Pan Tadeusz
Page 29
Book XI: 1812
Spring portents – The entry of the army – A service –
Official rehabilitation of the late Jacek Soplica –
From the conversation between Gerwazy and Protazy
an imminent end to the court case can be inferred –
Flirtation between an uhlan and a young girl –
The quarrel between Bobtail and Falcon is settled –
Meanwhile the guests gather for a feast –
The engaged couples are presented to the generals
Who in our land has seen your like, great year!
Farmers still call you “the year of plenty” there,
Soldiers “the year of war.” The poets still
Sing songs of you, the old tell many a tale.
Augured you were by wonders in the sky;
Rumors among the folk had paved your way.
With springtime sun, Lithuanian hearts were filled—
As though they sensed the ending of the world—
With expectation wistful, strange, and glad.
The first time that the animals are led
To pasture, though thin and hungry, they are seen,
Not running for the fall-time crop’s fresh green
But sitting down, heads drooping, as they chew
Their winter fodder still, or simply low.
Nor do the farmers at their springtime plowing
Show any joy at the long winter’s going.
They sing no songs, and labor half-asleep,
Seeming to have no thought to sow or reap.
At every step they let the harrow rest
And gaze uneasily toward the west
As if some wonder were to happen there;
They watch the returning birds with equal fear.
For the stork is back in its accustomed pine,
Its white wings spread like spring’s first flag, this sign
Followed by clamorous regiments of swallows
That muster above the frozen watery hollows
To gather mud with which to make their houses.
At evening, woodcock rustle in the grasses;
Flocks of wild geese are heard above the trees
Then, tired, stop for the night with calls and cries;
High in the night sky there’s a moan of cranes.
Anxious night watchmen wonder what it means
To hear the bird-realm in such disarray—
What storm has driven them so soon that way.
Then new flocks come that look like bullfinch, starling
And plover—flocks of bright plumes, banners unfurling
Across the fields, dropping from hill to plain:
Cavalry! Their weapons and attire unknown,
In endless ranks. Between, like melted snow,
Along the highways ironclad columns flow.
Black helmets dot the woods, bayonets dance
In rows, infantrymen swarm like ants.
All heading north! You’d think that humankind
Had followed the birds migrating to our land,
Driven by some uncanny reflex force.
By day and night guns, standards, foot and horse
Flow on. At times the sky is set alight,
Earth trembles, lightning crackles left and right.
War! War! Its crash reached every nook there is
In Lithuania. Deep among the trees
The peasant whose parents, grandparents had died
Not ever having seen the world outside—
Who, other than the storm winds, heard no sound
In air, no roars but animals on the ground—
Met only fellow woodsmen all around—
Saw now: at the sky’s edge a strange glow lay;
Crashing through trees, a cannonball came stray
Out of some battlefield, and on its way
Smashed trunks and branches. Seated in the moss
The bison trembled, gave its mane a toss,
Half-rose on forelegs, shook its hoary beard
And, seeing sparks that suddenly appeared
Amid the wreck of timber, stared nonplussed.
It was a chance grenade; it spun, it hissed,
Then it exploded; for the first time ever
The bison was afraid, and ran for cover.
Young men take arms. “Where is the battle!” they cry.
The women raise their hands toward the sky.
Damp-eyed, certain of triumph, all shout thus:
“God’s with Napoleon, Napoleon’s with us!”
O spring! Who saw you in our land that year,
Momentous spring of plenty, spring of war!
O spring! Who saw you then, replete with grain
And grasses too, and glittering with men—
So rich in happenings, so charged with hope!
Sweet vision, still I see you rising up.
To bondage born, in chains since infancy,
But one such springtime did I ever see.
Now, Soplicowo lay on the great road
That, from the Niemen, two great generals strode:
Prince Józef and Jérôme, Westphalia’s king.
Part of Lithuania lay beneath their wing,
From Grodno to Słonim. For three days they rested,
Though the Polish force, tired as they were, protested
That the king stayed their march—they hankered so
To finally engage their Russian foe.
The prince’s staff stayed in the nearby town.
At Soplicowo forty thousand men
Encamped, and—with their staffs—General Dąbrowski,
Kniaziewicz, Małachowski, Giedroyć and Grabowski.
They pulled in late. Each officer found quarters
In the castle or the house. They issued orders,
They posted sentries; each weary man then crept
Back to the room he’d occupied, and slept.
The place—farm, manor, fields—fell quiet that night.
Patrols like shadows were the only sight—
That, and the campfires burning here and there,
While passwords sounded in the nighttime air.
