her conversation praised for its content;
she will be loved for every little twitch,
by even those who seem to dislike her.
You must not forget all that you have learned
during the two long years that you’ve spent here.
Remember, Zosia, just how much we’ve yearned
to return to Petersburg. Now get dressed;
you’ll find all that you need back in the trunk,
and please consider what I’ve just expressed —
quickly, they’re all returning from the hunt.
The serving girl summoned — the chamber maid,
and water was poured in a silver basin.
Zosia, like a sparrow in sand, played,
splashing about, as servants tried to hasten,
washing her hands and face, trying to aid.
Telimena, from her Petersburg stores,
pulled out flasks of perfume, jars of pomade;
she sprayed Zosia with a scent that allures,
applying to her hair a fragrant ointment.
Clear white stockings Zosia began placing
by her white satin shoes — from Warsaw sent,
while the servant began the task of lacing
the corset, covered by a dressing smock.
Curling papers were twisted in her hair,
which was so short they had to braid the locks
revealing temples and forehead — both fair.
A corsage of fresh flowers was then placed
in Telimena’s hand — for her to pin
in Zosia’s hair. So skillfully it graced
her face — like a blue cornflower within
a field of pale grain. The smock was replaced
with a white gown and Zosia thrust her head
through the opening. A kerchief, white and frilly,
went in her hand; the serving girl said
she looked just like a perfect white lily.
A last adjustment to her hair and gown —
they told her to parade across the floor.
Telimena observed with a connoisseur’s frown,
drilling her knowledge (which she knew was poor)
of etiquette. She angrily grimaced,
and when Zosia curtseyed, cried in despair.
“Oh, wretched me! I’m sure to be disgraced.
Wait and see how this gooseherd will fare —
you spread your legs, what’s worse, you glance about
like some divorcee. Curtsey again,
this awkwardness is not something to flout.”
“Oh Aunt,” replied Zosia, “You mustn’t complain,
you kept me locked away! When could I learn
to dance. I’m bored, and so I feed these birds,
and frolic with these children that you spurn.
One more chance, and I’ll disprove your words;
don’t shut me in — for how else will I learn?”
“The birds,” her Aunt said, “are an evil less
than the rabble we always see, to attract.
Think of our guests, and how they must impress —
the grouchy priest with his card-playing act;
the lawyer with his awful pipes — are these
eligible bachelors? What manners or finesse
could you possibly learn — to hang from tree?
But now we have a young distinguished guest,
the Count, a lord and so well educated,
properly raised. I have but one request —
just be polite in ways I’ve indicated.”
Whinnying horses could be heard outside,
and hunters’ slang, the opening of the gate.
Away from the mirror, Zosia was pried,
rushed into the hall with a frantic gait —
the hunters didn’t occupy the room;
they were changing out of their hunting shirts
in the kitchen, so they could also groom
themselves, in case some lady wished to flirt.
Most anxious were Tadeusz and the Count,
who quickly dressed and rushed out to the front.
Telimena was obliged to act
as host. She greeted them, led them to chairs;
she talked politely and they didn’t lack
attention. Then, amid the talk of bears,
she introduced her niece, Tadeusz first.
Zosia curtseyed and he bowed very low,
his lips parted, his eyes to her eyes glued.
Then he grew shy, standing pale and dumbstruck,
his own feelings unable to surmise.
He recognized Zosia — to his ill-luck —
her size and shining hair, her voice and eyes,
just hours before he’d seen this very face
whose sweet voice had awakened him for the bear chase.
The Seneschal, watching Tadeusz shaken,
rescued him from his predicament,
advising to withdraw at once, to make an
effort to rest. But Tadeusz went,
instead, to the fireplace, his crazed eyes
glancing to his aunt, then to her niece.
Telimena noticed, with some deep sighs,
the impression that Zosia made — displeased.
And Zosia, too, appeared to be distracted,
staring at the flames. Unable to wait,
Telimena approached the youth who so attracted
her. “Are you sick? Or sad?” Questions would not abate,
until to Zosia she jokingly alluded.
Tadeusz remained still, propped on his elbow,
silent, brows knit, mouth twisted — he brooded.
Telimena’s confusion began to show;
she changed her tack and then her tone of voice;
with sharp and angry words she jibed and taunted;
Tadeusz felt the sting of her word choice.
With no reply but with his anger flaunted,
he kicked a chair as from the room he bolted;
and as it crashed over, the door was jolted
open. Only Telimena was unnerved,
to all the rest, this scene passed unobserved.
