To serve in the cavalry that fights with hares,
The infantry battling game birds in its wars,
Sickle and scythe the only arms he’ll meet,
No papers but the household balance sheet!
On Soplicowo the sun made its return.
It shone on roofs, and crept into the barn
Through holes in the dim thatch; like ribbons streaming
From braided hair, light scattered—golden, gleaming—
Across the fresh-cut, fragrant dark green hay
Where the young men had slept the night away.
The sunbeams tickled the sleepers on the jaw
As a young girl wakes her lover with a straw.
Sparrows were chirping by the ceiling beams;
The gander had already honked three times,
Echoed by hosts of ducks and turkeys; going
Out to their pasture now, cattle were lowing.
The others were up; Tadeusz, though, lay still.
He’d been the last to sleep; the evening meal
Had thrown him so, that when the rooster crowed
He still had been awake; he’d spun and slewed
Until he was deep in hay. Now, snug in place
He was asleep, till cold air struck his face—
The barn door had creaked open noisily
And Father Robak entered with a cry
Of “Surge, puer!” Arms brusquely outspread,
He brandished his knotted belt above his head.
Outside, shouts sounded from the hunting group—
Horses were being led out, wagons pulled up.
The courtyard barely fit the gathering crowd;
The kennels were opened, bugle calls rang loud;
The dogs burst in. Yapping for sheer delight,
Seeing the houndsmen and the collars they’d brought
They rushed like mad across the yard and back
Then ran to have the leash put round their neck.
All boded well for the hunt about to start.
At last the Chamberlain signaled to depart.
The houndsmen moved off slowly in a huddle;
Outside they formed a long line. In the middle
Notary and Assessor rode together,
And though at times they sneered at one another,
They talked and smiled like men of honor about
To put to rest a life-and-death dispute,
Their fierce resolve concealed. The first of them
Led Bobtail, Falcon the second. The ladies came
In carriages behind. Trotting alongside,
The young men chatted with them on the ride.
The friar paced the courtyard steadily,
Finishing the morning prayers, but with one eye
On Pan Tadeusz. He frowned, then smiled toward him
And beckoned him. Tadeusz rode up beside him.
Robak raised a finger as a caution.
Tadeusz asked him for an explanation
Of what this gesture was supposed to mean,
But none was given by the Bernardine,
Who, eyes down, raised his hood and finished his prayer.
Tadeusz returned to where the others were.
Just then, the hunters pulled the dogs up short.
The party stopped; fingers to lips, all sought
To quiet the others. Every eye was glued
Upon a boulder where the Judge now stood.
He had seen game, and now with wordless motions
Was issuing his various dispositions.
All understood, and stayed put; Notary
And Assessor trotted forward gingerly.
Tadeusz, closer, passed them on their route,
Stopped near the Judge and watched it all play out.
It was so long since he’d been out; the hare
Was hard to see, among gray boulders there.
The Judge pointed it out; the poor thing sat
By a large rock, ears pricked. Its red eye met—
As if it were bewitched—the hunters’ eyes;
It seemed to have foreseen its own demise.
For fear it could not turn its gaze from theirs;
Lifeless as rock, by rocks it faced their stares.
Meanwhile, a dust cloud fast approached the prey:
Bobtail and Falcon, leashed, straining away.
Assessor and Notary, close behind them, cried:
“Sick him!” then vanished in dust-haze side by side.
During this time, beside the castle wood
The Count showed up. All in the neighborhood
Knew well that for this man, no earthly power
Could make him come at the appointed hour.
He’d overslept again, blaming his staff.
Spotting the hunting group, he galloped off,
His English frock coat flapping in the wind
With long white tails; his servants rode behind
In shiny little mushroom-shaped black hats,
White britches, and multicolored boots and coats.
At the Count’s palace those among his lackeys
He chose to dress this way, were known as jockeys.
As they rode out, the Count happened to glance
Toward the castle—and pulled up at once.
He’d never seen it by the light of dawn
And couldn’t believe these were the walls he’d known,
So fresh and handsome did they now appear.
This new perspective startled him. The tower,
Looming through mist, seemed twice its normal height;
The metal roof shone gold in the soft light.
Remains of window-panes glinted below,
Breaking the sun’s rays in a colored bow.
The lower stories were enswathed in cloud,
Their clefts and jags concealed beneath this shroud.
The distant hunters’ cries borne on the wind
Came echoing off the walls; you’d have sworn blind
They came from within the mist—that there inside
The place was being rebuilt, reoccupied.
The count loved sights exceptional and new.
