I was no husband, I’m a widower now.
Though the Warden has another girl, quite pretty,
With something like my darling Marta’s beauty!”
He gazed upon the ring devotedly
And with his hand he wiped his tears away.
“So, Brother—shall they be engaged?” he said.
“He loves her; she and her aunt have both agreed.”
But now Tadeusz ran up and said, excited:
“Dear Uncle, how can your goodness be requited!
You’ve always striven for my happiness.
I’d be the happiest man alive—no less—
If Zosia and I could be engaged today,
If I could know we’ll wed. Yet I must say
Candidly, that for a variety
Of reasons, this engagement cannot be.
Please, ask no more. If Zosia’s prepared to wait
I’ll soon become a better, worthier mate.
Perhaps I’ll earn her love with my devotion;
Perhaps I’ll win a little recognition.
Perhaps we’ll all be back not long from now.
Then, Uncle, I’ll remind you of your vow
And I shall meet dear Zosia on bended knee
And, if she’s free, ask her to marry me.
I’m leaving; who knows how long I may be gone.
She may have found somebody else by then.
I won’t restrict her; expecting mutuality
When I’ve not earned it, would be immorality.”
When the young man had voiced his heart, a pair
Of tears filled his blue eyes; they glistened there
Like two huge rounded pearls, and then made tracks
As they rolled swiftly down his ruddy cheeks.
Yet Zosia, concealed next door, through a small crack
Had closely followed this clandestine talk.
Hearing Tadeusz speak his love thus—proudly,
Straightforwardly—she felt her heart beat loudly.
She saw the teardrops welling in his eyes;
And yet she couldn’t grasp these mysteries.
Why did he love her? Why did he now desert her?
Where was he going? His departure hurt her.
For the first time she’d heard a young man say
He loved her—a great, curious novelty.
She went to the household shrine, and in a hurry
Took out a picture and a reliquary.
The first portrayed St. Genevieve; the other
Held part of the robe of Joseph, Jesus’ father
And patron saint of those about to wed.
She took these things to the next room, and said:
“You’re leaving so suddenly? Here, take with you
A little gift, to serve as caution too.
This image and this reliquary, sir—
Keep them and think of me wherever you are.
May the Lord give you health and happiness
And soon return you safe and sound to us.”
She stopped, looked down; she closed her deep blue eyes.
Right away, copious tears began to rise.
She stood there, eyes tight shut, without a sound
While teardrops fell like diamonds all around.
Tadeusz took the gifts. Kissing her hand
He said: “Be well, miss! Keep me in your mind,
Pray for me sometimes. Zosia!…” He stopped there,
Incapable of saying one word more.
Telimena and the Count had just appeared.
The Count, moved by this sweet farewell, declared
With a glance at Telimena: “What loveliness
Pervades even a simple scene like this:
Two souls—of shepherdess and warrior—
Like storm-tossed ships, must separate in the roar.
Truly, there’s nothing that can stir the heart
Quite like such times, when heart and heart—must part.
Time is a wind; it blows small candles out
Yet makes great fires burn with increasing heat.
I too can love more keenly from afar.
Mr. Soplica! I thought us rivals, sir;
That error was one sad cause of our dispute—
Why I came armed against you all last night.
I see my mistake—you sought the shepherdess,
Whereas this beauteous nymph was all my bliss.
Let’s drown our ill feeling in the blood of foes
And cease to come to ruffianly blows.
May our love quarrel be settled differently:
Who can outstrip the other in ardency!
We’ll leave both objects of our hearts’ desire,
Both hasten to the crash and roil of war.
We’ll vie in suffering, longing, constancy;
With stalwart arm we’ll hound the enemy.”
Here he gave Telimena a quick look
But she said nothing—she was thunderstruck.
“Count,” said the Judge, “Why must you leave? Stay put—
Trust me, you’ll be quite safe on your estate.
The poorer gentry will be flogged and fleeced
But you—you won’t be bothered in the least.
You know the system—you’re well off. You’ll pay
Half of your income, buy your liberty.”
“Such conduct,” replied the Count, “would not be me.
If not a lover, a hero then I’ll be.
Where love is painful, glory will console;
A slave in heart, as fighting man I’ll rule.”
Telimena asked him: “What prevents you, sir,
From loving and knowing happiness?”
“Fate’s power,”
The Count replied—“a dim dark sense that leads
To foreign parts and to prodigious deeds.
Today, for Telimena I meant to light
A flame at Hymen’s altar—yes, that’s right!
