The Warden’s party was now placed behind you
To cut off your retreat whenever they find you.
Tadeusz learned that, quite some time before,
The hounds had raced into the forest’s core.
It’s quiet…in vain the hunters stand in place,
And listen to the silence of that space
Like an enthralling story. All they hear
Is the forest music playing from afar.
The dogs plunge in like divers in the sea;
The hunters, muskets raised, watch heedfully.
The Warden kneels to hear the earth; and as
People will scrutinize a doctor’s face
To know if their loved one is to live or die,
The hunters—trusting the Warden’s skill—stand by,
Their eyes on him in hope and anxious fear.
He murmurs, jumping up: “It’s here! It’s here!”
He’d heard it! Straining their ears, they also could.
One dog barked; a second; twenty did;
Suddenly all the seething mass was howling,
Snapping; they’d smelled the scent, which set them yowling
And yapping. This was not the steady sound
Of dogs pursuing a hare or fox or hind,
But short sharp barking—quick, terse, furious.
And what they smelled was not some far-off trace—
They’d seen their prey. The noisy abruptly fell:
They’d caught it. More barks and yelps; the animal
Was fighting powerfully back. Amid the baying
Came ever more frequent cries of bloodhounds dying.
The shooters stood, their weapons at the ready,
Straining toward the wood with head and body.
Waiting was hard, though! Leaving where they stood,
One by one they slipped into the wood,
Wanting to be the first to see the bear.
And—though the Warden galloped here and there,
Saying, peasant or master, all must keep their stations
Or feel his whip on them!—his protestations
Were useless. All the hunters disappeared.
Right at the start three musket cracks were heard,
Then a barrage of shots and, rising over these,
A roar from the bear resounded through the trees.
A fearful roar! Of pain, rage, and despair.
Then: the hounds’ jabber, the hunters’ cries, the blare
Of hunting horns, all sounded; some shooters ran
Into the woods, while others cocked their gun.
All felt the thrill; the Warden alone was mad,
Saying they’d missed. Hunters and beaters sped
To cut off the creature from its backwoods lair.
Fleeing the mass of dogs and men, the bear
Turned back toward less closely guarded spaces—
The fields where the shooters had been at their places.
Now, with some beaters, three men of the hunt
Were left: Tadeusz, the Warden, and the Count.
Distant sounds came: branch snapping, roar and shout—
Till, like a thunderbolt, the bear burst out
From the denser trees, the dogs in fury following.
The creature rose on hind legs, watchful, bellowing
To scare its assailants, fight off their attacks.
It snatched up bark, burnt logs, half-buried rocks
And hurled them at the dogs and hunters. Then
It tore up a tree and, wielding it clublike, ran
Straight at the last two hunters who remained:
Tadeusz and the Count.
They stood their ground,
Their guns trained on the creature where it trod,
Like lightning rods aimed at a stormy cloud.
Then, at the same time (from inexperience!)
They pulled the trigger: both guns fired at once.
They’d missed! The bear charged on at them; the pair
With all four hands snatched up one hunting spear.
They fought for it; then, looking up they saw
Two rows of glistening fangs in a red jaw
And massive claws just inches from their face.
Blanching, they turned and ran for open space.
The creature followed; it swung its paws, just missed,
Kept coming. Its great black arm again was hoist
By the Count’s blond head; a moment after that
It would have torn his skull off like a hat.
But Notary and Assessor came from the wood;
From a hundred yards away Gerwazy strode
With Robak unarmed beside him. Then, as if
Upon command, together three guns went off.
The bear jumped like a dog-encircled cat.
Its head pitched forward; four paws wheeled about
And its heavy, blood-bespattered body fell
Right by the Count, knocking him down as well.
It roared, still trying to stand; but in their fury
Inquisitor and Sheriff mauled their quarry.
The Warden now took his bison horn, which hung—
Mottled, curled like a snake and just as long—
From a leather strap. With both his hands he then
Lifted it to his lips, and—stomach pulled in,
Cheeks bulging, eyes half closed and turning red—
He filled the horn with all the spirit he had.
It sounded; with unbroken breath he played.
The echoing music filled the forest. Awed
By the purity, the curious harmony,
The power, the hunters listened silently.
For one more time, they witnessed the old man
Sharing the gift for which he’d once been known.
He filled the woods with life; his instrument
Seemed to send in the hounds to start the hunt.
His song recapped the day’s brief history—
First came the buglers’ urgent reveille,
Then whines and yelps—the noises of the hounds,
With gunshots here and there—harsh, thunderous sounds.
He paused, the horn still in his hands; it sounded
As if still played, though echoes alone rebounded.
