Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works

by Adam Mickiewicz

  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