Pan Tadeusz

by Adam Mickiewicz

  Vigorous gestures, instructions issuing

  From many voices, all at once, yet all

  Directed at a single urgent goal.

  “A horseback hunt!” the Judge said with a cheer.

  “Battue at dawn—but beaters to volunteer.

  Each man who comes will be released by me

  From five days’ socage work, two days’ corvée.”

  “Quick! Saddle my gray mare,” said the Chamberlain;

  “Gallop to my house, and quick as you can

  Bring my two mastiffs—they’re famous near and far.

  The dog’s called Sheriff, the bitch Inquisitor.

  For speed’s sake muzzle them, tie them in a sack,

  Then hang them from the saddle, and bring them back.”

  “Vanka!” in Russian the Assessor called his boy.

  “Sharpen my dussack—you know, the one that I

  Was given by Prince Sanguszko. And, you hear,

  Make sure that you load up my bandolier.”

  “Get the guns ready!” every raised voice said.

  While the Assessor cried: “Lead! Lots of lead!

  I’ll take my mold.” “Ask the priest,” the Judge went on,

  “To be at the woodland chapel before the dawn

  And say a nice short service there for us—

  The regular St. Hubert Huntsman’s Mass.”

  After the orders were given, silence came;

  All sank in thought, their eyes seeming to roam

  In search of someone; gradually every glance

  Converged on the Warden’s worthy countenance.

  A captain of the chase must be elected;

  The Warden was the leader they’d selected.

  Grasping what they desired, he rose to stand.

  He rapped on the table solemnly with his hand,

  Then reached inside his pocket, and took from there

  A golden chain with a watch shaped like a pear.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “At half past four we’ll gather

  At the chapel, hunters and beaters all together.”

  Thus saying, he left; the gamekeeper also went.

  Their task it was to plan the coming hunt.

  It felt like the eve of battle, when soldiers wait

  In camp; they sleep on saddles and cloaks, or eat,

  Or check their weapons, blithe and nonchalant,

  While the generals muse in the quiet of their tent.

  Dinner broke off; in the time that still remained

  Horses were shoed, dogs fed, muskets were cleaned.

  Few were at supper; even the sides involved

  In Bobtail v. Falcon, differences resolved

  For now, were searching for lead in common quest—

  Assessor and Notary, arm in arm. The rest,

  Tired from their labors, were by now in bed,

  Knowing they had an early start ahead.

  Book IV: Diplomacy and the Hunt

  A vision in curling papers wakes Tadeusz –

  A mistake perceived too late – The inn – An emissary –

  Deft use of the snuffbox keeps the conversation on track – The lair –

  The bear – Tadeusz and the Count in danger – Three shots –

  The dispute between Sagałas and Sanguszko guns,

  resolved in favor of the Horeszko flintlock – Bigos –

  The Warden’s tale of the duel between Dowejko and

  Domejko, interrupted by the hunting of a hare –

  Conclusion of the tale of Dowejko and Domejko

  Great trees of Białowieża, Świteź, full

  And proud by Kuszelewo, Ponary Hill!

  Your shade once fell on the Grand Dukes of this land:

  On warlike Vytenis, famed Mindaugas, and

  On Gediminas on the hill one day

  As, on a bearskin by a fire, he lay

  Listening to songs from wise Lizdejko—lulled

  By the Wilia, the Wilejka where it purled.

  He dreamed of an iron wolf; and once awake

  He knew the gods had ordered him to make

  The city of Vilna there—which, wolflike, shares

  Its forest home with bison, boars, and bears.

  That city, like the Roman she-wolf, bore

  Kestutis, Algirdas and his sons, who were

  Great knights and mighty hunters—equally so

  Whether they chased their quarry, or their foe.

  This vision revealed the future’s mysteries:

  Our land would always need both iron and trees.

  You woods! Among you the last king to wear

  King Witold’s kalpak did his hunting here:

  Last favored warrior of the Jagiellonians,

  Last hunter king to rule the Lithuanians.

  My native trees! If heaven should ever deign,

  Old friends, to let me visit you again,

  Will I still find you? Have you survived at all?

  I used to play by you when I was small…

  Is Baublis still alive? It was so huge

  That in its innards, hollowed out by age,

  Twelve people could have dined as if at home.

  By the parish church, does Mendog’s Grove still bloom?

  And in Ukraine, by the Hołowińskis’ house

  On the Roś, does the linden tree still spread its boughs

  So broadly that beneath the tent it made

  A hundred pairs could dance within the shade?

  Our monuments! How many of you each year

  Fall to the ax of merchant or of tsar!

  No shelter’s left for woodland singers, nor yet

  For the bards to whom your shade is just as sweet:

  The linden of Czarnolas, that awoke

  In Jan so many rhymes! The speaking oak

  Which told the Cossack bard such prodigies!

  How much I owe to you, my native trees!

