaddeus
Already saddled waited in the stall.
He seized a rifle, mounted, and he galloped
On headlong like a madman to the taverns,
Which stood beside the chapel where the beaters
Should gather in the morning. The two taverns
Leaned towards each other on each side the way,
Each with their windows threatening one another
Like enemies. The old one ’longed by right
Unto the Castle’s lord; Soplica built
The other to the Castle’s prejudice,
And in the first, as in his heritage,
Gervasy would preside, and in the other
Protasy took the highest place at table.

The newer tavern nought remarkable
Had in its aspect; but the older one
Was builded after a most ancient model,
Invented by the artificers of Tyre,
Which afterwards the Jews spread through the world;
A kind of architecture, quite unknown
To foreign builders; we received it from
The Jews. The tavern in the front was like
An ark, behind a sanctuary resembling.
The ark, the true square-cornered chest of Noah,
To-day known by the simple name of barn;
Therein are various kinds of animals,
Horses, and cows, and oxen, bearded goats,
But overhead the company of birds.
And though of reptiles but a pair, there are
Insects besides.115 The hinder part, erected
In form of wondrous sanctuary, recalls
That famous edifice of Solomon,
Which, highest in the trade of building skilled,
The artificers of Hiram raised on Zion,
The Jews still imitate it in their schools;
And the designing of the schools is seen
In barns and taverns. Formed of planks and straw,
The roof, sharp-pointed and high raised, was bent,
And tattered as the kolpak of a Jew.
The corners of a gallery protrude
Upon the top, supported by a row
Of wooden pillars. What a wonder seems
To architects, these columns still endure,
Although half-rotten, and all crooked set,
As in the tower of Pisa; not according
To Grecian models, for they are devoid
Of pedestals or capitals. Above
The columns arches run half-circular,
Likewise of wood; and, copying Gothic art,
Above there are artistic ornaments,
Not carved by chisel or by graving-tool,
But cut out by the axe of carpenter;
Crooked like arms of Sabbath candlesticks.116
At the end hang balls⁠—resembling somewhat buttons,
Which on their heads the Jews in praying hang,
And which they cyces call in their own tongue.
In one word, seems the crooked, tottering tavern,
From far off, like a Jew, who to and fro,
In praying nods; the roof is like a cap,
The thatch disordered like a beard, the smoky
And dirty walls resemble a black veil,
And from the front protrudes the carving, like
The cyces on his forehead. In the middle
Of the tavern a division is, as in
The Jewish schools; one part entirely full
Of long and narrow chambers, serves to lodge
Ladies and travelling gentlemen; the other
Contains a great hall; and along each side
A narrow wooden table, many-legged;
Beside the table there are stools, which, though
Lower than the table, yet are like to it,
As children to the father. On the stools
Around sat peasant men and peasant women,
And likewise petty nobles, in a row.
The bailiff at a separate table sat.
For after early mass at chapel, since
’Twas Sunday, all had come to amuse themselves,
And drink at Jankiel’s house. Before each one
Already hummed a goblet of grey wódka.
The serving-maiden with the bottle ran
To every one. In middle of the room
Stood Jankiel, the proprietor, who wore
A lengthy sarafan which reached the ground,
Fastened with silver clasps; upon his girdle
Of silk one hand was planted, with the other
He solemnly stroked down his hoary beard.
Glancing around him he gave forth commands,
Welcomed the guests who entered, stood beside
Those sitting down. He opened conversation,
And made those quarrelling agree, but yet
Himself served no one, only walked around.
An ancient Jew, and everywhere well known
For honesty, he many years had held
On lease the tavern; of the peasants none
Or nobles ever had complaining brought
Against him to the mansion. Why complain?
He had good drinks at choice; strict reckoning
He kept, but void of cheating; cheerfulness
Forbade not, but allowed not drunkenness;
He was of pastimes a great lover, weddings
And christenings were celebrated at
His house; and every Sunday he had music
There from the village, wherein a bass-viol
And bagpipes used to be. He understood
What music was; himself had great renown
For talent; with the cymbals, of his nation
The instrument, he formerly was used
To go to mansions, and astonishment
Rouse by his playing and by singing. He
Could sing with science and with learning. Though
He was a Jew, he had a Polish accent
Of tolerable purity, and most
Loved national songs. He brought a number back,
From every expedition beyond Niemen;
From Halicz kolomyjki, and mazurkas
From Warsaw.117 Fame reported through the district
(I cannot tell if truly) that he first
Brought from beyond the boundary, and spread
That song throughout his district, now renowned
Through all the world; but which for the first time
The trumpets of the Polish legions played
To the Italians.118 Well the power of singing
In Litva pays; it gains the people’s love,
And brings both fame and riches. Jankiel
Had made a fortune; satiate with gain
And glory, he had hung up on the wall
The nine-stringed cymbals; with a family.
