Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works

by Adam Mickiewicz

  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