Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works

by Adam Mickiewicz

  these barriers with superhuman courage,

  greater danger awaits, and no less tame

  than hungry wolves setting out to forage.

  Sparse grass covers the lakes that are so deep

  no human foot will ever touch their bottom,

  (thus a likely spot for devils to keep)

  waters speckled with bloody rust from

  something below, smoking and foul smelling,

  which rots the leaves and bark of nearby trees:

  stunted and worm-eaten branches entangling

  hunched-over stumps, around which beards of ugly

  fungus grow. They circle the foul water

  like witches around a cauldron steamy —

  into which some old corpse they dice and stir.

  Beyond these pools it would be vain to wander,

  for eyes cannot penetrate through the gases

  that hover above the swampy morasses.

  It is rumored that if a human passes

  beyond theses mists, he’d be surprised to find

  a beautiful and fertile kingdom

  where plants and animals of every kind

  gather — a breeding ground, from which all come

  proliferating as from Noah’s ark.

  In the very center, we’ve been told,

  ancient bison continue to hold their dark

  courts, along with bears, the most bold

  forest ruler. And lynxes nest in trees

  and greedy wolverines, like over-vigilant

  bureaucrats, keeping track of the ways

  of boar and wolf and elk as they are sent.

  Above them, eagles and falcons swoop down,

  to scavenge food right from the courtly table.

  These patriarchs, these holders of the crown,

  hide themselves within the forest, invisible,

  sending forth the young to colonize

  the outer woods. They dominate the stage

  where gun and knife will never reach the prize,

  and where they die, but only from old age.

  They have their own graveyard, where the near-dead

  gather to die — birds dragging feathers

  and creatures their fur, make their final bed.

  When bear can chew no longer, or when hare

  is slowed by blood thickening in his veins,

  or stag barely able to move his hind

  quarters, or graying raven who must refrain

  from flight, like falcon who has turned quite blind,

  eagle with his beak curved like a bow,

  closed so long his throat has forgotten food —

  all to their own ancestral graveyard go,

  small animals as well, and they include

  wounded and sick — so bones are never found

  in places where man steps. It’s also told

  that inside this kingdom, customs abound

  insuring order and justice of old,

  uncorrupted by man, without property

  rights and social strife, and no knowledge

  of duels or the arts of war. Peacefully

  as their forebears in an unspoiled age,

  they live in Paradise, wild and free,

  in harmony and love, where no one bites

  or butts another. Even the unlikely

  trespass of unarmed man will not incite

  them — if he passes through. They might just gaze

  as though during the sixth day of creation,

  their first fathers, after having that day

  of bliss — Adam exploring his new nation,

  before the Expulsion. But men won’t stray

  in here, for Death and Terror block the way.

  And yet sometimes a hound in furious chase,

  imprudently crosses the borderline

  into the pitted marshy land to face

  this overwhelming horror. The dog’s whine

  is heard after its master’s soothing strokes,

  and it trembles a long time at his foot.

  This place, so deep in forest which evokes

  such fear, is called by hunters the backwoods.

  Foolish bear! Remain in the backwoods,

  for then hunters might never learn of you.

  but some fragrant beehive or other food,

  perhaps a longing for fresh oats drew

  you to the edge of the forest, less dense,

  where the lookout detected your foot prints,

  and sent his spies — so cunning they could sense

  just where you fed, and reading stains and dents

  in twigs, where you slept. Now there is a row

  of hunters between the backwoods and you!

  There was silence while hunters — with ears strained

  as though eavesdropping on some fascinating

  talk — listened and for a long time remained

  in place. The forest, though, was creating

  music: dogs dove into the wilderness,

  like loons under the sea, and hunters turned

  to the woods, double-barreled rifles pressed

  to shoulders, wondering what the Seneschal learned

  as he knelt with his ear pressed to the ground.

  all eyes observed, awaiting the verdict,

  as though he were the doctor with profound

  insight into someone’s fate — to predict.

  The hunters trusted the Seneschal’s skill,

  and drowned him in looks of both hope and fear.

  “Yes, yes,” he uttered as they heard a shrill

  cry — first one dog, then two, then twenty roar,

  as the pack scattered having caught the scent —

  attacking the bear with their howls and whines,

  no longer just a game, leisure event,

  of pursuing a fox or hare or hind.

  Incessant yelps, clipped by their furious cries

  told that the bloodhounds had spotted the bear.

  The noise subsided to the hunter’s surprise —

  but soon again fierce growling filled the air.

  The hounds had reached the beast and had attacked,

  and the bear, defending itself, was injured.

  Yet from the groans and sounds of bones cracked,

  it was certain the hounds had also suffered.

