if and when the hounds happen to reach
the grain. I hope that you will grant me
this wish”. With this, he embraced the Judge’s knee.
“I wager a horse,” called out the Notary,
‘I’ll draw up papers at the local court.
The Judge has my ring to show I am a votary.”
‘And I,’ said the Sheriff, “will stake my part,
my gold dog collars, lined with lizard skin,
my gold rings and leash of woven silk — handicraft
equal to the marvelous gem that shines within”
“I saved them hoping that they would be passed
to my children, should my bachelorhood go.
They were a gift from Prince Dominik,37
when we hunted with Marshall Sanguszko
and General Mejen; and so to pick
the best hound, I have wagered everything.
And there, unequaled in hunting annal,
a single bitch caught six hares without tiring.
We were in Kupisko Meadow and Radziwill,
the famous prince, could not stay in his saddle;
he dismounted, embraced Kania, my hound,
kissed her three times, and then he grabbed her muzzle:
‘I hereby appoint you the newly crowned
Princess of Kupisko, for like Napoleon,
I hand out principalities on the very ground
of victory — Our Lord of this dominion.’”
Telimena grew bored with all the bickering.
She wished to go outside and so she sought
companions, grabbing a basket hanging
from a peg: “Gentlemen, I have caught
a headache from this incessant chatter,
I’m off to pick mushrooms, who will
accompany me?” She concluded the matter,
wrapping her head in a red cashmere shawl.
The Chamberlain’s daughter took one hand,
and with the other, tucked-up her skirt.
Tadeusz, though quiet, was next to stand.
An evening stroll, just after their dessert,
appealed to the Judge. “All to the forest
for mushrooms,” he announced. “Whoever can find
the most beautiful, next to the fairest
lady shall sit — he shall the chooser.
And if a lady brings back the rarest,
the handsomest she’ll pick — just to amuse her.”
BOOK 3. FLIRTATION
The Count’s Excursion into the Garden — a Mysterious Nymph Feeding Geese — Mushroom Gatherers and the Elysian Fields – Mushrooms — Telimena in her Temple of Meditation — Tadeusz’s Settlement — The Count as Landscape Painter — Tadeusz’s Observations on Trees and Clouds — The Bell / A Love Note — A Bear, Milord!
The Count was late. He tried to keep his gaze
out of the orchard, but a strange white dress
swept quickly by. Then its floating gauze,
seeming to pause above, caused him to reassess.
Something hovered in the mist, as if to catch
and trap the light inside the cucumber patch.
The Count dismounted, dismissed his servants,
and alone, secretly approached the garden,
squeezing through an opening in the fence,
like a wolf into a sheepfold. But when
his movement rustled a gooseberry bush,
the gardener grew scared and looked around,
spotting nothing. Still, the disturbed hush
upset her, and she rushed across the ground.
The Count followed her path along the edge,
running between great sorrel plants, around
burdock leaves, parting them from the hedge.
Scattered throughout the orchard were cherry trees,
and among them a strange mixture of grains —
wheat, maize, beans, bearded barley, millet, and peas,
even a few bushes and flowering strains.
For this was the housekeeper’s invention
for the fowl, a type of poultry garden,
unique in its day, its application
limited to a select few, who would pardon
its novelty — though lately the almanac
endorsed it under the title: The Problem
of Hawks and Kites, or How to Fight Back
and Raise Poultry. Here in this small garden!
As soon as the cock guarding the poultry
stood motionless, head upturned, red comb inclined,
aiming its eye to spot more easily
a hawk suspended in clouds and hard to find,
there’d be a shrieking crow to warn the hens,
who’d rush into the garden helter-skelter.
Even the geese, peacocks, and fear-struck pigeons
hid in the grain, unable to reach shelter,
now that their enemy could not be seen.
The scorching sun would pose the only threat,
and birds took refuge in the dense green
of groves or bathed in sand to stave off heat.
Among the birds’ heads, tiny human faces
protruded, hair short and white as flax,
necks naked to the shoulders — in the spaces
between, a girl, longhaired, taller. At their backs
sat a peacock with its encircling tail-
feathers spread in the sky like a rainbow.
On it the tiny faces looked like pale
translucent stars that in the background glow
in certain old paintings, each one surrounded
by a halo from the eyes in the peacock’s
tail. This spectacular vision was grounded
in golden stalks of maize and silvery shocks
of English grass with streaks of red and green
mallow, all mingled together like fine
latticework. In the breeze the entire scene
shimmered like a veil of heavenly design.
