He holds a knife blade to his chest, while Phaedo
Is lying before him, and a life of Cato.
Next comes Jasiński, handsome, young, unbending,
Alongside Korsak, his bosom companion, standing
On Praga’s ramparts on heaped Russian dead,
Hacking down more as Praga blazes red.
Even the age-old upright clock was there
In its wooden case, beside a bedroom door.
With childlike glee he tugged the cord to hear
Dąbrowski’s old mazurka sound out clear.
He ran right through the house, up to the door
Of his childhood bedroom from ten years before.
He enters—steps back—looks round confusedly:
Is it a woman’s room? Whose could it be?
His uncle was unmarried, while his aunt
Had lived in Petersburg back then. It can’t
Be the housekeeper’s! A piano? On which lay
Music and books in casual disarray.
Agreeably so, in fact! The hand was young
By which these things had been so blithely flung.
A small white frock was newly laid out there
Unfastened, across the armrest of a chair.
On the windowsill were asters, herbs in pots,
A sole geranium, stock, and violets.
At the windowside, the young man gasped again:
By the orchard’s edge, a place once overgrown
With nettles, was a small garden all criss-cross
With paths and dotted with mint and English grass.
A little wooden fence zigzagged with bars
Was ringed by daisies glowing bright as stars.
The beds had just been watered: he could see
Brimming tin watering cans placed handily.
The gardener herself, however, was not in sight.
She had just left—the freshly opened gate
Was swinging still; in the sand outside there were
Small footprints, shoeless, stockingless—quite bare;
Marks clear though faint, in sand as fine and white
As snow; you’d think them left by one so light
And with such dainty feet that at each bound
She barely came in contact with the ground.
The traveler lingered at the window, gazing,
Breathing the fragrance of the flowers, and musing.
His curious gaze strayed back and forth, as far
As the beds of pansies, following the paths; once more
Stopped at the footprints he had seen and eyed them,
Wondering to himself who could have made them.
By chance he raised his eyes—close to the field
Stood a young girl. Her slim form was concealed
By a white frock, but only to her chest,
Leaving her arms and swanlike neck undressed.
In Lithuania, early in the day—
Unseen by men—girls often dress that way.
Though no one was there, she held her arms across
Her breast, to add to the cover of the dress.
Her braids were not let down, but twisted tight
In curlpapers—small knots of blond and white.
Like in a picture of a saint her hair
Shone, strange and lovely in the sunlight’s glare.
Her face was hidden as she sought someone
Who must have been far off, and lower down.
She spotted them, laughed, and clapped; like a white bird
She hopped around, flew over the meadow, cleared
The garden—flowerbeds and fences all—
Jumped on a board that leaned against the wall
And all at once came in through the window, light
And rapid as a moonbeam, and as bright.
Humming a tune, she snatched the gown up—then,
Crossing toward the mirror, saw the young man.
She blanched from shock and fright, and dropped the gown.
The traveler’s face in turn, like a pale cloud
Touched by the rising sun, flushed deepest red.
The modest young man looked down, covered his eyes
Behind a hand, tried to apologize;
Bowed, backing out. The girl gave a loud groan
The way a child scared in its sleep will moan.
Startled, the man looked up—but she was gone.
Confused, and heart a-thump, he too moved on,
Unsure if this odd meeting should amuse him,
Cause him embarrassment, or simply please him.
Meanwhile, the servants at the farm had seen
That some new visitor had driven in.
They’d stabled the horses, and had lavished them
With oats and hay—this was a decent home.
The Judge refused to send them on (as was
Increasingly done) to the inn kept by the Jews.
The servants didn’t come out—but don’t conclude
The Judge’s household lacked solicitude.
They were waiting for the Warden to get changed—
He’d just come back now dinner had been arranged.
He played the host whenever the Judge was gone,
Receiving callers (he was distant kin
And household friend). Seeing the guest alight
He’d sneaked back from the farm—it wouldn’t be right
To greet him in a homespun working coat.
He quickly donned his Sunday best, laid out
Since morning: he’d known that in the evening
A dinner party would be gathering.
The Warden had seen the guest and recognized him
From far off; he spread his arms, embraced and kissed him.
They started that quick, chaotic conversation
That tries to fit long years in a narration
Tangled and clipped—a series of relatings,
Sighs, exclamations, questions—and more greetings.
