Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works

by Adam Mickiewicz

  “I implore you young people,” the Seneschal lectured,

  “enjoy yourselves at this sumptuous meal;

  don’t chew so quietly without a word.

  Are you Trappist monks who’ve vowed to seal

  your lips? It makes me think of that hunter

  who lets the cartridge rust inside his gun.

  I do admire the garrulous banter

  of our ancestors — who, after the run,

  returned to the table not just to feast,

  but to express freely their opinions.

  What they held in their heart, always released,

  reproofs, of course, but also commendations;

  hunter and beater, hound and shot appraised

  as vociferously as another chase.

  I know what’s wrong — the monk has raised

  a specter in this room; you feel disgrace

  at your poor shots. But don’t be tormented.

  Better hunters than you have often missed —

  it is something that cannot be prevented.

  Since youth I’ve brought a gun into the chase;

  and even the great Rejtan could miss sometime.

  So you young men, you do not face disgrace;

  failing to kill a bear is not a crime.”

  “With just a spear, I could not criticize.

  But if you fled, holding your loaded gun,

  then cries of coward would surely arise.

  A coward is likely to shoot and run

  blindly, afraid to let the beast approach.

  But if he aims, and lets the game get near,

  and hunting rules he’s careful not to breach,

  a miss means he can withdraw without fear

  or disgrace. Now if he chooses a pike,

  not simply out of need but for pleasure,

  let him beware — it’s a weapon unlike

  the gun, unsuited to attack a bear.

  In ancient times, I ask you to believe,

  your retreat would not be a cause of shame.

  So Count and Tadeusz, please do not grieve;

  please hear an old man’s words, do not be deaf;

  if you wish to escape dispute or blame,

  two hunters should not shoot at the same game.”

  Just as the Seneschal said the word game,

  the Sheriff whispered, almost out loud, dame.

  “Bravo!” shouted the young men with laughter,

  repeating the Seneschal’s admonition,

  especially the word that followed after.

  One yelled, game, the next said dame in opposition.

  the Notary whispered, “she’d be no pet,”

  to which the Sheriff responded, “Coquette,

  fixing on Telimena his fierce gaze.

  The steadfast Seneschal was not amazed;

  he didn’t castigate or pay attention

  to these whispered comments. Instead he praised

  the levity brought by this word association —

  his glass of wine, to be refilled, he raised.

  “Oh, how I’d like to find the Bernardine;

  I have a tale to tell, I wonder what he’d think —

  the Warden claimed that only once he’d seen

  aim that was as accurate as the monk.

  But I know a marksman of equal skill,

  whose shots once saved two nobles’ skins,

  just as the beast readied to make its kill —

  Rejtan the Deputy and De Nassau the Prince,

  who judged a man regardless of his title.

  At the table they’d be the first to toast,

  presenting him with gifts, formidable —

  the hide of a slain boar, something to boast!

  I can recall that boar, that infamous shot,

  I was an eyewitness, and yes, I saw

  just like today — although a finer lot,

  the Deputy Rejtan and Prince DeNasseau.”65

  The Judge spoke up as he refilled his bowl.

  “I think it’s time for us to toast the priest;

  if charity will not enrich his cowl,

  let’s replenish his gunpowder at least.

  I give my word that the bear slain today

  will be rewarded with two year’s supply

  of wood to heat the stove of his monastery.

  Although the hide — I think I must deny,

  either by force or his humble concession,

  though I’d offer the pelts of ten sables.

  To dispose of this hide — my obligation.

  Of course his role in killing it enables

  him to receive the highest crowning glory,

  But the choice of the valued second prize,

  the hide, the hunt’s most prized and cherished bounty —

  I think the Official should now decide.”

  The Official stroked his forehead and he frowned.

  Murmurs arose as the hunters depicted

  their roles in the hunt — how the beast was found,

  and one about the first wound inflicted;

  one freed the dogs, another scared the bear…

  The Notary and Sheriff fought once more:

  one held his Sanguszko musket quite dear;

  the other his Sagalos’ precision bore.

  “Dear Judge, my friend,” the Chamberlain replied,

  “the first prize — clearly the monk deserves

  to win, second much harder to decide.

  All took part with equal courage and nerve,

  though two young men were singled out by fate

  to come perilously close to the bear’s claw.

  The Count and Tadeusz, without debate,

  have earned the skin. Tadeusz will withdraw

  his claim, I’m sure, younger, kin to the host;

  the Count, the spolia opima, shall take,66

  the spoils, the trophy goes back to his roost.

  A glorious reminder this will make —

  a sign that good fortune will not be lost.”

  He clearly thought the Count had been appeased,

  unaware this gift pierced through his heart,

  for the Count, when he should have been amused,

  glanced up unhappily at the mounted hart,

  its branching antlers almost like laurel fronds

  gracing the walls, as though a father’s hand

  had gathered them to make crowns for his sons.

