Speedy but too impulsive—there he goes,
Out in front of Bobtail by a nose.
I knew he’d fail—the hare was far too shrewd.
It feinted toward the fields; the pack pursued.
“The hare is smart! Seeing the pack bunched up
It leaps, turns right; the daft dogs follow; now: hop!
It dodges left with two jumps; both hounds chase it,
It makes the wood, then—snap! My Bobtail has it!”
His hands had fully crossed the tabletop
As he leaned forward after them, and: “Snap!”
He boomed again right by Tadeusz’s ear.
Tadeusz and his neighbor jumped to hear
This violent utterance; their heart-to-heart
Broke off abruptly and they pulled apart
Like treetops twined together, when gusty winds
Untie them; under the table their two hands,
Lying close to one another, swiftly fled
While both their faces blushed a single red.
Tadeusz, to hide the fact he was put out,
Said: “Notary, you’re right without a doubt—
Bobtail looks good. If he retrieves well too—”
“Not retrieve well?” The Notary roared anew.
“My favorite hound?!” So now Tadeusz raved
About how the dog was handsome, well-behaved.
He’d not seen Bobtail till the hunt was done,
He said, and missed the moment when he shone.
At this the Assessor shook, put his glass down,
And gave Tadeusz a basilisk-like frown.
The Assessor was less shrill, less fidgety,
Slimmer and smaller than the Notary—
But feared at council meets, masked balls; they said
His tongue was sharper than a razor blade.
His quips were so well turned they could have been
In the calendar—and every one was mean.
Once rich, he’d used up all his legacy
And his young brother’s too, playing grandee
In society. Now, as regional official,
He wished to be a local someone special.
He loved to hunt—for the pleasure of it, and too
Because the horn, the sight of the battue
Recalled his youthful years, when he’d possessed
Marksmen in droves, hounds known to be the best.
Now, in his kennels, only two dogs remained
And here one of the two was being impugned.
Stroking his sideburns, he approached and said
Smiling (it was a smile to leave you dead):
“Tailless dogs are like gentry with no title.
Hounds need their tails for speed; while you, sir, settle
For taillessness as virtue. But you know what,
Let’s ask your aunt here what she thinks of that.
Though Madame Telimena’s newly come
And lives in the capital, she’s more at home
Than our young fellows here with hunting lore—
Such knowledge comes with age, and not before.”
Tadeusz, staggered by this thunderclap,
Confounded, speechless for the while, stood up
And glared at his rival ever more fiercely. Then—
It was most fortunate—the Chamberlain
Sneezed twice. “Bless you!” all cried; the Chamberlain bowed,
Then tapped his snuffbox. Gold it was, its lid
Mounted with diamonds; opening it, you spied
A portrait of King Stanisław inside.
The father of the Chamberlain had been handed it
By the King himself; the Chamberlain now minded it.
Tapping it meant he wished to take the floor.
All, then, fell quiet and dared to talk no more.
He spoke:
“My worthy gentry! Hunting debates
Belong out in the fields and woods by rights.
At home here, I can’t give my final word.
Till tomorrow, then, the matter is deferred;
For now, though, no more arguments will be tried.
Bailiff! Announce that court will resume outside.
Tomorrow the Count and all the hunting men
Are coming. Judge, you’ll also join us then,
Madame Telimena, all the ladies too.
The finest hunting party shall ensue!
The Warden also surely will join in.”
He passed the snuffbox to that gentleman.
The Warden sat with the hunters down the table,
Eyes closed, saying nothing, though throughout the squabble
All the young men kept asking for his views
For none could match his hunting expertise.
Still silent, he held the snuff he’d taken stuck
Between his fingers, then at last partook.
He sneezed so loud the beams shook overhead
Then, with a rueful, bitter smile he said:
“I’m saddened and surprised in my old age.
The old-time hunters—how do you think they’d judge
Such a host of gentlemen plunged one and all
In a dispute about a sighthound’s tail?
If Rejtan of old came back, what would he say?
He’d scuttle back to his grave, and there he’d stay!
And Voivode Niesiołowski—how would he
React? His hounds are the best that there can be,
He keeps two hundred marksmen, nets in colossal
Wagonloads, out in his Worończa castle,
As lords will do. For years he’s stayed there, though,
Monklike; no one can can get him hunting now—
Even Białopiotrowicz was rejected!
On your hunts, though, what game can be expected?
How would it look for hares to be the prey
Of such a man, as the fashion is today?
In my time, sir, hunters would only name
Wild boars, moose, bears, or wolves as noble game.
Beasts with no fangs, or horns, or claws—these were
Left for a servant or a laborer.
