If one drop of Soplica blood runs through you,
Think: in the front the French attack begins.
But what if the Poles should rise behind the lines?
You follow? Lithuania’s Pogoń rears,
The Żmudź bear roars. If a thousand warriors,
Five hundred even, hit the Russians here,
Behind, and spread insurgency like fire?
What if we took their guns and standards, then,
Victorious, met our delivering countrymen?
Let’s do it! Napoleon sees our lances, nears,
And asks: ‘What troops are these?’ ‘Highness,’ he hears,
‘Insurgents! Lithuanian volunteers!’
He says: ‘Who’s their commander?’ ‘Judge Soplica.’
Who then will dare to mention Targowica!
While Niemen flows, while Ponary stands, the name
‘Soplica’ will forever bask in fame.
Your heirs will show Jagiełło’s capital,
Saying, ‘This is named Soplica, to recall
The ones by whom the uprising was started.’”
“Never mind all of that,” the Judge retorted.
“I never cared much for the world’s renown.
God knows my brother’s sins are not my own.
I never went in for politics, you know;
I worked, I plowed my land. As gentry though,
I’d gladly clear my family of this stain,
And as a Pole do everything I can,
Die if I must. My swordsmanship’s quite poor,
Though I’ve been known to give a man what-for.
At the last Polish council, as folks know,
I challenged and cut the Buzwik brothers, who
Had both—well, never mind. What do you say?
Should we be mobilizing right away?
I can find men and guns—I’ve powder galore.
The priest has cannon of a smallish bore.
I recall Jankiel saying once he has
Lance shafts that if I needed I could use,
Brought here from Königsberg clandestinely,
In crates. We’ll utilize them well. There’ll be
Sabres, and mounted gentry, headed up
By me and Tadeusz, and—somehow we’ll cope!”
“Ah, Polish blood!” the friar declared; he clutched
The Judge in his embrace, profoundly touched.
“A true Soplica! God’s chosen you, no other,
To clear the sins of your unsettled brother.
I’ve always respected you, but from this day
I love you like we were brothers, you and I!
We’ll prepare—but won’t take action yet.
I’ll let you know the time and place—just wait.
Napoleon has had messages from the Tsar
Asking for peace, I know—it’s not yet war.
Prince Józef, though, has heard from a Monsieur
Bignon, Napoleon’s councilor, who said
The Tsar’s attempts aren’t going to succeed,
And there’ll be war. The Prince sent me ahead
Among the Lithuanians, to ensure
That when he comes, they’ll show the Emperor
Their wish is to rejoin their sister nation
And they insist on Poland’s restoration.
Meanwhile, you and the Count must make your peace.
Eccentric he is, and fanciful, but he’s
An honest young Pole. His kind are beneficial:
In revolutions odd men can be crucial,
Fools even—I know that from experience—
So long as they’re decent men, and used with sense.
The gentry holds the Count in high esteem;
If he signs up, the district will follow him:
They’re sure to think that, seeing as it draws
Aristocrats, it must be a strong cause.
I’ll hurry to him now.”
The Judge said: “He
Should come here first, apologize to me.
I’m older, and a man of rank as well.
As for the trial, the arbitrators shall—”
The door slammed. “Travel well!” the Judge replied.
The friar jumped in a cart waiting outside.
He flicked the whip and gave the reins a tug.
The vehicle creaked, then vanished in the fog.
At times, over the mist the monk’s gray hood
Loomed like a soaring hawk above a cloud.
Protazy was closing on the Count’s estate.
Like an old fox that’s scented bacon fat—
He runs to it, knows where the hunters often hide;
He runs, he stops, he dodges to the side,
He lifts his tail and wafts the air with it
To smell if they’ve put poison in the fat—
Protazy left the road, and where the hay
Was cut, around the house he made his way
Pretending he’d noticed cattle out of bounds.
Thus, smartly weaving through, he reached the grounds.
Bent down like someone seeking corncrake tracks,
He jumped the fence and vanished in the flax.
This thick, green, fragrant crop close by the house
Is used by beast and man as hiding place.
A hare surprised among the cabbages
Will hop there—it’s safer than among the trees.
No hunting dog can enter, it’s so dense,
While bloodhounds are stumped—the smell is too intense.
Here servants dodging knout or fist can wait
Until their master’s anger should abate.
A peasant fleeing conscription goes and hides
In the flax when he is hunted in the woods.
Thus, in all battles, forays, repossessions,
Each side will make considerable exertions
To occupy the flax, which to the fore
Reaches the manor walls, while in the rear
Verges the common hop and serves as screen
For foes to attack, or else retreat, unseen.
