Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works

by Adam Mickiewicz

  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