high in the loft of the ancient organ.
With a crash the lead pipes were fully severed,
and he threatened to drop them to the crowded floor.
But already the guests had left the hall;
the terrified servants scattered with an uproar,
seizing laden platters, they followed the call
of their masters, fleeing the missile-filled air,
leaving behind the plates and silverware.
And who was last to leave this battleground?
Brechalski Protazy endured the onslaught
standing behind the Judge’s chair. He found
his courtroom voice useful — as he sought
to make a declaration. He had his bellowing say,
then from the shambles gravely walked away.
There were no casualties amid the carnage,
though benches rocked and tables reeled,
the linen littered and soiled with garbage,
wine soaked — piled like a bloody knight on his shield.
Carcasses of chicken, turkey, and duck
scattered about, as though attacked in rage —
in each plump breast, a silver fork was stuck.
Soon the usual quiet and calm returned,
and darkness enveloped the empty castle,
casting in shadow all the overturned
remnants of this banquet-turned-brawl.
The food lay scattered as in peasant rites,68
where departed spirits gather to feast.
Already the attic screech owl invites,
like a wizard, the moonrise in the east,
which drips upon the table a trembling beam,
struggling like a soul from Purgatory.
From basement vaults, as in some horrid dream,
rats leap to the food, gnaw and drink greedily.
In shadowy corners they still remain,
toasting spirits, popping corks of Champagne.
But on the second floor, in chambers known
as the Hall of Mirrors, though all were gone,
the Count stood on the balcony alone,
cooling in the breeze, his coat half on,
draped on his shoulder, tails around his neck,
like some ancient and dark mysterious cape.
Inside the hall, Gervazy paced back
and forth, deep in thought, plans taking shape.
“Pistols,” said the Count, “or swords if they prefer.”
“The castle,” replied the Warden, “and the village —
are yours.”
“Challenge the Uncle and make war
on his nephew and their estate. We should pillage,”
cried out the Count.
“Oh, yes, and seize his land,”
Gervazy shouted. Then he turned and faced
the Count. “It’s time to take things with your hand;
forget about lawsuits, you’ve been disgraced,
just take possession — what’s rightfully yours,
Horeszkos have owned it four-hundred years!
Only a tiny parcel was broken away
during the Targowica Confederacy,69
which Soplica still claims to this very day.
Why do you waste your entire legacy
to fund this lawsuit and to punish plunder.
How many times I’ve said, forsake the court!
In ancient times the cannon would thunder.
Make an incursion, yes, we’ll storm the fort;
whoever occupies the land will rule;
win in the field — and in the court you win.
With my penknife they’ll soak in bloody pools.
If Maciek will help this flogging begin,
together we’ll punish their heinous sin.”
“Bravo!” replied the Count. “This reminds me
of some Gothic-Sarmatian tale of vengeance,
better than the courts, I do agree.
Together we will cause a disturbance
unknown in Lithuania. For two long years
I’ve sat watching disputes over borders
between peasants. Now this foray appears
to promise bloodshed. Once some marauders
attacked during a trek in Sicily —
when I was hosted by a certain prince —
and brigands stole his son-in-law, and we
pursued them to their mountain camp entrance,
for their demand of ransom was absurd.
In haste we summoned vassals and servants,
and then attacked. I freed, using my sword,
the captive. Oh, Gervazy, what victory —
returning like a feudal knight to flowers
strewn by common folk, and oh the glory
when the Prince’s weeping daughter showers
me with kisses. From the gazette they knew
even before we came back from Palermo,
and the ladies pointed as we passed through.
A romance was published about this show,
The Count and the Mysteries of the Castle
Of Birbante-Roca. Are there dungeons
in this castle?”
“The cellars, once so full,”
replied Gervazy, “are depleted ones.
Soplicas drank your wine.”
“My servants,”
added the Count, “We must arm my jockies,
summon vassals.”
“Let God forbid such nonsense,”
interrupted Gervazy, “they are lackeys!
You might as well go plan a raid with peasants.
My Lord, you know nothing of strategy.
Some farmer with whiskers is no defense,
but gentlemen with mustaches and pedigree70
can be counted on — so you shouldn’t ask
in huts, but in settlements of the gentry —
Dobrzyn, Cietycze, Rzezikow, Ranbanki,71
where descendants of knights will do the task,
all to the Horeszko family attached,
each the Soplica’s mortal enemy.
I can assemble three-hundred, all mustached,
for now return to your palace quickly;
sleep well, for tomorrow is a great day;
it’s late, I hear the cock already crow.
