Pan Tadeusz

by Adam Mickiewicz

  So he refused the farm, the money as well.

  He went back home and lived from his own toil—

  Made cattle pills; had a bee yard that he kept;

  At the market he’d sell partridges he’d trapped;

  He hunted game.

  In Dobrzyn there were a few

  Sagacious older residents who knew

  Some Latin, and worked in the law as younger men;

  And a few wealthy folks. Of all the clan,

  Though, Maciej, simple and poor, was most revered,

  Not only for his exploits with the sword,

  But for his common sense, his recognition

  Of national history, and family tradition.

  He understood the law, and farming; knew

  The hunter’s secrets; was versed in medicine too.

  And (though the priest denied it) whisperings

  Claimed he had knowledge of uncanny things.

  For sure, changes of weather he could track

  And forecast better than the almanac.

  No wonder, then, that the time to start the sowing,

  To send the river boats, begin the mowing,

  Whether to sue or settle—nothing took place

  In Dobrzyn till he was asked for his advice.

  Not that old Maciej sought such influence.

  Quite the reverse: he’d snort at supplicants

  And send them packing. He offered guidance rarely,

  And not to anybody; it was purely

  In matters of the greatest gravity

  He’d state his view when asked, incisively.

  Everyone thought he’d back the cause at hand

  And that he’d personally take command,

  Because when he was young he’d loved to fight

  And was sworn enemy of the Muscovite.

  Maciej was wandering round his house alone,

  Humming a hymn: “When glows the light of dawn,”

  Pleased that the day would be fine: when cloudy weather

  Was on its way, the fog would rise; now, rather,

  He saw it dropping. The wind unclenched its hand

  And gently smoothed the mist against the land;

  Meanwhile, a thousand sunbeams visited

  To dot the scene with silver, gilt, and red—

  Like a pair of fine Słupsk artisans who weave

  A sash of cloth of gold: the girl will have

  The silk warp stretched below; from overhead

  The man lowers silver, gold, and crimson thread

  To make the flowered design. Thus earth’s made one:

  Its misty warp by wind, its weft by sun.

  Warmed by the sunlight, Maciej finished his prayers

  And set to. He took grass and leaves outdoors,

  Sat down, and whistled. All at once a mass

  Of rabbits appeared from nowhere in the grass,

  Like daffodils that had sprung out of the soil.

  Beneath their ears, that jutted white and tall,

  Their small eyes gleamed like blood-red rubies sewn

  Densely amid the grass’s velvet green.

  The rabbits sat, each watching, listening,

  Till finally the whole white downy throng—

  Enticed by cabbage leaves—came running up

  And hopped on Maciej’s feet, his arms, his lap.

  White as a rabbit himself, he liked them there

  Around him, so he could stroke their warm white fur,

  With his other hand throwing millet from his cap

  For the sparrows chirring on the gabletop.

  While the old man was relishing the sight,

  The rabbits suddenly fled, the birds took flight,

  Because they’d seen new visitors appear

  Marching at a brisk pace as they drew near.

  It was two envoys from the parson’s house

  Sent by the rest to ask Maciej’s advice.

  Bowing from far away, once there they paused

  And called to him: “May Christ the Lord be praised.”

  “For ever and ever, amen,” came the response.

  Hearing how serious was the circumstance

  He asked them in. The envoys sat, then one

  Stood up again and started to explain.

  Meanwhile, more and more gentry had come in:

  Most all of the Dobrzyńskis, and many men

  From neighboring settlements, some armed, some not,

  In chaises, carts, on horseback or on foot.

  They parked their wagons, hitched ponies to the trees,

  And gathered outside the house, eager for news.

  They entered the main room, filled the hall; some only

  Could poke their heads through windows, listening keenly.

  Book VII: The Council

  Salutary advice from Bartek known as the Prussian –

  A soldierly contribution from Maciej the Baptist –

  A political contribution from Mr. Buchman – Jankiel’s call for

  reconciliation, cut off by Jackknife – Gerwazy’s speech,

  revealing the great consequences of parliamentary oratory –

  Old Maciej protests – The sudden arrival of reinforcements

  terminates the council – Strike the Soplicas!

  Bartek, one of the messengers, had the floor.

  Often in Königsberg (he’d travel there

  By barge), he was called “the Prussian”—a pleasantry,

  Since he despised the Prussians utterly,

  Though he liked to speak about them. Gray-haired now,

  He’d seen the world, had traveled high and low.

  He followed politics, always read the news—

  Those present could profit greatly from his views.

  He was just ending:

  “Maciej, sir—my brother,

  And for us all a champion and a father—

  It isn’t futile aid. In times of war

  The French are dependable as aces four.

  They’re fighters. Since Tadeusz Kościuszko’s day

  There’s been no military prodigy

  To match great Bonaparte, their emperor.

