The lizard’s nest. Forgive me, dear Aldona!
To-day I would remain at home, to-day
Forget all things; be we for each to-day
What once we used to be. To-morrow — —” But
He could not finish. What joy then Aldona’s!
She thought, unhappy, Walter would be changed,
That he would live in peace and joyousness.
Less thoughtful did she see him, in his eyes
More life; she saw new colour in his cheeks;
And all that evening at Aldona’s feet
Spent Walter. Litwa, Teutons, and the war
He cast awhile into forgetfulness;
Talked of those happy times when first he came
To Litwa, his first converse with Aldona,
The first walk to the valley, and of all
Those childish things, but memorable to the heart,
Of that first love. Wherefore such sweet discourse
Must he break off with that sad word — to-morrow,
And plunge in thought, look long upon his wife?
Tears circle in his eyes. Would he then speak,
But dares not? Did he but invoke the feelings,
The memories of ancient happiness,
Only to bid farewell to them? Shall all
This evening’s converse, all its sweet caresses,
Be but the last, last flickerings of love’s torch?
’Tis vain to ask. Aldona looks and waits,
Uncertain. Passing from the room, she gazed
Still through the crannies. Walter poured out wine,
And emptied many cups, and near him kept
The hoary Wajdelote through all the night.
Scarce risen had the sun when hoofs were clattering;
Up with the morning mists two riders haste;
The guards all missed them; one eye could not miss.
A lover’s eyes are vigilant. Aldona
Had guessed their flight; she rushed into the valley.
Sad was that meeting. “O my love, return!
Return thou home — return! Thou must be happy,
Blest in embraces of thy family.
Thou art young and fair; comfort will soon be thine.
Forget me. Many princes formerly
Contended for thy hand. And thou art free,
Being as widow left of a great man,
Who for his country’s weal renounced ev’n thee!
Farewell! forget; but weep for me at times;
For Walter loses all; he doth remain
Lone as the lone wind in the wilderness,
And he must wander over all the world,
To plunder, murder, and at last to perish
By shameful death. But after vanished years
The name of Alf again shall sound in Litwa,
And from the Wajdelote’s lips thou shalt again
Hear of his deeds. Then, loved one, think thou then,
This dreadful knight, with cloud of mystery veiled,
Is known to thee alone, — was once thy husband;
And be thy pride thy desolation’s comfort.”
Silent Aldona did assent, although
She heard no word. “Thou goest! thou goest!” she cried,
And her own anguish wrought with her own words.
“Thou goest!” this one word sounded in her ear.
She framed no thought, nothing recalled; her thoughts,
Her memories, her future, tangled all;
But guessed her heart she never could return,
Nor e’er forget. Her eyes all wandering roved,
And many times met Walter’s wildered look,
Wherein she might not find the ancient joy;
She seemed to seek for something new around,
And looked once more. ’Twas forest wilderness.
Beyond the Niemen ‘mid the forests gleamed
A turret height; a convent ’twas of nuns,
Sad dwelling of the Christians. On this tower
Rested Aldona’s eyes and thoughts; the dove
Seized by the wind amidst a raging sea,
Thus falls upon an unknown vessel’s mast.
And Walter understood Aldona. Silent
He followed her, and told her his design,
Commanding secrecy before the world.
And at the doors — ah! fearful was that parting!
Alf rode off with the Wajdelote. Till now
Nought has been heard of them. But woe to him
If he fulfil not hitherto his vows,
If, having all his bliss renounced and poisoned
Aldona’s happiness, and sacrificed
So much, he still have sacrificed in vain!
The future shows the rest. I have ended, Germans.
This is the end? — great murmur in the hall.
“Who is this Walter, and what are his deeds?
Where? vengeance upon whom?” the hearers cried.
The Master only, ‘mid the murmuring crowd,
In silence sat with head bent down. He seemed
As deeply moved; each instant snatches cups
Of wine, and to the very bottom drains.
Upon him came a change of somewhat new,
Many emotions break in sudden lightnings,
And circle o’er his burning countenance;
His pale lips quiver, and his wandering eyes
Fly round like swallows in the midst of storm.
At last he cast his mantle off, and sprang
Into the midst. “Where is the story’s end?
Sing me at once the end or give the lute.
Why stand’st thou trembling? Give the lute to me.
Fill up the goblets; I will sing the end
If thou dost fear to sing it.
“I know ye. Every song the Wajdelote sings
Portendeth woe, as howls of dogs at night.
Murders and burnings ye delight to sing,
Ye leave to us — glory and sorrowing.
Yet in the cradle doth your traitorous song
Circle the infant’s breast in reptile form,
And cruellest poison sheds into the soul,
Foolish desire of praise and patriot love.