Asking his fill, the Warden finally
Recounted what was happening that day:
“My dear Tadeusz” (such was the young man’s name—
After Kościuszko, for his birth had come
During the war)—“it’s good you’ve appeared today
When many young ladies have arrived to stay
Here in the neighborhood. Your uncle’s said
That before long he’d like to see you wed.
There’s quite a choice: people from far and wide
Have come for the court case that will soon decide
The boundary conflict with the Count, that’s lasted
So very long. Tomorrow he’ll be hosted.
The Chamberlain’s here, with wife and girls in tow.
The young men are shooting in the woods right now;
The older fellows and womenfolk are near them,
Watching the harvest, probably waiting for them.
Let’s join them, if it’s agreeable to you;
We’ll find your Uncle—and the ladies too.”
The two of them set off together walking
To the woods; they couldn’t get their fill of talking.
The sun was near the sky’s far point; it glowed,
Weaker than in the daytime, but more broad,
Ruddy now like a farmer’s hearty face
As he comes home to rest in weariness,
His labor done. The radiant sunbeams highlight
The treetops, and the mist-enshrouded twilight
Fills up the woodland foliage, binds it all
And seems to melt it in a single whole.
The forest was dark as a vast edifice;
The sun blazed on its roof in fieriness
Then all
at once it dropped; like candlelight
Through shutter slats it glimmered then went out.
The sickles that rang together across the grain,
The rakes sweeping the hay in unison,
Stopped and fell silent. This the Judge demanded:
On his estate, at sundown all work ended.
“The Lord above knows just how much a man
Should do; when the sun, His laborer, goes down,
It’s time for the farmer too to leave his field,”
The Judge said; and his words were law revealed
To the honest overseer of the estate;
And even if they had half the usual weight
Of rye, he’d send the wagons on their way,
The oxen glad their load was less that day.
The others were coming back, high-spirited
But orderly—first the small children with their maid;
The Judge next with the wife of the Chamberlain;
The Chamberlain himself with all his kin;
Young women behind the old, a little ahead
Of the young men, who kept just to one side
(As decency requires). Nobody spoke
Of order to the men and womenfolk;
Still, each intuitively took their place.
For the Judge observed the old ways in his house
And always ensured that due consideration
Was given to age, rank, birth, and education.
“It’s order,” he would say, “for which we cherish
Nations and homes; without it, both will perish.”
Thus, all were used to things being orderly,
And guests at the Judge’s home—whether they be
Strangers or family—would find they would
Take on the ways with which it was imbued.
The Judge greeted his nephew sparingly.
He gave him his hand to kiss with dignity;
Then kissed his forehead and, welcoming him politely,
For his guests’ sake talked with him only slightly.
But from the tears he swiftly wiped away
His love for Tadeusz was as plain as day.
And, leaving field and wood, meadow and pasture,
All things came back to the manor with their master.
Here, thronging the lane, a flock of bleating sheep
In clouds of dust; there at a leisurely step
Swiss heifers in a herd, brass bells a-ring;
Horses that ran from a hayfield, whinnying—
All hurrying to the well, whose wooden sweep
Kept creaking as it filled the drink-trough up.
The Judge, though busy with his guests, made sure
Not to neglect a crucial farming chore:
He went to the trough, since evening time’s ideal
For checking if the livestock’s doing well.
He never delegates the task, of course,
Knowing the master’s eye best feeds the horse.
The Warden and Protazy the Bailiff stood
With candles in the hall; they’d disagreed,
For secretly, while the Warden had been out
Protazy had hurriedly had tables put
In the ruins of the castle that could be seen
Up by the woods. Why, though, had this been done?
The Warden made a face, apologized
To the Judge; the Judge in turn was most surprised,
But it had happened; now it was easier
To beg the guests’ pardon, and lead them over there.
The Bailiff kept explaining on the way
Why he’d changed the Judge’s orders for that day:
The manor had no room of adequate size
To hold so many worthy guests, whereas
The castle vestibule was large, intact,
The ceiling whole. True, one of the walls was cracked,
The windows paneless—but summer was warm enough;
Plus, the cellars were close, which helped the serving staff.
He gave the Judge a wink to make it clear
He’d other, weightier, secret motives here.
The castle stood a mile off to the side,
Its form impressive, its large mass dignified.
It had been owned by the old Horeszko house
Whose lord had died in the troubles that took place.
