Fair one, I’m sure it’s some rejected suitor,
A wealthy lord, perhaps, or jealous tutor
Who holds you spellbound in this palace yard.
You should have paladins to be your guard!
And be the heroine of sad romances!
Tell me your cruel and secret circumstances!
You’ll have a rescuer—from now, just call.
You rule my heart—then rule my arm as well.”
He showed the arm.
The girl heard him red-faced,
But smiling also, like a child engrossed
As he watches colored pictures, or regards
The shiny counters used when playing cards,
Before he knows their worth—so was her ear
Charmed by fine words whose meaning was unclear.
Finally she asked: “Where did you come from, sir,
Here in the flower beds? What are you looking for?”
The Count, embarrassed and nonplussed, just stared
In silence, then, lowering his tone, declared:
“Pardon me, miss! I spoiled your games—I’m sorry.
You see, I found myself having to hurry
To breakfast at the manor; it was late,
And as you know, the road leads round about.
I thought I’d get there quicker through the garden.”
“You will, sir, but I wish you hadn’t trodden
Through the vegetable patch,” the girl said. “Just go straight,
Across the lawn.” “To the left or to the right?”
Asked the Count. The girl lifted her pale blue eyes
And studied him in curious surprise,
For the manor could be seen as plain as day
Half a mile hence—why would he ask the way?
But he was desperate for any excuse
To talk.
“Is it here you live? Or somewhere close?
In the village? How have I never noticed you
At the manor? You’re new here? Or just passing through?”
The girl shook her head. “Pardon the question, miss,
But is your room where that small window is?”
A heroine of romance she may not be,
He thought—but young and lovely, certainly.
So often some great spirit or mind that grows
In solitude, thrives like a forest rose.
Just bring it out and place it in the light
And it shines with a thousand colors, strong and bright.
Meanwhile the gardener stood in silent calm,
Picked up one child who hung upon her arm,
Took another’s hand and, shooing the rest together
Ahead of her like geese, she moved on further.
Turning, she said: “Sir, would you mind perhaps
Driving my poultry back among the crops?”
“Herd poultry? Me?” the Count exclaimed, dismayed.
By now the girl had vanished in the shade
Of trees; a pair of eyes flashed at an angle
A moment longer, from the Maytime tangle.
The Count stood long in the garden all alone;
His soul, like the earth after the sun’s gone down,
Was slowly cooling, acquiring darker tones.
He dreamed there, and his dreams weren’t pleasant ones.
He stirred, not knowing who he was angry at;
Alas, his expectations were too great!
As he’d been crawling toward the shepherdess
His head had been on fire, his heart no less.
He’d seen in her such sweet obscurities,
Cloaked her in wonders, read such mysteries!
He’d found reality quite different. True,
She was slim, and pretty—but so awkward too!
Round face and ruddy cheeks—such things express
Only a needless, vulgar happiness!
They show that the mind still sleeps, the heart’s unused.
Her speech—rustic and common! “Disabused!”
He cried. “Mistaken! Wonders never cease!
My enigmatic nymph watches the geese!”
With the nymph gone, the whole enchanting sight
Had changed: the ribbons, the lattice gleaming bright
With silver and gold—was all that merely straw?
Wringing his hands, the Count looked down and saw
A sheaf of bentgrass that was tied together,
Which he had taken for an ostrich feather.
Then there was Amalthea’s horn, that pure
Gold cup—it was a carrot, nothing more!
He saw the children biting it with glee.
So: no more wonders! No more mystery!
Like when a young boy sees a chicory flower
Whose pale soft blueness has a magnetic power
That makes him want to stroke it. He draws near,
Blows—and the flower bursts and scatters in air,
Leaving the curious youngster flowerless,
And clutching a naked stalk of dark green grass.
The Count pulled down his hat; he turned about
And set off back, though he chose a shorter route—
On vegetables, flowers, and gooseberries he walked
Till he hopped the fence with great relief. He’d talked
Of breakfast—what if all the others knew
Of his accidental garden rendezvous?
Were they looking for him? Had they seen him slinking
Hither and thither? What might they be thinking?
He should go back.
He sidled furtively
By bush and hedgerow, and field boundary,
Till at last he came out on the road that led
To the manor. He sauntered by the fence, his head
Turned from the orchard like a thief whose glance
Avoids a granary, hiding the fact he plans
To plunder it—or did already. Thus,
As if someone was watching—though no one was—
He looked away from the garden, to his right.
