Wholly in vain did Sprinkler flail and frown.
To no avail the Judge adjoined his prayers
To Telimena’s pleas and Zosia’s tears
To treat the prisoners with more compassion.
True, Captain Nikita Rykov—though a Russian,
A decent fellow—softened; but so what,
He still must needs defer to Major Plut!
This Major was a Pole by birth who came
From Dzierowicze (Płutowicz his name),
But who had Russified—a thorough cur
Like most converted Poles who served the Tsar.
Plut stood outside, pipe glowing, hand on hip.
When someone bowed to him, he curled his lip;
Addressed, to show his anger he replied
With billows of smoke, then strutted back inside.
The Judge now spoke with Rykov calmingly,
And he and the Assessor sought a way
To settle things outside the law’s remit
And—more—keep the authorities out of it.
So Captain Rykov said to Major Plut:
“Sir! Why keep all these prisoners we’ve got?
So they can all be tried? They’ll suffer greatly,
While you, sir, will not benefit even slightly.
You know, we ought to simply work things out.
The Judge will make it worth your while, no doubt.
We’ll say we merely came to call—that way
Wolf fed, and goats saved, as the Russians say.
They say: All’s possible, if done with care.
And too: Roast your own meat at the Tsar’s fire.
Harmony’s better than disharmony.
Tie the knot well, and wet each end, they say.
Who’ll know, if nobody reports this mission?
God gave us hands for taking, says the Russian.”
At this the Major rose, nostrils a-flare.
“Have you gone mad? Our duty’s to the Tsar,
And duty’s duty, Rykov, you dunderhead.
Let prisoners go? In wartime? Are you mad?
Never! I’ll teach these Polaks to rebel—
This gentry scum! I know you all too well,
Dobrzyńskis! Let them soak, their whole damn squad.”
(Eyeing them through the window, he guffawed.)
“That one who’s in an overcoat—Hey there,
Take off his coat!—at the masked ball last year
He crossed me. He began it, with a shout
As I was dancing—‘Throw that swindler out!’
I’d been accused of misappropriating
Regiment funds—it was humiliating.
He didn’t care, though—as I dance, he’s jeering
‘Thief!’ right behind me, with the gentry cheering.
They did me wrong, that lot. But now who’s sneering?
‘The shoe’ll be on the other foot one day,’
I said. And see, Dobrzyński—now you’ll pay!”
Then he whispered in the Judge’s ear:
“If you want this affair to disappear,
A thousand roubles cash per head will do it—
Though not a penny less—and welcome to it.”
The Judge tried haggling with him, but no luck—
The Major paced the room, puffing out smoke
The way that fireworks do before they burn.
The women followed, pleading and crying in turn.
“Major, if you arrest them, what’s the good?
The Judge cajoled. “There’s been no loss of blood,
No wounds, no battle. They ate my hens and geese
So the law says that they’ll pay damages.
As far as the Count’s concerned, I’ll not bring suit—
All this was just a neighborly dispute.”
“D’you know the Yellow Book?” the Major said.
“What yellow book is that?” the Judge replied.
“One better than your lawbooks,” answered Plut.
“All it contains is: noose; Siberia; knout.
The book of martial law—that’s now imposed
In Lithuania; your courts won’t be used.
By army law, mischief of such a cast
Will mean Siberian labor, at the least.”
The Judge said: “I’ll appeal to the governor.”
Said Plut: “Make it the Tsar for all I care.
See, when the Tsar endorses a ukase
He often has the sentence levied twice.
Appeal, dear Judge; and maybe if you do
I’ll find something to use against you too.
Jankiel, a spy we’ve long been looking at—
He visits you, he keeps your inn. For that
I could arrest you all, right now, right here.”
“Arrest me?” said the Judge. “How dare you, sir?
Without an order?” Words intensified
Until new visitors pulled up outside.
It was a strange, massed coming. In the lead,
Page-like, there was a huge black ram whose head
Bore four horns—one set curling round each ear
Like hoops, and hung with bells, the other pair
Protruding from its forehead and adorned
With brass balls tinkling as it walked. Behind
There followed oxen, goats, sheep in a flock,
And, last, four wagons loaded chock-a-block.
It was the monk arriving, so they guessed.
The Judge, knowing his duties as a host,
Stood at the door to greet him. Robak rode
In front, his face half-hidden in his hood.
They knew him, though—as he drove past he turned
And signaled to the captives with his hand.
The second driver they could recognize
As well—Maciej the Twig, in peasant guise.
The gentry gave a shout on seeing him.
Maciej said: “Fools!” and waved to silence them.
The Prussian came third, his jacket worn and bare;
Mickiewicz and Mr. Zan brought up the rear.