And birdshot on a hunt? No gentleman
Would deign to be defiled by such a gun.
True, greyhounds were kept, for some poor hare might come
And start up underfoot as they rode home.
The dogs were loosed then for amusement’s sake
And little boys on ponies tried their luck,
Their parents barely watching, let alone
Getting embroiled in rows about who won!
So, Chamberlain, if you please sir, countermand
The orders you just gave, and understand:
I cannot join a hunt of that persuasion,
Nor show my face on any such occasion!
Hreczecha is my name, and since the years
Of old King Lech, Hreczechas don’t hunt hares.”
Here, though, the young folks’ laughter drowned him out.
All rose from dinner, the Chamberlain first—his right
By age and rank. He nodded as he passed
To the ladies, the older men, the youngsters last.
The friar came after, then the Judge. The latter
Offered his arm up to the Chamberlain’s daughter;
Tadeusz led Telimena; Assessor and Notary
The Carver’s and Warden’s girls respectively.
Tadeusz with some guests went to the barn;
He felt confused, and angry, and forlorn.
He thought through the day’s events; as he reviewed
His chance encounter, the lady by his side
At dinner, that one word—“aunt”—buzzed in his ear
Like a pesky
fly that will not disappear.
He sought the Bailiff, hoping to learn more
About Madame Telimena; he wasn’t there,
However, nor the Warden—after dinner
Both men had followed the guests back to the manor,
As servants should, to have their beds made up—
That’s where the ladies and older men would sleep.
Tadeusz was asked to show the rest the way
Down to the barn, where they’d bed down in the hay.
Half an hour later, the whole estate was still
As in a priory at the vesper bell.
The only sound was the nightwatchman’s shout.
All slept. The Judge, though, could not rest just yet.
As host, he had to plan the next day’s jaunt
And the big dinner that would crown the hunt—
Give orders to headsmen, barn men, managers,
Bookkeepers, shooters, cooks, grooms, overseers;
Look over all the day’s accounts. At last
He told the Bailiff that he’d take his rest.
The Bailiff then removed the Judge’s sash—
Słuck handiwork, its tassels bright and lush.
One side had crimson flowers on cloth of gold;
The other, silver check on black silk field.
Either side could equally be worn:
Gold to mark special days, or black to mourn.
The Bailiff alone knew how it was unknotted
Then folded. As he did all this, he chatted:
“So what if I used the castle to serve dinner,
Sir? No one lost, while you may be the winner.
Right now the legal case is coming up
And since this evening we have ownership.
Despite the other side’s relentlessness
I’ll show that we already own the place.
Serving a dinner on the grounds is making it
Quite clear you have possession, or are taking it.
We’ll call our very foes as witnesses—
I used to often see that kind of ruse.”
The Judge was asleep. The Bailiff left the room
And sat by a candle with a little tome
That he kept with him like the Book of Prayer.
He had it at home, on journeys—everywhere.
It was a lawsuit register—a list
Of all the high court cases from the past
That he himself had cried before the court
Or that he’d learned of later by report.
To non-initiates mere lists of names,
For him they’re vivid tales. He reads and dreams:
Radziwiłł v. Wereszczaka; Ogiński v. Wizgird; Rymsza
V. Wysogierd; Dominicans v. Rymsza;
Giedrojć v. Rodułtowski; Obuchowski
V. Jewish elders; Juracha v. Piotrowski;
Maleski v. Mickiewicz; and, to end,
The Count v. Soplica. Each one brings to mind
Memories of how the trial progressed; he sees
The judge, both parties, all the witnesses;
And, by the bar, he sees his own self stand
In dark blue kontusz and white żupan, one hand
Upon his sword, the other beckoning
The sides. “Silence in court!” he’s ordering.
Daydreaming as he said his prayers, the last
Lithuanian high court bailiff now undressed.
Such were the sports and squabbles in the quiet
Of Lithuania, as the wide world ran riot
In blood and tears, and that man—god of war
Flanked by his armies, with cannon by the score,
His chariot drawn by eagles silver and gold,
From Libyan wastes to Alpine summits sailed
Strewing thunderbolts on Egypt, Tabor’s plain,
Marengo, Ulm, Austerlitz. Triumph and gain
Preceded him and followed. His loud deeds,
Resounding with names of knights, from the Pyramids
And the River Nile ran north to Niemen’s banks
Then bounced, as from a cliff, from Moscow’s ranks
Guarding Lithuania behind an iron screen
From glory that was for Russia like a bane.