He blew again; the horn changed shape, you’d think,
Between his lips; it seemed to swell and shrink,
Copying the sounds of different beasts—now lengthening
Into a wolf’s neck with its howl, now strengthening
Into a bear’s broad roaring throat, while here
A bison’s bellow rent the forest air.
He paused, the horn still in his hands; it sounded
As if still played, though echoes alone rebounded.
Hearing the marvelous song, the tall trees each
Repeated it, oak to oak and beech to beech.
Again he blew; as if one horn contained
A hundred more, from hunter, beast, and hound
Fear and rage crashed; then, raising the horn up high,
He played a triumphal anthem to the sky.
He paused, the horn still in his hands; it sounded
As if still played, though echoes alone rebounded.
There were as many horns as there were trees—
Relayed as if by endless choruses,
The sounds went on and on, growing quieter,
Ever more consummate, ever more pure
Until they faded where the sky began!
The Warden removed his hands, letting the horn
Swing on its strap. He spread his arms out wide
And stood there, eyes aglow, preoccupied,
Face raised as if inspired, listening intently
&n
bsp; To where the final notes were fading gently.
Meanwhile, on every side there were ovations,
Resounding cheers, shouted congratulations.
Things slowly quieted; all eyes turned at last
To where the bear’s huge body had come to rest—
Bloody and bullet-riddled, its hulking mass
Lying face downward in the trodden grass.
Flung out in front, its forepaws lay outspread.
It was still breathing; its nose was streaming blood;
Its eyes were open but its head lay still.
The Chamberlain’s mastiffs gripped its ears; meanwhile
Inquisitor on the left, and on the right
Sheriff, were lapping blood from its dark throat.
The Warden had them place an iron bar
In the dogs’ teeth to keep their jaws ajar.
They turned the bear over with their musket stocks
And three more cheers rang out amid the oaks.
“Well?” cried Assessor, fingering his gun,
“How about this weapon? To ours I say, Well done!
How about it? A wee fowling piece like this,
And yet it did the job. Expect no less!
It’s never been known to waste a single shot.
A gift from Prince Sanguszko.” He held it out.
Small it was, but of great artistry.
He started explaining its high quality.
“I was running,” broke in Notary, wiping his brow,
“Behind the bear. ‘Keep to your stations now!’
The Warden had said. How could I, though? The bear
Was racing forward, fast as the fastest hare.
My spirits dropped, for I was losing ground.
Then I glanced right, to where the forest thinned;
I aimed my weapon. ‘Bruno, stop right there!’
(I said to myself)—and now, here lies the bear.
It’s a fine gun—a genuine Sagałasówka.
See, it says: ‘Sagalas London à Bałabanówka.’
(Home of a famous gunsmith—though a Pole,
His guns were finished in the English style.)”
“What?!” the Assessor huffed. “You killed it, sir?
By a thousand bears, what nonsense!” “Listen here,”
The Notary snapped, “This isn’t a courtroom—this,
Good sir, is a hunt—we’ve countless witnesses.”
A fierce dispute began. Some were allied
With the Notary, some took the Assessor’s side.
None mentioned Gerwazy; for they’d all come in
From the sides—what happened up front no one had seen.
The Warden spoke: “Now this is worth contention.
It’s not some hare, barely deserving mention,
It’s a bear! For satisfaction to be sought
By pistol, or sword, is quite appropriate.
Your disagreement’s hard to reconcile;
As per tradition, I’ll permit a duel.
“I recall once two neighbors—both of them
Good men, each from an age-old gentry home
On the Wilejka’s facing banks. Domejko
The first was called; the other was Dowejko.
Both simultaneously shot a bear, so that
No one could say who killed it. How they fought!
They swore to pistol it out across the skin,
At arm’s length almost—like true gentlemen.
Back then the duel was famous, don’t you doubt it—
Many a ballad was composed about it.
I served as second—yes, I played my part.
But let me tell the story from the start.”
At this point, though, Gerwazy joined them there
And solved the conflict. Having eyed the bear,
He’d used his cleaver to split the creature’s head,
Sliced deep into its brain and found the lead.
He cleaned it on his coat, compared its size
To his own weapon and his cartridges,
Then, holding up the ball, said: “Gentlemen,
This bullet didn’t come from either gun.
It’s from this old Horeszko arm.” (He showed
His single-barreled flintlock, bound in cord.)
“It wasn’t me who fired, though. Truthfully,
Where nerves were needed, I was all at sea.
The two young masters running out in front,
The bear behind, about to strike the Count—
The last Horeszko! (Though on the distaff side.)