Meanwhile the Podhajskis, Isajewiczes,
Birbaszes, Wilbiks, Biergels, and Kotwiczes
Saw the Dobrzyńskis under close arrest
And found that their anger slowly evanesced—
For Polish gentry, terribly conflictive
And scrappy as they are, are not vindictive.
They ran to ask old Maciej for advice.
He brought them round the wagons in one place
And had them wait.
The monk then went inside.
Though dressed the same, he was transmogrified—
They barely knew him. Normally so serious
And gloomy, now he almost seemed delirious—
Face shining like a jolly friar, head high,
Before he spoke he laughed and laughed:
“Oh my!
Ha ha! Oh, excellent—first rate, I say!
Major, Captain—others hunt by day,
But you by night. The take was good, I see!
These gentry—pluck ’em, skin ’em ruthlessly!
Put bridles on ’em—they’re a vicious crew.
Major, you bagged the Count—kudos to you!
Fat little rich boy—make that aristo
Pay you three hundred ducats to let him go!
And give my priory three groszes too,
Through me—I always say a prayer for you.
As priest, I think a lot about your soul!
Death, when it comes, takes officers as well.
Baka was right to say death strikes its blow
At high and low—the priest is not released,
Cassock, nor hood, nor uniform is spared;
By earl, and churl, and laird, death’s bounty’s shared.
Yes, death is like a mother, he avers;
Like onions being sliced, she’ll bring you tears.
Child drowsing, youth carousing—all are hers.
Major! Today we live, tomorrow we rot.
Our daily food and drink is all we’ve got!
It’s time for breakfast, Judge, it seems to me.
Please join me, won’t you—all the company.
Major, some chops? Lieutenant, what would you say
If a nice bowl of punch should come our way?”
“Father, you’re right,” the two men said. “Let’s sit
And drink to the Judge’s welfare while we eat!”
The manor’s residents could make no sense
Of Robak’s smiles and strange exuberance.
The Judge gave orders to the kitchen; soon
Punchbowl and sugar, bottles and chops came in.
Rykov and Plut each went to work so greedily—
Devouring food, washing it down so needily—
That twenty-three chops were gone in half an hour
And the huge bowl of punch was now half lower.
Plut, sprawling in his chair, well-fed and blithe,
Lit his pipe with a banknote, wiped his mouth
With a corner of his napkin, and, eyes glued
On the womenfolk: “My beauties!” he avowed,
“I’m partial to you as to dessert, by God!
I swear by my major’s epaulettes it’s true:
After some chops the best thing one can do
Is talk with ladies beautiful as you!
“How ’bout we play some cards! Half-twelve? Or whist?
Or dance a few mazurkas! Dammit, we must—
In all my Jaeger regiment I’m the best!”
He neared the ladies, bowing as he spoke,
Scattering, now compliments, now smoke.
“A dance!” said the monk. “After a glass or two
I sometimes hoist my tunic, priest or no,
For a mazurka! Yet we’re here, at ease
And drinking, while outside your jaegers freeze.
Judge, give a cask of vodka for those men.
Major, let your good soldiers join the fun!”
“Fine,” said the Major, “Just as you prefer.”
“Judge, make it rectified spirit,” breathed the friar.
So, while the officers drank merrily,
Outside as well the men went on a spree.
Rykov was silent as he drank his share.
Plut, though, paid suit to all the ladies there;
His urge to dance was growing uncontained.
He dropped his pipe, grabbed Telimena’s hand.
She pulled away; with reeling deference
He spun around, asked Zosia for a dance.
“Rykov!” he shouted. “Put that pipe away!
You play the balalaika well. So play—
A mazurka!—see, right here there’s a guitar.
I’m Major: I’ll be in the leading pair.”
Rykov checked that the instrument was in tune,
While Plut asked Telimena once again.
“My word as Major, miss—if it’s not true
Then I’m no Russian; if I’m lying to you
Then I’m a bastard! Any officer
Will tell you—any army man will swear—
In the 2nd Army, 9th Corps, 2nd Foot
Division, 50th Jaegers—Major Plut
Is the best mazurka dancer! Come now, miss!
That’s enough of all this skittishness!
Or you’ll be facing army punishment…”
He snatched her hand once more, managed to plant
On her white shoulder a loud juicy kiss—
And then Tadeusz slapped him in the face.
Slap and kiss resounded close together
Like words in sequence, one after the other.
Dumbstruck, and pale, and thoroughly enraged,
Plut yelled: “Revolt!,” unsheathed his sword, and charged.
But Robak pulled a pistol from his sleeve.
“Shoot, young Tadeusz!” he exclaimed. “Be brave!”
Tadeusz grabbed the gun, took aim, and shot.
He missed, but Plut was deafened and black with soot.
Rykov seized the guitar. “Revolt!” he cried.