“She follows hard the footsteps of a youth
Like shade of slaughtered foe, sometimes reveals
Herself in midst of banquets, mixing blood
In cups of joy. I have heard the song — too well,
Alas! Tis done, ’tis done! I know thee, traitor!
Thou winnest! War! what triumph for a poet!
Give to me wine; now my designs are working.
“I know the song’s end. No! I’ll sing another.
When on the mountains of Castile I fought,
There the Moors taught me ballads. Old man! play
That melody, that childish melody,
Which in the valley,— ’twas a blessed time;
Unto that music did I ever sing.
Return at once, old man, for by all gods,
German or Prussian — —”
The old man must return.
He struck the lute, and with uncertain voice
Followed the savage tones of Konrad, as
A slave may walk behind his angry lord.
Meanwhile the lights went out upon the table.
The knights had slumbered at the lengthy banquet,
But Konrad sings, and they awake again.
They stand, and, in a narrow circle pressed,
Attentive marked the ballad’s every word.
Ballad.
ALPUJARA.
Ruined lie the Moorish cities,
Still the Moors upraise the sword;
In the country still resisting,
Reigns the pestilence as lord.
And the towers of Alpujara
Brave Almanzor still defends:
Floats below the Spaniard’s banner,
Siege to-morrow he intends.
Roar the guns at sunrise
loudly,
Ramparts break, and crumble walls;
From the towers the cross gleams proudly, —
Now the Spaniard owns these halls.
Sad Almanzor views his warriors
Slain in battle desperate;
Hews his way through swords and lances,
Flieth Spain’s pursuing hate.
Now the Spaniards in the fortress,
‘Mid the stones and corpses there,
Hold the feast and drain the wine-cup,
And the spoils and captives share.
Soon the guard.without announces
That a stranger knight doth wait,
Craving for a swift admittance,
Bringing tidings of great weight
’Twas the vanquished Moor Almanzor.
Swift his mantle off was thrown;
To the Spaniards he surrenders,
And he craves for life alone.
“I am come, ye Christian warriors,
To submit me to your power;
I will serve the God of Christians,
Own your prophet from this hour,
“Let the blast of fame, world-filling,
Say, the Arab chief o’erthrown
Would be brother to his victors,
Vassal of a stranger’s crown.”
Well the Spaniard prizes valour.
So the great Almanzor knowing,
They embraced him, circled round him,
As their true companion showing.
Each one then Almanzor greeted,
And their captain close embraced:
Hung upon his neck, and kissed him;
Such true love their friendship graced.
All at once his strength grew feebler,
And he fell upon the ground;
But he drew the Spaniard with him,
To his feet the turban bound.
All with wonder looked upon him,
And his livid visage scan;
Horrid smiles deformed his features,
And with blood his eyes o’erran.
“Christian dogs,” he cries, “look on me,
If you understand this thing;
I deceived you, from Granada
Come I, and the plague I bring.
“For my kiss breathed venom in ye,
And the plague shall lay you low;
Come and look upon my tortures —
Ye such death must undergo.”
Wide he cast his eyes around him,
As he would eternally
Chain all Spaniards to his bosom;
And a horrid laugh laughed he.
Laughed, and died; his eyes yet open,
Open yet his lips remained:
In that hellish smile for ever
Those cold features still were strained.
Fled the Spaniards from the city.
But the plague their steps pursuing,
Ere they left doomed Alpujara,
Was that gallant host’s undoing.
“Thus years ago the Moors avenged themselves;
Would you the vengeance of the Litwin know?
What if some day it issue forth in words,
And come to mingle poison in the wine?
But no! ah, no! to-day are other customs,
Prince Witold; for to-day the Litwin lords
Come to deliver us their native land,
And seek for vengeance on their harassed people.
“But yet, indeed, not all — oh! no, by Perun!
There are in Litwa yet — I’ll sing yet to you!
Away from me that lute — a string is broken.
No song will be — but I do trust indeed
One time there will be. This day, o’er filled cups, —
I have drunk too much — rejoice yourselves and play!
And thou Al — manzor, leave my sight, old man!
Away with Halban — leave me here alone.”
He said, and turning by uncertain way,
He found his place, and sank into his chair.
Still threatening somewhat, stamping with his foot,
O’erturned the table with the wine and cups.
At last grown weaker, he inclined his head
Upon the chair-arm; soon his glance was quenched;
His quivering lips were covered o’er with foam.
He slept.
The knights awhile in fixed amazement stood:
They knew full well Konrad’s unhappy custom;
How, when inflamed unto excess with wine,
Into wild transports and forgetfulness
He falls; but at a banquet, public shame!