Through the swinging gate, Tadeusz fled,
straight to the field — like a pike with its gill
punctured by a hook, plunging, diving, far from dead,
deeper, the fishing line following still —
Tadeusz dragged along his new-found pain,
trudging through ditches, vaulting across fences,
aimless and pathless and under great strain,
wandering as though he had lost his senses,
till deep in the forest, by chance or will,
he found himself, where only yesterday,
he’d felt such joy — where, by the tiny hill,
the trees witnessed his rapturous display,
where Telimena passed the infamous note,
as both the Count and Tadeusz she smote.
Looking about — what a shock to notice,
Telimena alone, deeply plunged
in her own thoughts. And yet it was her bodice
he noticed, white, and the way that she lounged
on a boulder, as though sculpted from stone
herself, her palms to face, pale as a lotus,
clearly she sobbed, though emitting no tone.
Tadeusz defended his heart in vain;
he felt pity; he was moved by her sorrow.
He gazed silently, in awe of her pain;
he hid behind a tree, then anger grew —
“Fool!” he scolded himself, “she’s not to blame;
it’s my mistake.” Then suddenly she tore
from her place with a start, and when she came
leaping across a stream, arms in the air,
hair disheveled, she screamed, heading for the trees.
Jumping, kneeling, and finally falling down,
unable to get up or to squirm free —
it was so clear that her torment had grown,
grasping her breasts, her knees, and then her toes.
Tadeusz sprung up, sure that she’d gone mad,
or else that some disease held her in the throes
of seizure — yet it wasn’t nearly that bad.
In a nearby birch wood, a great anthill
supplied thousands of ants crawling along the grass,
frantic and black, like soldiers in a drill.
Perhaps it was pleasure that made them pass
into this lady’s Temple of Meditation.
Leaving behind their heaped-up mound and spring,
they marched in line to their new destination.
Unfortunately, for them, someone was blocking
their path, and Telimena’s sparkling white
stockings, so glittery and alluring,
attracted them — to tickle and to bite.
Telimena was forced to flee, fluttering
her arms, till she dropped down, shaking her dress,
picking off ants, between fingers to press.
Tadeusz felt compelled to help her now,
brushing her gown and stooping by her foot,
his lips accidentally strayed to her brow.
Remaining on that tender spot, mute
about their recent quarrel — they didn’t speak,
reconciled and under each other’s spell.
Their silence could have lasted for a week,
if not for the Soplica’s dinner bell.
This signaled time to come to evening meal,
time to return — and since they just now heard
branches cracking, a search party might reveal
their indiscretion. So, passions stirred,
they returned separately — she through the orchard,
Tadeusz to the highway in a rush.
Yet an alarming sight both encountered —
Telimena saw behind a bush
the hooded face of the Bernardine monk;
Tadeusz, too, distinctly saw a figure,
tall and dressed in white, behind the trunk
of a tree. He suspected, though not sure,
that the Count’s long English frockcoat it wore.
They were to dine in the castle again;
Protazy one more time had disobeyed
the Judge’s prohibition with disdain.
During the absence of the men, he played
his advantage, and he had stormed the castle,
moving the cupboard in before guests came.
They entered in order, stood in a circle —
the Official sat where someone of his fame
belonged, bowing to all along the way.
The priest was absent, so his wife sat next
to the Judge, who in Latin, began to pray.
Then vodka was served to the honored guests,
and kompot, rich with cream — so they might dine62
on crabs and chicken and asparagus,
downing huge cups of Hungarian wine,
feasting in silence, without making a fuss.
Since they first erected these castle walls,
so lavishly they’d always entertained,
so many nobles visited these halls —
it seemed the echoes of vivats remained.
Yet never could the Judge recall more gloom —
only the popping corks and rattling plates
resounded hollowly through the great room;
even the servants abandoned their debates,
for it seemed that some angry spirit tried
to silence all, as if all tongues were tied.
There were many reasons for this silence.
Returning from the hunt quite talkative,
their ardor had grown less and less intense,
realizing just how hard it was to live
with the shame — was it really necessary,
this hooded monk appearing from nowhere
like Philip from Hemp, who didn’t even carry63
a gun? Something about this wasn’t fair!
What would their rivals in the district town
think? And would they mock their hunting renown?
And adding to their long, ongoing feud,
the Notary and Sheriff faced new shame —
they both dwelled on the memory, renewed:
the hare fleeing, their hounds already tame,
the fluffy tail as it mockingly waved
from the grove, like a whip lashing the heart.
