which no wolf or rabbit would deign to touch.
And thus, whoever bent to pick one quickly
perceived his own mistake, and with much
irritation, broke the stem and angrily
crushed or uprooted it — with no reward.
Telimena chose, unlike the wolf or man,
to gaze upward, distracted or else bored.
The angry Notary remarked, “How can
she think that mushrooms, like leaves, grow downward
from trees?” Then the Sheriff added in jest,
“Just like a female who’s desperate to nest.”
But Telimena searched for solitude,
withdrawing bit by bit from all her friends —
to woods and to a hillock she had viewed
earlier, sloping and shaded by dense stands
of trees, arranged around a massive rock.
A spring was gushing beneath it, which vanished
into weeds and fern, as from the shock
of daylight, seeking refuge in plants nourished
by it. And there, the frolicking stream, swaddled
in grass and leaf bedding, still and noiseless,
hidden and inaudible, seemed like a cradled
infant, wailing minutes before, full of bliss —
as its mother fastens the lace above
the crib and sprinkles poppy leaves upon
its head. This spot was Telimena’s love,
what she called her Temple of Meditation .
Having stood a while above the spring,
wrapped in a shawl, red as carnelian,
she crouched like a swimmer before plunging
into cold water, reluctant to venture in.
Then, dipping her toe hesitantly,
she flopped on the grass and stretched her whole body,
forehead propped on hands, while the glittery
velum of a French novel sparkled brightly
above the alabaster pages of the book,
over which black ringlets and pink ribbons shook.
Amid the emerald grasses, she was lying
upon a red shawl, wearing her long gown,
as though wrapped in coral, her hair flowing
out from one end, black slippers — the crown
of the other, affixed on snow-white stockings.
And with her glowing cheeks and bright kerchief,
and hands protruding, she looked like a shocking
giant caterpillar, crawling along a maple leaf.
A shame that his epitome of grace
vainly waits an aesthete’s trained gaze —
so intently does the party race
about for mushrooms. Only Tadeusz pays
attention; he alone takes notice
of something off to the side, not bold enough
to leave the group, but dropping back, to dismiss
himself from it. So like a hunter in some rough
camouflaged contraption, stalking curlews,
or sneaking up to catch a sandpiper,
hiding behind his horse in attempt to confuse
the bird — his rifle like that of a sniper
leveled on the saddle or the horse’s neck,
he creeps along approaching the hillock.
Too bad his plans are foiled by the Judge,
who cuts him off and hurries to the mounds,
the white tails of his overcoat so huge
and fluttering, a knotted kerchief binds
the rest. A straw hat tied beneath his chin
sways in the breeze like a great burdock leaf,
falling off into his eyes, and in
his hand he holds a monstrous shepherd’s staff.
He stoops to wash his hands beneath a spring,
then sits by Telimena on a boulder.
With both hands on the ivory knob, leaning,
he speaks to her like someone who is older.
“Since the guests arrived, my dear sister,
my nephew’s caused me much anxiety.
I’m old and childless, so in the matter
there is some consolation; besides, he
surely will inherit what I own.
It’s no small morsel of our noble bread
I’ve set aside, and now he must be shown
how to secure his fate. But still, I dread
all this business about Jacek, my brother,
Tadeusz’s father — such a strange man,
his motives too mysterious to uncover.
He vows he won’t return to his homeland.
God knows his hiding place — he won’t allow
his son to know he lives, and yet he still
wants to control his life. First to follow
the Legions — I was afraid he wished to kill
the boy. Later he agreed and ordered
marriage, even arranging for the match.
She is a guest of ours, one quite preferred
by all young men, unequaled…and quite a catch,
as they say — both beauty and connection.
Quite a dowry too! Who wouldn’t plead
for the hand of one whose reputation
is without blemish — and that is guaranteed!
So now negotiations shall proceed.”
“My God!” Telimena quickly replied,
“Nonsense! Do you have stones inside your heart?
However will Tadeusz be the pride
of nobles — sowing buckwheat in this dirt?
How could you strand him here? Believe me,
he’s sure to curse having his vast talents
buried in these woods and furrows. Trust me,
I recognize wit and intelligence;
I know what he can do out in the world.
Just pack him off to some great capital,
Warsaw, perhaps, or if the truth be told,
Petersburg. You know this winter I shall go;
Leave it to me to make arrangements.
I know so many people living there,
I have influence, so he’ll gain entrance
into the finest homes, and thus will share
rich conversation with important Russians,
perhaps position, too. Much later
he can renounce his post and choose to shun
society, if he so wishes, dear brother.