  “When the French crossed the Warta in the year

  Of eighteen hundred six, I was abroad,

  I well recall; with Gdańsk I’d certain trade,

  While I was staying with relatives who reside

  Near Poznań. Józef Grabowski, who’s become

  Head of a regiment, then had his home

  In the country close to Objezierze House.

  We’d often hunt small game, the two of us.

  The region was quiet as ours still is today.

  Then news of a fearful battle came our way

  In a note from Mr. Todwen as we rode.

  Grabowski read it. “Jena! Jena!” he cried.

  “The Prussians have had a thrashing—victory!”

  Dismounting, I dropped down on bended knee

  To thank the Lord.

  “We rode to town, as though

  We’d business there, feigning we didn’t know.

  We see the government commissars en masse,

  The Landrats, Hofrats—rats of every class—

  All cringing there before us, pale and hushed

  Like German roaches waiting to be crushed.

  Laughing with glee, we humbly asked: ‘What’s new?

  Have you had word from Jena, any of you?’

  They were scared stiff, amazed that their defeat

  Was known to us. ‘Mein Gott!’ we heard them bleat.

  They scurried home, then out of town they swarmed.

  What a to-do! The local roads were crammed

  With Krautish refugees. You saw them crawl

  Like inse
cts, dragging the carts their people call

  ‘Vornagels’ and ‘wagens.’ Women with their kettles,

  Men with their pipes, lugging their goods and chattels:

  Trunks, bedding…We decide it would be sweet

  To ride out there and hamper their retreat!

  Beat up the Landrats, kick the Hofrats, yank

  The pigtails of the Herrs in army rank.

  Then General Dąbrowski brought instruction

  From the Emperor to Poznań: Insurrection!

  In one short week we’d thrashed the Prussian band

  And driven them out so not a one remained.

  “With a bit of dash, could what befell the Prussians

  Happen in Lithuania to the Russians?

  Maciej, what do you think? If the Emperor

  And Moscow are daggers drawn, then he means war

  With his vast force—a hero like no other!

  What do you reckon, Maciej, our good father?”

  He ended. All awaited Maciej’s word.

  Maciej merely sat still, looked down and stared,

  Though he touched his side as if he sought his sword

  (He hadn’t worn it since partition, though

  By force of habit his hand would always go

  To his left side when Russians were talked about—

  Absently reaching for his Twig, no doubt;

  So “Leftsides” was another name for him).

  He raised his head; deep silence filled the room.

  But he didn’t do what they were hoping for;

  He frowned, and once again looked at the floor.

  At last he spoke—unhurriedly, placing stress

  On each word, nodding for extra emphasis:

  “Calmly now! Where’s this information from?

  How far away are the French? Who’s leading them?

  Have they begun fighting? Where, and over what?

  What is their route? What forces have they got

  In infantry, cavalry? If you know, then talk!”

  The crowd was quiet, though swapping many a look.

  “In my view,” said the Prussian, “we should choose

  To wait for Father Robak—he brought the news.

  Send spies in the meantime over the frontier

  And quietly arm the population here,

  While taking all the requisite precautions

  To keep our planning hidden from the Russians.”

  “Wait? Prate? Debate?” another Maciej cried—

  Called “Baptist,” or “Sprinkler,” from the club he plied.

  He had it with him now; both hands were lain

  On its huge knob, and on his hands his chin,

  As he exclaimed: “What’s that? Wait? Hesitate?

  Debate? Next it’ll be, Capitulate!

  I don’t know Prussia. The Königsberg sort of mind

  Is fine for Prussians—my mind’s the gentry kind.

  If you want to fight, grab Sprinkler—that I know.

  If you want to die, go find a priest. Me though,

  I want to live and fight! We don’t need priors

  And priests—we’re not in school. We should be friars—

  We’ll fry the Russians! Reconnoitering, spying—

  You know what that just proves? That you’re decaying

  In body and soul. Hounds are for hunting does,

  Monks are for begging. My job’s sprinkling blows,

  Whacking and thwacking!” He stroked the club he held

  Standing before the throng: “Sprinkle!” he yelled.

  “Baptist” was backed by Bartek Razor, known

  For his thin sword, and Maciej Watering Can,

  Named for his blunderbuss, its mouth so wide

  It scattered shot like rain on every side.

  Both cried: “Go Sprinkler!” The Prussian sought the floor

  But was outshouted by a scornful roar:

  “Down with the Prussians, spineless one and all!

  Let cowards hide beneath a friar’s cowl!”

  Here, though, old Maciej slowly raised his head;

  The hubbub started to subside. He said:

  “You shouldn’t mock Robak; he’s one crafty priest.

  He’s dealt with bigger than you, and come out best.