He said they were romantic; said he too
Was a romantic (a crank is what he was).
Sometimes, tracking a fox or hare, he’d pause
And all at once look dolefully at the sky
Like cats do, seeing a sparrow perched up high.
He’d often wander with no dog or gun
Like someone fleeing enlistment; he’d sit down
Beside a stream, head bent, quite still—the way
A heron hunts for fish with just its eye.
Such were the Count’s strange ways; everyone said
Something was wanting in the fellow’s head.
He was respected though—of ancient stock,
Rich, kind to the peasants, good with local folk,
Including the Jews.
His horse, turned from its route,
Galloped through fields up to the castle gate.
Alone now, the Count sighed, studied what he saw,
Took pencil and paper, and began to draw.
Then, glancing sideways, twenty yards away
He saw a man—another devotee
Of sights—who, hands in pockets, head tipped back,
Seemed to be counting every piece of rock.
He knew him, but had to call him twice or thrice
Before Gerwazy finally heard his voice.
This gentleman, who’d been a courtier
Of the castle’s lord, was the last follower
Of the Horeszko line. Gray-haired and trim
He stood, his ruddy face wrinkled and grim.
He’d once been famo
us for his mirthful side,
But since the fight in which his lord had died
He’d changed, and now it had been many years
Since he had gone to weddings or to fairs.
His wit had not been heard all of this while,
Nor had his face been seen to wear a smile.
He always wore his master’s livery—
A coat with tails, gallooned—yellow today,
Though likely it was gold once. It displayed
The house’s Półkozic badge in silken braid.
Because of this, the aging gentleman
Acquired the nickname of “Półkozic”; then,
Because of a phrase he uttered endlessly,
They’d dubbed him “My Good Man”; and finally
“Scars”—his bald head bore sword-cuts all criss-crossed.
His real name was Rębajło, though; his crest,
Nobody knew. He styled himself “Steward,” since
Such was his office in the household once.
A cord that bore the keys to all the castle
Hung from his belt still, on a silver tassel.
There were no locks now in the open yard;
But he’d found a double door, had it repaired
At his own cost, installed it, and would play
At locking and unlocking it each day.
He chose one empty chamber as a home.
At the Count’s place he could have had a room,
But wouldn’t: he felt homesick everywhere
Except where he could breathe the castle air.
Seeing the Count—his former masters’ kin—
He snatched his cap off and he bowed. The skin
Gleamed from a distance on his hairless nob
Hatched this way, that way like a much-used club.
He stroked it with a hand, approached; again
He bowed, then said forlornly: “My good man—
Pardon me for this form of talking, Count,
It’s just my way, no disrespect is meant.
‘My good man’—all the Horeszkos spoke thuswise;
My lord, the Pantler, often used the phrase.
My good man, is it true that you won’t pay
For lawyers—that you’re giving this place away
To the Soplicas? So folk say, but I—
I can’t believe it.” He looked round with a sigh.
“Well, yes,” said the Count. “It’s costly, and it’s dull.
This gentleman’s persistent—he can tell
He’s tired me out. I’ve had enough. Today
I’m laying down arms—whatever the court will say,
I’ll settle now.” “With the Soplicas, sir?”
Exclaimed Gerwazy. “Settle? Are you sure?
With the Soplicas, my good man?” He frowned
As if the word he’d used had left him stunned.
“Settle? With them? You’re joking, by my soul—
That the Horeszkos’ ancient home should fall
Into Soplica hands? Let’s go and see.
Get off your horse now—please don’t disagree.
Otherwise you won’t know what you’re losing, Count!”
He held the stirrup for him to dismount.
They went in the castle. Pointing to the hall,
Gerwazy said: “After the evening meal
My lord sat here with his courtiers, reconciling
Peasant disputes, or genially telling
Amusing stories, anecdotes, and jokes
To his guests; outside meanwhile, the younger folks
Would either be practicing swordplay in the yard
Or breaking the Tartar horses of their lord.”
Entering the hall, Gerwazy said: “Back then,
In good times the gentry drank more casks of wine
Than there are floor-slabs in this whole vast room.
They’d hoist them from the cellars when they’d come
For county or provincial parliaments,
For my lord’s namesday parties, or for hunts.
At feasts, the band played in that gallery—
An organ, various instruments there’d be.
At every toast, the trumpets placed up there
Would blast like doomsday; cheer would follow cheer.
The first was raised for the King’s well-being; then
The Primate’s; then Her Majesty the Queen,
The gentry, the whole Republic; and at the end,
After the fifth cup had been poured and drained,
They’d cry: Let us love one another! The cheers, begun
In daylight still, went on until the dawn.
