Pan Tadeusz

by Adam Mickiewicz

  As he’s not a spy—or isn’t without a penny.

  And, just as Vespasian wouldn’t smell the money

  Or ask its source or from whose hands it came,

  A person’s birth and ways are all the same,

  Provided he’s important, and it shows;

  People prize friends as money’s prized by Jews.”

  While speaking, the Judge surveyed the company;

  He always talked sensibly and flowingly,

  But knew how restless today’s youth could become,

  How—flowing or no—long speeches wearied them.

  Yet all were listening quietly as he spoke.

  The Judge glanced at the Chamberlain to check;

  The latter gave no verbal encouragement

  But nodded often, showing his assent.

  The Judge fell quiet; the nodding carried on,

  So the Judge, replenishing their drinks again,

  Continued:

  “It’s no small matter, courtesy:

  When a man learns to value properly

  Another’s ways and virtues, age and birth,

  He’ll also learn what he himself is worth,

  Just as, to know our weight on scales, we need

  Another person on the other side.

  But the courtesy that young men should bestow

  On the fairer sex is critical to know,

  Especially when fortune’s prodigalities,

  And gentle blood, boost inborn charms and qualities.

  Such is the road to love; such is the way

  Our elders would join houses splendidly.

  And so—”

  The Judge made here a sudden motion

  Toward Tadeusz, with a stern expression;

  His speech was clearly reaching its conclusion.

  But the Chamberlain gave his snuffbox two sharp raps

  And said:

  “Judge, things were once much worse! Perhaps

  We have been changed by fashion too; maybe

  Young folk are better; either way, I see

  Less depravation. I remember when

  The Polish fad for Frenchness first began.

  All at once young Poles from foreign quarters

  Descended on our land like hordes of Tartars,

  Harassing our God, the faith our elders bore,

  Our customs, laws—even the clothes we wore.

  Painful it was to see those fellows—pale,

  With nasal voices (or no nose at all)—

  Waving brochures and newspapers, all tracing

  New faiths, new principles, new ways of dressing.

  This mob had a mighty power over minds—

  When God would punish a nation, first he finds

  A way to make its citizens lose their sanity.

  Wise men were scared to face these lords of vanity—

  Feared like the plague they were by all the nation,

  Which felt within itself the same contagion.

  The dandies were denounced, yet emulated.

  Faith, speech, laws, clothing—all were imitated.

  It all was one great carnival masquerade,

  Soon followed by the Lent of servitude.

  “At home in Oszmiana County, when I was small

  My father was visited, I well recall,

  By the Cupbearer’s son who came in his French chaise—

  The first Lithuanian to live à la française.

  He was sought out, the way small birds harass

  A falcon; envy was felt toward any house

  To which his two-wheeled gig had found its way

  (In French they called the thing a cabriolet).

  Two lapdogs took the footmen’s place; up front

  Was a German coachman, angular and gaunt,

  His legs as thin as beanpoles, stocking-clad,

  With silver-buckled shoes, and on his head

  A fancy hairnet tied around his wig.

  The older folk laughed when they saw this rig,

  While the peasants crossed themselves at his approach:

  The “Fiend of Venice in a German Coach.”

  The fellow himself—how to convey his merit?

  Well, let’s just say he seemed an ape, a parrot,

  In a huge wig he styled “The Golden Fleece”

  And we referred to as “The Tangled Mess.”

  If anyone then preferred our Polish clothing

  To mimicking foreign fashions, they said nothing—

  For young folk would have vilified such praters

  As anti-culture, anti-progress—traitors!

  Those misbegotten views were like dictators!

  “The Cupman’s son announced he’d organize us,

  Declaring he’d reform us, civilize us.

  He told us that some Frenchmen known to speak well

  Had dreamed up the idea that men are equal—

  Though long ago the Lord’s Book said that first

  And you can hear it preached by any priest.

  But this old thought could now be realized!

  By this time, though, we’d all become so crazed

  That the oldest truths were not believed unless

  They were in French, and written in the press.

  Though ‘equal,’ the fellow styled himself Marquis,

  Since titles, as we know, come from Paree,

  And then the modish title was Marquis.

  Later, the fashion changed and after that

  The same marquis became a democrat.

  Then, with Napoleon more change came—somehow

  The former democrat was baron now.

  If he’d lived longer, the baron might have been

  Turned back into a democrat again.

  For France loves how its styles change all the time—

  And what the French invent, the Poles acclaim.

  “The Lord be praised if our young folk today

  Don’t travel for their wardrobe—don’t rely

  On printers’ stalls to find their legislation,

  Or French cafés to learn pronunciation.

  Now there’s Napoleon—a man of mettle

  Who has no time for fashion or mere prattle.