But this young man’s fine precedent spoke to me—
Breaking his own engagement willingly
And rushing to try his heart in fluctuations
Of fate, and wartime’s bloody complications.
A brand-new era starts for me today!
Echoes of Rocca Birbante are at play;
May they reverberate through Poland loudly!”
Concluding thus, he struck his sword hilt proudly.
Said Robak: “There’s no faulting your intent.
Take money, go—fit out a regiment
Like young Potocki—he took the French aback
By giving two million—or Prince Dominik
Radziwiłł, who mortgaged all his property
To fund four squadrons of new cavalry.
Go now, but take your money—we’ve men enough
But finances are short. Farewell—be off!”
Telimena gave a downcast look. “I fear,”
She said, “that nothing’s going to keep you here.
Knight of mine! Once the joust’s begun already
Look fondly on the colors of your lady.”
(With a ribbon from her gown she formed a bow
And pinned it to the Count’s lapel.) “There now—
May these threads guide you to the cannon’s roar,
The glittering spears, the sulphurous rains of war,
Then, when your valiant deeds bring you acclaim
And the eternal laurels announce your fame,
Ringing your bloodied helm in glorious pride—
Then too, direct your eyes to this cockade
And think whose hand once fixed it to your breast!”
She gave him her hand—
which the Count, kneeling, kissed.
Telimena raised he
r handkerchief to one eye,
The other peering downward from on high
On this farewell, so very emotional.
She sighed—but gave a little shrug as well.
The Judge said: “Hurry Count, time’s getting on,”
While Robak cried: “Jump to it!” with a frown.
The two men’s orders to the tender pair
Pulled them apart and drove them out the door.
Meanwhile, Tadeusz tearfully embraced
His Uncle, and kissed the right hand of the priest.
With hands placed crosswise on Tadeusz’s head,
Robak then drew him to his breast and said
With eyes raised heavenward: “Go with God, my son!”
Then wept…Tadeusz, though, by now was gone.
“So you’ll not tell him, brother, even now?”
The Judge asked. “Poor young boy—he has to go
In ignorance?”
“That’s right,” the priest replied
(For several minutes, face in hands he cried).
“Why know he has a father who recoiled
Like a killer or a thief from all the world?
God knows I want to. But I’ll forgo this chance
As offering for many an old offense.”
“Fine. Now let’s think of you,” declared the Judge.
“A man in your condition, of your age,
Can’t leave the country as the others did.
You said there’s a small house where you can hide.
Where is it? A britzka’s ready—you must make haste.
But wouldn’t the forester’s backwoods home be best?”
Shaking his head, Robak replied: “There’s time
Till morning. Ask the local priest to come
And give last rites. You and the Steward stay;
Send all the others in the room away.
And now please close the door.”
The Judge complied,
Then sat down on the bed. Gerwazy stood,
His elbow on the pommel of his sword,
Head lowered upon his hands.
Without a word
At first, the monk stared at the Steward’s face,
His air both earnest and mysterious.
Just as a surgeon smooths the patient’s skin
With a soft hand, before the knife goes in—
So Robak, easing the sharpness of his gaze,
Looked lingeringly in Gerwazy’s eyes
And then, as if he wished to strike unsighted
He covered his eyes and in a strong voice stated:
“I am Jacek Soplica…”
The Steward blanched,
Leaned forward; with half his body oddly clenched
He teetered on one foot, like a great rock
Hurtling downhill, yet hindered by some block.
His eyes wide open, mouth a gaping gash,
Teeth bared beneath a bristling mustache,
He dropped his sword, caught it between his knees;
His right hand gripped it in a powerful squeeze.
The rapier, stretching out behind him, swayed,
Its long black tip darting from side to side.
The Steward was like a wounded lynx all set
To jump from a tree on the hunter chasing it—
It puffs itself up, it growls, its red eyes glow,
Its whiskers twitch, its tail jerks to and fro.
“Mr. Rębajło,” the monk said, “I’m immune
To human anger—God will take me soon.
I beg you in the name of Him who came
To save the world, blessed those who murdered him,
And gave a thief his wish—please, keep your cool;
Listen to me with patience and in full.
I’ve shown myself; to ease my conscience now
I need forgiveness—to ask it, anyhow.
Hear my confession; then you’ll do with me
Whatever you wish.” He folded his hands to pray,
It seemed. Amazed, the Steward now stepped back;
He tapped his forehead, shrugging, deep in shock.
