Once a dandy was no better than a germ,
a foreign sickness from across the border,
but soon they even ceased to make us squirm,
and rage only increased all the disorder.
Sadly, no one was trying to prevent
this masquerading carnival that enacted
that ushered in the slavery of Lent.
Even when I was young I was distracted:
one time when sitting in my father’s yard,
a coach arrived, intent to make a visit,
and all, like swallows following a buzzard,
raced behind. It was his damned outfit
all were so curious to glimpse, as well
as the strange coach. Such overwhelming envy
for my house they felt, under the spell
of the two-wheeled chaise, anxious to finally see.
The French called it a cabriole, and in
the footman’s seat, instead of a servant,
two puppies sat. And in the box, a thin
German, whose legs, if they had not been bent,
looked just like poles we use to stake our hops.
His boots with silver buckles dangled down.
The old men laughed at first and couldn’t stop,
until a peasant proclaimed with a frown,
crossing himself, that in this German carriage
the Venetian Devil was crisscrossing the world.
And if you saw that German’s equipage,
I’m sure you would agree. He wore a curled
wig, that he said was his golden fleece;
to us it seemed like matted hair for lice11
to burrow in. His face was like a monkey’s
or a parrot’s, yet after looking twice,
do you think that anyone opposed this style,
saying that he preferred our Polish attire
to this pathetic aping? And so, while
first there wasn’t either praise or ire,
soon the young embraced this prejudice
for all things French. And sooner or later,
they said, the old would see it was progress;
anyone opposed was called a traitor.
This man said he intended to reform us,
to civilize us and correct our ways.
All this newfound freedom — such a fuss —
as if the French alone began the craze
that all men are equal. As much is writ
inside the pages of the Holy Scripture,
or so we hear in sermons from the pulpit.
How could this doctrine gain in such stature,
when in the world such blindness does prevail?
Since no one believed in ancient verity,
it must have appeared in some French journal!
This man, unequally, was a Marquis,
a title that in Paris was the style.
And since fashion in Paris does not stagnate,
but changes, as it does, once in while —
he was a Democrat. And yet his fate
shifted again with Napoleon’s rise:
he is a Baron now, though he’d convert
again...and so would Poles. We take the prize —
for when a Frenchman sweats we change our shirt.”
“Praise God, that when our sons now go away,
it’s not to buy new clothes or even pamphlets,
or learn by sitting in a Paris cafe,
the proper way the French run-up their debts.
But now we have our dear Napoleon,
who has no time for idle talk of fashions,
who cares less for a frock than for a weapon,
and wishes that Poland, of all nations,
become what it once was — The Republic!
From such laurels, the tree of freedom springs.
How sad our struggle still drags on, how sick
we have become of idleness and waiting
for even the scantiest of news. Robak,”
he said, turning quietly to the priest,
“Perhaps there is some word that you’ve brought back.
Do we have forces gathering — at least?”
“I know nothing,” the monk replied rudely.
“I’m bored by politics. If there’s a letter
postmarked Warsaw, then most assuredly
it’s news regarding my monastic order,
petty disputes that would most likely burn
the ears of a layman lacking all concern.”
This said, he looked askance at one new guest,
Captain Rykov, an old soldier from Moscow
quartered in the village, troops at rest.
He was invited by the Judge to show
his courtesy; but this Rykov devoured
his food and barely spoke, until they mentioned
Warsaw. “My friend,” the Russian spoke in lowered
tones, “Now please don’t think me ill-intentioned
if I bring up this Bonaparte. I’m not a spy;
I understand how much you love your homeland;
you are Poles and I’m Russian, and that is why
we have an armistice, so we can stand
together and not fight, but drink and eat.
I often talked to Frenchmen at the post —
we’d toast with vodka — before we could repeat
the act again, the cannonballs were tossed.
We Russians say that anyone you fight
you first must like. Caress the bride before
the wedding — then you beat her every night.
I guess I’m saying that there will be war.
My Major Plut had visitors today;
they’re all prepared to march, so I must go
against the French or Turks, but either way,
this Bonaparte will put on quite a show!
Without Suvorov — he’ll just wipe us out.12
I’ve heard them whisper in my regiment
that Bonaparte used magic when he fought;
and so did Suvorov. Inside his tent,
during a battle he once disappeared,
transformed himself into a baying hound
to chase this clever Bonaparte, who cleared
the way when he became a fox. When found,
he changed into a cat with claws. My source
claimed that Suvorov was a horse and boar.”
