Her lap piled with enchanted gold that she
Kept scooping up and scattering playfully.
Leaving its channel, the stream rolled to the plain.
It straightened, calmed; its course could still be seen,
However, for on its surface—mobile, glittering—
The lambent brightness of the moon came skittering.
The way the lovely Samogitian snake—
Giwojtos—lay in heather, not awake
It seemed, yet, glinting silver and gold, in truth
Crawling till it vanished in the undergrowth.
The stream, too, hid, curving through alder trees
Whose black limbs marked the skyline off a ways,
Each pale shape rising dimly, like a ghost
Half visible, half swallowed up in mist.
Between the ponds a mill nestled unseen
Like a chaperone—spying and listening in
To the lovers’ talk, then twitching, getting mad,
Mumbling threats, waving its arms and head.
This mill abruptly shook its moss-grown brow
And, wheeling its fingered fist about, clicked low
And set its toothy jaws in rumbling motion,
Thus drowning out the lovers’ conversation
And rousing the Count.
The latter, once he’d seen
How close Tadeusz was to his armed men,
Cried: “Grab that fellow!” The jockeys hurtled at him;
Before Tadeusz knew what’s what, they had him.
They rushed to the Judge’s and burst in the yard;
Dogs barked, the watchmen yelled, the whole place stirred.
The Judge strode out, half-dressed; an armed band meant
Outlaws, he reckoned—till he saw the Count.
“What’s this?” he asked. The Count brandished his saber
Then calmed a little, seeing his unarmed neighbor.
“Soplica!” he said, “My family’s age-old foe:
Old wrongs and new are being punished now.
Explain the theft of what was mine by right,
Then I’ll I avenge my honor for this slight!”
The Judge, though, crossed himself, saying: “I declare
By all that’s holy—are you a brigand, sir?
Dear Lord! Does this behoove your education,
Your lineage, good sir—your social station?
You shall not harm me!” Here the Judge’s men
Came running forward, wielding club or gun.
The Warden fixed the Count from some way off,
Quizzically, his knife tucked in his cuff.
They would have fought, but the Judge prevented them;
Defense was futile—new attackers had come:
A glint, a shot came from the alder groves;
The bridge across the stream thundered with hooves
And a thousand throats cried: “Strike Soplica now!”
Hearing Gerwazy’s phrase from long ago,
The Judge flinched. “We are many,” the Count called. “Yonder
There come my allies. Judge, you should surrender.”
The Assessor now ran up, exclaiming: “Sir,
I arrest you by the power of the Tsar.
Give me your sword, or the army shall be called.
Ukase twelve hundred, as you know, has held
That any who dare make armed assaults by night
Are crim—” The Count here struck him with the flat
Of his sword. Stunned, the Assessor fell, then hid
Behind some nettles. All thought him hurt, or dead.
“So,” said the Judge, “this looks like banditry.”
All groaned, though the groans were drowned by Zosia’s cry
As, clinging to the Judge, she screamed in pain
Like a child the Jews are sticking needles in.
Telimena, crossing to the mounted group,
Addressed the Count, hands pleadingly held up.
“Upon your honor!” came her piercing voice
As she stood, head tipped back, hair blowing loose;
“On bended knee, in God’s name we implore you!
You can’t refuse—ladies stand here before you.
You cruel, cruel man, you’ll have to kill us first!”
She fainted. The Count rushed to her aid, nonplussed—
The startling scene had left him quite dismayed.
“Miss Zofia! Mrs. Telimena! This blade
Will never be stained by guiltless blood,” he said.
“Soplicas, I take you captive, as I did
In Sicily when I stormed a bandit den
At Rocca Birbante, as it’s known. Back then
I had the armed men killed; the unarmed ones
I took as prisoners, led them back in chains
Behind our horses, to announce my feat.
Later, in Etna’s shade they hanged the lot.”
Yet the Soplicas had been truly blessed:
The Count had better horses than the rest
And, seeking to be first, had gone before,
Preceding the others by a mile or more.
His jockeys, duteous and well-disciplined,
Were more like soldiers; many in the band,
However, as often happens in rebellions,
Were troublemaking, hanging-happy hellions.
The Count, now calmed, no longer seeing red,
Thought what to do so blood would not be shed.
The Judge’s kin, as prisoners of war,
He sent inside, guards posted at the door.
Suddenly—“Strike the Soplicas!”—and the gentry
Swarmed round the manor house and stormed the entry—
Easily, since the other side was through,
Their leader taken. The invaders, though,
Wanted a fight. Barred from the house, they ran
To the kitchen building.