The priest recounted now how close he’d been
With the Pantler, and had loved his daughter; then
How he and Horeszko had an altercation.
His tale, though, was disordered; his confession
Mixed with complaints and grudges. He would stop,
Then once again would pick the story up.
The Steward knew the Horeszkos’ history
And though the tale came out disjointedly
He organized it, adding things here and there.
Yet for the Judge, a great deal was unclear.
Both men were listening closely, heads bent low,
Increasingly now, Jacek’s speech was slow
And often he broke off.
* * *
—
“You know how frequently the Pantler hosted me,
My dear Gerwazy, how often too he toasted me:
He’d raise his glass and publicly contend
That Jacek Soplica was his dearest friend.
How he embraced me! Everyone could see
—So they thought—that he’d do anything for me.
My friend, him? He knew what was going on
Deep in my soul.
* * *
—
“Meanwhile the neighbors were gossiping away.
‘Mr. Soplica!’ I heard someone say,
‘Your suit’s in vain. A noble sill’s too high
For Jacek son of the Cupbearer to try.’
I laughed and feigned indifference for those
Magnates, their daughters—all those aristos;
If I spent time with them, it was as friend,
But marriage would come with one of my own kind.
Those jokes, though, cut me to the quick. Back then
I was so young and bold; the world was mine,
In a land where not just noblemen but gentry
Could be elected king, and rule the country!
I mean, Tęczyński wanted a princess
And the king gave her with no loss of face.
My family’s standing was no worse than his
In name, blood, patriotic services!
* * *
—
“How quickly one man’s happiness can be ended
By someone—then all life long cannot be mended!
Just one word from the Pantler—we’d have known
Such gladness! Both of us might have lived on—
Who knows, he might have peacefully grown old
With beautiful Ewa, his beloved child,
And a grateful son-in-law; he might have played
With grandchildren! But—both of us he destroyed,
And he…that murder…all its consequences,
All of my sufferings, all my offenses!
I’ve no right to complain—I killed the man;
I pardon him—I’ve no right to complain.
But he too…
“If only he’d refused me openly,
Knowing our feelings—hadn’t welcomed me.
Who knows? I might have gone away—have cussed,
Thundered a bit, then let the matter rest.
But proud, sly, he did something else instead.
It never even once entered his head
That I’d want such a match—so he’d have said.
He needed me: the aristocracy
And gentry here liked and respected me.
So he feigned not to notice my emotions,
Continued to extend his invitations—
Increased them even; then, when we were alone
And tears would dim my eyes time and agai
n,
My chest heaving—he could clearly see—
The wily old man would talk indifferently
Of trials, of council meetings, hunts…
* * *
—
“Often, when too much drink made him emotional
He’d hug me, say our bond was unconditional—
He needed my fighting power, or else my vote.
Politeness forced me to reciprocate,
But I was enraged; I kept my lips tight shut
And squeezed my sword grip. I’d have gladly spit
Upon that friendship, and unsheathed my sword.
But Ewa—how, I do not know—inferred
From my demeanor what was wrong with me.
She’d blench, and look at me imploringly;
And she was so demure, so beautiful,
Her eyes so gentle and so peaceable!
She was an angel—how could I distress
Or anger her? And so I held my peace.
And I—I, swaggerer known throughout the land,
Feared by the greatest lords—who’d never spend
A day without a fight—who would defy
The Pantler, or the King if needed—I,
That the least altercation would enflame—
Would sit there, drunk, mad, quiet as a lamb!
You’d think I’d seen the Eucharist!
* * *
—
“I’d often want to bare my heart to him,
Or stoop to begging even—but each time
I met his gaze as cold as ice, I’d feel
Ashamed at being so excitable,
And so I’d quickly change the subject—talk
Coolly of lawsuits, councils—even joke.
True, it was all from pride—to shield the name
Of the Soplicas, to avoid the shame
Of asking a lord in vain, of being spurned—
For what would the gentry say if they’d have learned
That I, Jacek…
“That the Horeszkos turned their noses up
At a Soplica! Me, be served black soup!
* * *
—
“So, in the end, not knowing what should be done,
I formed a small force of gentry, with a plan
To leave the county and the land forever,
Head out to Moscow, Tatarstan, wherever,
And start a war. I rode to say goodbye,
Hoping that maybe, when the Pantler’s eye
Fell on his former friend and true ally
Who’d fought and drunk by him for many a year,
Now leaving for good to travel who knew where—
Pan Tadeusz Page 27