All slept: the Judge, the officers and the men.
Sweet sleep was kept from the Warden’s eyes alone,
For next day he’d a feast to organize
That would bring the house (he hoped) eternal praise—
One worthy of guests dear to the Polish nation
And fitting for the day’s great celebration:
A holiday both of Church and family,
For three engagements would take place that day,
While General Dąbrowski said last night
He’d like a Polish dinner.
Though it was late
The Warden had the local cooks all come—
Five in all—and he took command of them.
He dressed his person in a chef’s tall cap
And a white apron, and rolled his shirtsleeves up.
Flyswatter in his hand, he shooed away
The bugs that swooped on the dishes greedily.
Then, slipping on his glasses, he took out
A volume from the pocket of his coat.
This tome—The Perfect Cook—held recipes
For all of the Polish table’s specialties.
It’s what the Count of Tęczyn used when he
Gave his great banquets down in Italy
(Urban the Eighth admired these meals and praised them).
Later, Prince Karol “Dear Friend” Radziwiłł used them
In hosting King Stanisław when he came
To Nieśwież—mounting a glorious feast whose fame
Lives on in local stories to this day.
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br /> Whatever the Warden ordered, right away
The skillful cooks set to and made the dish.
The place buzzed; fifty knives went swish-a-swish.
Kitchen boys black as imps scurried about
With wood, or milk, or wine in a big pot.
Urns were filled, cauldrons, pans—steam curled above.
Two more boys worked the bellows by the stove.
To make the fire burn easier and hotter
The Warden had them add some melted butter
(A lavishness sanctioned in such wealthy homes);
With armfuls of twigs, the boys built up the flames.
Others impaled on spits immense beef roasts,
Saddles of venison, boar and other beasts.
Still other boys plucked birds; small feathers leapt
As black grouse, heather cock, and hens were stripped—
Though chickens there were few, for since the raid
On the henhouse bloody Simp Dobrzyński made
During the foray, killing every last hen
And wrecking the little farm that Zosia ran,
The poultry of Soplicowo, once renowned,
Had not been able to regain lost ground.
Still, meat of every kind there was aplenty
Gathered from home, from the butcher’s, from the county,
The woods, from neighbors near and far—in fact
Ambrosia seemed the only thing they lacked.
To make a banquet, generous hosts require
Plenty and artistry—both were present here.
The feast day of Our Lady of the Flowers
Was dawning. In the early morning hours
Lovely clear skies stretched over earth, the whole
Like a calm upturned sea curved like a bowl.
Some far stars shone like pearls on the sea bed
Under the waves; to the side a lone white cloud
Sailed up and dipped its wings into the blue
Like the plumage of a Guardian Angel who,
Detained by nighttime prayers, was running late
And hurrying to re-enter heaven’s gate.
The last small pearl-stars dimmed and vanished now;
A pallor marked the middle of heaven’s brow,
Its right side pillowed in the darkness still,
The left side reddening more and more, until
A circle like an eyelid opened wide
And bared the white of a huge eye inside.
Pupil and iris showed; a bright ray passed
Arcing across the heavens, and at last
Lodged in the cloudlet like a golden mast.
This shot—the sign for day—at once let fly
Thousands more fires that now criss-crossed the sky;
The sun’s eye rose. Still only half-awake,
It shuddered and made its radiant lashes shake.
Seven colors glowed together—sapphire blue
With blood-red ruby, yellow topaz too—
Till it gleamed clear as crystal; then as bright
As diamond; finally with a fiery light
Like a huge moon, or glittering star. Thus went
The lonely sun through the vast firmament.
Today the local Lithuanian people
Had gathered before the dawn around the chapel,
As if some miracle were to be announced—
Part driven by piety, part influenced
By curiosity; for today at Mass
In Soplicowo, the illustrious
Generals of our legions would attend—
Men whom the people took as patrons, and
Whose every battle, every expedition
Was gospel now for the Lithuanian nation.
Some officers and a crowd of soldiery
Were waiting. The common folk were stunned to see—
In uniform, and armed, and free—a throng
Of countrymen speaking the Polish tongue.
The tiny building overflowed. As mass
Began, the common folk knelt on the grass,
Eyes on the chapel door, heads bared. Their hair,
Like many Lithuanians’ flaxen or fair,
Like a sweep of full-grown rye shone deepest gold.
In places maidens’ heads adorned this field,
Wildflowers and peacock eyes fixed in their braids
With fluttering ribbons, among the men’s bare heads
Like cornflowers and corncockles in the rye.