Before the strangers, in such unheard rage!
Who thus inflamed him? Where that Wajdelote?
He vanished privately, none know of him.
Stories there were that Halban thus disguised
To Konrad that Litvanian song had sung,
To kindle by this means the zeal of Christians
To battle against heathenesse; but whence
A change so sudden in the Master? Wherefore
Did Witold show such angry wrath? What means
The Master’s strange, wild ballad? With conjectures,
Each vainly tries to track the hidden secret.
War.
War now. For Konrad may no longer curb
The people’s zeal, the council’s fierce insistance:
The whole land calls for vengeance long delayed,
For Litwa’s inroad, and for Witold’s treason.
Witold, once suitor for the Order’s grace,
To aid recovery of his capital,
After the banquet, on this new report
That the Crusading hosts will take the field,
Changed measures — traitor to his recent friendship,
And led his knights in secrecy away.
And in the Teuton castles on the road
He entered, by the Master’s forged commands;
And then disarming all the garrison,
Annihilated all with fire and sword.
The Order, roused with burning rage and shame,
Against the heathens stirred up fierce Crusade;
The Pope sends forth a bull, — seas, land, o’erflow
At once with swarms of warriors numberless,
Princes with mighty following of vassals;
The Red Cross decks their armour. Each his life
Devotes to christen pagans, — or to die.
They went towards Litwa. What their actions there?
If thou wouldst know, gaze from the ramparts’ heights,
Look towards Litwa, as the day declines.
Thou see’st a fiery blaze; the vault of heaven
O’er-deluged with a stream of bloody flame;
Behold the annals of invading war.
Few words relate their carnage, plunder, fire,
And blaze, which may rejoice the foolish crowd,
But in it wise men do with fear confess,
A voice that crieth for revenge to Heaven.
The winds blew on that dreadful fire apace,
The knights marched further to the heart of Litwa.
Report says Kowno, Wilna, are besieged.
Then ceased report, and couriers came no more.
No longer in the region flames were seen,
But further off the heaven’s ruddy blaze.
In vain the Prussians look with eager hope,
For spoils and prisoners of the conquered land;
In vain despatch swift couriers for the news,
The couriers hasten — and return no more.
As each this cruel doubt interpreteth,
He willingly would know despair itself.
The autumn passed away. The winter’s snows
Revelled upon the mountains, block the ways.
Once more upon the distant heaven shine —
Midnight auroras? or the fires of war?
And ever nearer comes the light of flames,
And near
er yet the heaven’s ruddy blaze.
From Marienbourg the folk look on the road;
They see afar — grovelling through deepest snows,
Some travellers! — Konrad! And our generals!
How welcome them? Victors? or fugitive?
Where are the others? Konrad raised his hand,
And pointed further off a scattered crowd,
Alas! their very aspect told the secret!
They rush in disarray, plunge in the snowdrifts;
Roll each on each, down treading like vile insects,
Within a narrow vessel perishing;
They push o’er corpses, ever newer crowds,
Hurl those new risen down again to earth.
Some drag still onward chilled and stiffened limbs,
Some on the march have frozen to the road;
But with raised hands the corpses standing point
Straight to the town, like pillars on the way.
The townsfolk, terror-stricken, curious ran,
Fearing to guess the truth they dared not ask;
For all the story of that luckless war
They in the warriors’ eyes and faces read
For o’er their eyes hung death in frosty shape,
And Famine’s harpy hollowed out their cheeks.
Now are the trumpets of the Litwin heard,
Now rolls the storm, snow whirlwinds o’er the plain;
Far off a multitude of gaunt dogs howls,
And overhead the ravens hover round.
All perished! Konrad has destroyed them all!
He, that once reaped such glory with the sword,
He, for his prudence formerly renowned,
Timid and careless in this latter war,
Marked not the cunning snares that Witold laid;
Deceived and blinded by the wish of vengeance,
Driving his army on the Litwin steppes,
Wilna thus long in sluggard guise besieged.
When plunder and provisions were consumed,
When hunger came upon the German camp,
And scattered all around, the enemy
Destroyed the auxiliars, cut off all supplies,
Each day a myriad Germans died from need.
Now time approached to end by storm the war,
Or else bethink them of a swift return.
Then Wallenrod, in peace and confidence,
Rode to the chase, or, closed within his tent,
Forged secret treaties, and denied his captains
Admission to the councils of the war.
And thus in warlike fervour grew he cold,
That by his people’s tears untouched, unmoved,
He deigned not raise the sword in their defence;
All day with folded arms upon his breast,
In thought remaining, or discourse with Halban.
Meanwhile the winter piled its heaps of snow,
And Witold, with his fresh recruited bands,
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 8