The house and granary walls, in decline,
were peppered from top to bottom with lead.
The spots looked like swarming insects alive,
bullets in the center — bees in a hive.
The hooks and latches at every door front
were chopped off or bore the mark of a blade;
surely back in the time of King Zygmunt,
soldiers tested how well their swords were made,
trying to slice the head off of a nail
or cleave a hook without notching the blade.
Dobrzynski’s Coat of Arms, lacking detail,
mostly hidden by uninvited guests —
above the door, swallows had built their nests.
The carriage house and stables were equipped
like an old arsenal. Four large helmets,
that once rested on soldiers’ brows, were stripped
of former glory, hanging on ceiling struts,
where doves, Venus’ birds, cooed and fed their brood.
Chain mail was strung above the feeding bin;
an armor plate, propped on a piece of wood,
served as a chute where some youth shoveled in
clover to the colts. Back in the kitchen
were sabers, ruined by some impious cook,
who mistakenly placed them in the oven.
That same servant now takes down from a hook
a Turkish horse’s tail, seized at Vienna;
with it she dusts the mill — and banishes
Mars, securing spots for Flora, Pomona,
And Vertumnus, as the God of War vanishes.76
Ceres (and her domestic brood) now rules
the Dobrzynski stable, yard, and homestead —
yet soon these goddesses will yield their tools,
when Mars returns to claim this battered shed.
At dawn a mounted messenger appeared
in Dobrzyn, rushing round from hut to hut,
attempting to arouse the sleeping herd,
which formed into a crowd. Doors opened and shut,
shouts came from the tavern, the priest lit candles,
and everyone questioned what this all meant.
Old men held counsels, youths prepared saddles,
women steadied horses as news was sent.
Young boys, eager to fight, loitered apart,
knowing neither cause nor opponent,
only that they were too young to take part.
A long, tumultuous, debate ensued
ending in harsh words; so rather than wreck
the tavern, they finally reluctantly agreed
to bring the matter to Father Maciek.
Maciek had lived for more than seventy years,
a short, sprightly man, a Bar Confederate —
how well his enemies recall their fears
when he would wield his damascened blade,
which hacked to pieces pike and bayonet,
which he modestly named his Little Rose.
He hailed the King as a Confederate;
the Lithuanian Treasurer opposed,
until the King in Targowica betrayed
them — and Maciek responded by switching
from one side to the other. Always he swayed,
which earned him his nickname — for following
prevailing political winds like a weathervane —
Steeplecock. No sense trying to probe77
reasons; perhaps he saw war as a game,
or victorious on one side, he rode
to the other. Or perhaps he was shrewd
in politics; or discerning the spirit
of the times, he dispassionately viewed
the future. He never sought fame or profit,
never supported any Moscovite,
and simply seeing a Russian would fill
him with rage. Yet since the tragic night
of Poland’s partition, his sword was still.
Like a bear sucking its paw in the forest,
he sat at home brooding and depressed.
He waged war last in Vilno with Oginski,
working miracles with his Little Rose,
serving in the army of Jaskinski.
We know that when the Vistula once froze,
from the ramparts of Praga he’d leapt
to defend Pan Pociej, who’d been abandoned
below with twenty-three wounds. He kept
him alive while the country mourned and condemned
their death — when they returned, surprised to live,
pricked full of holes as a kitchen sieve.
Pan Pociej was a man of great honor;
when the war ended he tried to reward
Maciek generously for his valor:
a farm with five houses for life were offered,
along with ten-thousand zloty a year.
Maciek quickly refused, “Let Pociej remain
in Maciek’s debt, not Maciek from Pociej gain.”
The offer displeased him, it was quite clear —
returning home he rushed to work his land.
He built beehives, mixed medicines for cattle,
sent partridges, trapped in snares or else by hand,
to market, and only with wild game did battle.
In Dobrzyn there were many wise old men
well-versed in Latin, who had practiced law.
Though Maciek was by far the poorest one,
He was the most venerated, for they saw
him not only as a skillful swordsman,
but also a wise man with sound judgment
who knew the country’s history, tradition
of the family, the law, and farm management.
Also the secrets of hunting and curing,
and it was even thought (though the priest denies)
he had knowledge of supernatural things.
It was certain he predicted a change in the skies
more often than the farming almanac.
No wonder, then, that to begin sowing,
or dispatch a river barge and send it back,
or reap grain with the least wind blowing,
or litigate in court or compromise,
nothing was done that Maciek didn’t advise.
He never sought to have such influence,
but did his best attempting to upstage
callers, often chiding them, in defense,
shoving them out the door in silent rage.
He rarely dispensed advice; when he did,
only in matters of extreme importance,
quarrels or court cases. Even then, he’d rid
himself of what he had to say in few words.
And yet it was a simple decision
that Maciek should ride, wielding his sword,
at the very head of the expedition.
