Pan Tadeusz

by Adam Mickiewicz

  Rykov, alone now, shouted he’d fight on,

  He’d not surrender. But the Chamberlain,

  Sword raised, approached and solemnly explained:

  “Captain! Your honor, sir, will not be stained

  By clemency. Manful yet luckless knight,

  You’ve shown your courage. Cease the useless fight,

  Lay down your sword before we make you, sir;

  You’ve life and honor. You are my prisoner!”

  Such dignity left Rykov overpowered.

  He bowed, and yielded up his unsheathed sword

  Blood-spattered to the hilt. “Ah, if I’d had

  One single cannon, brother Poles,” he said.

  “Suvorov was right: ‘Friend Rykov, never plan on

  A fight against the Poles without your cannon!’

  Our men were tipsy—the Major let them drink!

  The Major went too far today, I think!

  He’ll answer to the Tsar—he had command.

  As for me, Chamberlain, I’ll be your friend.

  Yes indeed! As the Russian saying goes:

  The more you’re friends, the more you’ll come to blows.

  Good boozers make good bruisers. One thing though—

  Please stop mistreating all my soldiers so.”

  At this the Chamberlain, sword held high, declared

  Via the Bailiff: all were to be spared.

  Wounds were then dressed, bodies were borne away,

  The men, disarmed, placed in captivity.

  Plut was long sought. In a nettle patch he’d lain

  Like a dead man; he only emerged again

  When he could see the conflict was expended.

  Thus the last foray in Lithuania ended.

  Book X: Emigration. Jacek

  A discussion about how to secure the safety of the victors –

  An arrangement with Rykov –

  Farewell – An important discovery – Hope

  The morning cloudlets, scattered first up high

  Like dark birds as they rose into the sky,

  Had concentrated; noon had barely passed

  When they had covered half the heavens, massed

  In one huge cloud; ever more swiftly blown

  By a brisk wind, it thickened and dropped down

  Till half of it broke loose, leaned to one side

  Then drooped toward the earth and, spreading wide

  Like a vast sail that all the winds now pressed

  Scurried across the sky from south to west.

  A brief calm followed; the air had now become

  Mute, hollow, as if some dread had struck it dumb.

  The grain fields, which had stormed like waves before,

  Their golden spikes bent earthward then once more

  Lifted and shaken, now stood idly by,

  Their stalks erect, and gazed toward the sky.

  And the green willows and poplars by the road—

  That earlier had, like graveside mourners, bowed

  And tossed their long, long arms, their silvered hair

  Untied and blowing loosely in the air—

  Stood lifeless now, their grief shown silently

  Like statues of Sipylean Niobe.

  The gray leaves of a single aspen trembled.

  The cattle, homeward bound, usually ambled,

  But now they ran; the shepherds dropped their meal

  And, without waiting, hurried home as well.

  The bull dug with his horns and scraped his hooves,

  His ominous roar scaring the cows and calves.

  The cows, in puzzlement raising their eyes

  Skyward, stood, mouths agape, emitting sighs.

  Pouting and gnashing its teeth, the hog hung back,

  Stole sheaves of grain, and snatched at the spare stock.

  Birds hid in woods, beneath the eaves, in grass.

  Only the crows flocked round the ponds en masse

  And, in their solemn fashion, strolled about,

  Black eyes on the black cloud, their tongues stuck out

  From gullets broad and dry and, with wings spread,

  They waited for the shower from overhead.

  Yet, sensing a too-great storm, even they rose

  And made for the woods—a soaring swirl of crows.

  The last bird—a swallow, highest flier of all,

  Pierced the black throng like an arrow, only to fall

  Like a bullet.

  Right then, the fearful strife contended

  By the gentry and the Russians had just ended.

  Moving to house or barn, the combatants

  Left the battlefield, where soon the elements

  Would go to war.

  Still, at its westmost rim

  The earth glared brightly, red and yellow, grim.

  The cloud, though, cast its shadow like a net

  To trap the dying light, then off it set

  As if to catch the sun while it still shone.

  Nearer to earth, a couple of storm winds spun,

  One then another, flinging down rain that fell

  In large, bright, rounded drops like balls of hail.

  Suddenly the winds grabbed one another, jostled,

  Whirled about; in great turning wheels they tussled,

  Stirring the mass of water in the ponds.

  They struck the meadow, whistling through willow fronds

  And grasses. Branches broke, mown grass went flying

  Like clumps of torn-out hair, mingling and vying

  With ragged scraps of sheaves; the winds were howling.

  They fell upon the fields, gouging and rolling,

  Digging up soil; they made an opening there

  For a third wind that spun into the air

  Like a pillar of earth, a mobile pyramid

  Whose base kicked dust in the star’s eyes, and whose head

  Bored in the ground. It moved and it swelled up,

  Proclaiming the tempest from its spreading top.

