of propriety was snuffed out in the crowd;
the Chamberlain sneezed loudly once, then twice.
Vivat! the whole room shouted as he bowed
his head, and sniffling, dried his teary eyes,
Tapping his gold snuffbox with its portrait
of King Stanislaw, diamonds inlaid,15
a gift from the distinguished head of state
to his father, and which he now displayed.
His tapping signaled that he wished the floor:
“The evening meal is not the proper forum.
To rant and rave like this becomes a bore.
Why don’t we meet again when hunters come;
then both of you can test this case once more.
And you, most honored Judge, along with Pani
Telimena, and the other guests,
will take the time to form a hunting party.
Our friend Protazy will inform the rest;
the Seneschal will come.” He said enough,
coughed, and passed the older men some snuff.
The Seneschal was seated with the hunters;
he listened silently, squinting his eyes.
The young men often asked him for pointers
about hunting and valued his replies.
He measured out a pinch from the snuffbox,
and brooded for some time before he took it;
his sneeze rattled the chimes on several clocks.
He shook his head before smiling a bit:
“I’m shocked by this, and it truly grieves me
to sit and watch this noble gathering
argue like this about something so petty
as canine appendages — how disturbing!
What if Rejtan came back — deceased no more?
“I’m sure he’d rush back to his empty grave.
Or Niesiolowski, once our governor,16
whose kennel of fine hounds we urge to save,
who maintains two hundred hunters in grand style,
and almost as many hunting nets on drays.
And yet he sits in monkish self-denial,
refusing to take part in hunts these days.
This current vogue appalls him — chasing rabbits!
Where’s the glory? I would gladly name,
using the language of hunters, what’s fit
to shoot: boar, wolf, bear, and elk are game,
while those without a tusk, a horn, or claw
are meant for servants, hired hands, that lot
of men who violate the hunter’s law
by sprinkling into muskets their birdshot.
Of course, there was a time when some poor hare
might hop out from behind a horse’s hoof;
then we’d unleash the dogs and let them share
the sport with younger boys, so they could prove
to their fathers that they could handle ponies.
We barely watched the game, and never quarreled.
Forgive me, but I hope it won’t displease
the Chamberlain — to have the order annulled.
In such folly I never will set foot!
My family name Hreczecha derives its fame
from the great King Lech of legend; such pursuit17
will only insult that illustrious name.”
While all the youths laughed uncontrollably,
those present rose in place around the table;
the Chamberlain was most deservedly
honored by all, and he put on his sable
cloak, then bowed to let the others stand.
The monk followed in line beside the host,
who gave the Chamberlain’s dear wife his hand;
nodding to his aunt, Tadeusz crossed,
offering her his steady arm — after
the Notary leading the Seneschal’s daughter.
Tadeusz walked the guests out to the stable,
morose, angry, he paused to analyze
the day’s events — the first meeting, the table
games and arguments, the great surprise
of his aunt’s arrival, for her very name
buzzed in his ear, annoying as a fly.
He wanted to discover why she came,
but couldn’t find the steward Protazy,
who’d left with all the guests as was required,
preparing several manor rooms for night.
The old men and the ladies now retired;
servants busied about extinguishing the light.
Tadeusz reached the barn, showing the way
to other youths who’d sleep on piles of hay.
The whole manor was silent in an hour,
hushed as a cloister after evening prayer;
the only sound came from the watchman’s tower.
It seemed that all were sleeping without care;
only the Judge refused to shut his eyes.
As master of the farm he had to plan
excursions to the fields, to organize
the banquet — giving orders to huntsman,
steward, scribe, as well as the grain keepers,
to check over the daily account book.
When he finally wished to join the sleepers,
he called upon Protazy to unhook
his belt from Sluck, which was finely embossed18
with crimson flowers and rows of gold brocade
on its front — rich, black silk crisscrossed
with silver thread sewn on the other side.
The gold side could be worn on holiday,
the black for solemn occasion, to mourn.
Only Protazy knew the proper way
to unclasp it and fold, after it was worn.
The Judge asleep, Protazy found the hall.
He sat and lit a candle; from his pocket
he carefully removed a book he’d call
his Golden Altar, or devotions fit
for home as well as trip. It was, in fact,
the court record — in which he always wrote
on matters which the court was due to act.19
So many of these cases he could quote,
because as Court Bailiff he’d called them out.
