later appropriated by Jews who went
along with this foreign style of architecture,
which to this day in Lithuania endures.
The front of this tavern recalled an ark
like Noah’s, though now more like a stable,
where many animals lived in the dark
quarters: horses, cows, and some excitable
goats. In the rafters birds had built their nests,
along with snakes, in pairs, and insects.
The back, however, was like a temple,
recalling the edifice of Solomon,
known to be the earliest example
of Hiram’s craft and artistry in Zion.
The Jews adopted it for their own schools
and this design, in turn, can then be traced
to taverns and stables — even the tools
and the materials. And it was graced
by a roof of wood-lath and straw, upturned
and crooked as an old Jew’s torn peaked cap.
Down from that peak a balcony was formed,
supported by columns, flared at the top —
architectural wonders, for though they rot
and lean like Pisa’s tower of renown,
instead of classical models, they lack
capitals and foundations to hold them down.
Under these columns rested wooden arches,
imitations of the Gothic style,
ornately carved, but more like peasant porches
incised by a hatchet and not a chisel
or an engraving tool. They curved like Sabbath
candalabra — and button-shaped balls hung
for praying Jews to wrap and then attach
to their foreheads — these they call Tefillin.
From a distance the rickety old inn
looked like a Jew nodding his head in prayer:
the roof like his hat, the thatch filled-in
like a thick beard, from sooty air
like gabardine, an the wooden carving
like a prayer box from his forehead protruding.
Peasant men and women crowded inside,
and close by sat the minor nobility;
the Steward sat alone, off to the side.
From chapel, after Mass, they happily
gathered in Jankiel’s inn to dance and drink:
already grayish vodka was splashing
as the hostess filled cups up to the brink
from a large jug. Jankiel himself was standing
in his caftan, girded by a silk belt,
embroidered, fastened with a silver clip.
He was gravely stroking his long gray pelt
of beard, and casting his eyes like a ship
captain, issuing orders, greeting guests,
joining the talk and reconciling quarrels.
He paced about, honoring all requests,
this Jew, so old and known for his morals.
For many years this tavern he had leased,
and his landlord had never heard complaint.
So why did all now seem to be displeased?
he served good vodka, kept careful account
of the ledger, always above deceit.
He urged all merriment and yet forbade
drunkenness, welcomed all manner of fete —
weddings and christenings he often paid.
Sundays he summoned musicians to appear,
to scrape their basses to the bagpipe’s blare.
Jankiel himself was a famous musician.
He played the cymbalom, the instrument
of his nation in court and royal mansion,
where he sang with sweet and polished intent.
A Jew whose Polish was both clear and pure,
he also had a love of Polish music,
learned on journeys to places near and far
beyond the Nieman: from Carpathian Halicz
he brought kolomajkas, and from Mazovia49
he knew mazurkas. But his true fame50
(at least some claim here in Lithuania)
stems from that glorious day when he first came
bearing the song he learned in Italy —
played by trumpeters of the Polish legion —
the well-known March of Dombrowski,51
“Poland has not yet perished…” In this region
of Lithuania, a singing talent
is well loved and well-rewarded; it can bring
riches and fame. And thus, Jankiel, content
with his fortune, tired of wandering,
hung his sweet-stringed cymbalom on a peg,52
and settled down to family, inn, and wife.
But there is more: often neighbors would beg
advice on matters of domestic life.
He served as Rabbi in a nearby town;
he knew the river-barge business and grain,
once so important to sustain the crown:
that he was a good Pole, all would maintain.53
Jankiel was quick to reconcile all quarrels,
often bloody, between establishments,
since he leased both of them. And those in brawls
both sides respected him — the adherents
of Horeszko as well as Soplica’s men.
Jankiel alone could gain the upper hand
over Horeszko’s terrible Warden
and the spiteful Steward. When he’d stand
in front of them, old grudges were dismissed —
Protazy’s tongue stifled, Gervazy’s fist.
Gervzy didn’t occupy his roost;
he’d rushed out to the hunt, having the sense
to know the Count’s lack of experience and youth —
to offer his advice and his defense.
But on his bench, far from the entrance way,
the seat of honor, far back in the corner,
Father Robak had been seated all day.
Jankiel had led him there, with the order
to make sure that his cup was filled with mead.
It was clear from this treatment, he respected
his guest. They were acquainted — it was agreed —
from years ago. And Robak was expected
to frequent this tavern at night, to confer
with Jankiel, though rumors about a thief,
smuggling forbidden goods were pure slander,
mere idle talk, unworthy of belief.