  Then, in a whirl of water, dust—a roil

  Of straw, leaves, branches, dug-up clumps of soil—

  The winds attacked the forests; deep within

  They bellowed like bears.

  During this time the rain

  Fell in thick drops. Suddenly lightning roared,

  The raindrops gathered, then they either poured

  In long braids tethering earth to sky, or, splashing

  As if discharged in buckets, they came gushing.

  Sky and earth both by now were stripped of light

  By nightfall, and by the storm blacker than night.

  At times the skyline cracked across, and then

  The angel of the storm, like a vast sun

  Showed its bright face and, covered by a shroud

  Once more, with a thunderclap slammed shut the cloud.

  The storm surged back, the waves of rain as well,

  And the viscid darkness you could almost feel.

  The rain eased off, the thunder dozed again;

  Again it awoke, and roared; again came rain

  Till all grew calm; only the trees now whooshed

  Around the manor, while the raindrops plashed.

  That day, just such a mighty storm was needed.

  The battleground was dark, the roads were flooded,

  The bridges were all swept away; the house

  Became a fortress: cut off, impervious.

  So no one knew in the vicinity

  What happened there; and, as things chanced to be,

  The gentry’s fate turned on such secrecy.

  In the Judge’s room, grave things were being planned.

  Robak lay on the bed, pallid and drained,

  Bloodied, yet clear of
mind. He gave instructions

  And the Judge closely followed his directions.

  He had the Chamberlain bring the Steward there,

  Have Rykov summoned too, then close the door.

  For a whole hour the secret talks went on.

  Then Rykov broke things off as he tossed down

  A heavy purse of ducats. “You’ve a belief,

  You Poles, that every Russian is a thief.

  Whoever asks, though, tell them you once knew

  Captain Nikita Nikitych Rykov, who

  Won eight medals, and earned not one cross

  But three—please now, remember all of this.

  This one’s for Ochakov, this for Izmailov,

  This one for Novi, this for Praysish-Ilov,

  This one for Korsakov’s acclaimed escape

  From Zurich. A bold swordsman who’s chalked up

  Four mentions, two imperial citations,

  And from his C.-in-C. three commendations

  In writing.”

  “Captain, wait,” the friar put in.

  “If you refuse this, what will happen then

  To us? You gave your word of honor, sir,

  To do it.”

  “True; I offer it once more.”

  Said Rykov. “I swear! What good’s your ruination?

  I’m a good fellow. I’ve great admiration

  For all you Poles. You’re cheerful, good for boozing,

  and you’re courageous also—good for bruising.

  The Russians say: At times you drive the plough,

  At times you’re beneath the harrow. Leading now,

  Tomorrow you trail. You beat, and then you’re beaten.

  Why fret? That’s how a soldier’s life is written.

  Why should a fellow get so very mad

  At losing? Ochakov was bathed in blood;

  At Zurich our infantry were thrashed all ’round.

  At Austerlitz I lost my whole command.

  At Racławice—I was still sergeant then—

  Kościuszko’s scythes cut down my whole platoon.

  So what? At Maciejowice after that

  I killed two gentry with my bayonet.

  One, Mokronowski, scythe raised, in one bound

  Had cut off a gunner’s arm, fuse still in hand.

  You Poles and your homeland! I understand, I do.

  The Tsar will have it so; I grieve for you.

  Poland should be for Poles, and Muscovy

  For Russians! But the Tsar will never agree!”

  “Captain,” the Judge replied, “the gentry here

  Know you’re a decent man. It’s many a year

  That you’ve been stationed with us. Listen, friend:

  Don’t spurn this gift; we don’t mean to offend.

  It’s just that each of us put something in,

  Knowing you’re not the wealthiest of men.”

  “My jaegers! My whole unit bayoneted!

  My men! It’s all Plut’s doing,” Rykov said.

  “He’ll answer to the Tsar—it’s his command.

  Gentlemen, please take back your little fund.

  It’s true, my captain’s salary’s far from great;

  For punch and tobacco, though, it’s adequate.

  I like you—I can eat and drink with you,

  Talk, live it up, have fun. Here’s what I’ll do:

  If an inquiry’s made, I’ll take your part,

  Submit my testimony—cross my heart.

  I’ll say we came to visit, and as such

  We danced a little, drank a bit too much,

  Plut chanced to order, “Open fire!” We fought,

  And somehow two platoons were brought to nought.

  That money of yours will make things go away—

  Use it for that. Now, though, just let me say,

  As I mentioned to the gentleman over there

  With the long sword: Plut is my senior.

  He’s still alive; and he could bring you down

  With some maneuver—he’s a slippery one.

  Banknotes will serve to stop his mouth. You sir,

  The gentleman with the long rapier:

  Have you seen Plut, or spoken with him yet?”

  Gerwazy glanced at him, stroked his bald pate

  And casually waved a hand as if to show

  The matter was handled. Rykov insisted though:

  “Well, will he keep his silence? Did he swear?”