He ran at Tadeusz; but from the other side
The Warden swung his arm; his dagger swished
Between the heads, and hit before it flashed.
It smashed right through the base of the guitar.
Rykov dodged, and so lived; but, filled with fear,
He shouted: “Jaegers! It’s revolt!” He swore,
Drew his sword, and fought towards the door.
Yet now massed gentry swarmed into the room
Through the windows, armed with swords, Twig leading them.
In the doorway Plut and Rykov called their men.
The closest three of them came at a run.
Three gleaming bayonets, accompanied
By three lowered black helmets, marched inside.
Maciej lurked by the entranceway, Twig raised,
Like a cat that’s hunting rats, alert and poised.
The old man slashed; three heads might have gone down,
But, whether he couldn’t see, or struck too soon,
Their helmets, not their necks, were hit, and fell.
Twig clanged against each bayonet like a bell,
And Maciej drove the Russians from the house.
Outside, things were still more tumultuous.
Soplica allies were vying zealously
To smash the stocks and set the Dobrzyńskis free.
Soldiers ran up; their sergeant, seeing what’s what,
Jabbed at Podhajski with his bayonet,
Wounded two more, shot at one, by the stock
Where Sprinkler sat; the gentry now pulled back.
Sprinkler had freed his hands and meant to fight.
He stood, he made a fist; with all his might
He swung it downward on the sergeant’s back.
The man’s face crashed against his musket lock.
The gun clicked, but misfired, its powder wet
With blood. The sergeant collapsed at Sprinkler’s feet.
Snatching the musket by its barrel, the latter,
As if the thing were filled with holy water,
Whirled it about. At once two privates fell;
He whacked a corporal on the head as well.
The rest, alarmed to see this spinning roof
Hoisted above the gentry’s heads, backed off.
The stocks were smashed, the ropes cut; liberated,
The gentry rushed to where the wagons waited
And took out rapier, broadsword, ax, scythe, gun.
Two blunderbusses were found by Watering Can,
With shot. He loaded both of them together,
Took one himself, and handed Simp the other.
More soldiers joined the fray; they were so close
The gentry couldn’t swing their swords across,
The soldiers couldn’t shoot; and so they fought
Close up, steel ringing—gave as good as they got.
Bayonet on saber, scythe on sword-hilt hissed
And snapped; shoulder struck shoulder, fist met fist.
Rykov, though, with a group of soldiers ran
To the fences by the barn; he told his men
To quit the mêlée—since guns could not be used
They’d be brought down with fists. Rykov, displeased
That he too couldn’t shoot—in the confusion
Nobody could distinguish Pole from
Russian—
Called “Stroysya!” (which is how they say “Fall in!”),
But no one heard the order in the din.
Maciej, too old for fighting hand to hand,
Stepped back, en route clearing the battleground
On both sides. Here, with his saber tip he clipped
A bayonet, as a candlewick is snipped.
There, he cut and thrust with all his might,
And thus withdrew alertly from the fight.
An old gefreiter, though—a bayonet ace
Who trained recruits—came at him pace for pace.
The Russian braced himself; he gripped his gun,
His right hand on the lock, the other one
Clutching the barrel. He pivoted about,
Now squatting down, now rising like a shot.
His left arm dropped; the right one jabbed his weapon
Like a serpent’s fangs seen when its mouth is open,
Then pulled it back and propped it on his knee.
Thus he advanced on Maciej steadily.
Old Maciej gauged his rival’s expertise.
His left hand slipped his glasses on his nose;
His sword was at his chest, gripped in the right.
Retiring, he kept the Russian in his sight.
Maciej now staggered as if drunkenly.
His foe ran forward, sure of victory.
To better strike at the retreating man
He rose full height as he jabbed out his gun.
The forceful movement, and the weapon’s weight,
Caused him to lean forward quite a bit.
With sword-hilt, Maciej hooked the musket where
Bayonet met barrel, flipped it in the air,
Slashed the man’s arm with a great downward slice
Then, swinging back up, he cut across his face.
The best close fighter of the Russian forces
Fell thus, with his four medals and three crosses.
Meanwhile the gentry’s left wing by the stocks
Was close to winning. Sprinkler doled out knocks
Where all could see him. Razor too fought there;
One slashed at bellies, one smashed heads. The pair,
Like the device contrived in Germany—
Threshing machine it’s called, though equally
It cuts the chaff, having both blade and flail
So that it threshes, winnows, cuts as well—
Worked side by side in harassing the foe,
Sprinkler from above, Razor below.
But Sprinkler left a certain win, and zoomed
To the right wing, where a new danger loomed
For Maciej—in vengeance for the man he’d slain
An ensign charged, bearing a long spontoon
(A kind of spear-cum-ax from times bygone,
Pan Tadeusz Page 24