with slick black caps, short coats, colored hankies,
white pantaloons, dressed up for these events,
and named by him, his little English Jockeys.
This colorful swarm galloped through the pasture;
the Count spotted the castle and he halted,
insisting to himself that all the grandeur
he saw, restored and beautified — the vaulted
roof, turrets, and walls — was some new sight.
The tower, he marveled, was twice as tall,
protruding through the mist to dizzying height;
the roof was gilded now above the hall;
behind the iron grates, the chipped glass panes
glittered from the eastern light. The lower
floors were cloaked in morning mist, the stains
and nicks and cracks were hidden in this bower.
The wind picked up the hunters’ distant cries,
whipping them against the castle’s side;
the Count could swear this coveted old prize
was secretly restored and occupied.
The Count was always fond of new landscapes.
He called such views sublime, and he considered
himself Romantic, although his flowing capes
concealed a nature many called absurd
or eccentric. When he would hunt a hare
or fox, he’d often halt before he fired —
to gaze up at the sky, like a cat aware
of a sparrow above the pines, sad and tired.
Often, like a young recruit, he wandered
off, as if deserting the field of battle,
and hunted with no hound or gun, or squandered
lazy afternoons beside the cattle,
lying by a stream, head bowed and mute,
still as a heron eyeing fish to be
consumed. The Count’s habits were so acute,
that people thought him touched by lunacy.
They honored, though, his ancient line and views,
enlightened, even in respect to Jews.
Suddenly, the Count’s horse veered and crossed
the path, trotting to the castle walk;
fearing that his vision might be lost,
the Count began to sketch it with some chalk.
While making his etude he glanced inside
and saw a man examining each stone,
seeming to count, displaying such odd pride
in his upturned head, standing alone.
At once the Count recalled and shouted out,
although it took a minute till Gervazy
could respond. It was, without a doubt,
the last Horeszko retainer, a crazy
old man, whose ruddy face was ridged as from
a plow. Now gloomy and severe (his wit,
once treasured by the gentry who would come
to the castle, had hidden its habit).
Since his master had fallen in bloody battle
years before, he’d kept his humor locked
away, and rarely ventured in the saddle
to fair or wedding feast — all smiles blocked.
And yet, there are some things that never change:
he dressed in the Horeszko livery,
an ancient noble style that might seem strange
today — a yellow greatcoat with embroidery,
trimmed with a golden braid, with the half-goat
heraldic crest in silk. He wore this old
rag constantly, and neighbors seeing the coat
would yell, half-goat! — although he also told
scores of ancient proverbs, and so replied,
when others called, to Milord. They likewise called
him Nick, because across the top and side,
swords had scratched his head, completely bald.
His proper family name was Rembajlo;
his crest was little known, although the title,
Warden, fits him perfectly — he’ll go
about tending the locks, a job vital,
a great key ring still dangles from his belt.
Gervazy and the Count entered the hall;
the old man spoke, his words so deeply felt:
“So many castle stones you see — yet all
of them are fewer than the casks of wine
opened in celebration when the gentry
came to this castle, invited to dine.
After every District Assembly,
name-day feast or hunt, we’d drag the kegs
up from the cellar, belted to our waist.
At banquets we would drain them to the dregs,
while in the gallery, musicians raised
a song, sung to the organ’s thunderous tones.
During each toast, the trumpets bellowed out,
as if the Judgment Day were raising bones;
and then a host of vivats — one grand shout!
First, of course, the Polish King was praised,
the Archbishop, and then the health of the Queen,25
the nobles, the Republic. When we raised
cups a fifth time, while heads began to lean,
someone always proclaimed, Let us love
one another! Then we’d all repeat
these words unceasingly, until above,
we’d catch the morning sun and rush to meet
wagon and driver lined-up to take us home.”
Gervazy silenced; then they began to roam
through rooms, although he always seemed to gaze
up to the vaulted ceiling — memories
clearly welling up within, from days
long past, joyous and sorrowful stories.
He fought them off, and bowing, seemed to say:
it’s all over. And this was such torment,
these things he couldn’t see or drive away,
although he waved his arms, remaining silent.
Inside the mirrored hall, the shiny glass
was gone or cracked inside the ornate frame.
The old man walked beneath the arch to pass
onto the balcony, head bowed in shame
and buried in his hands — such great despair.
The Count knew nothing of this history,
but nonetheless was moved, able to share
Gervazy’s suffering over past glory.