I’ll guard the castle, till the dawn I’ll stay,
then to the Dobrzyn settlement I’ll go.”
At this the Count withdrew from the porch heights.
Before he left he glanced through the embrasure —
and saw a multitude of glowing lights
from the Soplica homestead. “Take your pleasure
while you can,” he exclaimed, “for tomorrow
will be quite dark, while this castle will glow.”
Gervazy settled on the floor, propped
by the wall, as his head fell to his chest.
Onto his scarred, bald pate, moonlight dropped,
and the restless play of his fingers expressed
his grave attempt to plan the upcoming foray.
But the weight of his eyelids grew too great,
and so his head flopped. He began to say
Our Fathers and Hail Marys, to abate
his sleep — though strange, dreamlike creatures appeared.
They were his ancient Lords, the Horeszkos,
holding sabres and maces once so feared,
each one approaching with a menacing pose,
twirling a mustache, brandishing a sword
or swinging a mace. A frightened spirit
follows slowly behind, dressed like a Lord,
chest stained bloody, fresh blood dripping near it.
Gervazy crossed himself and with deep sighs —
recognizing his dead master so gory —
tried desperately to exorcise
this ghost, praying for souls in Purgatory.
Once more his eyes shut tight, but his ears rang —
a raid on Korelicz which Rzymsza led.
astride a horse, sword raised above his head,
he charged, his coattails snapping in the wind,
a red-plumed hat over one ear. He charged,
and the ranks on horseback and foot were thinned.
and then into Soplica’s stable he barged
to set him ablaze. Thus, Gervazy kept
this vengeful vision in his mind and slept.
BOOK 6. THE DOBRZYN SETTLEMENT
Warlike preparations for the foray – Protazy’s expedition – Father Robak and the Judge discuss public matters – continuation of Protazy’s fruitless mission – a digression about hemp – the noble’s settlement – description of Maciek Dobrzynski
Imperceptibly, out of the damp dark,
the dawn crept, without its usual red glow,
drifting into day from the night, stark
and barely visible, though begun long ago.
Mist hung above the ground — like a straw roof
above a simple peasant hut. From the east
a white encircling glow furnished proof
the sun had risen, as its rays increased —
to come only when its slumber had ceased.
Following the sky’s example, all is late
on the earth. Cattle trudge out to pasture
interrupting hares that procrastinate
over breakfast. They are usually sure
to return to the forest grove by dawn —
but today, shrouded in mist, they nibble chickweed
or burrow in pairs in the mist-covered lawn,
slowly, as though a holiday decreed,
till lumbering cattle drive them away.
The forest is quiet; a wakened bird
does not sing but shakes a dewy spray
from its feathers, awaiting further word
day has begun, hiding its head in wings.
A stork soon clacks its bill beside a swamp;
dew-drenched crows with gaping beaks are chattering,
a frightful sound foretelling rain and damp
to farmers in the fields already working.
Women were singing their harvesting songs,
tunes monotonous and melancholy
as the rainy day to which they belong —
sadly, the mist absorbs the melody.
Sickles clink in the grain, meadows resound,
a row of clanking mowers cut the rowen;
they whistle after each swath, by the mound
of stacked grain and stop — their scythes to sharpen
and hammer rhythmically. All seem hidden
in fog and mist; and there is just the sound
of sickle, scythe, and song, till work is done.
The bored steward rests on bundles of grain,
turning his head, ignoring the harvest,
to watch the path, then the crossroads again,
where something strange is disturbing his rest.
On highways and crossroads since early dawn,
unusual movement began to reign —
a creaking peasant cart, like a post-chaise drawn
at a gallop, halted a coach in his lane.
Two more drove up with a great creaking rattle
and from a path a messenger races;
across the way a dozen mounts assemble.
and then people scatter from their places.
What does this mean? The steward was bemused:
he stood on the haystack to investigate,
to make inquiries but remained confused.
He called out, but this business would not abate.
In the thick mist he couldn’t identify
the riders like angry spirits flashing by.
He heard the dull thud of hooves and stranger yet
The clanging of cutlasses, a frightening ring,
for though Lithuania’s peace was not upset,
rumors of war were rife and terrifying.
Such talk — the French, Napoleon, Dombrowski!
Were these horsemen armed harbingers of war?
The steward rushed to the Judge with his theory,
hoping to learn from his visit much more.
In the Soplcia manor guests awoke,
Gloomy and sad after yesterday’s brawl.
The Seneschal’s daughter hoped to evoke
a brighter mood, and to cure this common gall,
suggested that the ladies tell fortunes,
the men play cards, but neither paid attention,
sitting in corners quietly past noon.