His assets were wrecked by government confiscations,
Uneven upkeep, court determinations;
Part went to distant kin on the distaff side,
The rest was left for creditors to divide.
The castle, no one wanted—the cost of care
For gentry would have been too dear by far.
But the Count, a neighbor and a rich young man
(And distant Horeszko), turning twenty-one
And back from his grand tour, fell for the structure
And what he called its Gothic architecture
Though the Judge had shown him papers saying in truth
The builder was from Vilna, not a Goth.
But the Count desired the place, and suddenly,
For no clear reason, the Judge said so did he.
They went to court in the local county, then
The Senate, provincial court, county again.
After great costs and rulings of all sorts
The case was sent back to the boundary courts.
The Bailiff was right to say the vestibule
Could seat the lawyers and all the guests as well.
The place was large as a refectory hall
With vaulted ceilings, pillars; the floor was all
Stone flags; the walls were plain but neat, a pair
Of stag or roe-deer antlers here and there
With labels to say who’d bagged each one of them,
And where and when, with the hunter’s badge and name.
Up on the ceiling, the Półkozic crest
Of the Horeszkos gleamed above the rest.
Entering in order, each guest stood to wait.
The Chamberlain had the place of honor—his right
By age and rank. He nodded as he came past
To the ladies, the older men, the youngsters last.
Friar Robak stood by him, then the Judge. The monk
Said a short prayer in Latin; vodka was drunk
By the men; then, sitting down, the company
Ate their chilled soup with gusto, wordlessly.
Tadeusz was young, but as a guest was placed
Among the ladies present, near the host;
Between the two men, however, an empty chair
Suggested someone else was to appear.
His uncle eyed the chair, and then the door,
As if requiring them to come, and sure
They would. Tadeusz followed his uncle’s gaze
Across to the door, and back to the vacant place.
Around him were young ladies in a throng
A prince would have been proud to sit among—
All of good birth, all young and lovely; yet
Tadeusz kept staring at the unclaimed seat.
A mystery—and young folk love being mystified.
The Chamberlain’s pretty daughter was at his side.
He barely addressed her in his pensiveness;
He didn’t change her plates, top up her glass,
Charm the young women in gracious conversation
That would have shown his Vilna education.
The empty seat engrossed his mind, beguiled it…
The spot was no longer free: his thoughts had filled it.
A thousand guesses hopped about the place
Like frogs after a rainstorm on the grass.
One figure reigned, though, like
a water lily
Raising its white face when the sun shines gaily.
The third course had been served. The Chamberlain,
Pouring Miss Róża half a glass of wine
And passing her sister the gherkin plate, declared:
“It seems I have to serve you, girls, gray-haired
And clumsy as I am.” Several young men
Jumped forward to do what needed to be done.
The Judge glanced at Tadeusz, straightened his sleeve,
Took more Tokay and said:
“What we believe
About our children’s learning’s changed already.
We send them to the capital to study.
And certainly our sons and grandsons get
Much more book learning than their elders. Yet
I see the youngsters suffer for being unschooled
In how to live with people in the world.
Once, young men served at the courts of noblemen;
With the Voivode, father of the Chamberlain,
For ten years I was courtier, if you please”
(So saying, he gave the Chamberlain’s knee a squeeze).
“He guided me toward public service, then
Watched over me till I was made a man.
In my house, his memory always will be dear;
For his good soul each day I say a prayer.
And if I didn’t benefit as well
As others, and came back home to work the soil
While they, more worthy of the Voivode’s graces,
Ascended to the nation’s highest places,
This much I learned: in my home, nobody
Can say they were not treated honestly
Or courteously. And courtesy is vaster
Than one might think, and difficult to master.
It isn’t merely wiggling your feet
Or smiling when you’ve somebody to greet;
Such modish courtesy seems mercantile,
Unworthy of old Polish gentry style.
All deserve courtesy—but not the same.
A child’s love can be courteous; the esteem
A man shows for his wife in company,
A lord for his servants—each plays differently.
Long learning’s needed not to err, and treat
Each person with the courtesy that’s their right.
Our elders learned it too: the conversation
Of lords was living national tradition;
The gentry’s talk was local history.
Through it, your fellow gentleman could see
That he was known by people, and respected.
So the gentry had their ways, which they protected.
These days, to ask who someone is, is wrong.
His line, his life, his deeds? No matter, so long
Pan Tadeusz Page 3