  A paltry marksman, I would miss my shot

  Then, fleeing my comrades’ mockery, head out

  And hunt for reveries in your backwoods hush.

  Forgetting the chase, I’d sit beside a bush;

  Around me was moss with beards in silvery grays

  Streaked with the crimson juice of bilberries,

  While further off were hills clad in red heather,

  And bright with lingonberries strung together

  Like coral beads. Dark it was there; each bough

  Seemed like a dense green stormcloud hanging low.

  The trees were still, but somewhere a gale was howling

  High in the heavens—rumbling, crashing, growling.

  A strange, bewildering din! It seemed to me

  That overhead there was a raging sea.

  Down below, though, the forest has the look

  Of a devastated city: A toppled oak

  Leans like a fallen edifice; atumble

  Against it, like broken pillars and walls, a jumble

  Of earth, boughs, rotten beams, that grasses enclose.

  Fearful it is to see, this dwelling place

  Of the forest’s masters: wolves, bears, and wild boars;

  The half-chewed bones of reckless visitors

  Lie at the gate. At times, through the green grass

  Like jets of water a stag’s antlers pass,

  And the creature flashes yellowish through the glades

  Like a ray of light that enters the woods and fades.

  Then all is quiet once more. A woodpecker’s bill

  Raps on a fir tree; he flies away, but still,

  Unseen, he hammers on another tree

  Like a child who hides, then calls: “Come look for me!”

  Close by, a squirrel grasps a nut and gnaws,

  Its bushy
tail draped over head and paws

  Like a cuirassier’s crest. And yet despite

  This safeguard, still he’s wary. Catching sight

  Of some intruder, this woodland dancer hops

  From tree to tree at lightning speed, then drops

  Into an unseen crevice, as if he were

  A dryad returning home. And then once more

  All’s quiet.

  But now a branch shakes suddenly,

  Red rowanberry clusters part, and see:

  A face brighter than them. It’s a young maid

  Gathering nuts and berries. A multitude

  Of lingonberries fresh as her red lips

  Lie in her plain bark basket. At her side steps

  A young man; he pulls the hazel branches down,

  She swiftly plucks the nuts, and they move on.

  All at once, dogs and hunting horns are heard;

  The two of them realize that the hunt has neared.

  Amid the tangled branches, they take fright

  And, like two woodland gods, vanish from sight.

  There’s a stir in Soplicowo; but none of it—

  The yapping dogs, the horses’ neighs, the grate

  Of carts, nor the horn that blew to start the hunt—

  Could rouse Tadeusz. He lay insentient

  Where he’d fallen, fully clothed, upon his bed.

  The young folks should have looked for him; instead,

  Rushing to do the tasks they’d been assigned,

  They managed to leave their slumbering chum behind.

  He snored. Through a heart-shaped shutter hole, a stream

  Of sunlight entered in a fiery beam,

  Traversed the darkened room, and came to play

  On the young man’s forehead. Sleepily turning away

  From the bright light, he heard a sudden knocking

  And woke up fully; it was a happy waking.

  He felt as fresh as a daisy; he breathed free

  And smiled an inward smile, contentedly

  Recalling the happenings of the day before.

  He blushed, sighed, and his heart beat more and more.

  He looked at the window. Wonders! In the beam,

  Inside the heart, were two bright eyes agleam

  And opened wide, as well a person might

  When peering into darkness from the light.

  He saw, too, how a little hand was held

  Against the sun to one side, as a shield;

  How the slim fingers, raised fanlike and spread,

  Were lit with a translucent ruby red.

  He saw a slightly parted, curious mouth—

  Saw, bright as pearls in coral, a row of teeth—

  And a face that, though the pink hand screened it now,

  Itself was burning with a roselike glow.

  The bed was by the window. Tadeusz lay

  In darkness, on his back, gazing away

  At the marvelous vision right above his face.

  He wondered: was this really taking place

  Or was it a dream where a small sweet face appears

  Like something dreamt of in our innocent years.

  The face bent down—and, trembling with both fear

  And joy, he saw—alas, saw clear as clear—

  And recognized the short, pale, golden hair

  With snow-white curling papers here and there

  Resembling silvery peapods in the sun—

  Like in the picture of a saint it shone.

  He sat up; the apparition fled in shock

  At the sound. He waited; it did not come back.

  He only heard the triple knock again

  And the words: “Sir, please get up; the hunt’s begun,

  You overslept.” At once he leapt up, pushing

  With both hands at the shutters, which came crashing

  With a creak of hinges against the wall outside.

  He jumped out, looked around him mystified,

  But couldn’t see a thing—no evidence

  Of anyone. Close by was the garden fence.

  The hop leaves and their drooping flowers were shaking;

  Had slender hands brushed them and set them quaking?