Like a canopy stretched above the mass
of colorful ears and stalks, a bright cloud
of butterflies hovered, wings clear as glass
and sectioned like cobwebs, forming a shroud
scarcely visible to one who’d pass.
The girl held high and waved gray tassels
(like a bunch of ostrich plumes) seeming to whisk
away those gold butterflies from the little
children’s heads. She also held within her fist
something like a horn, gilded — a special
dish for feeding toddlers. Almost twenty
little ones sat, as she fed them in a circle,
as from some mythical horn of plenty.
She held this cornucopia to each mouth in turn,
and gazed around, mindful of the rustling
gooseberry bush. But she did not learn
quickly enough that her assailant was crawling
like a serpent, in from the other side,
until he sprung out of the burdock.
She watched as he emerged close by, and cried
out while he gave a bow. Almost in shock,
she flew off like a startled lark. Meanwhile,
the children, frightened by the intruder
and her sudden flight, let out a horrible wail.
Hearing it the girl realized her error,
abandoning the terrified children,
afraid herself, reluctant to return —
like an unwilling spirit to the incantation
of a sorcerer. At first she seemed quite stern,
though soon she was soothing the most hysterical
child, sitting him in her lap and stroking
his hand, whispering her own magical
phrases until he calmed. Soon all were hugging
her knees, nestling their little heads like chicks
under their mother’s wing. “It isn’t nice
to shriek like that. It’
s not polite. Your tricks
might scare the gentleman. I’ve told you twice
already, he is not some horrid beggar
who wants to frighten you. He is our guest,
a real gentleman, even a hunter.
See how nice and handsomely he’s dressed.”
The Count could only smile his reply,
bathing in her praise. She quickly hushed
herself and the children; dropping her eye
and blooming like a rose, she fully blushed.
The Count, in fact, did cut a handsome figure.
He had an oval face — quite fair yet fresh
as a berry, bright eyes and hair blonder
than the children’s. In it bits of leaves meshed
with tufts of grass, torn as he slithered
into the garden, forming a wreath, though slightly withered.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “whatever shall I call you —
deity or nymph, spirit or vision?
Tell me, is it your own will that drew
you here, or has some power tried to imprison
you? Some rejected lover? Some powerful
Lord, jealous enough to lock you away
in this castle garden? Such a wonderful
maiden is worthy of some knight’s jousting play,
the heroine of some tragic romance.
Reveal to me the secret of your fate;
I am your savior, I will raise my lance
at your command, my heart is yours to dictate.”
She still blushed, basking in his flowing words,
like a child in front of a brightly colored picture book,
or even something like an abacus — that might accord
great pleasure to a one who otherwise took
no interest in its true value or use.
She bathed in the Count’s melodious discourse,
the contents of which might only confuse,
and then she asked about his curious course.
The Count opened his eyes, and right away
lowered his tone. “I apologize,
young lady, I see that I have spoiled your play.
I was just now rushing home, when I realize
I will be late for breakfast if I stay.
Of course, unless I take this shortcut through
this garden, since it’s faster.”
“But if you
seek the road, it is right here. Only
is it really necessary to trample down
the plants?”
“Where?” asked the Count, “I fail to see.”
The girl seemed to scrutinize with a frown,
because the manor house was barely a thousand
paces away, in plain sight. But the Count
extemporized — to keep things from coming to an end:
“Do you live here,” he asked, “among the plants,
or in the village? However did I miss you
in the courtyard? Are you new? A visitor
perhaps?” But when her head began to shake anew —
“I’m sorry that I have upset you more.”
He struggled with this thought: if not a heroine
of some romance, she’s still pretty and young.
And often a great soul can live hidden
in isolation, like a rose among
trees, and it’s enough to place it in the sun
for it to bloom in dazzling colors that stun.
The little gardener rose silently,
lifting one child, with another hanging
on her arm — the rest intently
herding — like geese through the garden, wading.
Turning back, she said, “Please help me gather
my birds back to the grain.” And in amazement,
the Count shouted, “Me — herd geese — I’d rather
not if you please!” So quickly off she went
into the shade of some great leafy trees.
Suddenly he felt his blood pressure rise,
Glimpsing the lambent glow of her blue eyes.
The Count lingered in the garden, alone,
his soul cooling like the earth at sunset,
and gradually, taking on a darker tone.
He fell asleep and when he tried to get
up and leave, he felt a swelling anger
that all his expectations had met with such
disappointment. For when he’d crawled under
the hedge, his head was burning, so much
had he expected from her secret charms.