  Now weapons clash; our old hearts swell to hear

  The world talk warmly of the Poles once more.

  There’s glory—the Republic’s next, you’ll see!

  From laurels will spring the tree of liberty.

  It’s just that we’re sad to see the years go by

  In idleness—while they are far away.

  So long we’ve waited—even news is rare.

  Father” (he said more softly to the friar),

  “I heard you were in the Duchy recently.

  Do you have news of our army there, maybe?”

  “Not a word,” said Robak casually (you could tell

  He listened to this talk against his will)—

  “Politics bores me—if I have a letter

  From Warsaw, it’s simply a monastic matter

  For Bernardines—hardly appropriate

  For laymen and their dinner-table chat.”

  He glanced to the side. A Russian guest was there,

  One Captain Rykov, a seasoned officer

  Billeted in a village locally.

  The Judge had asked him out of courtesy.

  Rykov ate well, did not much socialize;

  At the word “Warsaw,” though, he raised his eyes.

  “Ah, Mr. Chamberlain, sir! We seem to find

  Bonaparte and Warsaw always on your mind.

  Hmh—homeland! I’m no spy, but I understand

  Polish. The homeland! Yes, I comprehend.

  You’re Poles, I’m Russian; once we fought each other,

 
Now there’s a truce, we eat and drink together.

  At the front lines our men will often share

  A drink with the French—they cheer, the cannons roar.

  We’ve a saying: You fight someone, you like them. Hug

  Your friends like brothers, beat them like a rug.

  War will be here, I’m telling you. I know

  That Major Plut was told two days ago:

  Prepare to march, whether against the Turk

  Or France—that Bonaparte’s a piece of work!

  Suvorov’s gone now; they could do us in.

  My regiment once fought the French. The men

  Said Bonaparte knew magic—Suvorov too;

  So magic fought with magic. Once, they knew,

  In battle, Bonaparte disappeared—he’d turned

  Into a fox. Suvorov became a hound;

  Bonaparte changed into a tomcat—scrawny,

  All claws. Suvorov then became a pony.

  You’ll see how things will end for Bonaparte…”

  He stopped, ate. Just as the fourth course was to start

  A side door in the chamber opened smart.

  A new guest entered: youthful, prepossessing.

  Her sudden coming—her figure, way of dressing,

  Her looks—turned eyes; all said “good evening” to her.

  Tadeusz aside, the others clearly knew her.

  Her waist was slim, her bosom alluring; her gown

  Of rich pink silk, the neckline dipping down.

  The collar was Brabant lace, the sleeves were short.

  Her hands toyed with a fan, purely for sport

  (The weather was hardly hot); its gilded face

  As it turned, scattered sparks about the place.

  Her hair was uncovered, twisted into curls,

  Graced with pink ribbons rolled in coils and whorls.

  A diamond that her hair failed to conceal

  Gleamed like a star behind a comet’s tail.

  In a word—ballroom attire. Too much, some gentry

  Complained, for a normal dinner in the country.

  Though her skirt was shortish, her feet could not be spied

  For she moved quickly—in fact, she seemed to glide

  Like a figure in a crib viewed on Twelfth Night,

  Moved secretly by children hidden from sight.

  She hurried by, nodding to everyone,

  However—there’d been more guests than chairs, and so

  There were four long benches; either the whole row

  Should move, or she would need to climb across.

  The newcomer squeezed with splendid nimbleness

  Wishing to be seated. Easier said than done,

  Between two benches; then, like a billiard ball

  She passed between the diners and their meal.

  As she slid past Tadeusz, her outfit caught

  On someone’s knee; she lost her footing, put

  A hand on Tadeusz’s arm unwittingly;

  She offered a polite apology,

  Then finally she slipped into her spot

  Between his uncle and him. She didn’t eat,

  However—just fanned herself; toyed with the fan;

  And, straightening her collar, she began

  With the very lightest touch to stroke her hair,

  Brushing the brightly colored ribbons there.

  The silence lasted for four minutes or so.

  During this time, voices began to grow

  Far down the table—quiet at first, then mounting:

  The men were talking over that day’s hunting.

  Assessor and Notary ever more loudly

  Were sparring about a bobtailed sighthound proudly

  Owned by the Notary, who was heard to swear

  His dog had been the one to catch the hare.

  To spite him, the Assessor then swore blind

  It had been Falcon—the Assessor’s hound.

  Others were asked their views; each man replied,

  Taking, now Bobtail’s, and now Falcon’s side,

  Either as experts or as witnesses.

  At the other end, the Judge turned to address

  His new-come neighbor. He murmured: “We had to sit,

  “I’m sorry—dinner really couldn’t wait.

  The guests were hungry—they’d walked a long, long way.

  I didn’t think you’d be joining us today.”