Fine carriages and simple carts stood by
To take each guest back to their hostelry.”
They’d passed through several rooms. Gerwazy stared
At ceiling or at wall, without a word,
Recalling something pleasurable or sad.
At times, as if declaring: “All is fled,”
He woefully shook his head or waved a hand—
These memories had clearly left him pained,
He wished them gone. Upstairs they came at last
To a great room that had been in the past
A hall of mirrors; now all you could see
Were empty frames and windows. A gallery
Overlooked the gate. Gerwazy hid his eyes
In his cupped hands, head bowed in thought. His gaze,
When he looked up, showed grief and hopelessness.
What all this meant, the young man could not guess;
Yet he was moved by old Gerwazy’s look.
He shook the Steward’s hand; neither man spoke.
Then, raising his right hand, Gerwazy said:
“Between Soplicas and Horeszko blood
There is no settling. That means your blood, Count:
Your mother, wife of the Master of the Hunt,
Was born to the second girl of the Castellan—
Uncle to the Pantler, my old lord. So then:
Listen to a tale from your own family
That took place in the very room you see.
“The Pantler, hereabouts unparalleled
In rank and fortune, had a single child,
A daughter lovely as an angel; she
Was courted by gentry, by aristocracy.
Among the former was a tearaway—
Named Jacek Soplica—‘Voivode’ they would say
In jest, but locally he had authority:
As ‘head’ of the Soplica family
He had three hundred votes at his command,
Though all he owned was a small piece of land,
A sword, and whiskers that reached from ear to ear.
The Pantler would invite the fellow here,
Especially for council convocations,
Being kind to his supporters and relations.
Jacek, made proud by the preference he saw,
Fancied he’d be the Pantler’s son-in-law.
He’d come more and more often uninvited,
Until he virtually lived here. He decided
That he’d propose, but the family knew, and he
Was served black soup—a sign it could not be.
The girl was sweet on him by all accounts,
But hid it from her parents. These events
Took place in Kościuszko’s times. My lord supported
The May 3rd Constitution; he had started
To rally the gentry to go join the fight:
Then the Russians ringed the castle late one night.
They’d barely time to fire the mortar in warning,
Then close and bar the lower gate. That morning
The only ones here were my lord, his lady,
me,
The cook and two kitchen helpers—drunk all three—
The priest, a lackey, four haiduks—these stood armed
At the windows, bold men all. The Russians swarmed
From the gate across the terrace with a cheer.
We fired back with ten guns: ‘Off with you there!’
You could see nothing. From the lower floors
The servants fired, my lord and I from upstairs.
Despite the commotion, everything seemed fine:
Here on the floor lay twenty guns in line;
We’re fire one, another would be handed us—
The priest did this, the lady of the house,
Her daughter, and each young lady courtier.
Three men alone kept up unbroken fire.
The Russian foot rained bullets from below.
We fired back less; our aim was better though.
Three times those peasant soldiers reached the door;
Three times we pushed them back, made them retire
Behind the barn. The sun rose. Gleefully
The Pantler went out on the gallery,
And every time a Russian head peered out
He fired that instant—never missed his shot—
One more black helmet tumbled in the grass.
Fewer and fewer dared to show their face.
“Seeing the enemy so cowed, my lord
Decided to attack. Drawing his sword
He shouted orders from the gallery
To his men, then said: ‘Gerwazy, follow me!’
But a shot came from the gate; he faltered, stood;
Flushed, and then blanched; he tried to speak, coughed blood.
I saw on his chest the place where he’d been hit.
Staggering, he pointed down toward the gate.
I saw the villain Soplica there! I saw him!
By his height, by his whiskered face, I knew him!
That man had shot my lord! I saw his gun,
Barrel still raised, still smoking. He was the one!
I drew a bead; he stood as if nonplussed.
I fired two shots at him; both times I missed—
Whether from rage, or grief, my aim was bad.
The women screamed, I looked: my lord was dead.”
Gerwazy, eyes abrim with tears, fell mute,
Then finished: “The Russians were breaking down the gate,
For after the Pantler died I stood there, blind
To all the turmoil going on around.
Fortunately the Parafianowiczes
Relieved us, bringing two hundred Mickiewiczes
From Horbatowicze—fine, courageous men
With age-old hatred for Soplica’s kin.
“So died a mighty, righteous, pious man
With senators and hetmans in his line;
Pan Tadeusz Page 6