Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works
Page 18
the Tsar’s court. Yet unbelievable how fired
up he became when he recalled his homeland.
He’d dwell for hours on his lost boyhood,
praising all that was Polish — every stand
of trees, patch of ground, wisp of straw and cloud.”
“How right he was!” Tadeusz shouted with ardor.
“I’ve heard about this grand Italian sky:
blue and clear, so much like frozen water.
It takes a windy storm to move my eye —
just raise your head to find spectacular views.
Just watch the play of clouds, for every instant
they’re different — in fall they seem to choose
to crawl like lazy tortoises. Then, pregnant
with rain, unleashing long streamers like unbound
braids. The hail cloud’s like a balloon, sent
aloft in wind, dark blue, a glint of gold found
in the center. Even an ordinary cloud,
so white and inconspicuous — transformed.
At first they fly like swans flocking in crowds
or gaggles of geese — that suddenly are swarmed
by the wind acting like a falcon
in pursuit. They quickly form a single mass
that grows a neck, spreads a mane, and starts to run
on legs shot out — a silver charger to surpass
a horseman’s dream. Then, a new twist of fate —
a mast grows from the neck, the broad mane spreads
into sails — the cloud becomes a frigate.
Across the endless blue heavens it heads.”
Both Telimena and the Count looked up;
Tadeusz pointed out with his one hand,
using the other to squeeze lightly and cup
around Telimena’s fingers — time seemed to stand
quite still. The Count began to spread parchment
right on his hat and gripped pencils to sketch,
when suddenly the clanging manor bell sent
disrupting dins throughout the air, to fetch
the mushroom pickers back for refreshment.
Amid the commotion the Count shook
his head. “It seems we share a common fate
on earth, to end things with some ungodly quake
and clatter — the reckoning of a great
thought, the flight of the imagination,
the joy of friendship, the sport of innocence,
outpourings of some tender emotion…
All halts at the clanging bronze bell’s insistence.
And what remains?” he asked, looking forlorn.
“Memories!” Telimena said, quite touched;
and wishing to relieve the Count’s well-worn
despair, she handed him forget-me-nots she’d plucked.
The Count kissed them and pinned them to his coat.
Meanwhile, Tadeusz, standing by a hedge,
saw something lily white reach towards his throat.
Sensing it was her hand, offered as pledge,
he held it to his lips and drowned his face
in it, like a bee in the cup of a lily,
only to recoil as his lips could trace,
folded within a note, a metal key.
He hid it in his sleeve, unable to refrain
from wondering what this letter would explain
The bell still rang and soon the forest echoed
with cry and exhortation, a signal
for mushroom pickers to gather up their load.
Though this assaulting din was just the dinner bell,
the Count heard only a funereal knell.
Each afternoon from the garret it tolled,
inviting help and guest to come and eat,
a custom still observed in countless old
manors like this. And soon, shuffling feet
could be heard, returning from the grove
with crate and basket. Each young lady waved
a pine-lover like a fan and held above
leaf-mushrooms and fungi like wildflowers saved
in a bunch. The Seneschal had his fly-bane;
but Telimena, empty-handed, halted,
waiting for the two young gentlemen.
The guests entered in order and then stood
in a circle, allowing the Official
to take his place, as one of his rank should,
advancing to the head of the table,
bowing to the ladies, old and young.
The Judge stood by the Bernardine monk;
a benediction in Latin was sung,
and vodka, served to honored guests, was drunk.
The rest sat down, for it was getting late,
in front of bowls of borscht which they then ate.
More quietly than usual they dined,
refraining from chatter, despite entreaties
from the host. Even the factions behind
the great hound controversy displayed uncertainties
about the outcome of tomorrow’s wager.
Telimena spoke continually
to Tadeusz yet often had to offer
words to the Count, for the Sheriff to see —
like a hunter peeking into a snare
where he’s lured a goldfinch, at the same time
he’s trying to trap a sparrow. Neither cares
that she talks to the other, for that’s no crime
and each expects to be the one chosen.
The Count glances proudly at his flower;
Tadeusz fingers stealthily the token,
which his eyes are longing to devour.
The Judge refills the dignitary’s tumbler
with Hungarian wine and then Champagne,
but does not talk, remaining even humbler —
it’s evident he feels some hidden pain.
Serving dishes were quietly passed around,
when suddenly the routine course of dinner
was interrupted by a crashing sound.
The forester, upset, rushed in the door
and faced the Judge and stood there dumbly panting
as the whole room turned toward the head table.
He unleashed words, “A bear, Milord!” granting
all else to conjecture. The Judge was able
to surmise that a bear had slipped across
the river Nieman and now must be pursued.
