Pan Tadeusz
Page 33
I’d have the walls repaired from what I’d earned.
It seems, though, the new household may be needy.
And so, Mr. Soplica, I am ready
To live with you as houseguest of my lady
And dandle the third Horeszko generation,
And train it well in Jackknife’s exploitation
If it’s a boy—and it will be for sure
For boys are always born in times of war.”
As soon as Gerwazy’s speech drew to a close,
Protazy, stepping solemnly, came across.
He made a bow, and from his kontusz took
A panegyric lengthy as a book.
A sublieutenant, known for his odes one time
In the capital, had crafted it in rhyme
(In the army now, he still wrote poetry).
After three hundred lines, eventually
The Bailiff reached this place: “Thou in whose graces
Sweet grief with painful pleasure interlaces!
Whose lovely gaze, turned on Bellona’s hordes,
Makes spears to snap, shields crumble into boards!
Overcome Mars with Hymen; may you erase
The snakes of discord from the Hydra’s face!”
Tadeusz and Zofia clapped and clapped, pretending
To praise it; in truth they hoped that was the ending.
The Judge already had the priest on hand
To tell the peasants what Tadeusz planned.
Hearing the news, the serfs jumped from their seat,
Ran to their master, fell at their lady’s feet.
“Our masters’ health!” they shouted, teary-eyed.
“Our fellow citizens’ health!” Tadeusz replied—
“Free, equal Poles!”
“The people!” Dąbrowski put in.
The people rejoined: “The generals and the men!”
“Long live the people! Long live all the estates!”
Good wishes thundered from a thousand throats.
Buchman alone eschewed the celebration.
He praised the plan, but urged a variation:
Find a committee, write some legislation,
Then…Time was short, though, and regrettably
Buchman’s proposal never came to be.
For in the courtyard ladies with officers,
Soldiers with peasant girls, waited in pairs.
“A polonaise!” All shouted their demand.
Some officers led in an army band.
The Judge, though, whispered to the General:
“Have your musicians wait a little while.
You know that my nephew gets engaged today.
By family custom, a village band should play
At weddings and engagements. Over there,
You see, are bagpipes, fiddle, dulcimer.
They’re good men—there, the fiddler’s ready to rise,
The bagpipe player’s begging with his eyes.
If I say no to them, they’ll end up crying.
The people can only dance to suchlike playing.
Let’s have them play, let the people have their fun,
Then your first-rate musicians can come on.”
He signaled.
The fiddler rolled his coat sleeves back
Then, chin on the rest, and gripping the fiddle’s neck,
He sent the bow a-gallop across the strings.
At this cue, as if with beating wings
The bagpipe player plied his sack with passion.
The two men’s faces filled with animation—
You’d swear the two of them were going to rise
Like Boreas’ chubby babes, into the skies.
But the dulcimer?
Many men played the dulcimer;
With Jankiel present, though, no one would dare
(At the start of winter Jankiel had gone off
Somewhere; now he’d returned with the general staff).
Nobody, it was known, could match his bent
For skillful handling of that instrument.
They passed it to him, begged him to take part.
The Jew, though, said his hands were stiff, his art
Was rusty—plus, the masters’ presence awed him.
Politely he refused. When Zosia heard him
She hurried up; in his pale palm she laid
The hammers he hit the strings with when he played.
With her other hand she touched the old man’s beard
And curtseyed. “Please, dear Jankiel,” she implored,
“I’m getting engaged. You often promised you
Would play at my wedding. Oh, please, Jankiel, do!”
Jankiel liked Zosia hugely; he agreed
With a brief nod. Forward, then, he was led;
They sat him down, gave him the dulcimer.
He looked at it, pride and pleasure in his air,
Like a veteran who once more receives the call:
His grandsons heave his sword down from the wall;
The old man smiles—it’s long since he last held it
And yet he’s confident he still can wield it.
At first, two students kneel upon the ground
To tune the instrument and test its sound.
Jankiel, his eyes half closed, sits mutely there.
The hammers in his fingers do not stir.
Suddenly he strikes; there’s a triumphal chord.
His hands fly; sounds like driving rain are heard.
All are amazed—but he’s just warming up.
He raises the hammers, brings them to a stop.
He plays again; the hammers dance, as light
As a little fly, its wings atwitch in flight,
With only the faintest, distant sibilation.
The Maestro scans the sky for inspiration,
Then looks down at his instrument with pride.
He raises his hands, then drops them side by side.