‘Dear Lord!’ I cried; God’s angels to my aid
Sent Father Robak—good, brave monk!—who came
To save the day, and put us all to shame.
While I, dazed, stood and trembled and perspired,
He snatched the weapon from me, aimed, and fired.
To shoot between two heads! At a hundred yards!
And not to miss! To smash its teeth to shards!
Good gentlemen, my life’s been long, and yet
I’ve only seen one man who shot like that.
The man once known for shooting off the heels
Of women’s shoes, and fighting endless duels—
Scoundrel of scoundrels, Jacek of ill fame,
Called ‘Whiskers’—no need to say his family name.
But these days he’s no time for hunting bears;
He and his whiskers must be in hell’s fires.
All praise to the monk! He saved two lives! Or three—
For, not to praise myself, but if maybe
The very last Horeszko had been seen
Seized in the creature’s jaws, it might have been
My aging bones the bear would have to chew.
Come, Father, and we’ll drink a toast to you!”
The monk was gone, though; all they knew was that,
For a brief moment following his shot,
He’d rushed to the Count and to Tadeusz, and,
Assuring himself that both were safe and sound,
He had glanced heavenward, mouthed a prayer, and run,
Fleeing as if he were the hunted one.
Meanwhile, the Warden had handfuls of heather,
Kindling, and large dry logs piled up together.
The fire was lit, a column of smoke rose high
And spread like a canopy across the sky.
Their spears were interlocked above the flame
And large pot-bellied cauldrons hung from them.
Flour, bread, meats, vegetables and the rest
Were brought from the carts.
The Judge unlocked a chest
Where rows of white-topped bottles were kept safe.
He chose the largest one—a glass carafe
(A gift from Father Robak), which contained
Gdańsk vodka—a drink of which all Poles are fond.
“Here’s to the City of Gdańsk!” the Judge declared,
Raising the flask, “Once ours, and—by my word—
Ours to be again!” He served each man
The silvery drink, till gold dripped in the sun.
In the cauldrons, bigos was warmed. How hard to tell
Its color, curious taste, and wondrous smell
In words—however much they rhyme and sound
No townsman’s belly will ever understand.
To grasp Lithuania’s songs and food, you want
Health, country life—and a just-ended hunt.
Though even without such seasonings, bigos still
Is first-rate fare. To make it requires great skill
And prime ingredients. Chop sour cabbage, that,
As they say, melts in the mouth. Shut in the pot,
Its bosom’s lusciou
s juices must enfold
Choice cuts of finest meat; the whole’s then boiled
Till all its succulence is elicited
By the heat, steam bursting from beneath the lid
While the aroma saturates the air.
The bigos was ready. With a triple cheer
The hunters jabbed the pots with spoons; steam jetted;
The copper clanged; the bigos evaporated.
The cauldrons sent up puffs of vapor, seeming
Like craters of extinct volcanoes steaming.
When everybody there had had their fill
They harnessed the carts and mounted, voluble
And happy—all except for the Assessor
And the Notary. These two were even crosser
Than the day before, debating furiously
Their respective guns’ superiority.
The Count and Tadeusz too had heavy hearts,
Ashamed they’d missed, and run; for in these parts
A hunter who has failed to stop the game
Must labor long to win back his good name.
The Count first grabbed the spear—such was his claim.
Tadeusz, he said, had merely hindered him.
Tadeusz maintained that—stronger, better trained
With the spear—he’d just been trying to lend a hand.
They bickered in this way sporadically
Amid the hubbub of the company.
The Warden rode amid the party, gracious
And, now, uncommonly cheerful and loquacious.
Seeking to entertain and reconcile
The quarrelers, he resumed his earlier tale.
“Assessor, though I said that you should duel
With the Notary, you mustn’t think me cruel,
Or out for blood. Lord, no! My goal, you see,
Was to amuse with a kind of comedy,
To share a strange idea I hit upon
Forty years back. You’re young, those times are gone.
In my day, though, the concept was renowned
From these woods to Polesie’s and beyond.
“Domejko and Dowejko’s conflicts came
From the unfortunate likeness of their name.
For instance, at the regional legislature
Dowejko’s friends, seeking his candidature,
Would whisper to their neighbor: ‘Vote Domejko!’
And he’d mishear them, and endorse Dowejko.
Or when, at a council feast, Marshal Rupejko
Would toast: ‘Dowejko!,’ others would cry: ‘Domejko!’
Those present couldn’t tell whose name they’d heard,
Especially since the diners’ words were slurred.
“Worse—once, a drunk nobleman in Vilna
Crossed swords with Domejko, and was wounded twice.
Pan Tadeusz Page 13