  Hunters stood in place, their rifles ready,

  taut as strung bows, their heads aimed to the wood;

  but they could wait no more — and already

  they left their posts, and as fast as they could,

  squeezed into thickets, thinking as they swarmed,

  each would be first, though the Seneschal trotted

  on horseback from station to station and warned

  that anyone who left his post, if spotted —

  simple peasant as well as noble’s son —

  would feel his angry lash. But who listened?

  Despite his prohibition, three men ran

  into the woods and three quick shots were sent,

  then a barrage of fire, till deafening roars

  echoed even louder, filling the skies.

  This meant more pain and desperate fury, as scores

  of yelping dogs and blaring horns thundered replies.

  The hunters cocked their guns again and cheered;

  only their leader groaned as they all missed.

  Shooters and beaters from the side now veered

  to chase the bear — that from sheer fright hissed.

  Hounds and hunters closed in; the bear turned back

  and forth, till it spotted a path, unguarded,

  and fled to the same field from where the track

  had started — where the crowds had just departed,

  where only the Seneschal and the Count,

  and Tadeusz, remained — prepared to dismount.

  The woods were thinner here, and branches crunched

  as the bear flew out from the dark thicket,

 
like thunder from a cloud. The dogs soon bunched

  around the bear which rose — as they clawed it

  with their paws, the bear uprooted stumps,

  tossing them like stones. Brandishing a tree,

  it roared as the frightened hounds yelped and jumped;

  then it charged the line of beaters viciously.

  Only the Count and Tadeusz stood their ground,

  fearlessly, flintlocks lowered like lightning rods

  into the belly of cloud, dark and round —

  until both men (such inexperienced lads!)

  pulled their triggers. Double-barrels thundered out.

  They missed! When the bear leaped, they grabbed a spear

  with four arms and shouting aimed for its red snout

  and rows of glistening teeth — but the bear

  prepared to swat them with its clawed hand.

  They paled from fright, then jumped to open land.

  For one moment it seemed they could escape,

  till the bear rose up to its full monstrous shape,

  and once more stretched its paw to the flaxen head

  of the Count. It might have ripped his skull

  from his brains, and he surely would be dead,

  if the Sheriff and Notary had not witnessed the dreadful

  act. Gervazy ran to join from the field;

  Father Robak followed, without a gun,

  and three of them fired, as though it had been drilled.

  The bear leapt like a startled hare, then stunned,

  crashed down on the Count’s head and summersaulted,

  flinging its bloody load right by his feet —

  the Count flew in the air but landed on the grass!

  The bear still howled, its struggle only halted

  when the Chief and his Mate attacked the carcass.

  Then the Seneschal reached into his belt

  and pulled out from among the cartridges,

  a bison horn, dappled, like a snake coiled.

  With both hands, he held it to his parted

  lips, puffing out his cheeks like a balloon, his eyes

  bloodshot. Then his entire breath went

  to his lungs by sucking in to half its size

  his stomach — and a gale-like wind was sent

  into the forest, music doubled by echo.

  Hunters silenced, marveling at the might,

  the pure tones and harmony he blew.

  For the old man, within earshot and sight,

  exhibited a legendary skill.

  His song stirred oak grove and every tree,

  as though into them the whole hunt he’d spill —

  for his playing contained the hunt’s history:

  first the vigorous call, the reveille;

  then whining yelps now that the dogs are baying;

  then, full force, a harsh unyielding spree,

  Like crackling thunder — the shots meant for the slaying.

  He stopped blowing his horn — not letting go;

  though no one knew, they were hearing an echo.

  When the Seneschal again began to play,

  the horn seemed to transform. At first it thickened,

  taking some animal shape. Then to bay

  piercingly like a wolf, it stretched and lengthened.

  Then once again it was a bear’s broad snout,

  and then a buffalo bellowing out.

  He stopped blowing his horn — not letting go;

  though no one knew, they were hearing an echo.

  Deep into the woods this masterpiece could reach,

  repeated — oak to oak — and beech to beech.

  When he blew more it seemed a hundredfold.

  All sounds combined at once — the dogs set free,

  outcries of anger, the fear of the bold

  shooters, the hounds and beast trying to flee,

  till the Seneschal raised on high his horn —

  a hymn of triumph in the clouds was born.

  He stopped blowing his horn — not letting go;

  though no one knew, they were hearing an echo.

  It seemed that every tree had its own horn,

  conveying the whole song from choir to choir,

  spreading deep into the woods, though borne

  more soft, more pure, as though it wouldn’t expire.

  Then the Seneschal let go of his horn

  and spread his arms; it fell to his belt

  and swung. His face swollen and warm,

  he raised his eyes, this inspiration felt,

  as he tried hard to catch the dying notes,

  as a thousand cheers rose up in a swarm.