At times, though, like a rock falling from sky,
News would arrive; some beggar who’d come by,
Armless or legless, once he’d pocketed
What he’d been given, would glance to either side
And, seeing no Russian troops about the place
Nor yarmulke, nor the red-collared police,
He would admit he’d soldiered with the legions
And now had limped back to his native regions
That his old bones no longer could defend.
Servant and master alike would shake his hand,
Weeping. The man would join them at their table
And tell them tales stranger than any fable.
He’d speak of General Dąbrowski, who had planned
To march from Italy to Polish land,
Massing his fellow Poles on Lombard soil.
And of Kniaziewicz at Rome’s Capitol,
Crushing the caesars’ heirs, and tossing down
Before the French the bloodied flags he’d won;
Of Jabłonowski, who went voyaging
Where the sugarcane grows, and in eternal spring
Makes fragrant forests; from Danube’s shores they’d come
To quell the Negroes, and to yearn for home.
The veteran’s words were passed from mouth to ear.
A young man, hearing them, would disappear;
Stealing by wood and marsh, the Tsar in chase,
He’d jump in the Niemen and would swim across
Unseen to the Duchy of Warsaw; reaching land
He’d hear a cordial greeting: “Welcome, friend!”
Before going on, he’d find a rock to climb
And call back to the Russians: “Till next time!”
Gorecki left so, Różycki, Obuchowicz,
Piotrowski, Obolewski, Pac, Janowicz,
The Mirzejewski and Bernatowicz brothers,
Brochocki, Kupść, Gedymin, countless others:
Left kin, the land they loved, all their possessions,
Which then were confiscated by the Russians.
At times, from a distant priory a friar
Would pass through; once he was familiar
With the local gentry, he’d show a newspaper
Sewn secretly into his scapular.
It told the legions’ size, each officer’s name,
His victories, or when his end had come.
For the first time in years, the family
Learned of their son’s life, glory, death maybe.
The house would go into mourning, though for whom,
None dared to say; the neighbors would assume.
This family’s muted grief, or gladness, would
Serve as a broadsheet for the neighborhood.
Robak was such a secret go-between,
Some said; he and the Judge were often seen
Talking together, after which some news
Would circulate. You sensed from certain clues
This monk here hadn’t always worn the cowl
Or grown up in a cloister. First of all
Above his temple, over the right ear
A cut wide as a hand had left a scar.
His chin bore a recent mark from lance or shot;
These wounds weren’t there from praying, like as not.
Nor was it just his wounds, or steely eye—
His movements and his voice were soldierly.
At Mass, turning with hands aloft to say
“The Lord be wi
th you” to those in church that day,
He’d often wheel so neatly you’d have sworn
Some officer had ordered: “About turn!”
When he performed the liturgy, he’d sound
Like a commander on the drilling-ground—
The altar boys would notice. He knew more
Of politics than of religious lore.
As he collected alms, traveling about
He’d often linger in the county seat.
He kept busy—receiving letters, taking care
Never to read them with a stranger there;
Or sending messengers—though he’d never say
Just where, or why. At night he’d make his way
To manor houses, whispering with the gentry,
Or visit villages in the nearby country,
Talking in inns with the local populace—
Always of happenings in some foreign place.
He’d come now to the Judge, who for an hour
Had been asleep; no doubt he’d news to share.
Book II: The Castle
Hunting with hounds – A visitor at the castle –
The last courtier tells the story of the last Horeszko –
A glance at the orchard – The young girl among the cucumbers –
Breakfast – Madame Telimena’s Petersburg anecdote –
The quarrel over Bobtail and Falcon breaks out again –
Robak intervenes – The Warden speaks – A wager –
Off to hunt mushrooms!
Which of us can forget that boyhood time
When, gun on shoulder, whistling, you would roam
Where dikes and fences never hinder you,
And just who owned the land, nobody knew!
For in Lithuania hunters traipse
Wherever they please, like ocean-going ships!
They gaze like prophets at a cloud-filled sky
Where signs are legible to a huntsman’s eye,
Or talk like wizards to the earth, which, noiseless
To townsfolk, to their ear is far from voiceless.
The corncrake shrieks in the meadow—hidden though
As it passes, like a pike in Niemen’s flow.
A springtime morning bell sounds in the air:
A skyborne lark, concealed somewhere up there.
Here, on broad wings a soaring eagle scares
Some sparrows, like a comet frightening tsars.
Elsewhere a hawk flutters its wings up high
Looking just like a pinned-down butterfly
Till, spying in the meadow bird or hare,
It plummets earthward like a falling star.
Ah, when will the Lord permit the wanderer
To settle in his native land once more—
Pan Tadeusz Page 5