At first she searched for something in the meadow.
He couldn’t see her hidden face till she
began to run and skip. Thus he could follow
her movements, as she fell down joyously,
clasping her hands and laughing. Then she flew
up from the turf, a bird joining its flock,
over the fence, her white robe askew
and disappeared — much to the young man’s shock.
He saw her next in quite a flutter, when
she hopped in through the open window, singing,
and gathered her skirt, disheveled from the run,
and approached the mirror wholly unsuspecting.
Imagine what she thought, spying the youth:
she dropped her mouth and then her hem in fright,
although she didn’t turn away. His breath
left him red as a cloud in morning light.
Shielding his eyes and with apologies,
he bowed, and almost tripping, withdrew.
The girl just screamed as if some dread disease
had caused her pain, or some nightmare creature flew
into her dream. The youth peeked out once more,
almost as horrified, but she was gone.
Convinced that he’d committed some grave error,
his heart pounding his chest, flooding his brain.
When he calmed down, he couldn’t make the choice —
to feel ashamed by this encounter or rejoice.
Meanwhile, the guest’s arrival had been noticed,
and so the law of hospitality
demanded that the horses were enticed
with hay and oats of the best quality
and then stabled. The Judge abhorred the new
fashion of sending both the horse and guest
to board inside the tavern of a Jew.
Servants did not greet the youth, but lest
the reader think the Judge allowed such breach
of propriety, let it be known that they waited
until the busy Seneschal could reach8
the door. This man, so distantly related
to the Judge, now his friend, was assigned the chore
of cooking up a special meal for him —
this youth they were eagerly waiting for.
Now he rushed to find his suit and trim,
and in his room, while glancing at the clock,
hastily removed his homespun frock.
The Seneschal could clearly recognize
the youth from far away; he shouted, waved
his arms, and rushed to gaze into his eyes.
Once they embraced, nothing could be saved
for later conversation. Everything
competed for the forefront of their tangled
discourse: years of history mixing
with sighs and renewed greeting. Gaps all filled,
the mutual cross-examination ceased,
the Seneschal announced the evening feast.
“It’s good,” he said to Tadeusz, who bore
Kosciuszko’s given name, since he was born
the very year the hero fought his war.
“It’s good you chose this time for your return.
You’ll find that we play host to quite a horde
of young ladies — so know, that in the end,
your uncle does expect you’ll give your word
to one you find most suitable. Both friend
and foe have also gathered to convene
the District Court; the Count will soon arrive.
This ancient feud will play its final scene,
I hope, and settle, leaving all alive.
The Chamberlain has brought his wife and daughters;9
the men are in the forest shooting quail.
Some women watch the harvest, some in their quarters —
your Uncle’s busy with some last detail.”
The sun was setting — a broad red band
just like the glow upon some peasant’s brow,
who trudges home across his fresh-plowed land.
It stretched across the whole horizon now,
and twilight mist was flickering through green
branches, like tiny fires of roofing thatch
ablaze, or like a candle briefly seen
through shutters. Soon darkness drenched the patch,
the final light extinguished. Then the rows
of scythes swishing in the grain, and rakes
dragging the meadow grass — soon all grows
quiet. And only then will the Judge make
the sign announcing that the working day
is done. The Judge’s word on this estate
is sacred: “When the sun withdraws his final ray
the farmer can retire,” he’d pontificate,
“The Lord of Earth knows just how long to toil
before he leaves — and so we imitate.”
Although some carts were waiting on the soil
for sheaves of rye, there was one to hoist.
And while they made their way back to the barn —
the oxen with their lighter load rejoiced.
All were heading home from the forest,
gaily, but in order. Children ahead
rushed in front of their tutors, the rest,
beginning with the Chamberlain’s wife, were led
by the Judge. Then came her family, and ladies.
somewhat older, preceding those who were still young.
Such order and these strict proprieties
seemed almost instinctual among
the groups — no one had told them to reserve
their certain spots, and yet in the household
of the Judge, all were careful to observe
ancient custom — and rarely was one bold
enough to disrespect its ways. “We must
honor one’s age and birth, one’s office and
one’s intellect,” he’d say, “and so we trust
that both nation and home will make this land
a place where celebration is bred in.
But try to do without these attributes,
then both will surely fester and grow rotten.”