  Rows of ancestral portraits seemed to command

  from the pillars, and high on the vault shone

  the old coat of arms, the Horeszko half-goat.

  The Count felt these figures, once so remote,

  spoke to him. But as his musing now ceased,

  he realized just where he was — whose guest.

  the Horeszko’s heir’s new outrage increased,

  inside his hall, attending this new feast

  hosted by his enemies, the Soplicas.

  Compounding this was a renewed jealousy

  towards Tadeusz, his rival for Telimena’s

  charms, as his anger began to intensify.

  He replied with a bitter laugh and smile,

  “my house is small and lacks a worthy place

  for a gift of such magnificent style.

  Let the bear remain — let it grace

  these castle walls, among other horned beasts,

  until the Judge returns what he has only leased.”

  The Chamberlain, guessing future events,

  tapped his snuffbox and demanded to speak.

  “You deserve praise, Count, for having the sense

  to talk business and never take a break;

  such concern is rare in this sad age.

  You have my word, we will come to agreement;

  my last concern is the castle acreage

  and regarding this I have an arrangement.”

  He gravely began to relate his plan,

  expounding upon the future exchange,

  w
hen an unexpected movement began

  across the table and out of his range.

  Someone pointed, a few eyes followed first,

  till, soon, like a field of rye in the wind,

  all heads simultaneously reversed

  direction — turning to face the corner behind.

  Where the dead Pantler’s portrait was hanging,

  from a small door among the pillars, hidden,

  emerging with a terrible clanging,

  came Gervazy, like a ghost, as though chidden

  of God. All recognized his stature, his face,

  his frayed yellow greatcoat with the half-goat.

  Straight as a pole, with a slow, rigid pace,

  his hat still on, without looking about —

  he was brandishing a glittering key,

  and unlocked a great chest, turning forcefully.

  In the corner stood two musical clocks,

  locked in a large case against the pillars,

  old and unique and with intricate locks.

  They told time contrary to sun and star,

  tolling midnight at noon and noon at midnight.

  Gervazy never bothered to repair

  the works, though with his key he wound each night.

  So now he came to wind, without a care,

  just as the Chamberlain began his discourse.

  He lifted the weight; the rusty wheels grinding,

  gnashing their teeth, as he tugged with force.

  The Chamberlain shuddered, reprimanding,

  “Brother,” he said, “postpone this urgent work.”

  Nothing happened; he tried again to state

  his case. The spiteful Warden tugged — with a jerk

  even more forceful — the second weight .

  Suddenly, the goldfinch, perched on top,

  flapped its wings, chiming forth a melody.

  This bird, once a work of art, wouldn’t stop,

  broken and disfigured and quite moody,

  began a squeal that turned into a howl.

  The Chamberlain was furious, the guests rooting.

  “My dear Warden, or should I say Screech Owl;67

  if you value your beak, you’ll stop this hooting.”

  “Oh Count,” cried the Warden, “What do you think?

  It’s not enough that your honor is stained —

  must you with these Soplicas eat and drink?

  Must I, Gervazy Rembajlo, named

  Warden of the Horeszko castle estate,

  endure insults in the house of my Lord?”

  “Silence!” Protazy cried, “Before it is too late!

  I, Protazy Balthazar Brechalski, swear by the sword

  of my office as Court Apparitor

  in front of all free-born men to witness,

  I call upon the Sheriff to order

  an investigation into the heinous

  and violent infringement of property.

  It is this castle that he wants to steal,

  yet he has no legal authority —

  as evidence, the Judge eating his meal!”

  “Windbag!” the Warden bellowed, “I will teach you.”

  He drew the metal keys hung from his belt

  whirling them around his head — they flew

  like a stone from a slingshot catapult.

  Surely they almost struck Protazy’s head,

  splitting it in two, and he’d be dead…

  All jumped up from their seats in utter silence,

  until the Judge spoke up— “Put him in stocks!

  Arrest the trump!” He ordered the servants,

  who rushed to the passage behind the clocks.

  The Count, though, stood between the bench and wall,

  blocking their way. And all alone he stood,

  in his feeble entrenchment. “That is all,”

  He said, “Judge, no one will dare to harm

  my servants in my home. Take your complaints

  against this man to court, but do not raise your arm

  against him — bring them to me — or to the Saints!”

  The Chamberlain stared deep into the eyes

  of the Count. “I can punish, without your intervention,

  this impudent old fool. Besides, the prize

  cannot be claimed before my determination.

  The castle’s not yet yours — your not the host,

  so please sit down; respect my gray hair,

  if not my rank and my official post.”

  “Enough,” muttered the Count. “I don’t care!

  Bore us with your office and respect;

  I’ve heard enough stupidities tonight;

  drinking bouts, brawls — what more can I expect.