He settled down, and occupied himself
With selling liquor in the tavern. He
Was also under-rabbin in the town;
But everywhere agreeable both as guest,
And governor of his house. He understood
Right well the trade of corn, by means of barges;
Such knowledge is most needful in the country.
He also had the fame of a good Pole.119
’Twas he who first the quarrels reconciled,
So often bloody, that had raged between
The taverns, hiring both upon a lease.
And equally respected him the old
Supporters of Horeszko, and the servants
Of Judge Soplica. Only he could hold
In check the threatening Klucznik of Horeszko,
And quarrelling Wozny; they repressed before
Jankiel their ancient causes of offence;
Gervasy dreadful with the hand, Protasy
With tongue. Gervasy was not there, for he
Had gone unto the hunt, as wishing not
The young and inexperienced Count should be
Alone on such a parlous expedition,
And one so weighty; so he went with him
To be his counsellor and to protect.

To-day, Gervasy’s place, that from the threshold
Was most removed, between two benches placed
In the very corner of the tavern, called
Pokucie,120 by Friar Robak occupied
Appeared. ’Twas Jankiel had placed him there.
’Twas seen he for the friar had great respect;
For soon as he perceived his goblet low,
He quickly ran, and ordered to fill up
The glass with July mead121 unto the brim.
’Twas said that he had known the Bernardine
From youth, somewhere in foreign countries. Robak
Came often to the tavern in the night,
And held there conference on weighty things,
In secret with the Jew; the priest, ’twas said,
A smuggler was, but ’twas a calumny,
Unworthy of belief. Now Robak, on
The table leaning, half-aloud discoursed.
A crowd of nobles him surrounded, lending
Their ears, and bending down their noses to
The priestly snuff-box; from it they took pinches,
And all the nobles snorted like to mortars.

“Reverendissime,” Skoluba said,
“This is tobacco, this goes up into
The crown of the head. Since first I wore a nose”⁠—
(Here stroked he his long nose)⁠—“I never had
A pinch of such tobacco.” Here he sneezed
A second time. “ ’Tis truly Bernardine.
No doubt it comes from Kowno, famous town
Through all the world for mead and for tobacco.
I went there”⁠—Robak interrupted him:
“The health of all you gentles, gracious sirs!
As touches the tobacco, hum! it comes
From further parts than good Skoluba thinks.
It comes from Jasna Gora,122 and the Paulines
Make snuff like this in Czenstochowa’s town,
Where is that picture for such wonders famed,
The Virgin, Mother of our Lord, and Queen
Of Poland, and Princess of Lithuania.
True, still she watches o’er her royal crown,
But now the schism123 in Litva’s duchy reigns.”
“From Czenstochowa?” Wilbik said; “I went
There to confession thirty years ago,
When I was there for pardon. Is it true
That in the town the Frenchman resteth now,
And that he wishes to throw down the church,
And seize the treasure, for all this is in
The Lithuanian Courier?”⁠—“ ’Tis not true,”
Replied the Bernardine; “illustrious sir,
Napoleon is a Catholic, and most
Exemplary; the Pope anointed him;
They live in harmony together, and
Convert men in the Frankish nation, which
Had grown somewhat corrupt. ’Tis true much silver
Was given from Czenstochowa to the treasury
Of the nation, for the Fatherland, for Poland;
For so the Lord himself commands, his altars
Are aye the treasury of the Fatherland.
We have a hundred thousand Polish troops
In Warsaw’s duchy, and perhaps shall soon
Have more, and who should for the army pay,
If not yourselves, Litvini? you but give
Your money to the coffers of the Russians.”
“The devil may give!” cried Wilbik, “they take from us
By force!”⁠—“Alas! good sir,” a peasant said
Humbly, while bowing to the priest, and scratching
His head; “that’s for the nobles; they but bear
Half of the burden; we are stripped like bark.”