The sight of pot and pan,
The fire just doused, the smell of food, the snaps
Of dogs who were enjoying dinner scraps—
It touched their hearts, and turned their feelings; anger
Melted away, to be replaced with hunger.
Tired from their march, their lengthy conferences,
They whooped: “Let’s eat!” three times, in loud consensus.
Others returned: “Let’s drink!” Among the crowd
One chorus called for drink and one for food.
Wherever their shouts went, echoing and rolling,
Lips were made thirsty, bellies started growling.
And so the moment the command rang out
The troops at once went foraging about.
Gerwazy, kept from the Judge’s rooms, and bound
To heed the guards set by the Count, thus found
He couldn’t take revenge upon his foe.
This foray had a second purpose though:
Knowing the law, he wanted to ensconce
His master in his new inheritance—
Formally, legally. Searching below, above,
He finally found the Bailiff by the stove.
He grabbed him by the collar, dragged him outside
And, Jackknife pointed at his chest, he cried:
“Bailiff, the Count makes bold to ask you, sir,
To go before the gentry and declare
That all is his now: castle, manor, sown
And fallow land—all the Soplicas own,
I.e.: cum grovis, copsis, custodianibus
Et serfibus, fencibus, et rebus omnibus
Et quibusdam aliis. Gab it all out,
Make sure nothing’s omitted.”
“Steward, wait!”
Protazy said boldly, hands tucked in his s
ash.
“I’ll do whatever either side may wish.
Be warned, though—such an act will have no weight,
Compelled by force, announced by dead of night.”
“Force?” said the Steward. “This is no attack.
I’m asking you civilly. And if it’s too black,
I’ll strike a fire with Jackknife and you’ll see
All of the stars in heaven bright as can be.”
“My dear Gerwazy,” the Bailiff said, “Don’t pout.
We bailiffs can’t sort legal cases out.
Whatever each party wishes, they dictate it,
Then, as you know, we merely circulate it.
Bailiffs are messengers for the legal sphere—
We shouldn’t be punished. So why guard me here?
Bring me a light; I’ll write the declaration.
First, though, I’ll pre-announce the proclamation.”
To better be heard, he climbed some planks piled high
Beside the kitchen garden fence to dry.
Once up there, like an arrow from a bow
He vanished; they heard him in the cabbage row,
Saw his four-cornered cap flash dovelike, white
In the dark flax, then disappear from sight.
Watering Can fired at the cap, but missed.
Protazy was in the hops now; as he passed,
The rods swished. “I object!” he shouted, clear
Beyond the willow marsh, and thus secure.
After this protest, ringing out like one
Last cannon shot from ramparts overrun,
Resistance at the manor stopped for good.
The hungry gentry plundered what they could.
Sprinkler went over to the cow shed, stood
And whacked two calves and a bullock on the head
Then Razor slit their throats and they were dead.
Bradawl’s sword too performed there many deeds,
Stuck between pig and piglet shoulder blades.
Death stalks the poultry now. The watchful geese,
Who once saved Rome from Gallic guilefulness,
Cackle in vain. Instead of Manlius
Comes Watering Can. He throttles many a goose,
Ties others to his sash, live. It’s no use
To twist and squawk; the ganders, helplessly
Hissing, attempt to bite their enemy.
The man, enswathed in feathers scattering light
Where the birds’ wheeling wings set them in flight,
Runs forward like some evil wingèd sprite.
Yet the worst slaughter—though with the least din—
Is in the henhouse. Here young Simp’s burst in;
Using a loop of rope he’s found, he hooks
Roosters and shaggy hens down from the racks.
He strangles them all and heaps them on the floor.
Fine birds fed with pearl barley, they all were.
Reckless Simp! How you got carried away!
Zosia will never forgive you for this day.
Gerwazy, remembering a former time,
Collects the others’ belts, and uses them
To haul barrels of vodka, oak-casked mead,
And beer, up from the cellar. With all speed
Some are unbunged; some the thronged gentry roll
With thirsty glee up to the castle hall,
Where all the men are gathering for the night;
The Count’s headquarters too is at this site.
They light a hundred fires; they fry, bake, boil.
The tables groan with meat; drink flows like oil.
They mean to drink, eat, sing the night away.
Yet one man yawns; one dozes; gradually
The eyes of all the gentry flutter shut
And everybody nods right where they sit,
At bowl or beer, or shank, stilled in mid-breath—
Quellers now quelled by sleep, the twin of death.