The bright-hued crowd was kneeling; by and by
A bell rang out. As if a wind had blown
Across the stalks of grain, all heads bowed down.
Today, the women had brought an offering
For Mary: fresh green sheaves, first gift of spring.
The altar and the image both were swathed
In blooms; the porch and bell-tower too were wreathed.
At times an eastern morning breeze would stir,
Casting down flowers upon those kneeling there
And, like a censer, perfuming the air.
Sermon and mass once said, the Chamberlain
Left the church first, as one in charge—he’d been
Picked by the county with one voice to be
Provincial marshal for the confederacy.
He wore the province’s uniform: to wit,
A gold-embroidered żupan; over it
A grosgrain kontusz, fringed; cloth-of-gold belt,
A sabre with a lizard-headed hilt;
Large diamond neck pin, and a square-topped cap
In white, with rare white heron plumes on top
(A ducat a plume—such costly decorations
Were only worn for special celebrations).
Outside the church he climbed a little mound;
The peasants and the soldiers gathered round.
He spoke:
“Brothers! The priest just now gave word
Of the freedom that the Emperor-King’s restored
To the Crown, and of the coming liberation
Of Poland and Lithuania; the declaration
Made by the government; and the creation
Of a new Sejm. I’ve just some words to say
Concerning the Soplica family.
“Jacek Soplica, and the harm he did,
Are well-remembered in this neighborhood.
But, though his sins are known to all of you,
It’s time his merits were acknowledged too.
Our army’s generals are here; it’s they
Who told to me the things you’ll hear me say.
Jacek did not die (as we’d heard) in Rome.
He changed his ways, his calling, and his name;
By great acts, and pious living, he atoned
For sins against God and his native land.
“At Hohenlinden, when General Richepanse,
Half-beaten, nearly turned back his advance,
Not knowing Kniaziewicz soon would bring relief,
Jacek—now Robak—risking mortal grief—
Himself brought word from the latter that made clear
The Poles would take the enemy from the rear.
Later, in Spain, at Somosierra Pass
Where Polish uhlans were victorious,
At Kozietulski’s side he was twice wounded.
Then, as a secret go-between, he sounded
The hearts of people all across the land,
Creating leagues that functioned underground.
Back here in Soplicowo, his old home,
He perished in a foray. He had come
To plan a rising; Warsaw learned he’d died
Just as the Emperor, in gratitude
For his heroic deeds, planned to confer
A knighth
ood in the Légion d’honneur.
“In light of this, with the authority
That the provincial powers invest in me,
By my confederate staff I do declare:
Through his own deeds, and the grace of the Emperor,
His name is cleared of infamy; he now sits,
Honored once more, with the true patriots.
Whoever, then, should dare remind his kin
Of his old wrong, that now has been wiped clean,
By Lithuanian law will face the shame
Of gravis notae maculae on his name
For slandering a fellow citizen—this applies
To newer gentry and old families;
And, since we’re equal now, Article Three
Includes the burghers and the peasantry.
This proclamation shall be written down
In the statutes; let the bailiff make it known.
“And his Légion d’honneur: the fact it came
Too late is no diminishment of his fame.
Since this award no longer can adorn him,
I’ll place it on his tombstone here to mourn him.
Three days it will remain there, then be given
To the chapel, as tribute to the Queen of Heaven.”
This said, he took the medal from its case
And hung it on the headstone’s modest cross:
A star-shaped order, white, with golden crown,
On a red band tied in a bow. The sun
Lit the star’s rays, making them bright and fiery
Like a last gleam of Jacek’s earthly glory.
Meanwhile, the people knelt for the Angelus,
Praying the sinner should know eternal peace.
Among the gathered throng the Judge now passed,
Inviting one and all to join the feast.
Outside the house, though, two old men were perching,
Each with a large full mead-jug. They were watching
An uhlan in the garden, who rose up
Like a sunflower from red poppies, his bright cap
Bearing a golden plate and feathered plume.
A girl in a rue-green dress stood next to him,
Eyes blue as pansies fixed on the young man’s eyes.
The other maidens turned away their gaze
As they went picking flowers nearby, so that
They’d not disturb the lovers’ tête-à-tête.
But the old men drank their mead, offered each other
Their bark snuffboxes, and talked and talked together.
“Yes, dear Protazy,” Steward Gerwazy said.
“Yes, good Gerwazy,” Bailiff Protazy agreed.
They chimed in unison: “Yes, yes indeed,”
And nodded. The Bailiff stated by and by:
“Our trial will end strangely, that I won’t deny.