Protazy, brave though he was, felt somewhat tense.
The very fragrance called up incidents—
One following another—that he’d faced,
To which the flax was able to attest.
Dzindolet, gentleman of Telsze, forced him
At gunpoint beneath a table, then coerced him
To bark the summons like a dog. He fled
Full speed, jumped in the flax and hid.
Or Wołodkowicz, known for his insolence
And for disrupting trials and councils—once,
When served a summons, he rips the thing in four,
Posts footmen armed with clubs to block the door,
Then, waving his sword around the bailiff’s head
He bellows: “Eat this paper or you’re dead!”
The bailiff wisely starts to chew; he backs
Toward the window—and dives into the flax.
Round here, true, it no longer was the way
To fight off writs with swords or clubs. Today
Bailiffs might just get bawled at. Protazy though
Couldn’t have known that things had altered so:
It had been years since he’d last served a writ.
He’d wanted to—he’d begged the Judge for it—
But the Judge, respectful of his years, before
Had always refused. Now though, the case was dire,
And he’d agreed.
The bailiff’s eyes are peeled.
All’s quiet. He slips his hands into the field
And, parting the stalks, into the greenery
He plunges like a fisherman in the sea.
<
br /> He lifts his head—all’s quiet—he sneaks up to
The windows—it’s quiet inside when he peeks through.
He steals onto the porch—he cracks the door—
No one. A magic spell’s been cast, you’d swear.
He takes the writ, starts reading it out loud.
A rumbling’s heard outside—his heart goes thud—
He tries to scarper, but the doorway’s blocked—
It’s Robak! Phew! Though both of them are shocked.
Household and Count had clearly left—what’s more,
In haste: they hadn’t even locked the door.
And armed, they saw: shotguns and fowling pieces
Lay scattered, hammers and ramrods too in places,
And locksmith’s tools for fixing guns beside;
Powder and paper—cartridges had been made.
Were the Count’s people on a hunt today?
Then why the steel?—A hiltless sabre lay
All rusty, and a rapier with no strap.
They must have chosen from among this scrap,
Resorting to their ancient weaponry.
Robak subjected all to scrutiny—
Swords, harquebuses—then he went to see
The farm, to look for servants he could quiz.
There, two old women—that was all there was—
Told him the Count along with a whole crowd,
All armed, had set out on the Dobrzyn road.
In all of Lithuania Dobrzyn was known
For lovely women and valorous gentlemen.
It once was a strong and populous settlement:
When a call to arms from John the Third was sent,
Six hundred warriors from Dobrzyn alone
Responded to the summons. Now the clan
Was smaller, poorer. They’d once lived comfortably
At magnates’ courts, on forays, on army pay,
At council meets. Now they no longer could:
They had to work to earn their livelihood
Like hired hands! Yet they’d not don homespun gray,
But black-and-white striped cloaks for everyday,
The kontusz on Sundays. The poorest woman there
Instead of a peasant blouse will always wear
Coutil or calico. Taking the cows to graze,
She’ll be in slippers, never in bast shoes;
She reaps—weaves too—with gloves on, if you please.
Dobrzyńskis differed from Lithuanians
In language, mien, and stature; in their veins
Pure Lechite blood made noses aquiline,
Hair black, eyes dark, and foreheads high. Their line
Stemmed from the heart of Poland, and although
They’d settled here four centuries ago
They’d kept Masurian speech and customs pure.
In christening their children they’d prefer
A patron saint from those the Poles would choose,
So they were Matthews or Bartholomews.
Bartłomiej, then, was always Maciej’s son,
Bartłomiej called his son Maciej, and so on.
Maryna or Kachna, all the girls were called.
So that these family members could be told
Apart, each man and woman in the place
Was nicknamed for some virtue—or some vice.
Sometimes the men had more than one such name—
A mark of their kinsmen’s scorn, or their esteem.
It happened that a man was known one way
In Dobrzyn, another by those who lived nearby.
Their neighbors copied them and would assume
Nicknames too (“by-names” was their word for them).
All families now employ them; yet none knows
That Dobrzyn’s where the practice first arose.
There they were needed; elsewhere in the nation
The custom came from mindless imitation.
Maciej Dobrzyński, then, head of the clan,
Had once been called the Weathercock. But then,
In seventeen ninety-four, his sobriquet
Became “Leftsides.” Those in his family today
Referred to him as “Rabbit,” while the name
The Lithuanians used was “Maciej Supreme.”
As he ruled the Dobrzyńskis, so his house
Held sway over the village from its place
Between church and inn. No gate, no fence—you knew
Its occupants were poor, their callers few.