Rarely did these strictures cause disputes,
and visitors adapted without care,
as quickly as they breathed his household air.
The Judge greeted his nephew with a bow;
he gravely held his hand out to be kissed
and touched his cheek to young Tadeusz’s brow.
It was clear to all — the youth was sorely missed,
for though the Judge remained silent and brief,
his tears provided evidence of grief.
Then everything followed in the tracks
of the host — from the forest, pastures, meadows,
and harvest. Bleating sheep with wooly backs
were raising clouds of dust, and next, in rows
a herd of Tyrolean calves strode
on thin, stiff legs, each clanging a brass bell.
Neighing horses galloped from the mowed
meadows — all met and gathered by the well,
waiting for the beam to creak and force
water into the trough. Although his guests
awaited him, the Judge felt no remorse:
he had his work, and a good farmer tests
his stables every night. To every sty
he went, trusting only his own sight —
The Horse is Fattened by the Master’s Eye.
In the hall, loitering by lantern-light,
the Seneschal and Protazy the Steward
argued. The Steward had secretly changed
the Seneschal’s stated plans, defied his word
about the old castle, and rearranged
the tables he’d earlier removed.
This castle, situated in the wood,
had long lain ruined by neglect, which prove
d
as damaging as years of attack withstood.
The outraged Seneschal apologized
to the Judge, because it was too late to change
things now and made excuses for the once prized
castle, which, in days of old, as strange
as it sounds now, protected the estate.
So while the Judge pressed on, he heard
his Steward Protazy attempt to state
his case: the manor lacked the space, he feared,
for such distinguished guests, while the great hall
inside the castle had been partially
restored. The vaulted roof was solid, the wall
had many of its stained-glass panes, surely
a minor problem, since it was now summer.
Proximity to smokehouse and root cellar
would make the tasks of cooks and servants easier.
Protazy faced the Judge, avoiding war
by winking, which, he felt, explained his treason,
though clearly he concealed some deeper reason.
More than a thousand paces beyond the manor
the stately structure stood, the most ancient
Horeszko legacy, whose last successor
perished during the nation’s internment.
The whole domain had further been destroyed
by guardians who squandered its fortune.
Judicial interdiction further toyed
with it, until the greater part had soon
been passed to distant relatives, the rest
divided by creditors. And no one tried
to claim the castle, since even the best
intentions could not help the eager side
without great sums of cash. Until the Count,
a distant Horeszko, who’d come of age,
decided that he’d pay the full amount,
and wished to own both castle and its acreage.
He said he loved the Gothic architecture,
although the Judge, who hated all things Prussian,
located documents that could assure
its architect was Lithuanian.
Just as the Count announced his will, the Judge
developed quite a similar passion
for the castle. Since neither one would budge,
proceedings were begun — first in the District
Court, and finally brought before the Senate.
After great expense and numerous edict,
neither party could the courts placate.
And now, Protazy claimed, despite its fault,
the castle could hold all dignitaries
in its refectory, beneath a vault
bulging on pillars, with great tapestries
and prized trophies mounted on the wall —
the great antlers of conquered elk and stag,
heraldic treasures of the hunter’s call,
the name of each inscribed upon a tag,
and finally, the proud Horeszko crest,
the half-goat, painted high above the rest.
The guests entered in order and then stood
in one great circle, while the Chamberlain
assumed his place, as one of his rank should,
for that and the privilege of age dictated the main
order. He bowed to ladies, old men and young.
The Judge waited while a Bernardine monk
intoned a prayer; a Latin hymn was sung.
Vodka, served to honored guests, was drunk.
The rest sat down because it was quite late,
and silently a cold beet salad they ate.
Though young, Tadeusz was an honored guest,
his proper place among the ladies, near
the Chamberlain, who had made this request.
Between Tadeusz and the Judge, however,
a space remained conspicuously vacant,
and more than once his uncle scrutinized
the empty seat, awaiting someone’s prized
arrival. So Tadeusz, too, began to stare,
gazing from the door to untouched table setting.
How strange it was — right here among such fair
and highborn young ladies — he was letting
them eat in peace, when even the pickiest prince
would surely find several to his liking.