  The Steward, vexed by the dogged questioner,

  Aimed a large finger solemnly at the ground

  And made a sign as if to put an end

  To further talk. “By Jackknife, hear my oath:

  Not one more word will leave the Major’s mouth!”

  He dropped his hands and cracked his knuckles—to say,

  It seemed, he brushed the secret all away.

  His listeners grasped the cryptic sign they saw

  And exchanged probing glances filled with awe.

  Grim silence then ensued, brought to a close

  By Rykov saying: “Man reaps what he sows.”

  “Requiescat in pace,” added the Chamberlain.

  “I see God’s hand in this,” the Judge put in,

  Though I knew nothing—this blood is not on me.”

  Robak jerked up and sat there somberly.

  He fixed the Steward. “It’s a great sin for sure,”

  He said, “To kill an unarmed prisoner.

  ‘Turn the other cheek,’ Jesus declared.

  Steward, you’ll answer for this before the Lord.

  There’s one exception: If it’s carried out

  Pro publico bono, not foolish tit for tat.”

  The Steward shook his head, lifted his hand.

  “Yes: Pro publico bono,” he intoned.

  Nobody mentioned Major Plut again.

  The next day he was searched for, but in vain.

  In vain rewards were offered for anyone

  Who found his corpse. He’d well and truly gone.

  As to what happened to him, guesses flew

  But, then or later, no one really knew.

  In vain as well the Steward was quizzed; he’d say:

  “Pro publico bono,” and just turn away.

  The Warden knew; but, sworn to secrecy,

  The old man stayed as silent as could be.

  When things were settled Rykov left the room

  And Robak had the gentry warriors come.

  The Chamberlain addressed them solemnly.

  “Brothers! God favored us in arms today.

  But, gentlemen, I have to tell you straight:

  Bad things will come from this untimely fight.

  We’ve erred; all bear some culpability:

  The priest, for spreading the news too eagerly;

  Steward and gentry, for misconstruing it.

  The war with Russia won’t begin just yet.

  Meanwhile, the men who fought most actively

  Aren’t safe in Lithuania; they must flee,

  Head over to the Duchy. This means, then,

  Maciej known as the Baptist, Watering Can,

  Tadeusz, Razor: cross the Niemen, go

  And join the Polish army gathering now.

  We’ll heap the blame on Plut, on those who’ve run,

  Thus saving all of our remaining kin.

  Our parting won’t be lengthy; hopes have grown

  That with the springtime, freedom’s sun will dawn

  And though you leave as exiles, soon you’ll come

  As conquering liberators back to your home.

  The Judge will aid in carrying out the plan;

  I’ll help as much with money as I can.”

  The gentry felt how wise these measure
s were.

  When once you quarreled with a Russian tsar

  You’d never make it up; either you’d rot

  In far Siberia, or else you fought.

  Exchanging sorrowful looks, without a word

  They gave a sigh, and nodded in accord.

  The Poles, who—as all nations understand—

  More than life even, love their native land,

  Are still prepared to leave it, travel afar,

  Homeless and penniless, year after year,

  Struggling with fate, with men: as long as they hope

  They’re serving their country, they will never give up.

  They all said they could leave immediately.

  Mr. Buchman alone would not agree.

  A prudent man, he’d held back from the fighting

  But afterwards was keen to join the voting.

  He found the plan quite good, but wished to change it,

  Refine it, add more detail, rearrange it—

  And, first, to form an authorized commission

  That would discuss the goals of emigration,

  Its means, and other factors in profusion.

  Alas, the lack of time was so acute

  That everything the man proposed was moot.

  The men said their goodbyes and sped away.

  The Judge, though, had Tadeusz briefly stay.

  He told the monk: “It’s time for you to hear

  What only yesterday I learned for sure:

  Tadeusz loves Zosia truly. Before he goes

  I think he ought to see her and propose.

  I spoke with Telimena—she’ll acquiesce;

  And Zosia will accept her guardians’ choice.

  They can’t be wed today; at least, though, Brother,

  Let’s see that they’re engaged to one another

  Before Tadeusz leaves—as you’re aware,

  A young heart traveling can face many a snare.

  But when the fellow sees the ring he’s wearing

  And thinks of how his wedding day is nearing,

  Temptation weakens. An engagement ring,

  Believe me, is a mighty little thing.

  “I myself thirty years ago was gone

  On young Miss Marta, whose sweet heart I’d won.

  We were engaged; the Lord, though, did not bless

  Our match, and left me in orphaned loneliness,

  Taking to heaven that lovely girl, whose father

  Was Warden Hreczecha, my dear friend—none other.

  Her charms and virtues in my memory

  Were all I had left—plus this gold ring you see.

  Whenever I looked at it I’d see the face

  Of my late fiancée; thus, with God’s grace

  I’ve remained always true to her; and though