Although this book might seem mere registry,
to Protazy its names could bring about
fantastic scenes: He could see Oginski
now suing Wizigird; and the Dominicans
and Rzymsza; Rzymsza and Wysogird;
Radziwill’s fight to stop Wysogird’s plans;
Wareszczak versus Giedrojc, who was feared;
Rdutowski, Obruhowicz suing Jews;
Jaraha and Piotrowski, Maleski, face to face
with Mickiewicz; and then the latest news,
The Count Horeszko’s long embattled case
against the Judge Soplica. He conjured
up the memory of courtroom and great trial;
soon litigant and witness both appeared.
And he was dressed in dark blue robes, a style
quite judicial — silent, with one hand
upon the bench, the other on his sword.
In his vision, Protazy might demand
order, but every now and then a word
of evening prayer slipped in. Fighting to keep
awake, he lost his courtroom scene to sleep.
Such were the many joys that could be found
throughout the Lithuanian countryside.
While the rest of the world horribly drowned
in blood and tears, the God of War now plied
his trade with clouds of regiments and arms,
his chariot harnessed to gold and silver
eagles. From northern Africa he swarms20
straight to the soaring Alps, casting his thunder
at the Pyramids, Tabor, and Austerlitz.
Conquest and Victory in front and back,
advancing north, sending a roaring blitz
of glorious deeds, allowing knights to hack
/> their way up to the Nieman’s craggy shore —
defended by Moscow in frightened rage,
building an iron wall to block out rumor
of a threat more dreadful than Bubonic plague.
From time to time stories might reach our land,
in Lithuania, when some old beggar
missing a leg or arm extends his only hand
for bread. Accepting alms, he turns to stare
with caution at the manor: If there is
no Russian soldier, yarmulke, or red
collar, then he shamelessly confesses
there was Polish Legion he once led.
Now he returns his old and weary bones
to a homeland he can no more defend.
The family welcomes him in tearful tones,
beseeching him for stories — without end —
to verify all the fantastic tales
they’ve heard: about their General Dombrowski21
in Lombardy, with his army of Poles;
about Kniazewicz, who in Rome still lags,22
because in victory he snatched from Caesars’
descendants over one hundred bloody flags,
cast in defiance at the French leaders;
how Jablonowski still remains in tents
in Africa, with his Danubian Legion —
the air there full of sugar and pepper scents.
Though springtime is eternal in this region,
he longs for Poland — almost in despair.
The old man’s talk spreads round the countryside;
a youth who overhears might disappear,
and sneak through forest, bog, and plain, to ride,
chased by Russian soldiers drawing near.
He dives into the Nieman’s icy waters,
swimming to the Warsaw Duchy’s shores,23
greeted with kinds words and safe quarters.
And yet, before he enters through their doors,
he mounts a hilly bank to taunt the Russians
breathlessly: “We’ll meet again some day!”
So many like him fled across partitions:
Gorecki, Pac, Piotrowksi stole away,
Obruchowicz, Janowski, Rozycki,
Brochowski and the Mierzejewski brothers,
Gedymin, Berentowicz, Obolewski,
forced to abandon all. And there were others,
who left their family and homeland far
behind, their money plundered by the Tsar.
And then one day a wandering monk appeared
collecting alms. When he was satisfied
the manor harbored no one to be feared,
he removed papers that he’d sewn inside
his scapular — coveted information,
number of troops, the name of every legion
commander, then victorious description,
or else obituary. After uncertain
years, a family might gain news of the glory
or death of sons. If so, the house would mourn
in secret, and dare not reveal the story.
Neighbors could only speculate from forlorn
expressions or smiles restrained — dead,
alive. Faces were scrutinized and read.
Father Robak was such a monk. He tried24
to catch the Judge in private; afterwards,
fresh news dispersed throughout the countryside.
His bearing, though, was unlike Saint Bernard’s;
new to the cowl, he hadn’t grown so old
in cloistered halls. A scar above his ear
extended to his brow; there was a bold
lance-gash upon his chin, and it was clear
he wasn’t wounded reading his psalter.
His gestures suited life lived in a camp:
when serving mass, and turning from the altar,
his movement had a military stamp,
a right face executed on command.
The way that he pronounced the liturgy
a disciplined squadron might understand;
even the altar boy felt like an inductee.
This monk cares less about the intercession
of the Saints, preferring politics;
and he is known to linger at the station,
receiving letters that he quickly sticks
inside his hood — dispatching messengers.
At night he often sneaks out in the dark
to nearby manor houses, where he whispers.
Peasants drinking in taverns remark
about his talk. The Judge will not refuse
to let him in — surely he has some news.
