and provided, hoping that she might marry
Tadeusz — and thus repair this rupture,
unite again two clans and end the story
happily, releasing her land from capture.
“What do I care?” cried out the Judge, “My land!
It’s been so long since Jacek last was seen,
I barely knew about his Cossack band.
While he caroused — a life you now demean —
I read the law at a Jesuit school
and then to a Governor became apprenticed.
I inherited his estate and rule.
Zosia came along, nothing was missed,
her upbringing and welfare — but enough!
These fairy tales quickly become weary.
And now the Count proceeds to make things rough.
What makes him stake his claims on this dreary
Castle? Barely an heir to the Horezko crown —
the tenth part of kisiel, so watered down.72
For this insult must I apologize?”
“Of course you must do this,” replied the Priest,
“There are reasons and you must realize
that though Jacek first wished his son released
to the army, he has changed his command —
in Lithuania he is to stay.
On what ground does this intercession stand?
He’ll serve the nation much better this way.
Surely you’ve heard this talk about a war;
you’ve heard my tidings, now the time is here.
This war will let our nation live once more;
it can’t be avoided, the troops are near.
When I arrived on my secret mission —
along the Nieman troops already camped,
armies assembled by Napoleon
such as no man has seen, or ever tramped
through the annals of history. Beside
the French, the whole Polish army led by
Dombrowski and Jozef, our very pride.
Napoleon will let white eagles fly
across the Nieman to the other shore.”
Removing his glasses, the Judge now gazed
hard at the monk, his thoughts confused, unsure.
He sighed deeply as his eyes became glazed
with tears; he grabbed the monk with all his might.
“Robak!” he shouted, “This cannot be believed.”
Twice he repeated, still holding him tight,
“How many times have we now been deceived?
They say Napoleon is on his way,
yet we are still waiting. He’s in the Kingdom —
defeated the Prussians like child’s play.
And what’s he done but gone to seek peace from
Tilsit. If only this were not deception.”
“It’s true,” cried Robak, “true as God’s in heaven.”
“Your mouth should be praised for this declaration,”
exclaimed the Judge, waving, “Christ has risen!
This secret mission I will not forget,
nor will your monastery — two hundred
of my finest sheep your order will get.
Or take my chestnut mare or bay instead,
to harness to your cart. Ask me today
for anything; today I won’t refuse.
But concerning the Count, don’t try to sway;
let me correct his harm and his abuse.”
The priest wrung his hands in astonishment.
He stared straight at the Judge and shrugged his shoulders.
“Napoleon will come and this event
will make the world tremble! Don’t be still as boulders,
fretting this lawsuit. While he’s ready to bring
freedom to Lithuania, you react
calmly folding your hands.”
“What are you saying?”
cried out the Judge.
“That now’s the time to act,”
replied the monk. “These words should not surprise.
Just listen to your heart; if there’s a drop
Of Soplica blood in your veins, let it rise.
Consider this: the Moscovite can’t stop
the French if we support them in this war.
The Lithuanian warhorse rears back;
and the howl of the Sarmogatian bear;
a thousand men can start a rear attack,
or half that many. Then like wildfire
the uprising will spread. If we could seize
the Moscovite standard — how we’ll inspire
our countrymen. And how all this will please
Napoleon, for when he sees our lances
advance, he’ll ask what kind of army now appears.
Insurgents! We’ll shout, as the Emperor glances
at our ranks, Lithuanian volunteers!
And under whose command? We will reply,
Judge Soplica! Who would be bold enough
to recall Targowica’s shame and folly.
As long as Ponary stands and the rough
waters of the Nieman flow, the name
Soplica will be praised. Even grandchildren
and their children will share Jagiello’s fame.
People will proudly point to them again —
their ancestors began the Insurrection.”
To this the Judge replied, “For such acclaim
I care very little; for people’s talk
not at all, as God’s my witness, the blame
for my brother’s sins can no longer stalk
me. In politics I rarely meddle,
my duties are performed, my land’s well-plowed;
yet I’m a faithful Pole and would not settle
for treason. I’d gladly remove this shroud
of shame from my homeland; I’d give my life.
Though with the sword I never felt at ease,
a few have felt the sharp tip of my knife.
In the time of the last Polish Assemblies,
the Buzwik brothers I challenged and injured…
Enough of my past, now what is your plan?
To ride at once to battle? Rest assured,
musketeers and every able-bodied man.
Gunpowder’s stored and in the Rectory,
small cannon that the parish priest still hides.