There was a birch grove here. Amid the white
Of tree trunks, on a lush green carpet, domed
By a canopy of May-decked boughs, there roamed
A strange-clad throng moving bizarrely, almost
As if they danced. Each truly was a ghost
Wandering the moon. Some wore tight black; some though
Were dressed in flowing robes as white as snow.
One is bare-headed; one wears a hat whose brim
Is broad as a carriage wheel; while others seem
Enwrapped in cloud—they sport a kind of veil
That streams behind them like a comet’s tail.
Each has a different pose; one’s glued to the ground,
His lowered eyes scouring the earth around.
One’s like a sleepy tightrope walker—gaze
Fixed firmly up ahead, he never strays
To left or right. All though are bending low
Every which way, as if in an endless bow.
When they approach each other, at their meeting
They never speak, nor say a word of greeting,
So lost have they become in their own heads.
The Count was minded of Elysian shades
Who, pain and worry left behind, now stray
Peaceful and quiet, yet somber in their way.
Who would have guessed these mute, slow forms to be
Our very own friends? The Judge’s company!
After their sumptuous breakfast, they’d been aching
To join the solemn rite of mushroom-picking.
Worldly they were, and could adapt their stance
And ways of speech to any circumsta
nce
Of time or place. And thus, before they plunged
Into the woods led by the judge, they’d changed
Their clothing, and in general their look:
Each wore a straw hat, and a walking cloak
Of linen to protect their formal wear.
Hence the resemblance that they seemed to bear
To purgatorial souls. The young folks there
(Except for Telimena) had all changed too—
Some dressed à la française.
The Count, who knew
Nothing of these country ways, stood there dumbfounded,
Till suddenly—off toward the grove he bounded.
Mushrooms there were aplenty. The young men sought
The chanterelles Lithuanians sing about—
An emblem of virginity, as no worm
Will eat them, nor (strangely) insect land on them.
The ladies looked for the slim boletus known
In song as the mushrooms’ general. And one
And all were hunting milk caps—less auspicious
In size, less sung of, yet the most delicious,
In fall or winter, fresh or in marinade.
The Warden tracked toxic agarics instead.
Some mushrooms were spurned—they languished in disfavor
For being poisonous or lacking flavor,
Yet had their uses—as animal nourishment,
Or insect nests, or woodland ornament.
They stood like tableware in serried lines
On the meadow floor: here were the round designs
Of russulas in their silvers, yellows, reds,
Like goblets filled with wine of different shades;
Boletes, like upturned bowls amid the grasses,
and funnel mushrooms slim as champagne glasses;
White trumpets round and broad and flat, that seem
Like Meissen teacups filled with pure white cream;
While the round puffball, packed with blackish dust,
Was like a pepperpot. Others, unnamed, exist
Only in the speech of wolves, or hares;
Their number is uncounted. No one cares
To touch these mushrooms; they bend down to them
Then, seeing their mistake, they break the stem
Or crush them underfoot in their distaste.
How wrong to leave the forest so defaced!
But Telimena gathered neither kind.
She was distracted; bored; she looked around,
Her head tipped back. Annoyed, the Notary
Said she was looking for mushrooms up a tree;
The Assessor quipped that she resembled most
A hen seeking a cozy spot to roost.
She seemed to want to find tranquillity
And solitude; leaving the company,
She went through the woods to a hilltop offering shade
Beneath dense trees. In the middle a gray rock stood,
From under which a little brook came tinkling
Then, as if needing shelter, in a twinkling
It hid among the grasses on the bank
Which, watered by the current, grew rich and rank.
Here the quick, playful creature, cloaked in grass
And strewn with leaves, was calm and motionless,
Unseen and murmuring, like a child that’s crying
So its mother puts it in its cradle, trying
To calm it with curtains hung above the bed
And poppy leaves placed underneath its head.
Telimena came often to this place to sit.
The “Temple of Reverie” was her name for it.
She stopped, took off her flowing shawl that was
Red as carnelian, threw it on the grass,
And—like a swimmer who before she dares
To plunge into the chilly water, nears
The edge—she knelt, leaned to the side, and then,
As if the coral stream had drawn her in,
She dropped and stretched full length there. She lay propped
On elbows, hands holding a head that drooped
Over a book in French which she had brought
And which lay close, its vellum glistening white;
Above the alabaster page were twirls
Of her pink ribbons and of her black curls.