The listeners are stunned…
There comes a sound
From many strings, like a janissary band
With cymbals, drums, and bells. The tune is clear:
The Third of May Polonaise! Its lively air
Breathes joy, pours joy on all. Every young girl
Is drawn to dance, the young men can’t stand still.
The old folk, though, recall the celebration
Of concord between the monarch and the nation—
After the Third of May, in the town hall
Senate and Sejm put on a splendid ball.
“Long live the King!” all called to one another—
“The Sejm! The Nation! All estates together!”
The Maestro plays with growing forcefulness.
A false chord, though, grates like a serpent’s hiss
Or metal on glass; the listeners’ happy mood
Is suddenly troubled by disquietude.
Could the instrument be out of tune, they wonder,
Saddened and alarmed; did the musician blunder?
Not this musician! He strikes repeatedly
That treacherous note, disturbs the melody.
The false chord loudens—sullen, confederated
Against the other notes that are united.
The Steward gets it first: he hides his face,
Crying: “I know! That’s Targowica’s voice!”
At once the string of evil omen snaps.
Jankiel now plays the high notes harshly, stops,
Then runs the hammers to the lowest strings.
A thousand ever louder clatterings
Ring out—war, marching, shots, attack—you hear
The moan of children, mothers’ tears. So clear
The picture is, the peasants quake wit
h fear:
The Massacre of Praga, memory
From song and story, moves them painfully.
They’re glad when all the strings are made to sound,
Seeming to bury the voices underground.
The listeners are barely over their sensation
When the music shifts. First, there’s a susurration
Quiet and low; some of the high strings whine
Like flies stuck in a cobweb. More strings join,
However; the scattered notes link with each other,
Legions of chords are formed, and play together,
Keeping the beat in a harmonious throng
To make the plaintive tune of the old song
About the wandering soldier, close to death
From hunger, tramping over wood and heath.
He falls by his faithful horse—his end has come.
With its foot, his horse then digs a grave for him.
To the Polish soldiery this song’s so dear!
Seasoned men recognize it; they press near
Around the Maestro, remembering bitterly
The moment when they sang that melody
At the Homeland’s grave, and then they left their home.
They think of all the years they’ve had to roam
On land, at sea, on ice, on burning sands,
Where often, making camp in foreign lands,
That Polish song cheered them and left them sad.
Lost in such thoughts, each soldier bows his head.
Yet they look up—the Maestro’s raised the tone;
It deepens, changes rhythm; he looks down,
Preparing something new. Hands joined, he brings
Both hammers plunging down upon the strings.
He strikes with such great force, such artfulness,
The instrument resounds like ringing brass
Which, in familiar notes, is heard to blast
A march of triumph: “Poland is not yet lost!”
“Dąbrowski, march to Poland!” All applaud,
In chorus crying, “Dąbrowski, march!” out loud.
Jankiel—as if surprised by what he’d played—
Dropped the hammers, raised his hands above his head.
His foxfur cap had fallen from its place;
Chin raised, he nodded with great solemnness.
A strange flush filled his cheeks, while in his gaze,
Replete with spirit, there shone a youthful blaze.
He turned to Dąbrowski, trying to conceal
His tears behind a hand, saying: “General!
Our Lithuania’s waited long for you
Like the Messiah’s awaited by every Jew.
Among the people, singers anticipated you,
While wonders in the heavens indicated you.
Live and fight on for us!”
Still his tears fell;
This good Jew loved his homeland as a Pole!
Dąbrowski offered his hand in thankfulness
But Jankiel, cap doffed, gave the hand a kiss.
Time for the polonaise! The Chamberlain,
His kontusz sleeves thrown lightly back, steps in
And, turning his mustache, with a gracious bow
Asks Zosia to lead the dancers with him now.
Behind them, couples gather; at a sign
The dance begins. The Chamberlain leads the line.
Red boots shine on the grass; his sword is glimmering,
His lavish belt of cloth of gold is shimmering.
The Chamberlain, as if reluctantly,
Strides slow, but with each movement you can see
The dancer’s feelings, thoughts. He stops already
As if he has a question for his lady;
He leans toward her, whispers in her ear.
She turns away, embarrassed—she will not hear.
He takes his cap off, bows, polite and meek.
She deigns to look at him, but still won’t speak.
He slows now, following her gaze askance.
At last he laughs—he’s cheered by her response.
He speeds up, eyes his rivals with disdain;
He puts his cap with heron plumes back on,
Now tips it upward, waves it now in front,
Then, twirling his whiskers, angles it aslant.
He steps; the rest, all jealous, follow him.