Instead, Tadeusz searched for evidence
of future occupation, barely striking
up a conversation with the daughter
of the Chamberlain, thus failing to remove
her dirty plate, or charm her into laughter,
or fill her empty glass with wine, or prove
with proper conversation that he knew
the ways of high society. The rest
of them got even less of a review,
because the youth’s imagination dressed
the unknown object in a charming manner,
and filled with speculation what was blank —
a thousand guesses, each bearing its banner
now hopped like frogs out of their river bank
after a storm, teeming across a meadow,
drawn to their queen floating upon the lake;
that is, the water lily’s deep white brow.
Soon the Chamberlain began to take
the offered plates, and filled one daughter’s glass
with wine, handing a dish of pickled cucumber
to the other. “I see,” he said, “that I must pass
this food myself, though older and clumsier...”
At once a crew of young men leaped to serve
the young ladies. The Judge, arching his brow,
gave his nephew a stare that could unnerve
anyone, and straightened out his caftan to show
he wished to speak. Pouring out some wine
from Hungary, he began: “The latest fashion
now dictates that our youth follow a line
straight to the capital. Now all our sons,
and grandsons, too, we won’t deny,
have more book-learning than the rest of us,
but how they suffer for it — and how I decry
this new practice! I’m bothered by this fuss
over education; they can’t teach
the proper way to act out in the world.
Back in my day, excuse me if I preach,
a youth would go to live in the household
of a noble. Yes, I myself was sent
to the court of the father of our honored guest;
he counseled me until he could present
me to society, molded like the best
of men. He kept me till he thought me fit,
and we should praise his soul for his guidance,
for if this household did not benefit,
as others did, it’s not from lack of chance:
Farming the land is what I clearly chose;
I never sought to rise up to the ranks
to which others, more praiseworthy, rose.
No one ever can reproach me, thanks
to him, who taught me never to offend
by lacking honesty or courtesy,
a science quite exact, but not an end
in itself. For even the most skillfully
executed clicking of the heels
or greeting smile, can signify no more
than ways in which a shopkeeper steals.
The ancient Polish code offers a store
of knowledge for each different situation.
No child can love by being impolite;
nor husband and wife. And for every station,
from master down to servant, there is one right
and proper way, and each encounter is
occasion for new honesty. A man
must listen to his elders, for this
is the only way to learn about one’s clan
and family, the domestic annals
and history. Each nobleman could know
all things about his brethren and his rivals,
and thus, accordingly, know to show
respect, or guard his manner. Yet today,
we dare not ask what sort of man one is —
who bore him, with whom he spent the day,
or where he lived — nothing can be remiss.
We let in beggars, even former spies,
just like Vespassion the Roman, who10
could sniff his filthy lucre as his prize,
no matter who had touched it, for all he knew
about were valid stamps, his sole concern —
friendship reduced to gold a Jew might earn.”
The Judge surveyed his guests around the table,
for though he knew his speech was clear and fluent,
the patience of the young was questionable,
likely to be tried by even the most eloquent.
But everyone listened in deep silence,
and so he sought the Chamberlain’s support,
who seemed at first to show indifference
to everything except refilling his port.
“So courtesy,” the Judge went on to say,
“is no small thing, for once one learns the customs
of another age, he can begin to weigh
the import of his own. His virtue comes
under scrutiny — at least he has a scale
on which to balance his errant behavior.
Especially when we send a young male
to the home of a female, the worthier
traits, if they are inbred, are apparent.
The path that leads from youthful flirtation
to marriage, likewise joins both parent
and house. Such was our elders’ instruction.”
Thus the Judge concluded his speaking turn;
his glance at Tadeusz appeared quite stern.
The Chamberlain fingered his gold snuffbox,
tapping it. “It was,” he said, “much worse.
I don’t know who to blame for this new pox
that now both young and old are want to curse.
But I remember times when all things French
became the rage, the country overrun —
young men like the Mongol horde — like some stench
from God knows where, the damage quickly done.
Custom, tradition, style of dress declined;
and no house lacked some sniveling young snot,
whining though his nose as he reclined,
his pockets stuffed — gazettes, brochures, such rot!
They lauded new beliefs, laws, and toilettes;
this rabble had us under such a grip,
surely God unleashed his wrath and threats,
and taking our good sense, he seemed to strip
us of our reason. Some, in fact, predicted
the nation’s quick demise; for even honest
citizens were soon to be infected
by a plague that earlier had them distressed.
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 11