Where vegetables once grew, birch saplings reared.
Yet the house was Dobrzyn’s capitol, it appeared.
Larger than others, more harmonious,
Brick-built on the right side where the dayroom was,
With cow sheds, stables, granary, barn, and pantry,
All of a piece, as usual with the gentry.
It all was ancient, crumbling. The rooftops gleamed
Like they were made of green sheet iron: they teemed
With moss and grass—a regular field, in brief.
The barns’ thatched roofs were hanging gardens, rife
With different plants—by nettle and saffron grew
Bright tails of amaranth, yellow mullein too.
Birds nested there: in the windows, swallows; doves
In the lofts. Below, white rabbits pranced in droves
By doorways, rooting in soil no foot would touch—
In sum, the place was a cage or rabbit hutch.
Yet once it was fortified! Still many a trace
Of frequent heavy attacks remained in place.
In the grass outside the gate, like a child’s head,
Lay a huge iron cannonball that had stayed
Since Swedish times. Once, one side of the gate
Had sometimes been propped open wide with it.
In the yard, amid the wormwood and wild grasses
Was what remained of twelve or fifteen crosses.
Those buried thus upon unhallowed ground
Had met a sudden, unexpected end.
A closer look at house, barn, granary,
Showed buglike marks dotting the walls; and see:
In the center of each mark a musketball
Lurked like a bumblebee inside its cell.
On all the doors hooks, handles, nails had been
Sliced off, or sword marks could be clearly seen.
They had been testing Zygmunt swords, no doubt—
These can cut through a nail or hook without
A mark on the blade. Above the door, on show
Was the Dobrzyński coat of arms—although
A crust of swallows’ nests, and a detachment
Of drying cheeses, covered up the hatchment.
The house itself, coach house, stables, were all
As full of weapons as an arsenal.
From the ceiling four huge helmets dangled, once
The garb of Mars, but now the residence
Of Venus’ creatures—doves—raising their young.
In the stables, a great coat of chain mail hung
Above the rack; a breastplate full of holes
Was where the boy put clover for the foals.
The impious cook had ruined some rapiers
By using them in the stove in place of skewers.
A bunchuk, Viennese loot, was put to use
For threshing. Thus Ceres had assumed Mars’ place;
She, Flora, Pomona, and Vertumnus ruled
Maciej Dobrzyński’s house and barn and field.
Now, though, the goddesses must withdraw once more:
For Mars is back.
At dawn, a messenger
Who’s ridden to Dobrzyn makes his hurried way,
Waking each house as if for the corvée.
The gentry’s up; a crowd swells in the street.
From the inn come shouts; at the priest’s, candles are lit.
There’s running; people wonder: why the flap?
Old folks confer; young men are saddling up.
Women stop passers-by; boys dash about,
All set to join the fight—but over what?
With who? They have to wait. At the priest’s house
A long, loud, crowded council’s taking place.
There’s discord. Finally they decide to go
To father Maciej and tell him all they know.
Maciej was seventy-two, slight-built but spry;
He’d fought once with the Bar confederacy.
His friends and foes alike never forgot
His curving damask saber, which could cut
Through pikes and Russian bayonets small and big—
With modest wit, he’d christened it “the Twig.”
He took the king’s side after Bar—was close
With the Lithuanian treasurer Tyzenhauz—
But when the king joined the Confederation
Maciej then ended his association.
Because of all the many sides he took
His nickname once had been “the Weathercock,”
After the way a cock turns in the wind.
The reason for these shifts was hard to find:
Perhaps, too fond of war, after defeat
With one group he sought another with whom to fight?
Perhaps, smart politician, he felt his way
And went where he sensed the Nation’s interests lay?
Who knows! For sure, though, the desire for fame
Or sordid gain had never driven him.
And he never backed the Russians; he decried them.
At their mere sight he’d bristle. To avoid them,
After partition he stayed home, like a bear
Sucking its paw through winter in its lair.
Last time he fought, he’d traveled with Ogiński
To Vilna, where they’d served under Jasiński.
There, he and his Twig worked feats of courage. Alone
He’d jumped from the Praga barricades, it was known,
To rescue Pociej, who’d been left behind
With twenty-three wounds out on the battleground.
Neither of the two was thought to live;
But both came back, each riddled as a sieve.
Pociej, a decent man, after the war
Wished generously to reward his rescuer.
He gave him a five-hearth farm in perpetuity,
One thousand zloties in gold, too, as annuity.
But Maciej wrote to him: “It is far better
That Pociej should remain as Maciej’s debtor.”
Pan Tadeusz Page 18