I can recall how Jankiel told the story,
how from Konigsberg, concealed beneath some hides,
he smuggled in a case of points for lances
for times like this. And swords will not be lacking,
nor nobles on horseback to make advances.
With my nephew I’ll lead the attacking.
“Oh Polish blood,” cried out the Bernardine,
springing to the Judge with arms outstretched,
“a true Soplica whom God will ordain
to expiate the sins of his wretched
vagabond brother. You have had my respect
always, yet now I love you as a brother.
We shall prepare, yes, but do not expect
to set out soon; I’ll indicate rather
the time and place. The Tsar has sent envoys
to Napoleon to negotiate peace,
and war is undeclared, though he deploys
his troops, so these peace talks are soon to cease.
Prince Jozef heard from the Frenchman Bignon,73
a member of the Imperial Council,
there will be war — so on this scouting mission
he sent me to the Lithuanian people
to announce to the advancing Napoleon
they wish to join the divided Kingdom,
to state the claim that Poland be restored.
Now is the time to reconcile the Count;
if he’s eccentric, well, that means he’s bored;
he’s young and patriotic, such fools amount
to much in revolution — they are needed.
I know firsthand that without fools and cranks
and hotheads, very few would have succeeded.
They must be honest, though, and in the ranks
beneath a clever man. The Count has wealth
and over nobles he has vast influence;
When he toasts the whole district drinks his health;
they’ll do his bidding, praising his good sense.
He needs to be informed.”
“Before he’s swarmed
by followers,” replied the Judge, “First go
and ask if he’s ready to come unarmed
to beg my pardon. Let him begin to show
respect befitting my office and age.
This lawsuit, though, the court will still engage.”
The monk hopped on a coach hitched by the fence;
his whip stung the horse, reins tickled its sides —
into the mist, his quick disappearance
almost complete, as through the fog he rides.
Like a vulture soaring above a cloud,
his dark hood showed above the misty shroud.
The Court Apparitor had long ago arrived
at the Count’s home, and like a cunning fox
lured by the scent of bacon, yet not deprived
of its innate sense of caution, locks
its step, then runs, then sits, raising its brush,
Waving, fanning the scent to its nostril;
knowing the hunter’s trick, it does not rush
to take the prize, but sniffs for poison that might kill.
Protazy crossed the road, went through the hay,
circled the manor house, twirling his staff,
pretending to follow a cow astray.
He stood by the garden, forgetting the calf,
then maneuvered through parted plants, crouched and lunged
as though to trap a corncrake. Reaching the fence
he vaulted — and into the hemp he plunged.
Within this thicket, so fragrant and dense,
surrounding the manor, both man and beast
find refuge. Often a hare has the good sense,
caught in the cabbage, to continue his feast
in the hemp, safer than in the bushes,
for into this thicket, a hound rarely rushes,
afraid of its overpowering odor.
And sometimes a servant, fleeing the lash
or fist, hides from the wrath of his master.
Or some peasant recruit might dive with a crash
into the hemp, evading his sergeant.
In times of war, foray or confiscations,
a hare’s nest in the hemp by both factions
was greatly valued for the thicket went
up to the manor wall in front, and back
to fields of hops. Thus it offered excellent
cover from which to retreat or attack.
Though Protazy was brave, he still had fear,
recalling, amid the leaves, adventures
serving writs, the danger very clear,
the hemp itself witness to many ventures.
Once he summoned the noble Dzindolet,
who, pulling a pistol from his breast, led
him under a table, forcing him to sit,
till, barking like dog, , he recanted74
the summons — then into the hemp he fled.
Later Wolodkowicz, proud and insolent,
who violated tribunals and disrupted
District Assemblies, refused to relent
when handed the writ from the messenger —
tearing it to shreds, posting a guard with a club,
holding to Protazy’s head a rapier.
“I’ll cut you down to size, unless you rub
your nose in those papers.” So pretending
to chew, he crept to the window with those crumbs
and leaped into the hemp, his life defending.
By now it was no longer the custom
in Lithuania to greet a summons
with sword or lash . Sometimes harsh invective
met the Apparitor — a scolding that stuns
but does not injure. Yet we must forgive
Protazy’s fear, not knowing things had changed,
having retired, though very much prepared
to serve the court again, if it were arranged.
The Judge, though, refused his requests out of regard
for his old age, and yet it was not pity
this time that sent Protazy but necessity.
Once in the hemp, Protazy was vigilant.
All was silent as he parted a stalk;
like a swimmer he plunged with head bent,
surfacing so he could catch any talk.