But now, what had he found? A pretty face,
a slender waist, and youth — common stuff on farms
surrounding the manor. Yes, a common case,
adorned with an overabundance of joy —
an awakened heart at ignorant peace,
a village girl’s quips, fit for a village boy.
In short, his nymph was simply feeding geese!
Enchantment vanished as the girl left,
transforming gold and silver latticework,
sadly, back to straw. The Count, bereft,
clasped his hands and sighed at this cruel quirk
of fate, and knelt to reach a straw-sheaf bound
in grass, no longer plumes from an ostrich!
Likewise, the gilded vessel passed around
from child to child, the cornucopia, which
nourished them, was just a common carrot
in the mouth of a little boy, who bit
the tip greedily, unwilling to share it.
So, like a boy enticed by dandelions,
who rolls the stems inside his palms to squeeze
the soft light down — the slightest respirations
scatter the whole flower, like dust in a breeze —
his explorations come abruptly to a halt,
leaving him a naked, gray-green stalk.
The Count came to and headed to the road,
cutting through the vegetables and flowers
and gooseberry bushes. He strode,
recalling that the girl had spoken hours
ago of breakfast, and so he shuddered
to think that their meeting was being discussed.
What arch and mocking words were being uttered?
Would they begin to search for him? They must
surmise he’d fled — but it occurred to him just then
he’d really better leave. So he vaulted the fence,
and finally felt relief only when
he reached the well-worn path. With intense
glances back into the orchard, he hurried
like a thief from a granary, fearful
of leaving tracks, obsessively worried —
though no one followed — and still quite careful.
Beyond the orchard he noticed a grove
scattered with scrubby bushes and a layer
of turf, from which thin white birches rose,
their leafy branches bent as if in prayer.
He spied a multitude of forms dancing about
in strange costumes, like ancient spirits forlorn,
trolling beneath the moon. Some were decked-out
in flowing robes or snow-white gowns well-worn.
Others were all in black, with broad hoop-like caps.
Some heads were bare, but some appeared wrapped
in mist, as though the clouds themselves were traps.
Each figure would assume a pose in rapt
attention, joining hands to the smooth ground,
shifting only its glowing eyes, then gazing
straight ahead, dream-walking without a sound,
as if treading a tightrope — an amazing
vision, undeviating from the line,
only its arms reached down on either side,
as if regaining balance, or to design
some secret tapping language, new and untried.
If one approached another, it did not greet
/> or talk, so deeply were both plunged
in mime — no recognition, however discreet.
to each; each other figure was expunged
by separateness. And so the Count was sure
he’d been transported to the Elysian Field
where he observed wandering shades, pure
and cleansed, no longer full of woe, yield
their sins, their coming fate not yet revealed.
How could the Count have guessed that these silent
creeping people were the Judge’s guests?
That after sumptuous breakfast they all went
to gather mushrooms — one of the ritual quests
still done in Lithuania. They were all
respectable people who knew just how
to moderate speech and movement; they could recall
the stringent rules of etiquette, so now
they trailed the Judge, and likewise dressed
in his attire, donning canvas capes
to ward off the forest damp, and had expressed
delight when large straw hats of various shapes
were passed around. Thus it was no surprise
that they appeared like spirits from Purgatory,
since all but Telimena wore this disguise.
The Count, confused by this ritual foray,
dashed off, convinced that it was wrong to stay.
While boys picked the infamous fox-maiden — 38
sung about by Lithuanian grooms,
symbols of maidenhood, for worms will not slip in,
and insects will not land upon them.
And girls picked the slender Pinelover, which the tale
refers to as the Mushroom Colonel, as well as the stem
of the Orange Agaric, which is not as tall
and less praised, yet sought by everyone
for its fine taste, fresh or salt-cured in fall
or winter. The Seneschal on his own
searched for toadstools, called, what else, but Fly-bane.
Other common mushrooms — ignored or despised
for their poison or unsavory taste —
were eaten by wild game or else supplied
shelter to insects; or, since there’s no waste
in the forest, simply adorned the grove,
like table settings laid-out on some fine
linen: the Leaf Mushroom, red, gold and mauve,
like goblets filled with different colored wine;
the Kozlak, bulging like an upturned cup;
Funnels, slender as a champagne goblet;
Whities, round and flat like china all filled up
with milk; or Puffballs, with black dust set
inside them, like pepper in a canister.
There were others whose names were only known
to hares’ or wolves’ tongues or unbaptized master
of sorcery. There were even some grown
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 16