  Or had it been the wind? With a long stare

  Tadeusz leaned on the fence. He didn’t dare

  Enter the garden; he merely looked around,

  Finger on lips so he’d not make a sound

  To break his concentration; finally

  He tapped his forehead as if at a memory

  Long dormant; bit his fingers till they bled;

  Then, loudly: “I got what I deserve!” he said.

  The manor, moments earlier filled with sound,

  Now was as silent as a burial ground.

  Everyone had left; Tadeusz listened intently,

  His hands cupped at his ears, till there came faintly

  On the wind from the woods the distant noise

  Of hunting horns and of the huntsmen’s cries.

  His horse was saddled up; he took his gun,

  Mounted, and galloped like a crazy man

  To the inns standing opposite one another

  By the chapel where the hunters were to gather.

  The two inns flashed their windows balefully

  At one another, as if at an enemy.

  The older tavern was the Count’s by right;

  Soplica had built the new one out of spite.

  The first was ruled (like a fiefdom) by Gerwazy;

  The second gave place of honor to Protazy.

  The new inn made an uninspired impression;

  The old one had been built in ancient fashion

  Dreamed up by the carpenters of Tyre, and then

  Spread through the world by the Jews—a style unknown

  To architects in any other place.

  The Jews it was who brought it here to us.

  It’s shaped like a ship in front, a temple behind;

  The ship part is a Noah’s Ark on land,

  Or, as the vulgar say, a barn—a house

  For sundry creatures (horses, oxen, cows,

  Billy goats); while flocks of poultry dwell upstairs

  With crawling insects too, and snakes in pairs.

  The oddly formed rear section brings to mind

  The Temple of Solomon on the Mount, designed

  By Hiram’s carpenters—who for their part

  Had been the first to learn the builder’s art.

  Synagogues still are built this way; in turn,

  Their shape is seen in that of inn and barn.

  A roof of thatch and unplaned boards juts high,

  Like a ragged Jewish hat, into the sky.

  Above are long rows of wooden galleries

  On moldering pillars that are mysteries

  Of architecture—leaning to one side

  Like Pisa’s famous tower, still they abide,

  Shunning, in fact, the models of Ancient Greece

  For the pillars lack both capital and base.

  They’re topped with arches (also made of wood),

  Half-rounded, copying the Gothic mode,

  Formed not with burin or with chisel, but by

  The carpenter’s ax, deployed most artfully.

  They curve like the arms of sabbath candlesticks.

  At the end are knobs, a little like the box

  That Jews strap to their foreheads when they pray,

  Called “tzitzit” in their tongue. In summary

  The crooked inn resembles from afar

  The figure of a Jew swaying in prayer:

  The roof a hat, the thatch a straggling beard,

  Smoke-blackened walls the gown; in front, secured

  Like a tzitzit there, an ornamen
t is carved.

  Inside, synagogue-like the inn was halved:

  One part, with small cramped rooms, was set aside

  For gentlemen and ladies on the road;

  The other half was one enormous hall.

  Long wooden tables stood along each wall;

  By them, but lower, stood chair by little chair

  Like children round their father.

  Sitting there

  Were peasants cheek by jowl with every sort

  Of lesser gentry. The overseer sat apart.

  Sunday it was; they’d been to Mass, then after,

  They’d come to Jankiel’s inn for drink and laughter.

  Each had raw vodka in a frothing cup.

  A barmaid ran about, topping them up.

  In the middle stood Jankiel, keeper of the inn,

  With silver clasps on his floor-length gaberdine,

  Left hand tucked in his silken belt, the right

  Stroking his long gray beard in solemn thought.

  He kept a careful eye on everything,

  Gave orders, welcomed new folk entering,

  Conversed, calmed those too heatedly debating—

  Not serving though, but merely circulating.

  Everyone knew him for an upright man.

  He’d managed the inn for many years; no one,

  Peasant or gentry, ever had complained

  To the manor. Why would they? He’d every kind

  Of top-rate drink; he kept book carefully

  But honestly; he welcomed jollity,

  Loathed drunkenness. He loved all gatherings

  And hosted wedding parties, christenings.

  He’d have a village band—with double bass

  And bagpipes—play each Sunday at his place.

  He was musical, and famous for his flair

  On his nation’s instrument, the dulcimer.

  He used to tour the manors, amazing all

  With music and song—he’d a fine voice as well.

  Though Jewish, he spoke the Polish tongue quite clearly,

  And Polish songs he loved especially dearly.

  He brought back many from each trip he made

  To the Duchy: kolomyjkas he’d heard played

  In Halicz, mazurkas from Warsaw. I don’t know

  If this is true, but all believed it so:

  That he’d been first to bring the neighborhood

  From overseas, the song now known worldwide

  And first heard in Italia, in those regions

  Played by the trumpets of the Polish legions.

  In Lithuania a good voice is prized;

  It makes you rich, and loved, and lionized.

  Jankiel did well; his cup of glory full,

  He hung his dulcimer upon the wall