This sorcery was served with the next course;
When suddenly all heard a slamming door.
Someone appeared who was both young and fair;
and her entrance, her beauty and stature
surprised them all, so all began to stare.
Clearly, all except Tadeusz knew her.
She was slender with an attractive shape,
wearing a gown composed of layered silk,
low-cut, with a collar of folded crepe
and short sleeves. She held a fan she’d tilt
to hide her mouth, then twirl like a plaything,
causing sparks to flicker from its handle.
Her hair was circled into tiny winding
strands, braided with ribbons — while the sparkle
from an almost hidden diamond shone
much like a star within a comet’s tail.
Such dress, the guests remarked in a hushed tone,
Was inappropriate in each detail.
Her dress was short, her entrance was so quick,
her legs remained unseen, almost gliding
like a puppet made to slide upon a stick
in Nativity plays, by young boys hiding
behind a sheet. But when she shyly curtsied,
and tried to sit down in the place reserved,
she found it very difficult indeed —
the rows of benches had her all unnerved:
should she disturb the row, or should she hop?
Skillfully, she slid into her place
(A billiard ball might score with such a drop
),
but not before she brushed Tadeusz’s face.
It seems she caught her flounce on someone’s knee,
and lost balance; and so to keep from toppling,
she had to grab his shoulder, and politely
apologized for such an awkward cling.
She sat between him and the Judge; in place,
she didn’t eat; she just surveyed the room and fanned,
adjusting her collar of Flemish lace,
and twirling ringlets with her tiny hand.
This interruption didn’t last so long;
whispers began, then speaking, though subdued,
because the men reviewed the hunt. Soon strong
words flowed from the stubborn Notary, who argued13
the hare was captured by his bobtail runt.
The outraged Sheriff, adding to the strife,14
insisted that his Falcon led the hunt.
The feud increased in pitch, becoming rife
with threats and accusations from the bobtail’s
boasting owner. When, finally, the rest
were asked, and when all of the hunt’s details
were weighed, experts and viewers all expressed
the same judgment: it was the Notary’s hound.
Meanwhile, the Judge was busily engaged
in conversation: “I offer my profound
apologies about the way we’ve staged
this meal, he told the lady at his side.
Our guests must eat; they’re tired from the chase.
If I knew you’d be joining us, I’d have tried
arranging this in some more pleasant place.”
He carefully replenished wine consumed,
while the fierce debate was once again resumed.
While others at both ends were occupied,
Tadeusz scrutinized the unknown face,
recalling how, at first meeting, he tried
to guess, after she left without a trace.
His heart raced as clues revealed the prize,
the mystery now solved, and even more,
he felt as though his wishes could materialize —
she was the one who’d startled him before.
True, she seemed to be somewhat taller,
but evening dress adds inches to one’s height;
and though her hair, which had a golden color
and seemed shorter, now glowed raven in the light
reddening the hall... He hadn’t really
seen her face before, and so his mind
composed one: eyes that were both black and steely.
pale skin and cherry lips. And now he’d find
the new face matched this made-up one. The age
only seemed different — the garden maid
had grown older, a more mature visage.
And though Baptismal papers tend to aid
in such inquests, he had to drop the case,
for desire can fuse all ages into one,
and youth is quite eager to find a place
for innocence, even when there is none.
Tadeusz, twenty, surely not so old,
had dwelt in Vilno since his childhood,
raised by a priest with an old-fashioned hold
over his ward, whose strict rule often stood
to stifle his instincts. And so Tadeusz
returned home to his family a pure soul,
and thus in something of a hectic rush
to put in action his imagined role,
permission for his long forbidden freedom.
He knew that he was handsome and vigorous,
inheriting from his parents the sum
of the Soplicas’ strengths so various:
he had a soldier’s spirit and good looks,
and like his kin, less interested in books.
In other ways Tadeusz resembled
his ancestors: he rode well on horseback,
was quick on foot, the envy of all assembled;
it’s just that he was bored by learning’s lack
of action. He preferred to shoot and fence,
aware the army was his destination,
according to his father’s testaments.
He marched to drums instead of education.
But suddenly his uncle changed the rule;
he was commanded to come home and marry,
to take over the farm. And now, to fuel
his interest, knowing youth is often wary,
they placed a village under his control,
the rest of the estate promised in whole.