In spite of this disgrace, gazing down, they braved
the crowd — yet the Sheriff was also hurt,
as he watched Telimena and his rival play.
She sat by Tadeusz but turned away
and barely noticed him, intent instead
to tease the Count out of his sad display,
to talk freely, his ill-humor to shed.
The Count was glum, returning from his walk,
or his ambush, as Tadeusz surmised;
for he listened to Telimena talk
and raised his head haughtily, not surprised.
He frowned and looked at both of them with scorn,
and sat by Zosia, leaning as close as possible.
He filled her glass and passed her plates in turn,
showing every courtesy — and bow and smile.
At times he rolled his eyes and gasped for air,
and it was clear, despite his deception,
his flirting words were meant for Telimena’s ear.
He wished to spite her, to cause irritation,
turning to stare at her with every chance,
to drown her in his threatening glance.
Telimena watched, uncomprehending,
shrugging her shoulders — so very strange, she thought,
returning to the Count with talk unending.
Tadeusz grew more dismal, and he sought
escape in his plate, though he ate and drank
nothing. Even when Telimena poured
more wine, questioning, he acted bored,
though he seemed ill, and soon his head sank.
When he opened his eyes, he grew upset,
his face so near her cleavage, so immodest,
so shocked by what his quick perusal met.
To her red cheeks he turned his present inquest,
a grave secret about to be exposed —
by rouge this rosy hue had been imposed.
Perhaps this rouge was an inferior grade,
or had in spots rubbed off accidentally,
or else worn off, and underneath its shade,
a coarse complexion — all could plainly see.
Perhaps Tadeusz, an hour or so before,
had brushed her cheek during their conversation,
and the carmine fell to the forest floor,
lightly as dust from its powder foundation.
Telimena had rushed from the forest,
with virtually no time to make repairs
to her makeup, and tiny spots had surfaced
around her mouth. Tadeusz had to stare,
the cunning spy, having discovered treason.
He carefully examined all her charms,
having more than sufficient reason,
and everywhere betrayals caused alarm —
two teeth missing, and where her powder pealed,
a thousand tiny wrinkles were revealed.
How terrible Tadeusz began to feel,
to examine so closely — a disgrace!
To spy like that, creating his own hell,
to change his heart, his love even to erase.
Could he control his heart? He felt such shame,
and tried to substitute conscience for love’s absence,
To warm his cold soul in her glance’s flame,
though like the moon, her eyes were cold, intense —
his soul was frozen to the very tip;
head buried in
his hands, he bit his lip.
Just then a new temptation arose —
on Zosia and the Count he would eavesdrop.
Clearly the girl was in the Count’s throes,
visibly blushing, and unable to stop
staring, laughing as they began to converse
about yesterday’s unexpected meeting.
What they recalled — they spoke as if in verse:
huge burdock leaves, and how they made their greeting
in the garden. Tadeusz pricked his ears,
swallowing words which then his soul digested.
His feast was bitter and brought him new fears —
like a garden viper whose tongue ingested
the poison of a plant, there on the path
rolled into a ball, the very place
someone might step, poised to display its wrath.
Now drunk with jealousy as poisonous,
Tadeusz was about to show his malice.
To even the most festive gathering,
just one person can introduce much gloom;
though the hunters had stopped their blathering,
Tadeusz’s gall suffused the room.
Even the Chamberlain was despondent.
Astonished, he observed his two daughters,
well-dowered and pretty, by all consent,
the bloom of youth and in all quarters
the district’s best matches, in utter silence,
neglected by the eligible young men.
The Judge, as host, felt deeply this offence,
while the Seneschal offered his comments —
they might as well dine in some fierce wolf’s den.
The Seneschal was very sensitive
to silence, and inordinately fond
of chatter — and no wonder, for to live
as a noble meant a continuous round
of banquets, hunts, salons, assemblies,
accustomed to something drumming his ear.
Even when not talking, or swatting flies,
or quietly musing, he longed to hear
some conversation. And even at night
he said his rosaries and made up tales.
Against pipe-smoking he would rail and fight,
claiming that the silence this habit entails
was a German invention meant to deny
good Polish traits. And so he did determine —
“by wiping out the germs of speech, they well night
propose a cure to make us more German.”64
The lack of sound at night would make him jolt
from bed. Like millers lured to sleep by grinding gears,
who wake if noise comes to a grinding halt,
jumping to their feet, all full of fear.
The Seneschal faced the Chamberlain and bowed,
motioning to the Judge, who raised his hand,
a signal for him to address the sullen crowd.
Both of them acknowledged and begged him to take a stand.
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 22