  The noise died down. All eyes turned to the bear —

  its monstrous corpse lay splattered in its blood

  and pierced by bullets, grass matted in its fur.

  front paws spread out, and through its nostrils a flood

  of black liquid — yet still it was panting,

  eyes open, head motionless, not quite dead.

  The bulldogs rushed up to its ears, tearing,

  the Chief’s Mate bit at the massive head,

  while Chief choked off the throat, sucking as it bled.

  To halt the attack, the Seneschal placed

  steel braces in the jaws of the crazed mutts.

  Three times men shouted Vivat — clearly pleased,

  flipping the carcass with their rifle butts.

  “So!” said the Sheriff, flourishing his gun,

  “what do you think of this little one’s aim?

  This birdshot that it shoots can surely stun.

  But that is nothing new — for she can claim

  she’s never had to waste a charge, this one

  from Prince Sanguszko, such craft is rare.”

  The Notary broke in, wiping his sweaty hair:

  “As I was running right behind the bear,

  the Seneschal told me to stand in place —

  but what could I do — when it rushed like a hare

  shooting into the field? I had to chase!

  But I began to wheeze, and so my hopes

  of reaching it vanished — until it shot

  into a clearing! For then it lopes,

  almost halting. The bruin is so near…

  And sure enough, my wide barreled gun,

  a Sagolos, mows it down. Inscribed

  on it — from Balabonov to London —

  for the famed ironsmith himself described

  how muskets from his workshop are Polish,

  but English in the way he must embellish.”

  “You — mowed it down?” The Sheriff said in jest.

  “Your talk is nothing short of preposterous!”

  The Notary replied, “This is no inquest;

  but let us summon the hunters to witness.”

  And so their dogged quarrel again commenced.

  Some to the Sheriff, some to the Notary

  flocked. But abut Gervazy’s role, none sensed,

  for they’d been off to either side, while he

  stood right in front. The Seneschal’s command

  returned: “at least there’s reason now to quarrel.

  This is no silly hare — hunters demand

  satisfaction for a bear — a duel!

  Custom calls for swords, or else pistols,

  so go and reconcile, I give permission.

  I recall two neighbors, neither fools

  nor dishonest, of noble disposition.

  They lived on opposite sides of a river,

  one named Domeyko, and one Doweyko.58

  Hunting a bear, they both fired together,

  so which bullet killed it, no one could know.

  They vowed to shoot across the bear’s stretched hide,

  in true noble fashion, barrel to barrel —

  a cause celebe throughout the countryside.

  Even songs were written about this quarrel.

  I was second — Let me give the h
istory

  so that you understand the whole mystery.”

  While the Seneschal talked, Gervazy checked

  the bear carefully, drawing out his knife,

  splitting the snout. After the skull was cracked,

  he dug into the brain, until a slice

  revealed the bullet, which was then extracted,

  measured and placed into his own flintlock.

  The group’s attention was clearly attracted:

  “Sirs, this is clearly not from your lead stock —

  Horeszko’s double-barrel gun, the same

  musket I hold, old and bound with string.

  But I did not shoot it, and I feel shame,

  terrible shame, though I was surely trying.

  Tadeusz and the Count ran straight to me;

  the bear behind, batting the poor Count’s head —

  the last of the Horeszkos, Jesus-Mary,

  I shouted, spotting the monk’s uncovered head.

  His courage surely puts us all to shame —

  while I trembled, afraid to even squeeze

  the trigger, he grabbed the gun and took aim —

  a hundred paces, between both heads, such ease.

  Straight to its snout, knocking out its teeth.

  Gentlemen, I am old, one man only

  could shoot so well. Even the heel beneath

  a lady’s boot he’d hit. He dueled constantly.

  Such a scoundrel was famous in his day,

  dubbed The Mustached-One, though his true name

  I won’t mention. But he is far away

  from bears — he surely dwells in hell, quite tame.

  Praise the Priest, he saved two lives…or three.

  If the final link to Horeszko’s line

  fell to the beast — then I too would depart

  this world, the bear would lick my bones and dine.

  So let us toast the Priest. Let the praising start!”

  They sought the Priest in vain. He had been seen

  after the bear was slain when he bounded

  over to the Count and Tadeusz and soon

  determined neither one of them lay wounded.

  He raised his eyes and then intoned a prayer

  and fled like an animal full of fear.

  Meanwhile, the Seneschal told them to heap

  bundles of heather and kindling, and lighted

  a fire. Billowing smoke began to creep

  into the air — the shape of a wind-bloated

  tent. Pikes were crossed and bound above the fire

  and from them were hung large pot-bellied kettles.

  From carts they brought provisions for an entire

  feast — bread, flour, roasted meat, and vegetables.

  The Judge unlocked a special liquor trunk;

  from the protruding necks he chose a flask,

  a fine crystal gift from the Bernardine monk.

  “Gdansk Vodka,” he said, “and no hard task