Tadeusz’s good qualities and virtue
were not unnoticed by a certain guest,
who studied him from varied points of view —
his strong shoulders, his height, and his broad chest.
But now, catching her scrutinizing stare,
he didn’t blush, seemingly recovered
from his first timid look. Now he could dare
to return her gaze — as bold as a flame that shimmered.
And so between four eyes, a glow now passed,
like tapers set in place for Advent Mass.
At first in French she started with a question —
Where had he been and why had he returned?
And then about new books, her sole intention
was to discover what Tadeusz learned.
She was curious to find out everything —
music, painting, sculpture, even dance,
from brushstroke to quick pirouette, pressing,
until Tadeusz felt the siege of her advance.
Although he didn’t want to seem a fool,
he stammered like a child in front of class.
Luckily, the teacher had a lenient rule
and changed topics, careful not to harass
his intellect. She talked of country cares,
how to amuse oneself and pass the day,
how to fill it with curious affairs.
Tadeusz grew bold — they began to play
and joke, quarrel in jest, head to head.
In little time they had become close friends;
she placed in front of him three crusts of bread,
demanding that he choose one of the ends.
When he picked out the nearest one, the daughter
of the Chamberlain frowned, turning aside,
guessing what was hinted at by laughter,
and what this chosen crust now signified.
A very different game was being played
far at the other end of the same table.
Suddenly adherents, who’d been swayed
to the side of Falcon, were no longer able
to defend, launching attacks mercilessly
at the bobtail’s champion, both sides ignoring
the final course of food. Vociferously
they quarreled, drinking wine, imploring.
The Notary was the most obstinate:
he bellowed like trumpet without break,
using dramatic gestures to illustrate
(just like the lawyer that he was), to make
his case — for which he was nicknamed Preacher.
His hands were set apart, his elbows bent,
his manicured fingers became a creature,
while with his nail he tried to represent
the leash. “We were both head to head, I
and the Sheriff, one hand upon the trigger
of a double-barrel gun, ready to fly.
Then off they went, the hounds after the hare,
which flew across the field fast as an arrow.”
As he was speaking, his thick fingers scurried
across the tabletop, trying to show
the motion of the hounds. “The pace was hurried,
and they caught up beside a flower bed.
So Falcon raised his tail for he was quick,
but too eager. And even though he led
my bobtail by an ear,
that damn hare’s trick
ruined it all! That hare was running straight,
leading the pack of wildly yelping hounds;
then like a little goat, it leapt — too late!
The dogs grew dumb, confused, they looked around
for no more than a second...with one hop,
the hare’s off to the wood.” Then with a whack
the Notary pounded the tabletop.
His voice exploded, causing the wood to crack,
which startled Tadeusz and his new friend.
Their heads flew back like trees in a fierce gale;
the youth withdrew his grip, preparing to defend;
faces reddened before they both turned pale.
Tadeusz tried not to betray his inattention,
proclaiming that the truth, without a doubt,
was that the bobtail fired the imagination
with his fine form and predatory snout.
“Predatory! “the Notary shouted,
“if not for that he wouldn’t be my favorite.”
Smiling, Tadeusz said he doubted
he’d seen a hound so free of bad habit.
“Regretfully, I came after the shoot,
and missed so much of his fine attribute.”
The Sheriff’s glass dropped from his trembling hand;
he cast at Tadeusz a serpenty look.
This Sheriff was a quiet soul, less grand
than the Notary; he rarely shook.
But at banquets, and in the District Council,
his burning wit had branded him a terror.
His jokes were so malicious and spiteful,
they often sent men running for the censor.
Long ago his property and wealth
he squandered — and his father’s legacy,
his brother’s fortune, not to his mention health,
prancing about in high society.
Later on he served the District Court,
holding on to some waning importance.
He remained fond of hunting, just for sport,
and blaring trumpets, beaters, all events
this day served to remind him of his past —
his pack of hounds and all his famous breeds.
His kennel now had dwindled to its last;
how dare they try to minimize the deeds
of his favorite! So stroking his mustache,
he spoke and cast a smile almost venomous:
“A tail-less dog — a banker lacking cash.
I’d say a tail that’s cropped is spurious
evidence of a speedy good nature.
So I defer my judgment to your aunt
Telimena, whose knowledge is more sure
than what we hear from lesser hunters’ rant.”
This unexpected thunderbolt confused
Tadeusz, and he lost his power of speech,
eyeing his rival, as he felt abused.
Fortunate for all, a minor breach
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 12