Just let him come back with a title.”
“Of course,” the Judge replied, “Youthful fire
is quenched by different air. To fully sample
the world, embrace it and perhaps acquire
finish — this has merit. I too did travel
in my youth — Piotrkow, Dubno — even went
to Warsaw to practice law, to handle
cases there. Yes, when a youth is sent
into the world he is likely to prosper;
but when it comes to my nephew’s case,
I’d rather he go like a wanderer,
like some apprentice who must learn to face
each situation — without hope of decoration
or rank. Moreover, if it came from Moscow,
it would be such a meaningless distinction.
Do you think our nobles care? For how
could they avoid despising such trifles?
They are esteemed by others for their name,
high birth, office — conferred not by rifles
or foreign authorities. No, their fame
depends upon their fellow citizens.”
Telimena paused and dropped her book.
“If that is what you think, then by all means,
go let him wander with a beggar’s crook.”
“Something I wouldn’t mind,” the Judge replied,
scratching his head, “but now new difficulties
are sure to come, now that my brother will decide
Tadeusz’s fate. Today new decrees
come through Father Robak the Bernardine,
who ferried them ac
ross the Vistula.
He knows my brother’s thoughts and his design,
so you should know that your dear ward, Zosia
is destined to marry Tadeusz. My fortune
will go to them, as well as huge sums
from Jacek — no small amount, his portion
earned in business deals. Since my wealth comes
from him, he is able to control me.
Consider what will cause the least trouble —
they must be introduced. It is true that she
is still quite young, but both are capable
of falling in love. It’s clearly time to free
Zosia; let her come out of seclusion.
Please, we should be working in collusion.”
Telimena was in shock and panic.
She rose abruptly, kneeling on her shawl.
Her arms began to lash the air with quick
jabs signifying denial and then gall,
as though attempting to repel discourse,
like a buzzing gnat, back, back to its source.
“Ahah!” she blurted out. “A new notion,
whether or not Tadeusz will be harmed.
He is not my concern; if your devotion
turns him into a stewart to this farmed
estate — what do I care? Let him serve drink
in some tavern, or track down wild game.
As for Zosia, how could you even think
to speak for her, who’s mine in all but name?
Alone, I guide her hand; and since your brother
provided money for her upbringing,
an allowance, though to my mind, rather
meager — he thinks that he’s been purchasing
her life. Of course, we all know that he’s merely
trying to relieve the guilt that he must feel
toward the Horeszko lineage.” The Judge barely
believed his ears, shocked that she might reveal
this news. Sadness, disgust, and even fear
he felt, at what he thought he might next hear.
“I’m her foster-mother,” Telimena concluded,
“I’m Zosia’s blood, her only guardian.
About her happiness, no one has brooded
more.”
“But what if this marriage decision
will ensure that?” asked the Judge. “What if she
likes Tadeusz?”
“You might as well promise
pears from a willow tree! I’m sure you’ll see
she won’t. It’s true, Zosia must compromise
somewhat, for she is not so richly dowered;
but she is not some peasant girl either.
She has noble ancestors, some who once towered
over the likes of Soplicas — her mother
was a Horeszko. After all the pain
I took, providing proper upbringing….
she’d grow up wild here — what would we gain?”
Surprisingly, the Judge seemed to reconcile,
responding pleasantly, “Oh well,
I dread participating in this vile
business, but please, don’t let your anger swell.
I’ve done the thing my brother commanded;
no one can compel you against your will.
I’ll write to tell Jacek what he demanded
could not be carried out, that the fault still
is not my own. Now, to discuss again
with the Seneschel — my original plan.”
Telimena, calm, had lost her zeal;
“It’s not that Zosia should refuse him,
but as you said, their age creates a real
problem. Let’s not give in to someone’s whim.
Let them meet and then we shall observe,
leaving nothing as precious as happiness
to chance. And yet, brother, don’t they deserve
to meet alone, not under the duress
of your machinations. “The heart’s not a slave
and can’t be manacled or forced to behave.”39
And as the Judge went off in much less gloom,
Tadeusz from the other side approached,
pretending to be lured by some mushroom.
Likewise, the Count upon this scene encroached.
Wiping his lorgnette with a kerchief,
he stared once more at this miraculous view,
and placed his undone sketch within a sheaf,
thinking to himself— “I fear the true
beauty will disappear if I approach.
Will velvet quickly transform back to poppies
and beets? Will this nymph on grassy couch
turn into some housekeeper shelling peas?”