The old man trembled, raising his right hand:
“Never, never can there be agreement
between Soplicas and the Horeszkos!
And you, dear Count, should clearly understand:
that same Horeszko blood inside you flows —
the Pantler’s kin descended through your mother,26
born to the Castellan’s second daughter,27
who was the uncle of my Lord’s brother.
So listen to this heinous tale of slaughter
that took place on the very spot you stand.
The Pantler, my deceased dear Lord, the head
noble in the district owning land,
had a single daughter, and it was said
she was an angel courted by young devils.
Among them was a certain wild brawler,
Jacek Soplica, called in jest for his revels
and arrogance, the Senator-caller,
though in reality, his influence
was vast — his family held three-hundred votes.
Jacek had just a small inheritance,
possessing just a plot of land, dovecotes,
a saber, and mustaches, ear to ear.
My Lord, the Pantler, often summoned him,
asking this troublemaker to appear
when he would entertain — it was his whim
to be well-liked by all his countrymen.
You can imagine the pride and arrogance
bristling the bully’s mustache when
my Lord would greet him making his entrance.
He thought he might become the son-in-law
&n
bsp; of my dear Lord, because he was received
so graciously; but when the servants saw
his true intent, how quickly they relieved
him of his urge to roost; quickly they served
the black soup, signifying refusal.28
But still she’d gaze at Soplica, unnerved,
afraid her father might catch her perusal.
It was back in the time of Kosciuszko,
back when my Lord supported the Constitution
of the Third of May, wishing to show
his solidarity for the Confederation.29
Russian troops had just surrounded the castle;
there was no time to fire the alarms;
we couldn’t bar the gate, it seemed futile:
the castle was not stocked and we lacked arms.
Besides the Lord and lady, only the cook
and his helpers, all inebriated,
the Parish priest and the lackey he took
with him, and four brave servants. Thus we waited
with guns by windows, till they swarmed across
the terrace, whooping and screaming, then picked
them off. We couldn’t tell who took the loss;
the servants kept firing, though all were nicked
by bullets, and my Lord and I defended
the balcony. Amid the noise and terror,
the parish priest and the ladies tended
the twenty emptied muskets on the floor.
We fired one; the next was quickly brought,
then laid down and reloaded. Yet a hail
of bullets from the Russian soldiers caught
us by surprise — but they were doomed to fail —
we were better marksmen. So three times they
reached the entrance, and every time we shot
their legs right out from under them. Away,
behind the shed they flew, that cowardly lot!
Dawn was breaking, so the Pantler snuck
out to the balcony, and when he’d catch
a Muscovite raise up his head, he struck —
a black visor would roll across the path.
They didn’t even try to steal away
behind the wall. Seeing his enemy
confused, the Pantler improvised a play,
an incursion. Raising his sword, he
commanded the servants and turned his face
to me, when suddenly, a shot rang out
which sent him stumbling all over the place.
The Pantler turned quite red and tried to shout,
but coughed up blood. A bullet lodged inside
his chest, and yet he still staggered — I don’t
know how he could — clutching his breast he tried
to point. I recognized, standing in front
of the gate, that same Soplica, that scoundrel,
his face and long mustaches, and I knew
he was the one that killed the Pantler. The barrel
of his raised gun was still smoking. I drew
my pistol — that brigand was my target.
It discharged twice. Though he stood petrified,
I missed — I was too angry and upset.
The women screamed. I knew my Lord had died.”
Gervazy silenced, bursting into tears,
and then concluding: “Russians had already
broken down the gate; and all our fears
came true — my Lord had died, and me, unsteady.
Luckily, Parafianowicz came to aid,
with two-hundred Mickiewiczes riding
behind, all eager to arrange a raid
on Soplicas, hatred no more in hiding.
“And thus a strong, pious, and just man perished,
a man elected to a Senate seat,
who held the staff, a man who even cherished
his peasants, yes, a man who’d always treat
nobles as his brothers. He lacked a son to swear
vengeance, although his faithful servant would.
Into his fatal wounds I dipped my rapier,
and when my pocket knife was drenched in blood,
I swore I’d thrust it in Soplica’s neck.
Surely you’ve heard about my pocket knife —
meetings and fairs, always poised to wreck.
I tracked them down with it for my whole life,
and hewed down two of them on horseback, shaking
two more in duels. And then I set on fire
a wooden building, just to set one baking
like a mudfish, though I have no desire
to count his ears among the ones I severed.