“Thou churl!”124 Skoluba cried; “thou fool! thou hast
The best of it; you peasants are used thereto
As eels to skinning; but to us well-born,
To us Most Powerful, used to golden freedom⁠—
Ah, brothers! ‘once a noble on his land’ ”⁠—
“Yes, yes,” cried all; “ ‘might with a Wojewode stand.’125
To-day they our nobility dispute,
Command us to search papers through and prove
Our noble birth by paper.”⁠—“That’s a less
Affair for you,” Juraha cried, “for you
From peasant ancestors have been ennobled;
But I am sprung of princes! Ask of me
A patent! When I first became a noble,
The Lord alone remembers. Let the Russian
Into the forest go to ask the oaks
Who gave to them a patent to grow high
Above all plants.”⁠—“Prince,” answered Zagiel;
“Tell tales to whom you list; here will you find
No doubt a mitre, and in not one house.”
“A cross is in your ’scutcheon,” cried Podhajski;
“A hidden allusion to a neophyte
Once in your family.”⁠—“ ’Tis false!” cried Birbasz;
“I come of Tartar Counts, and bear the cross
Above my crest of Arks.”⁠—“The Poraj,”126 cried
Mickiewicz; “with a mitre on field or,
A princely ’scutcheon is. Stryjkowski127 wrote
Concerning this a great deal.” Thereupon
Arose loud murmurs in the tavern. Then
The Bernardine resorted to his snuff-box;
In turn all speakers he regaled. At once
The murmurs ceased, and each one took a pinch
From courtesy, and several times they sneezed.
The Bernardine continued, profiting
By this divergence: “Ah! great men have sneezed
On this tobacco! Would you, gentlemen,
Believe that from this snuff-box General
Dombrowski took a pinch three times?”⁠—“Dombrowski?”
They cried.⁠—“Yes, yes, the General himself.
I was in camp when from the Germans he
Recovered Dantzig.128 He something had to write,
And, fearing he might sleep, he took a pinch.
He took one, sneezed, twice clapped me on the shoulder.
“Priest Robak,” said he, “Friar Bernardine,
We’ll meet again in Litva, may be ere
A year has passed; tell the Litvini they
With Czenstochowa snuff must me await,
For I will take no other kind but this.”

The friar’s discourse such great astonishment
Aroused, such joy, that all that company
So noisy now kept silence for a while.
Then they repeated, in half-silent words,
“Tobacco brought from Poland? Czenstochowa?
Dombrowski? from Italian land?”⁠—until
At last together, as though thought with thought,
And word with word together ran, they all
With one accordant voice, as at a signal,
Shouted: “Dombrowski!” All together shouted,
Pressed close; the peasant with the Tartar Count,
The Mitre with the Cross, the Poraj with
The Griffin and the Ark, forgetting all,
Even the Bernardine, they only sang,
Exclaiming, “Wódka, mead, and wine!” Long time
Friar Robak hearkened to the melody.
At length he wished to break it off; he took
His snuff-box in both hands, and with his sneezing
Confused the melody, and ere they might
Tune up again, thus made he haste to speak:
“You praise my snuff, good sirs; now pray observe,
What’s doing in the inside of the box.”
Here, wiping with a cloth the inside soiled,
He showed a tiny army painted there,
Like swarm of flies; a horseman in the midst,
Large as a beetle, certainly their leader.
He spurred the horse, as though he fain would leap
Into the heavens; one hand upon the reins,
The other at his nose. “Look here,” said Robak,
“Look at this threatening form; guess ye who ’tis?”
All looked with curiosity. “He is
A great man, and an Emperor, but not
That of the Muscovites; their Czars have never
Taken tobacco.”⁠—“That a great man!” Czydzik
Exclaimed; “and in a capote! I had thought
That great men went in gold. Because among
The Muscovites each petty general,
Good sir, shines all in gold, just like a pike
In saffron!”⁠—“Pooh!” said Rymsza; “I once saw,
When I was young, our nation’s chief, Kosciuszko,
And he wore a Cracovian sukmana,
That’s a czamara.”⁠—“What sort of czamara?”129
Objected Wilbik; “that’s a taratatka.”
“But that has fringes, this thing is quite plain,”
Cried Mickiewicz. Thereon arose disputes
Concerning taratatki and czamary.130