The priest leaned on the table discoursing
in whispers to a throng of noblemen
encircling him, his hushed voice forcing
them to listen so carefully, that when
he bent toward his snuffbox, their noses followed.
Pinching, they sneezed, like guns discharging a load.
“Father,” announced Skoluba, sneezing,
“such princely snuff; it makes my scalp tingle.
Since I’ve had this,” he said, squeezing
his nose, “never did my nostrils mingle
with such fine powder. Surely from Kovno
it came, renowned for all its snuff and mead.”
The priest interrupted, “Tobacco
such as this is quite difficult to breed,
and must be transported a bit further
than Skoluba believes. The monastery
at Jasna Gora of the Pauline Fathers
is where it grew, prepared by the very
monks who maintain the Czestochowa Shrine,54
home of the miraculous charred icon,
the Virgin whose bright crown will always shine
over Poland, and watch over her son,
Lithuania, although a schism now
divides them. “From that very shrine,” said Wilbik,
I prayed there once, it was so long ago,
a pilgrimage. Tell me if what they speak
about the French army — that they intend
to smash the church and loot the treasury,
&nb
sp; for such did our newspaper once contend.”
“Oh no!” the monk broke in. “That is unworthy
gossip; Napoleon is an exemplary
Catholic, anointed by the Pope in Rome.
Together they can live in harmony
reconverting the French nation, now grown
a bit corrupt. They already return
much silver to our Polish treasury,
for God commands us not to scorn
the wealth at his altar. In the Duchy
of Warsaw, one hundred thousand soldiers
are gathered now, more to arrive.
And to pay for this army, to what coffers
should we tap? You Lithuanians give
so meagerly.”
“If only Moscow
didn’t milk us dry,” Wilbik said,
turning red. “But sirs,” a peasant spoke low,
bowing to the priest, scratching his head,
“Compared to them our landlords aren’t half
as bad — but still they skin us like birch bark.”
Skoluba shouted back, “You stupid calf.
These sons of Ham — ever since the ark55
they’ve been flayed as often as river eels —
you’d think by now they’d grow accustomed to it.
But we of higher birth know how it feels —
freedom! Even the King has to admit
the poorest gentleman farmer to sit
at his table.”
“Oh yes,” they all chanted,
“Each to a Senator equal!”56
“Now they submit
us to such scrutiny, demand proof of granted
nobility — and we must dig up documents…”
“Because you have none!” Juraha broke in.
“Your great great grandparents were ennobled peasants;
yet I can trace my lineage from Lithuanian
princes. How could I possibly furnish proof,
since only God could remember the date?
Let the Muscovite search throughout the wood
for the oak tree’s patent, and let him prate
about its right to spread its leaves above.”
“Prince,” said Zagiel,” Go pull another’s beard;
there are no coronets in your alcove,
since a cross on your coat of arms appeared
to signify you come from Jews converted.”
“False!” Birbasz interrupted, full of spite,
“from Tartar Counts, with noble sails inserted
beneath the cross.”
“And my shield bears the white
four-petalled rose, “ Mickiewicz loudly told,
“of which Stryjkowski of old chronicled.”57
A thunderous roar spread throughout the tavern;
in his snuffbox the Bernardine found refuge.
The orators followed, and each in turn
took a pinch and sneezed, as the deluge
subsided and courtesy ruled once again.
The monk spoke, taking advantage of the lull —
“Many great men have sneezed from this fine
snuff. From this very box the famed General
Dombrowski dipped four times.”
“Dombrowski!”
they shouted. “Yes, I was in the camp serving
when he took back Gdansk from the German army.
He had something to write, and to keep from sleeping,
he dipped, sneezed twice, and patted my shoulder.
Father Robak, he said, perhaps we’ll rendezvous
in Lithuania, less than a year older,
and dip this same Czestochowa tobacco.”
The Priest’s story stirred up such amazement
that the noisy gathering silenced a while,
till muffled mutterings broke through the silent
hush. “Tobacco in the Polish style…
from Czestochowa…Dombrowski…from Italy….”
building to a chant as if thought merged
with spoken word — on signal everybody
sang Dombrowski’s March, as voices converged.
Then all embraced — peasant and Tartar count,
cross-above-ship, white rose, coronet lacking deed.
All feuding ceased, supplanted by the sound
of song and shout— “More vodka, wine, and mead!”
The priest patiently listened to the song;
then lifting the snuffbox with both his hands,
he sneezed, wishing not to further prolong
his silence. All succumbed to his demands
and followed suit. “You praise my tobacco,”
he said, “now look at what the insides hold.”