He’d gladly take his lady far from them;
At times he halts and gestures courteously,
Inviting those he leads to pass him by;
Or, in an attempt to hoodwink those behind him,
He dodges sideways, hoping they won’t find him.
Alas, with rapid steps they always reach him
And in their dancing convolutions catch him.
Angry, he grips his sword-hilt, as if to say:
“I scorn you! Woe to those who envy me!”
He turns, and with defiance and deep pride
Stares at the throng; the dancers step aside,
Not daring to near. The line is rearranged,
They move on.
Exclamations are exchanged:
“The last, perhaps! Watch, you young folks! He may
Be the last to lead a polonaise this way!”
Joyful and loud, the couples crossed the floor.
The circle widened, then it shrank once more,
Like a great serpent forming countless coils
With glittering, multicolored, patterned scales
That were the outfits of the ladies, men,
And soldiers, gilded by the setting sun
And mirrored on the grass’s shady cushion;
All now was music, clapping, cheers, and motion.
Yet Corporal Simp Dobrzyński stood apart,
Not dancing, hearing nothing, with heavy heart.
Hands clasped behind him, he grew gloomier.
He thought of Zosia—how he’d courted her,
Made baskets for her, brought her bird’s nests, flowers,
Carved earrings—such ingratitude was hers!
Those fine gifts went to waste. She would avoid him;
His father furthermore downright forbade him,
But he kept up! He’d linger by the fence
And stare at her window, hoping for a glance;
He’d creep into the flax to watch her feeding
The poultry, picking cucumbers, or weeding.
Ingratitude! He looked down, hummed the tune
Of a mazurka, put his helmet on
And went to the gunners’ camp, passing the guards.
There, to distract himself he played at cards
With old campaigners, easing his misery
With drink; such was Dobrzyński’s constancy.
Zosia danced gaily. Though in the first pair,
She barely could be seen; on the huge square
Of the old courtyard, clad in her green dress
And decked in flowers, she moved across the grass,
Circling in unseen flight, leading the dance
As the angel guides the stars in their advance.
You’d spot her place—all eyes were turned to face her,
Arms reaching, while the hubbub seemed to chase her.
The Chamberlain strove in vain to stay with her—
His rivals displaced him from the leading pair.
Dąbrowski relished his place—but fleetingly.
A second took over, while a third stood by,
Then he too was replaced, and left downhearted.
Tired, Zosia found Tadeusz; scared they’d be parted,
And wishing to ensure that they remained
Together, she brought the dancing to an end
And went to check that glasses all were full
.
The sun was sinking, the evening warm and still;
Across the sky small cloudlets were dispersed,
Blue overhead, and pink toward the west;
They spelled good weather; delicate and bright,
Some looked like sheep in the field, asleep at night,
Some, smaller, were like flocks of garganey.
To the west a cloud like a lace curtain lay:
Transparent, pleated, pearly on its skin,
Its edges gilded, crimson deep within.
In the low sun it smoldered, glowing still,
Then, slowly losing color, it grew pale.
The cloud was drawn across; the sun’s head drooped
And, with a single balmy sigh, it slept.
The gentry, though, drank on, with endless toasts:
Napoleon, the generals, their hosts
Tadeusz and Zosia, all three pairs-to-be,
Then absent guests, the gathered company,
All living friends, who were remembered duly,
And those now gone, whose memory was holy.
And I drank mead and wine among them there
And what I saw and heard, recorded here.
Epilogue
In Paris, then, I mused on this—
Hearing the city’s raucousness—
The curses, lies, ill-timed intentions,
Regrets and harrowing dissensions.
Woe to us fugitives, who’d feared
The plague-days, and so fled abroad!
Wherever we went, unease would go;
We’d see each neighbor as a foe,
Till we were ringed by an iron fence
And told to yield our soul at once.
And when the world shuns their laments
And direful tales so often peal
From Poland like a graveyard bell;
When their guards wish for death to snare them—
Like grave diggers, their enemies lure them—
When even in heaven hope is snarled,
Small wonder that people and the world,
Mad with long pain, should scorn each other
And quarrel bitterly together!
* * *
—
A bird of limited flight, I’d try
To dodge the rain, the stormy sky—
Seek only shade, clear days—and come
To the years of childhood, and to home…
The only joy for one who meets
With friends by the fire at night; he sits,
Shuts out the din of Europe; dreams
Of moments past and happier times,
His homeland swirling in his thoughts.
The blood, though, spilled in Poland lately,
The tears that flood the land completely,