  Only one time I saw him, but at once

  I knew just what he was. He dodged my glance,

  Afraid I’d start confessing him on the spot.

  That’s not my job—though we could talk of that.

  There’s no point summoning him—he won’t come here.

  If the news came from him, his aim’s unclear.

  A devil of a priest he is, for sure!

  If this is the only news you can present,

  Then why are you here? What is it that you want?”

  “War!” comes the cry. “What war?” he asks. They go:

  “With the Russians! Fight them! Strike the Russians now!”

  The Prussian kept shouting louder, till the crowd

  At last began to listen, as he bowed,

  And raised his reedy voice, and beat his chest,

  Calling: “I want to fight like all the rest!

  True, I’ve no Sprinkler; but with a boatman’s pole

  I once blessed four drunk Prussians—‘baptized’ them all

  For trying to drown me in the Pregel River.”

  “Bartek, well done!” said Baptist; “Sprinkle forever!”

  “But Lord,” cried the Prussian, “first we need to know:

  War over what? With who? Where should we go,

  And when? How will the people follow us

  When we ourselves are at a total loss?

  We need some common sense, good gentlemen,

  We need some order and some discipline.

  If you want war, a confederation’s needed.

  Let’s think where it should be, and who should lead it.

  That’s what we did on seeing the Germans flee

  From Greater Poland: we met secretly,

  Armed the gentry and peasants clandestinely,

  And waited for Dąbrowski’s order. Then

  It was: To horse! We rose up as one man!”

  “A word!” the steward from Kleck was heard to say—

  A handsome fellow, dressed in the German way,

  Named Buchman, though by birth he was a Pole.

  His gentry status was debatable,

  But no one asked. They held him in high regard

  Because he worked for a distinguished lord

  And was a good patriot and a well-read man

  Who’d learned how an estate ought to be run

  By studying foreign books. He managed well;

  His views on politics were sensible.

  He wrote with style; his spoken words were sleek

  So people listened up when he would speak.

  “A word!” he said again, twice cleared his throat,

  Bowed, then began on this melodious note:

  “The previous speakers, with great oratory

  Broaching the major aspects of the story,

  Raised the discussion to a higher plane.

  All that is left for me is to explain

  The links connecting these astute reflections,

  Thus, I hope, reconciling all the factions.

  Throughout the whole debate I see a split

  Between two parts; let me examine it.

  First: why should an insurrection be begun?

  And in what spirit? That’s question number one.

  Two’s how the revolution should be led.

  Good then—but let me turn this on its head:

  I’ll start with the leadership; once that part’s clear

  The uprising’s goal, its esse
nce, will appear.

  As concerns leaders then—what do I see

  As I survey the sweep of history?

  That savages, living far from one another

  In the woods, for self-defense gather together.

  They talk—a simple council—and agree

  That each give part of his own liberty

  For the common good—a simple statute, source

  From which all other laws derive their course.

  We see then how a government is formed:

  Not by the will of God, as falsely claimed,

  But through a social contract—separation

  Of powers is thus a natural repercussion.”

  “This contract,” old Maciej said—“must it be signed?

  Sounds like the Babin Republic to my mind.

  Whether the Lord or Lucifer brought down

  The Tsar on us—that I can’t comment on.

  But tell us how he can be overthrown.”

  “If I could just take Sprinkler to the Tsar

  And spray him,” the second Maciej cried, “I swear

  No social contract, antisocial either,

  Would help him stay among the living—neither

  The power of priests, nor of Beelzebub.

  We need a fellow who can wield a club!

  Your talk is very eloquent indeed,

  But, Mr. Buchman, sprinkling’s what we need!”

  “Yes!” squealed the Razor gleefully, a-scuttle

  Between the two old Maciejs like a shuttle

  Darting across a loom. “You with your Twig,

  You with your Sprinkler—reconcile, I beg.

  Then we can crush the Russians into the ground.

  The Razor will serve beneath the Twig’s command!”

  “Commands are for parades,” the Sprinkler said.

  “We had one in the Kovno Horse Brigade.

  It was short and sweet: Don’t be afraid, be feared;

  Fight to the end; keep swinging with your sword—

  Swish swash!”

  “Those are the laws we need, I think!”

  Squeaked Razor. “Statutes are a waste of ink!

  A confederation’s why we’re carrying on?

  Maciej’s our marshal, the Twig is his baton!”

  “Long live the Weathervane!” the Baptist cried.

  “Up with all Sprinklers!” everyone replied.

  But round the edges mutterings could be heard;

  Two groupings evidently had appeared.

  “I’ll never sanction concord!” Buchman called;

  “That’s not my way!” “I veto!” someone yelled.

  Others in back approved. Then the deep voice

  Of a visitor, Skołuba, filled the place:

  “What’s this, Dobrzyńskis? What’s it all about?