Wiping the soiled base, he started to show
a miniature army painted in gold,
looking like a swarm of flies, one figure
the size of a beetle, perched on his steed,
clearly the troop commander, setting spur
to horse, grabbing the reins, trying to lead
his men, leaping to heaven. “Can you guess,”
he said, “who is this terrible figure?
Emperor, yes, but I would not address
him in Russian.” All began their conjecture,
as he explained the Tsars never took snuff.
“A great man?” asked Cydzik, “in long coat that’s gray?
I thought all great men dress in gold — enough
to shine like a pike in saffron, to slay
the eye.”
“Bah,” broke in Rzymsza, “in my youth
I saw Kosciuszko, our nation’s commander,
dressed in a Cracow peasant coat. In truth
they it a czamara like that of the Hussar.”
“It certainly was not,” Wilbik retorted —
as the querulous factions quarreled again.
The priest was quite astute and wished to quell
this new dispute by dipping some more snuff.
The men partook again — after a spell
of sneezing, blessed themselves, dropping their gruff
Tone of before. The priest prolonged the peace —
“Napoleon in a skirmish will take
tobacco to ensure his victories.
At Austerlitz, with all Europe at stake,
the French artillery could stand its ground,
while the Russian army began to charge.
Napoleon silenced and looked around —
French fire mowed down the Moscovite’s new surge,
as numerous as ants, as regiments
galloped toward him — and fell from the saddle.
Each time it was to his snuffbox he went,
till all the Russians fled like frightened cattle,
led by Alexander and Constantine,
along with Francis, the German emperor.
Napoleon, viewing this splendid scene,
burst out laughing and wiped his dipping finger —
if you find that you are called upon to serve,
recall how snuff gave Bonaparte his nerve.”
“Ach,” cried Skoluba, “when will that be?
Tell me, dear priest, for on each holy day,
the coming of the French is a prophecy.
A man can look until his sight decay,
and yet Moscow’s grip still does continue —
eyes that wait till dawn get drenched with dew.”
“My friends,” replied the monk, “I’ve heard complaints
like this from old ladies. And then, too, waiting
with arms folded, submissive in restraint,
for someone to knock at the tavern grating
befits a Jew. With Napoleon’s help,
thrashing the Russians won’t be such a trick.
Three times he’s taken the Swabian’s scalp;
the nasty Prussians were trampled so quick,
and then he sent the English to the sea —
he’d easily vanqu
ish any Moscovite!
But what will happen here? The nobility
in Lithuania are sure to join the fight,
mounting a horse, grabbing for a sabre
when there no longer is an enemy!
You’ll let Napoleon perform the labor
without you. When he looks, what will he see?
It’s not enough just to invite the guest,
your servants must clean and arrange the den;
and yet, before the feast — there’s this request:
make sure the house is fully cleaned, children.”
Silence followed, and then a host of voices.
“What do you mean by this command to clean?
We are prepared to make the proper choices —
but first, explain to us just what you mean.”
The priest ignored them, gazing out the window,
having spotted something interesting.
He soon got up, announcing, “I must go.
Later we shall resume all this debating.
There are some things in Wilno I must say;
I’ll be collecting alms along the way.”
“Niehrymov’s where the priest should spend the night,”
the Steward said, “He’ll be well-greeted there.
What people say about the town is right —
To be lucky as an alms collector
In Niehrymov.”
“And we,” said Zubkowski,
“will give him linen sheets, also a hunk
of mutton, bread and butter — for Happy
is the man who’s treated like a monk
at Zubkow.”
“And to us,” shouted the others,
“No monk will ever leave hungry or poor!”
They showered him with promises and prayers,
though he was almost fully out the door.
The priest rushed off, but spotted Tadeusz
galloping on the path, no hat, head bent,
gloomy — in such a mad and frenzied rush,
he spurred and whipped his horse without relent.
The priest, disturbed by this harrowing sight,
ran after him. Up to the woods he went,
which stretched far to the left and right
to the horizon, which was black as night.
Who has penetrated to the core,
the abyss of this primeval wilderness?
Fishermen know nothing of the ocean floor,
and hunters who circle about see less
than surface features, only the forest’s face —
to them the inner heart remains secret,
and only stories hint at what takes place.
If you would wander into this thicket,
you’d find vast ramparts, stumps and logs and roots
defending bogs and fens, a thousand streamlets
with nets of wild weeds and shaggy shoots,
mounded anthills, nests of wasps and hornets,
and coiling snakes. But if you overcame
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 19