Men smoked pipes, women knitted in isolation,
even the flies were dozing in silence.
The Seneschal threw down his fly swatter.
Bored with lack of talk, he joined the servants,
preferring the housekeeper’s loud chatter
or the cook who used crude threats to praise
his helpers. The monotonous motion
of roasts on the spit, turning as they braised,
was soporific, and thus a sleeping potion.
Since dawn the Judge was in his room, writing.
Since dawn Protazy had been waiting below
his window, on a turf bench. He was biding
his time, until the Judge would come and show
the finished Summons which he would then read out.
Against the Count there was a grave complaint:
the Count had wounded his honor, and about
his abusive words, well, they needed restraint.
Gervazy was guilty of vicious attack,
and both had made threats of equal violence.
So in order to win the court costs back,
before sunset the summons had to be sent,
served with both parties present, spoken aloud.
Protazy the Apparitor appeared quite grave,
listening with care, his demeanor quite proud,
though the writ that he was now holding gave
him such pleasure he’d leap over the gate —
so much could a lawsuit rejuvenate!
He thought how he served writs many years back,
returning quite bruised but also well paid.
Just like a soldier who with gun and pack
spent a lifetime waging war but now has stayed
in a hospital for too many years,
a bed-ridden invalid in his old age —
If distant drum or trumpet he might hear,
dragging himself from bed he yells in rage,
“Kill the Moscovite dog!” He leaps to the hall,
wooden leg clunking; he runs, despite his age,
so fast attendants can’t catch him at all.
Protazy rushed to don his Court Apparitor’s
costume, though he reserved his tunic and robber
for the pomp and ceremony for legal wars.
For this journey he dressed in different mode —
tight riding breeches and short overcoat,
the top trimmed with buttons and tails long enough
to be tucked under or let loose about
the knees. His hat had earflaps, for weather rough
or rainy, tied with a string about the peak.
Thus attired he took his staff and set out
on foot, for an Apparitor is no meek
messenger, but like a spy with news about
an upcoming battle. He must be wise
and hide in various costume or disguise.
Protazy knew enough to rush off fast;
the summons would not delight for long;
in Soplica manor the plan did not last.
While the Judge wondered if his tack was wrong,
Father Robak broke in, clearly distressed.
“Judge,” he said, “This aunt is a nuisance
and a scatterbrain. Zosia’s circumstance
was grave. When she was orphaned, Jacek decreed
that Telimena should raise her
, for he heard
she was a decent person. What better deed
than to entrust the child to her — he’d rest assured.
But now I see that she stirs up trouble,
causes intrigue, first with Tadeusz flirting
and then the Count! Perhaps she wants a double
affair — it’s clear we’ll all end up hurting.
We must get rid of her before it is too late;
people will gossip, destroy reputations,
behavior will surely disintegrate,
quarrels might thwart your negotiations.”
“Negotiations!” the Judge blurted out.
“They’re finished, broken off, once and for all!”
“What?” interrupted the Priest, “is this about?”
“No fault of mine,” replied the Judge, “The trial
will reveal the Count ‘s a pompous fool
who takes pleasure in sowing discord, while
Gervazy is no better than a scoundrel.
Too bad, dear Monk, you weren’t at dinner,
you might have witnessed the Count’s cruel insults.”
“Why?” shouted Robak, as though damning a sinner,
“When you loiter in ruins, expect such results.
I can’t stand the castle, never set foot.
But not another brawl — surely punishment
from God. It will ruin the lawsuit.
These brawls make tedious entertainment;
I’ve halted such folly before, but though
I have more pressing matters, the factions
I’ll reconcile.”
“You will? Well you can go
to Hell with your reconciliations!
Look at this monk, so graciously accepted —
he’d lead me by the nose and take my seat.
You should know that Soplicas rejected
many attempts at compromise. We’ve sued
a man in court and seen the case drag on
for six generations. And still we pursued.
I’ve had enough of your foolish opinion.
So far the High Court has three times convened,
from this day on, no compromise, none!”
Stamping both feet he paced and then he screamed,
“After yesterday’s most gracious action
he must beg my pardon or fight a duel.”
“But Judge, what if Jacek should learn of this —
He’d die of despair. Are Soplicas so cruel?
Haven’t they caused the castle enough mischief?
This tragic event — I don’t wish to mention,
You must know that a large portion of land
was delivered into Soplica’s hand
by the Targowica Confedertion.
And then, Jacek, repenting, gave his word,
under absolution, to restore
the claim. He made the orphan child his ward —
this Horeszko girl, educated her
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 24