  This said, he and the Chamberlain, glasses full,

  Talked quietly of things political.

  With both ends of the table thus engrossed

  Tadeusz scrutinized the latest guest.

  The moment that he’d seen the empty seat there

  He’d known immediately who would eat there.

  He reddened now, his heart beat furiously.

  His secret guesses, then, had come to be!

  Fate had decreed that the beauty he had spied

  So fleetingly, should now sit by his side.

  True, in her gown she had a fuller figure—

  But clothes make some things smaller, some things bigger.

  The hair he’d seen was blond, and short in back;

  Here it was long behind, and raven black.

  It must have happened from the evening light—

  At times like that, the sun makes all things bright.

  He hadn’t seen her face; but now he added

  From his own fancy, all the detail needed.

  She must have had dark eyes, a pallid air,

  Lips like red cherries—for this lady here

  Had just such eyes, and lips, and countenance.

  Age might have been the biggest difference:

  The garden girl had seemed quite young; this one,

  However, was a woman fully grown.

  But youngsters never query beauty’s years.

  Each lovely woman’s youthful, and appears

  The young man’s age—in their naivety

  Whoever they love is pure and maidenly.

  Tadeusz now was nearly twenty; since

  Childhood, the city had been his residence.

  His guardian there, however, had been a priest

  Who thought old-fashioned strictness to be best.

  Thus, he had brought back to his native land

  A pure heart, righteous soul, and lively mind—

  Along with a strong craving to cut loose.

  He’d promised himself that at his uncle’s house

  He’d relish the freedom that he’d lacked so long.

  He knew he was good-looking, vigorous, young;

  His parents had bequeathed him health and haleness—

  For the Soplicas are not known for frailness.

  They’re all robust, well-built, and powerful—

  Ideal for soldiering, not so good in school.

  Tadeusz was no different from the rest:

  He rode on horseback well, walked with the best,

  Was far from stupid, but in class was trailing,

  Although his uncle lavished on his schooling.

  Swordplay and shooting he enjoyed the most.

  He knew he’d been destined for an army post—

  His father had declared it in his will.

  He’d longed for the tattoo while stuck in school.

  His uncle, though, had suddenly changed the plan—

  Brought him back home, meant him to marry, then

  Take over the place; he’d promised him he’d get

  First a small village, then the whole estate.

  Having, then, many a worthy quality,

  Tadeusz drew his neighbor’s scrutiny.

  She measured up his tall and well-shaped form—

  Noted the powerful chest, the muscled arm—

&nb
sp; Looked in his face, which reddened every time

  Her eyes encountered his: having overcome

  Every last bit of his initial chariness,

  His warm, straight stare was now devoid of wariness.

  And she looked too—two pairs of eyes, ablaze

  Like Advent candles, in a double gaze.

  He’d come from the city, had just graduated,

  So she asked about new books, and how he rated

  Their authors (she spoke in French), while his replies

  Led to more questions touching on his views.

  And then—well, then she turned to music, dance,

  Art, sculpture too. Her knowledge was immense,

  Whether of canvas, score, or printed word.

  Her learning left Tadeusz stunned, and scared

  That he’d end up exposed to ridicule;

  He stammered like a pupil quizzed in school.

  Luckily his pretty teacher was not strict;

  Sensing the source of his unease, she picked

  Another theme, less learnèd, more forgiving—

  The trials and tediums of country living,

  How one needs fun, how to use time out here

  To make life merrier and pleasanter.

  Tadeusz’s replies were now more bold;

  In half an hour they were like friends of old.

  They’d their own jokes, mock arguments. In time

  She placed three balls of bread in front of him:

  Three people to choose; he touched the nearest one.

  Both of the Chamberlain’s daughters gave a frown.

  Tadeusz’s neighbor laughed, but did not state

  Who the ball picked was meant to designate.

  Far down the table, things took a different course:

  Falcon’s supporters, gaining now in force,

  Fell ruthlessly on Bobtail’s advocates.

  The quarrel was mighty—food was left on plates,

  They stood and drank, and argued furiously.

  Harshest and stubbornest was the Notary.

  Once started, he went on without restraint,

  With forceful motions stressing every point

  (He’d been a lawyer, Notary Bolesta;

  They’d called him Preacher, for his love of gesture).

  His arms were at his sides now, elbows bent,

  Long fingernails held out to represent

  Two hounds on leashes; in this graphic way

  He was just ending: “‘Attaboy!’ we say,

  And loose them both at once, Assessor and I,

  Like two shots from one barrel. ‘Attaboy!’

  The hare now slips into a wheatfield. Hup!

  They follow,” (his hands ran down the tabletop,

  The fingers strangely mimicking the hounds)

  “Cut it off from the wood. Hop! Falcon bounds,