With almost no discussion, a consensus
was reached; it was evident from the crude
gestures, clipped commands, tumult, confusion —
that hunters must deter this bear’s intrusion.
The Judge issued orders: fetch the village
elder— “We need volunteers at daybreak.
A peasant with a spear need not engage
in road labor two days and also take
five days off from field work.”
“Saddle my gray,”
yelled the Official, and gallop to my estate.
We need my famous leaches to save the day,42
My bulldogs called The Chief and his Mate.
Better yet, gag and tie them in a sack;
bring them on horseback for we must hurry.”
“Vanka,” shouted the Sheriff, searching the pack
for his Russian servant, “You’ll be sorry
if my Sanguszko blade has not been drawn
over the whetstone by morning! And fill
my belt with cartridges and balls.”
“By dawn!”
became the one resounding phrase this chill
evening, as all shouted to get their gun
ready. The Sheriff repeated, “Lead, lead —
I have molds in my bag.”
“Now let us run
to rouse the sleeping priest out of his bed.
To the forest chapel, Mass will be offered
to the hunters’ patron, Saint Hubert.”
Silence followed the orders. Ea
ch in place
pondered his role and cast about searching
glances. It was to the Seneschal’s face
that they were drawn, unanimously revealing
the expedition’s need for a general —
they wished to hand to him the hunter’s staff.
Sensing the will of his comrades, the Seneschal
rose up striking the bench, drawing from his cuff
a chain from which a watch, big as a pear
was suspended. “Tomorrow — half-past four,
hunters as well as beaters will appear
at the forest chapel.” Preparing war,
he headed straight for the forester’s tent
to map out a strategy for the hunt.
Responding to commands for this battle,
soldiers dispersed throughout the large campground;
each cleaned his weapon, polished his saddle,
carefree, whistling, knowing sleep would be sound.
BOOK 4 . DIPLOMACY AND THE CHASE
An apparition in curling papers awakens Tadeusz – belated discovery of a mistake – the tavern – emissary – the skillful use of a snuffbox returns the discussion to proper channels – the backwood – a bear – the Count and Tadeusz in peril – three shots – a dispute over a Sagalos musket and a Sanguzko musket, favored in favor of the Horeszko single-barrel – bigos – the Seneschal’s tale of Dowejko’s and Domejko’s duel interrupted by a hare – conclusion of the tale of Dowejko and Domejko
Comrades of the Lithuanian Princes,
trees of Bialowieza, Switez, Ponary,
and Kuszelewo — over vast distances
your shade once fell. Can you recall the story
of dread Vitenas, Mindova the Great
and Giedymin — when in the forested heights,43
by campfire on bearskin he lay in wait?
Wise Lizdejko sang, and with the sights
of Vilia, and Velijka’s soothing tones
ringing in his ears, he rocked himself to sleep,
dreaming an iron wolf above the stones.
The Gods ordained this prophecy to keep —
to build alone the city of Vilno,
to sit like a wolf in its forest home
with bison, bear, and wild boar below.
From this city, as from the wolf of Rome,
legendary knights would ride off in pursuit
of wild game and enemies to rout.
Over the years Kiejstut, Olgierd and his son44
would soon fulfill the hunter’s prophecy:
that Lithuania would depend upon
iron and forests for its supremacy.
Forests! The last king who wore Vitold’s cap45
was also the last of the Jagiellonian
hunting monarchs, the last warrior to trap
game in your mighty depths. Oh, Lithuanian
trees — if God would grant one last look,
would I still find the great Baublis tree,46
where I once crawled, whose branches I once shook.
Its trunk hollowed by each century
could host the Last Supper. Will it remain?
Does Mendog’s grove still bloom nearby the church?47
And Holowinski’s manor in the Ukraine,
on the banks of the Rus — do hawks still perch
in the towering linden, branches so spread
a hundred couples could dance in its shade?
Each year so many of these monuments
fall prey to the devouring greedy axe
of businessmen and foreign governments.
What will remain after these cruel attacks
as refuge for the singing birds and bards —
for both loved them. And what will be the fate
of the huge Czarnolas linden, whose chords
inspired Jan Kochanowski, the great48
poet,? Or sacred oaks that seem to chatter
with Cossack Bards of miraculous matter?
How much I owe these trees of my homeland!
Wretched shot that I was, facing the sneers
of my comrades, when game evaded my hand —
how often some dense thicket would appear
to capture my fancy. Forget the chase —
just sit amid a clump of trees, surrounded
by silvery, gray-bearded moss to ease
my melancholy. The ground drenched with mounded
rotting blueberries, while the hills were reddened
from all the heather and cowberry leaves,
like coral rosaries. And all seemed deadened,
as the topmost branches barely heaved
in the storm that raged above the vault.