But when he reached the large window casement,
he heard and saw nothing. Entering the hall,
a bit fearful, for it was utterly silent
and only his own shadow moved across the wall.
So Protazy opened the door and read
aloud the proclamation. Something swished
behind him — and his heart fluttered with dread.
About to flee — until a shrouded head
peered though the door. Robak! Both were astonished.
Evidently the Count had departed
in such great haste along with his household,
he left the door unlocked. He had started
to arm himself: double-barrels guns had rolled
across the floor by carbines and ramrods,
and to repair rifles, some locksmith’s tools.
Gunpowder and paper and cartridge pods
were strewn about. Intruders were not fools
believing that the Count prepared to hunt —
a saber with a hilt that had been chipped
and a beltless scabbard rusted in front.
While the Count’s household was being equipped,
these were rejected with the old weapons
ransacked from the ancient armory.
Robak surveyed — along with antique guns,
the harquebus and epee of history.
Then he searched in the farmhouse for a servant,
Discovering two old peasant women
who told how the master and household went,
a fighting force on the road to Dobrzyn.
The Dobrzyn settlement was widely known
in Lithuania for male courage
and female beauty; it had formerly grown
to a mighty and populous assemblage,
and when King Sobieski summoned the militia,
six-hundred armed nobles they recruited,
more than any hamlet in Lithuania.
Now numbers had decreased, fortunes looted,
they no longer frequented lordly manors,
supplied the army, organized forays,
attended District Assemblies with banners;
long gone were their carefree and easy days.
They worked the land themselves like mere peasants,
but not wearing a peasant homespun coat;
they wore white robes, black trim, and for events
such as Saints Days, a Polish noble’s cloak.
Even the poorest lady changed her dress,
wearing percale or drilling, and through the heather
to graze cattle, they walked upon the grass
not in bark moccasins but boots of leather.
And to protect their hands they took such care
when reaping grain or spinning wool — gloves they’d wear.
The Dobrzynskis differed from their countrymen.
Besides speaking in their own dialect,
they seemed to be pure-blooded Mazovian:75
black hair, blue eyes, broad foreheads held erect,
and aquiline noses. From Mazovia
near Warsaw they had come, keeping their ways
though four centuries they’d lived in Lithuania,
preserving the old speech, practicing always
the old custom
s. When christening a son,
after their patron saint they had it named:
Saint Bartholomew or Matthew. So one
child of Mathew Bartholomew claimed,
while Bartholomew’s son had to be Matthew.
Kachna or Maryna girls were baptized,
so to avoid the confusion that grew,
nicknames for both men and women were prized,
deriving from virtues or faults, and often
a man had more than one, sign of respect
or contempt bestowed by his countrymen.
Sometimes he’d have one name in Dobrzyn, except
a nearby town might call him by another.
Soon all nobles started to name each other,
imitating this or that Dobrzynski —
nicknames and sobriquets became the fashion.
And yet few know that this custom began
out of necessity not imitation.
So Matthew Dobrzynski, the Partriarch
of the family, was known as Steeplecock,
until seventeen-seventy-four, a dark
year, when he was given the name, Hip-lock.
At home he was the Rabbit King we’re told;
among Lithuanians, Maciek the Bold.
Just as Maciek ruled over his family,
his home between the tavern and the church
ruled the village, although it was rarely
visited, almost in shambles. Some birch
trees grew freely in the vegetable patch,
and the garden was missing gate and fence.
Yet in the village his house had no match;
it was handsome, spacious, and by the entrance
it had a living room built out of brick.
In back, granary, barn, cowshed, and stalls
were bunched together — not even a stick
could fit between the buildings’ rotting walls.
The roofs glistened as though made of green tin,
from moss and grass which grew as in a meadow.
Along the roof thatch was a hanging garden:
nettle, red crocus, mullen, and a row
of colorful tassels of mercury.
Swallows built nests in the windows, the loft
had dovecotes, and by the entrance a flurry
of rabbits hopped and burrowed in the soft
turf. In short, the house seemed unfit for men,
more like a bird coop or a rabbit warren.
Yet long ago it had been fortified,
and evidence of great onslaughts sustained
was all around. In the deep grass, beside
the gate an iron cannonball remained,
large as a child’s head, back from the time
of the Swedish invasions. On the path
among wormwood and weeds, the border line,
a dozen old crosses of thin wood lath
rose from unhallowed ground — this a clear sign
they buried in great haste their fallen dead.
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 25