So only one remained without reminder
of my vengeance — only his brother weathered
the years, a wealthy boasting man whose manor
fields abut this castle ground. And yet
he is respected as a judge. Will you
give him this precious floor so he can set
his bloody feet on it, to wipe them too?
No, not as long as I have strength to raise
one finger on my hand; I won’t be docile!
My penknife is still worthy of its praise:
Soplica will not occupy this castle!”
“Oh yes,” shouted the Count, raising his fist,
“I had forebodings that I loved these walls.
How could such treasures be so long dismissed?
So many lively scenes, so many tales.
When I seize back this castle of my ancestors,
you will be placed in charge, because your story
moves me. It is a shame these misadventures
could not be told at midnight in its glory:
I see myself draped in an overcoat,
sitting amid ruins, hearing these deeds,
bloody and vengeful — how they cruelly smote
your Lord. What poetry! — I hear the seeds
of some great epic tale. I’ve heard legends
from England, Scotland, Wales and Germany,
how, in castle and manor, murder sends
both lord and count and powerful family
to bloody end. And then how the revenge
of crimes is passed on like inheritance.
I know Horeszko blood flows through my veins;
I know who bears the guilt for this violence;
I must break off this agreement with the Judge
because honor demands it.” Thus he strode
away, although Gervazy did not budge.
The Count glanced back, mounted his horse, and rode.
Alone again, the Count grew more excited:
Too bad Soplica doesn’t have a wife
or daughter — then I could love, unrequited.
All this from unresolved and ancient strife,
for she might make the plot more intricate:
here lies the heart, and there, vengeance and valor,
thwarting love with their eternal debate.
He spurred his horse and galloped to the manor,
arriving as the hunters left the road.
He barely caught a glimpse of their bright banner,
when he forgot his vow and ancient code
of chivalry. He leaped over the gate,
but feeling faint, he had to stop and wait.
He spies an orchard — fruit trees all in rows
casting their shadows on a broad green field,
where cabbage meditate on the woes
of vegetables, their bald gray heads a shield
for weeping husks that mingle with the green
carrot leaves. The beans, with all their eyes,
look on, as golden tufts of cornsilk preen
and corpulent melons increase in size,
stretching their stems with all their mighty weights,
rolling over to visit the purple beets.
The garden was divided by straight furrows,
and guarding every row were huge hemp plants,
/> the patch’s cypresses, because they rose
up straight and green, defending the entrance
with leaf and scent, for no serpent would dare
venture, no caterpillar or insect
survive. Whitish poppy stalks stood there,
their tips so colorful and almost flecked,
resembling flocks of perching butterflies
or precious stones whose glittering might stun
the eye. And then, a giant sunflower tries,
leaning from east to west, to reach the sun.30
Along the fences were long, rounded hillocks
lacking trees, flowers, or shrubs — a cucumber
patch, complete with giant, leafy shocks
all draped across the garden like a banner.
A young girl walked between the verdant rows;
dressed in a linen shift, sunk to her waist,
stooping amid the freshly dug-up furrows,
swimming through the leaves, as if she chased
something in the deep. Her head was shaded
by a straw hat with ribbons from the brim,
where ringlets of unbraided hair cascaded
down. She clutched a wicker basket’s rim
with one hand, while the other one would seize,
like a young child bathing in a pond,
the tiny fish nibbling her feet. With ease,
she would bend down — or pirouette around,
as cucumbers tickled her from the ground.
The Count, admiring this miraculous sight,
stood quietly. Hearing his entourage
tramping behind, he signaled to hold tight
to the reins; and like a stork about to forage,
stretching its long bill, standing apart
from the flock and vigilant without break,
balancing on one foot: only its eyes might dart,
clutching a stone. Thus he tried to keep awake.
He stared until startled — and then he felt
a slap on one shoulder. Robak the priest
passed by, his fist wielding a thick rope belt.
If you want cucumbers, then here’s your feast!
Hands off this fruit unless you want some harm,
it isn’t yours and never will it be!
Then he pulled up his hood and shook his arm,
striding off. The Count lingered to see,
laughing, then cursing at this unexpected
intrusion — though the garden was now empty.
The girl was flashing by and he detected
her pink ribbons and linen shift. Only
green leaves, brushed by her quick, fleeing feet,
rose up, trembled a moment, and then settled.
And so the only sight his eyes would meet —
a basket overturned, as if meddled
with by small animals. The fruit was spilled,
the wicker rocking, till the green waves stilled.
In an instant all was silent and deserted.
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 14