And yet, from high, I heard deafening crashes
like those heard on shore which the sea lashes.
On the forest floor, like ancient ruins,
a toppled oak protrudes from a great clearing.
Rotting logs, leaning like beams and columns,
fence in a grassy terrace, menacing,
because the lords of the forest dwell
inside — boar, bears, wolves, and by the gate,
half-gnawed bones of imprudent guests tell
the terrifying tales: for lying in wait,
they spot, through the grass, like tiny sprays
of water, antlers of a helpless stag.
There is a flicker from inside the maze,
a streak of light, and then a howling rage.
Then all is silent — until a woodpecker
raps on a spruce lightly and disappears;
hidden, its beak still taps like a drummer
or a playful child unseen, whose fears
give it away. A squirrel clasps a nut,
gnawing; its tail curls over its eye and falls
like the plume on a Swiss Guard’s helmet.
Although shielded, it heeds some unknown calls,
and pirouettes, leaping into a jump,
only to vanish in an empty stump.
Then the branches of an ash are shaken,
and as a cluster of rowanberries
separate, while a handful is taken —
a face as bright as those berries scurries
to the next tree, to find more hidden treasures.
And from a basket woven out of bark,
she offers a boy what she picks and measures.
He takes and eats while reaching into the dark
thicket, for hazelnuts, which find their mark.
But horns blare through the woods and hounds are baying,
and they sense that the hunt is drawing near;
fear has disrupted their innocent playing,
and like forest deities, they disappear.
A great commotion filled Soplica estate,
but barking dog, neighing charger, creaking cart,
even trumpeters’ fanfare from the gate,
could not drag Tadeusz from bed to take part.
Fully dressed, he had fallen to the mattress
and slept snug as a marmot in its den.
Since none thought to search for him — having to press
on to appointed place — he was forgotten.
He was snoring. Into a heart-shaped hole
cut in the shutter, a ray of light poured,
striking his forehead like a fiery pole.
Wishing to doze longer, he had turned toward
the wall, to shield out rays. Then a sharp knock
woke him, and joyous was his awakening!
Spry as a sparrow, the brisk air a shock
to his lungs, he sighed, heart rapidly beating.
After all the events of the day before,
anxious for this new day to bring him more.
He looked at the gleaming, heart-shaped opening,
where two bright eyes glittered, having turned away
from the sun to darkness; and protecting
those eyes, a tiny hand, red in the gray
o
f shade, looking like a ruby-colored fan.
Tadeusz saw lips slightly parted, and teeth
like pearls amid coral. Her cheeks were not wan —
though shielded, they flushed like a rose in a wreath.
Tadeusz lay beneath the window, hidden
in shadow, marveling at this apparition
hovering above, fearful, as though chidden:
was he awake? Had his imagination
recreated a face from his innocent
years? And as it leaned closer, terror struck
him, mixed with joy. In his astonishment
he recalled bright golden hair, papers that stuck
out from wrapped curls like silver spokes upon
the glitter-crown of a holy icon.
He jumped from bed, frightened by the din;
the vision dispersed and would not reappear.
Then three quick knocks — and a few words passed in:
“Please get up now, the hunters gather near
the gate, you must’ve overslept.” He sprung
to the window and shoved open the shutter.
Hinges snapped; so wildly were they flung,
they struck the walls. Tadeusz could not utter
a sound. He saw no one, not even a trace.
Nearby on the orchard fence, some hop-leaves
and a wreath of flowers swayed. Did she grace
them with her touch? Were they rustled by the breeze?
Tadeusz studied them, leaning on the fence,
not bold enough to enter the orchard.
He pressed a finger to his lips in silence,
so that some hasty remark might not ward
off her appearance. Finally he struck
his forehead, trying to stir the old memory
buried deep within. When he had no luck,
he began to bite his fingers bloody.
The yard, so full of shouts moments before,
was deserted now, and hushed like graveyard.
Everyone rushed to the fields; the wind bore
their sharp cries, and signals that trumpets blared
reached his ear, hand cupped to better hear.
Tadeusz’s horse, already saddled, was waiting.
Musket in hand he mounted and galloped
wildly to the Taverns, where the assembling
hunters, after Mass, were lining up.
Both of these taverns leaned over the road,
their windows facing like threatening enemies.
To the castle estate the old one owed
its existence; whereas the new, to decrees
by Soplica, who only wished to spite
his rival. In one Gervazy’s word was might;
In the other, Protazy’s always right.
The new tavern would not interest our craftsmen;
the old was built according to ancient
plans, devised first by Tyrolean draftsmen,