BOOK 2. THE CASTLE
Choosing the Best Hound — A Guest in the Castle — The Last Retainer and the History of the Last Horeszko — A Glance into the Orchard – Breakfast — Pani Telimena’s Petersburg Anecdote — The Seneschal’s Fly Swatter — More Quarrels Over Bobtail and Falcon — Father Robak Intervenes — The Wager – Mushrooming
Who doesn’t miss the time when he was young?
Wandering through fields, alert, carefree,
whistling — over his shoulder a rifle slung.
A time when no rampart, fence, or boundary
could halt his stride, forest and field un-owned.
Because in Lithuania, a hunter,
like a ship at sea, feels free to roam round
the world. He looks to the heavens like a seer,
at clouds whose meaning he alone divines,
just like a wizard in the woods, searching for signs.
Look, in the meadow, a corncrake shrieks,
darting about like a pike in the water;
a lark, caught in the deepest sky, soon breaks
free; an eagle spreads its wings for slaughter —
into the wind — terrorizing the sparrow,
like a shooting star that haunts the Tsar.
A hawk, suspended in the undertow,
wings extended to halt its peaceful soar,
comes crashing down wildly to earth to snare
some unsuspecting field mouse or hare.
Oh, when will our poor martyred exile end?
And when will we regain ancestral fields,
to serve a cavalry that will defend
against gray hares only; as soldiers to wield
our swords against game birds; to use
no other weapon than the plow, watering can
and scythe — while late at night we peruse
the household ledger — not some battle plan.
Dawn was already appearing in the back
of Soplica Manor — through the old roof thatch
and chinks, into the barn, streaking the stack
of hay, the pungent bed, making it catch
the light, much like a ribbon in a braid.
The beams of light were teasing dreaming boys,
as if some giggling village girl had laid
sprigs of wheat upon their cheeks. The noise
began as sparrows twittered in the eves,
perking up a goose, whose honks would rouse
opposing choruses of ducks and turkeys,
echoed by the bellowing of cows.
While the others awoke, Tadeusz slept,
because he’d been the last one to retire.
Crowing cocks and preening hens kept
him anxious and disturbed, as though a fire
blazed inside the hay. Towards dawn his torment broke
and he slept soundly, till a windy draft
opened his eyes, and the barn door creak
roused him, just as Father Robak rushed past.
“Surge Puer, time to get up! “ he yelled,
and jokingly flailed his knotted hemp belt.
The hunters’ cheers already could be heard;
the horses led and all the wagons hitched,
so many crammed inside the penned-in yard.
Kennels spring open and brass horns pitched
fanf
ares; a pack of wild yelping hounds
rush out to see the leashes and the whips.
They scamper in a frenzy all around
the yard, until each one finds a man who slips
the collar on — and so it is decreed
by the Chamberlain: the hunt shall proceed.
The horses cantor slowly, single-file,
and once they pass the gate break into trot.
The Sheriff and the Notary cast vile
glances back and forth, each like a shot.
They speak like friends, prepared to duel, restrained,
their honors sullied in mortal dispute.
Both of their hounds follow on leash, well-trained;
next come the ladies, young men in pursuit,
who chat, then gallop across the ground.
Father Robak walked across the yard.
As he concluded morning prayers, he frowned
at Tadeusz, then smiled. He stayed and stared
a while, before he waved his hand and crowned
his enigmatic gesture with a threatening
finger to the nose — as the youth approached.
In spite of Tadeusz’s questioning
entreaties, he remained there, unreproached,
as the monk strode off, drawing up his cowl.
Tadeusz left, confounded by his scowl.
Just then the hunters tightened up their grip
and the whole party halted in its place.
Someone held a finger to his lip,
and silently the others turned to face
the Judge, whose hand offered explanation.
All understood that he had spotted game;
the Notary and Sheriff left their station
trotting, while Tadeusz did the same.
It had been long since he had ridden there,
and it was hard to spot, in the gray expanse,
amid gray field stones, the gray hare.
The Judge was pointing to a rock in the distance:
a frightened hare was crouched beneath, its ears
stuck out, its red eye watched the hunters ride.
Spellbound, aware of its grim fate, its fears
kept it in place; it was now petrified.
The air grew thick and dusty as the runt
tugged at his leash, Falcon following close.
The owners’ shrieks mixed with canine grunt;
neither could find his hound amid such chaos.
The Count arrived after the chase began.
He showed up in the castle woods — always late
by reputation, though he did have plans
to be on time. It was his wretched fate
to oversleep. So with his servants well-scolded,
he rushed to find the hunters all dispersed,
and galloped after them, his coat unfolded
and flapping in the wind. The Count rode first,
followed closely by his mounted servants,
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 13