Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works

by Adam Mickiewicz

  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.