  When we’re sober — for honor then I’ll fight.”

  Surprised by such an unexpected answer,

  the Chamberlain quickly refilled his cup.

  The Count’s impudence struck him like thunder.

  He grabbed the bottle and raised his head up,

  and with his mouth gaping began to blather.

  The whole time he was so violently squeezing

  the glass, it cracked, causing wine to splatter

  his face. It seemed as though the fire seething

  in his soul was quenched by the wine. He paled,

  and grew quiet — his first words were unclear;

  he gnashed his teeth, and further words expelled.

  “My Count, you are an ass! Bring my sword here;

  I’ll teach you manners no matter the price.

  So your delicate ears find me a bore —

  those tender earlobes I might have to slice.

  Hand me my cutlass. Now Count, out the door!”

  The Chamberlain’s allies leapt to his aid.

  The Judge grabbed his hand. “This is my affair,

  I was challenged first. Protazy, my blade.

  Let me at him — he’ll dance like a chained bear.”

  But Tadeusz restrained him. “Please Uncle,

  and you, most honored Sir, we all agree,

  yet it’s not fitting for the old to meddle;

  I will punish him more than adequately.

  And you, bold Count, we’ll settle these affairs

  tomorrow. Choose the site and your weapon.

  Go now before my good sense disappears.”

  This advice was good, for no small danger

  was threatening the Warden and the Count.

  At the far end of the table raged anger,

  and soon attacks were beginning to mount —

  bottles flying over the Count’s head.

  The terrified ladies beseeched and wept.

  “Enough!” Telimena finally cried in dread.

  She tried to leave but fainted as she stepped;

  her neck fell right onto the Count’s shoulder,

  her swanlike breast now lay upon his chest.

  The Count checked his fury to comfort her;

  to revive her he stroked and closely pressed.

  Meanwhile Gervazy, withstanding the barrage

  of bottles and benches, staggered on his feet.

  There servants, now a fist-throwing entourage,

  swarmed towards him. Fortunately, certain defeat

  was avoided, when Zosia, out of pity,

  leapt right in front of them, her arms flung wide.

  They halted; Gervazy withdrew slowly,

  and disappeared under a table to hide,

  emerging from the other side as though

  from underground. Then he picked up a chair

  in his powerful arms, threatening to throw.

  Spinning like a windmill, slashing the air,

  he almost cleared the room, grabbed the Count’s sleeve,

  retreating, swinging the bench for protection.

  Almost through the door, about to leave,

  Gervazy stopped to make a last inspection.

  He eyed his enemies, musing a moment,

  de
ciding whether to retreat or aim.

  He chose to fight — his message clearly sent

  as he lifted the bench, to inflict harm —

  a battering ram! He moved with his head bent,

  his chest thrust out, his leg almost upraised.

  But once he saw the Seneschal he went

  pale — freezing, falling, seemingly crazed.

  The Seneschal sat calmly, eyes half-closed;

  he had been plunged deep in some meditation

  until he saw the threat this quarrel posed.

  Then with the Count’s renewed provocation,

  first to the Chamberlain, then to the Judge —

  he took a pinch of snuff from his own case

  and wiped his eyes, but still he did not budge.

  A distant relation, he loved his place

  as guest of the Judge and cared exceedingly

  about his host’s welfare. He watched the strife,

  laying his hand on the table slowly,

  fingers extended to cradle a knife

  in his broad palm — the hilt reached his elbow.

  He fiddled with it while watching the show.

  The art of knife-throwing, so feared in warfare,

  in Lithuania was long out of fashion;

  only the old practiced the skill with care.

  The Warden, in more than one altercation

  at the tavern, tried, and none was more skilled

  than the Seneschal. It was evident

  from his itchy fingers — he had killed

  before, and carefully sized up the Count.

  Although the youths knew nothing of this threat,

  Gervazy paled. Using the bench as shield,

  dragging the Count in such a quick retreat,

  he rushed through the dense crowd that would not yield.

  Like a wolf leaping onto a carcass,

  throwing itself blindly into a pack

  of dogs intruding on its feast, tearing the mass —

  suddenly, amid howls, it looks back,

  trembling as it hears a hammering click,

  and spots a hunter in back of the hounds,

  crouched on one knee, the barrel aimed to strike

  the wolf. And then, before the trigger pounds —

  ears lowered, tails between legs, off it scurries.

  The triumphant dogs, with a howling death-

  like screech, nibble the carcass, while the furry

  beast, half-dead, snapping jaws and gnashing teeth,

  is no longer a threat. Yet with a yelp,

  the pack flies off — just so, Gervazy’s pose,

  so menacing, deters, with no more help

  than upraised bench and the fierce glance he throws.

  He drags the Count into the alcove’s shadows.

  “Catch him!” they shouted, confused as they ran;

  for there above their heads the Warden appeared,