On her red shawl, with lush green grass beneath,
In a long dress that like a coral sheath
Showed up her hair at one end, each black shoe
At the other—to the sides the snow-white glow
Of stockings, kerchief, of face and arms—she looked
From afar like a bright caterpillar cocked
On a maple leaf.
And yet, sad to relate,
No one was present to appreciate
This picture; nobody paid heed to her,
So fixed on mushroom-picking they all were.
Tadeusz, though, saw. With many a sideways glance,
Not daring to go straight, he moved askance.
As a hunter in a wheeled blind makes his way
Toward a flock of bustards—or if his prey
Is plovers, hides behind his horse, his gun
Perched on the saddle or the creature’s mane
As if he were doing farm work, nothing more,
Yet closing in to where the birds all are:
So Tadeusz neared the stream.
But before he knew it
The Judge came scuttling up, and beat him to it.
The white tails of his gown frolicked and chased
In the wind, with the scarf knotted around his waist.
The straw hat tied beneath his chin was flopping
Like a burdock leaf from all the motion—dropping
Onto his back, or over his eyes. Unbowed,
Stout walking cane in hand, onward he strode.
Refreshing his hands in the stream, he sat himself
By Telimena, on a rocky shelf
And, both hands resting on the ivory
Of the cane’s grip, he had these words to say:
“You know, my dear, since young Tadeusz returned
There are some things that have me quite concerned.
I’m old, I have no children. That fine boy
Is all my consolation and my joy.
I’ll leave him what wealth I have. God willing, the lad
Will have a decent slice of country bread.
It’s time to plan his future generally.
But here’s the part that’s specially bothering me!
My brother Jacek, Tadeusz’s father, is,
As you know, a strange one; his goals are hard to guess.
He won’t come home; he’s hiding, Lord knows where.
He won’t even let his son know he’s still there,
Alive; yet he runs the boy’s life. At first he planned
That he’d join the legions—which worried me no end.
Then he agreed Tadeusz should stay here,
Get married. I even found a match, my dear:
Here in these parts, there’s not one citizen
Can rival the lineage of the Chamberlain.
His older daughter, Anna, is free, she’s pretty,
And she brings a handsome dowry. I was ready
To start proceedings.”
Here Telimena turned white;
She closed her book; she stood; resumed her seat.
“Honestly, brother,” she said, “Does that make sense?
Is God in your heart? Where’s the benevolence
In making him a rustic? All you’ll do
Is close up his world; he’ll end up cursing you,
Trust me, for burying his abilities
Out here among the wheat f
ields and the trees!
Because from what I’ve seen he’s a bright child.
He should acquire some polish, see the world.
Send him to some big city, that’s what you ought
To do. Warsaw perhaps? Or—here’s a thought—
What about Petersburg? This winter, no doubt
Business will take me there; we’ll figure out,
You and I, how best to fix things for him there.
I’ve many friends. I’ll pull some strings—make sure
He’s welcomed in every influential home.
Once he has connections, soon there’ll come
A civil service post, awards. In the end,
If he likes he can retire, come back to the land,
As a man of weight, who knows a thing or two.
What do you say?”
“When a fellow’s still young, it’s true,”
Said the Judge, “that it’s good to visit different places,
Get used to other sights and other faces.
Myself, I went all over in my youth—
To Piotrków, Dubno, Warsaw even—both
As a lawyer working in the circuit court
Or with regard to cases that I brought.
It did me good, I must say! Now in turn
I’d like to send my nephew off to learn
About the world, as a regular traveler—
A species of apprentice, as it were.
Though not for ranks or medals! No offense,
But all those Russian honors make no sense.
I mean, among the better-off gentry here
In the past—now too—whoever had a care
For things like that? Yet each boasts recognition
For birth, good name—and if for their position,
It’s one they won in local, fair elections,
Not something given by powerful connections.”
Telimena broke in: “Then send him traveling
If that’s what you want.” “Well, sister, here’s the thing:
Much as I’d like to, I’ve another bother,”
The Judge said with a rueful look. “My brother
Insists on minding Tadeusz. To this end,
From over the Vistula he’s sent a friend
To plague me—Robak, the Bernardine monk. This man
Knows Jacek’s mind. They already have a plan
For the boy’s future. They intend for him
To marry Zosia, your ward. The two of them
Will inherit my estate; plus, courtesy
Of Jacek, she’ll have a dowry that will be
In stock (he has stocks and shares, as you’re aware).
Thanks to his generosity, I’m almost there.
So it’s his right to make decisions here.
Pan Tadeusz Page 9