Years ago the Count had often seen
Telimena visiting the Judge’s home.
But he had barely noticed her, until this scene
appeared, and all at once, the model’s aplomb —
her bearing and her charming mode of dress —
revealed intensity. Her eyes now glowed
with unextinguished ardor; he could guess
how beautiful she truly was, so proud
yet shy — after these sudden intrusions
added to the quarrel new confusions.
“Madam,” he said, please pardon my boldness
and this expression of my gratitude,
and, moreover, my tact and furtiveness.
I hope when I observed your solitude
you didn’t take offence; you know that your musing
is such a source of blissful inspiration.
Condemn me if you must, but be forgiving
of the artist, who, without trepidation,
will dare to capture such beauty.” With part
bravado and part humility, he shared his art.
Telimena took the sketch, regarding
it with a connoisseur’s discerning gaze.
She didn’t wish to be accused of larding
it with lavish, undeserved praise.
“Bravo,” she said, “This shows you have talent.
But talent must be nurtured; you must find
the proper landscape. Young painters must be sent
to Italy — such views flock to my mind:
Caesar’s rose gardens, Tiberian falls,
the terrifying cliffs of Posilipo!
A painter’s land — you can see how it galls
me when a child of the muses must go
to Soplica’s estate as to a wet nurse.”
She placed the Count’s new sketch inside her purse.
Then they began to talk of azure skies,
the roaring sea, fragrant breeze, and sand,
adding, like seasoned travelers, deep sighs
for distant views, mocking their native land.
And yet, magnificent forests surrounded
them with beauty — blackberries entwined in wreaths
of wild hops, rowan berries red as confounded
shepherdesses, hazelnut trees like sheathed
maenads with nuts and heavy clusters of grapes.
While beneath them hid the forest’s little children,
hawthorn, covered by guelder roses’ capes,
raspberries in the grip of a blackberry fen,
leaves all joining hands like village girls
dancing around a newly married pair,
towering above as the circle twirls.
It is none other than the birch so fair,
with its own betrothed, the horn beam. Farther
off, in silent gaze, the venerable
beeches, matronly poplars — and the father
oak, bearded with moss, imperturbable,
having endured for centuries. Hunchbacked,
it leans on the very pillars, sepulchral,
of its own ancestors, petrified and cracked.
Bored, Tadeusz soon began to squirm.
He’d held his tongue until these two began
> to praise some foreign trees, moving in turn
from orange, cypress, olive, almond, pecan,
to cactus, aloe and mahogany,
sandalwood, lemon, ivy, walnut, fig —
praising shape, flower, stem, all lavishly.
Tadeusz was simple, though not some prig
but a lover of nature. “In Vilno,
in botanical gardens I have seen
those vaunted trees from East and South, and so
I am not ignorant. But if you’ve ever been
in Lithuanian woods, of course you know
how poorly they compare: aloes, long and thin
like a conductor’s baton; lemon trees, so low
and dwarfed, with golden balls that are like tin
coated with lacquer — they remind me
of unattractive women of modest wealth.
And what about the cypress, said to be
symbol of grief — boredom and poor health.
They say it holds the sorrow of the dead —
I see instead some morbid German, afraid to sit
or laugh or gesture, even turn his head
for fear of breaking codes of etiquette.”40
“But think of our sublime, kind-hearted birch —
a peasant woman weeping for her child,
wringing her hands after a useless search,
braids streaming to the ground. She is not wild
with grief, but eloquent, despairing yet mild.”
“If the Count is so very fond of painting,
why not paint the trees he so disdains?
His neighbors must surely find it amusing,
that living on this lush and fertile plain,
a craggy desert is more to his choosing.”
“My friend,” remarked the Count, “the beauty of nature
is but the form, the ground, the material,
but inspiration’s from the soul, to be sure,
transported on imagination’s ethereal
wings. And polished by taste and then upheld
by principles. Nature’s not sufficient,
nor is enthusiasm; artists must yield
to the ideal. Not all beauty is meant
to be painted. You will learn in time
that all painting requires a point of view,
grouping, composition, sky — the fine
Italian sky! For only that could imbue
with such beauty, the landscapes painted there.
Apart from Breughel, and perhaps Ruysdal,
no northern landscape painters that I’d dare
call first rate, certainly not Van der Halle.”
“Our painter, Orlowski,” Telimena41
broke in, “shared this same Soplica taste,
what I call the Malady of Soplica —
to like only what is Polish and to praise
nothing else. Orlowski spent his career
in Petersburg (I met him there and acquired
several sketches) living in paradise, near
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 17