Book IX: The Battle
On the dangers of making camp in a disorganized fashion –
An unexpected relief – The sorry situation of the gentry –
A visit from the friar foretells salvation –
Major Plut draws a storm upon himself from excessive flirtatiousness –
A pistol shot gives the signal for battle –
Sprinkler’s exploits, Maciek’s exploits and perils –
Watering Can saves Soplicowo by a stratagem –
Cavalry reinforcements, attack on the infantry – Tadeusz’s exploits –
Duel between the commanders, cut short by treachery –
The Warden tips the scales of the fight by a decisive maneuver –
Gerwazy’s bloody exploits –
The Chamberlain a magnanimous victor
They snored so soundly that they didn’t stir
When dozens bearing lanterns entered there
And fell on them, like spiders of the type
Called “harvestmen” on flies sunk deep in sleep.
One buzzes, and at once a stern foe hooks him
With all its multitude of legs, and chokes him.
The gentry slept more torpidly than flies;
No one buzzed; lifeless, they failed to rise
Though powerful hands had grabbed each of the men
And tied them round the waist like sheaves of grain.
Watering Can alone (for miles around
A stronger head for drink could not be found—
The man would quaff two casks of honey-mead
Before he slurred his speech or got weak-kneed)—
Though he’d dined long, and slumbered heavily,
Still gave a sign of life. Opening one eye
He discerned—ghosts!: two monstrous visages,
Each with a mustache, looming over his.
They puffed; their mustache hairs tickled him lightly
While their four arms like wings wrapped round him tightly.
Wanting to cross himself in fear, he tried
But his right arm seemed pinned against his side.
His left—the same! The ghosts, he saw appalled,
Had bound him closely as a swaddling child.
He snapped his eye shut, even more afraid,
And lay there—breathless—motionless—half dead!
Sprinkler, though, wanted to fight back. Too late!
His own sash held him, looped round and pulled tight.
He jerked and twisted with such vigorousness
That he fell on those asleep, and rolled across
Their chests and heads like a fish tossed on the shore,
His strong lungs issuing a bearlike roar:
“We’ve been betrayed!” The others, woken, bayed
In single-voiced response: “Help! We’re betrayed!”
This cry rolled down the Mirror Room and crept
To where Gerwazy, Count, and jockeys slept.
Gerwazy woke, and tried to move—no use.
Bound hand and foot to his own sword, he was.
Across the room were fellows bearing arms,
In low black helmets and green uniforms.
One, in an officer’s sash, pointed his sword,
Ordering his henchmen with a whispered word:
“Tie them all, now!”
The jockeys lay around
Roped up like sheep. The Count sat there, not bound,
But swordless, watched at bayonet-point by a pair
Of men. Gerwazy realized who they were:
Russians!
The Steward often had been roped
In such a manner; yet always he’d escaped.
He knew a special way to break a knot;
He trusted in himself; his strength was great.
Arms and legs extended, chest sucked in,
He made his body thin as possible.
All at once he tensed, made himself full,
Turning from long and thin to short and thick—
It looked like the contractions of a snake.
The cords went taut, and creaked—but did not snap!
The Steward, in shame and fear, turned round, curled up
And, hiding his angry face deep as he could,
Lay there, eyes closed, numb as a block of wood.
Suddenly drum rolls came—first here and there,
Then ever louder, denser in the air.
At this the officer had the Count and all
His jockeys, under guard, locked in the hall;
The rest were led outside—a second platoon
Stood there. In vain did Sprinkler flail and frown.
The staff, and many gentry, armed, stood there.
Podhajskis, Birbaszes, Hreczechas all were here,
And Biergels—the Judge’s kith and kin they were.
They’d come to help—the more because these men
Had long clashed, too, with the Dobrzyński clan.
But who had summoned the Russian garrison?
Who’d managed to round the neighbors up so soon?
Jankiel? Or the Assessor? Guesses flew
But, then or later, no one really knew.
The blood-red sun now rose, its border dull,
Stripped of its rays, it seemed. Half visible,
Half hidden behind black clouds, it had the air
Of a red-hot horseshoe in a blacksmith’s fire.
The wind swelled, bringing clouds out of the east
As ragged and dense as icebergs. As they passed
They strewed cold raindrops; then, behind the rain
The wind blew in to dry the land again.
Another raincloud followed; in this way
Wetness and chill were interspersed all day.
Meanwhile, the Major had his men go fetch
The piled-up planks. With axes now, in each
They chopped a half-moon hole, through which they passed
The prisoners’ legs; below, they were held fast
By a second plank that they attached beneath.
The wood clamped on their legs like canine teeth.
Their hands were tied behind their backs as well
And, so as to further worsen their ordeal,
The Major removed their caps, stripped żupans, cloaks,
Kontuszes, taratatkas off their backs
And left them in the stocks, all in a row,
Teeth chattering in the cold and wet—since now
Increasingly the rain was lashing down.
Pan Tadeusz Page 23