Through the deserted yard the old man walked,
humming the song, When morning wakes to dawn,78
pleased the sky was clearing, though fog still stalked
along the ground, while over the grassy lawn.
The wind unfurled its palms, to stroke the mist,
to smooth and spread it across the pastures.
The sun sent down thousands of its shiniest
beams, which pierced the mist with a swarm of colors:
silver, gold, and red. Like an ancient craftsman
in Sluck, spreading the threads to make a belt,79
while a girl at the base of the loom spins
the silk, to create on top of the felt,
purple and gold patterns of bright flowers,
the wind spreads the mist which the sun embroiders.
Maciek finished his prayers and warmed himself,
already rushing about doing his chores;
he brings a bundle of greens from the shelf
and sets it by the house. Whistling, he implores
the rabbits to feed. Suddenly, they unsettle,
tiny heads pop u
p from under the ground,
each long white ear like a narcissus petal,
each glittering eye like a ruby found
on the turf. The rabbits sit up cautiously,
till the entire white and fluffy flock, lured
by the cabbage leaves on the old man’s knee,
hop on his legs, his shoulders, their feast ensured.
Maciek himself, white as their glistening fur,
strokes them with one hand; with the other he throws
some millet, stored in his cap. With a great stir,
from the rooftops, swoop down the hungry sparrows.
But while Maciek was enjoying the feast,
the rabbits vanished into their burrow,
and scattering sparrows let out a screech,
as the envoys arrived and stood in a row.
They greeted Maciek, bowed to him deeply:
“Let Jesus Christ be praised.”
“For ever and ever,”80
replied the old man, who listened carefully.
Sensing the import, he motioned them over,
inviting them into his house to explain.
While the men sat on a bench in silence,
the envoy related his mission again.
Outside the crowd of nobles became more dense —
almost all the Dobrzynskis and neighbors
from surrounding settlements, armed and unarmed.
In wagons and carts, in groups of twos or fours,
on foot, on horseback, together they swarmed
to Maciek’s house, halting their carts and tying
their nags to the garden birches. Curious,
they encircled the hut overflowing,
crowding the door to catch the furious
debate inside. Others tried their best
to hear, their ears against the windows pressed.
So everyone awaited Maciek’s verdict,
though he neither moved his head nor spoke a word,
but with his right hand repeatedly picked
his belt as if he hoped to find a sword.
Since the Partition, he’d hung up his saber,
though from habit, his hand went to his hip
at mention of Moscow, when he’d remember
how easily his Little Rose would slip
from its scabbard. Realizing it was gone,
he raised his head as all paid rapt attention;
what disappointment when they saw him frown
and drop his head right to his chest, the tension
broken only when his jaw fell open,
And with a slow emphatic pronunciation,
answered, “By whom was this message spoken?
Where are the French and where’s Napoleon?
Has war with Moscow finally been declared?
Where and what pretext? How large an army?
Foot soldiers? Cavalries?” He simply stared.
The crowd grew silent; each man turned to see
his neighbors’ reaction. Bartek the Prussian
was first to speak: “I know these are not lies.
Ask the monk, because this information
comes from him. Let’s send some trusted spies
across the border, while we arm the neighbors.
Let’s proceed cautiously, for I’m afraid
the Moscovites might learn of our labors,
and our most careful plans might be betrayed.”
“So we should wait? Debate? Procrastinate?”
broke in another Maciek, known as Baptist,
from the club, big as the post of a gate,
which he carried, whose message none could resist.
He stood, leaning on it, propping his chin.
“To wait, procrastinate till we agree….
in the end to flee? I never was in
Prussia, but this Konigsberg sensibility
is good for Prussians, but it’s bad for Poles.
Nobles prefer to fight, to grab our Baptizers
rather than die. Let those with loftier goals
wait for the monk. We are not sympathizers —
what is Robak to me; he’d have us worm
our way to Moscow, sending spies to nibble.
Explore the matter — hah! Hide from the storm?
Bloodhounds follow the scent into the stubble,
and monks collect alms — but we shall baptize!”
He touched his club — the crowd loved his cries.
BOOK 7. CONSULTATION
Advice of Bartek, known as the Prussian – martial advice of Maciek the Baptist – political argument of Pan Buchman – Jankiel urges harmony, cut-off by the Pen-Knife – the matter of Gervazy, which reveals the results of parliamentary eloquence – protest of old Maciek – sudden arrival of military reinforcements disrupts the council – Down with Soplica!
Bartek the Deputy stated his case.
He’d often gone to Konigsberg by raft —
his family called him Prussian to his face
in jest, and when he would complain, they laughed
heartily, for he loved to talk about Prussians.
Bartek, already well advanced in age,
having journeyed about in many nations,
faithful reader of gazettes, with knowledge
of politics that he was eager to impart:
“It isn’t wise to turn them down, Pan Maciek;
don’t despise the French, for they know well the art
of war, they are a warlike race. I’d bet
on them, sure as a hand of four aces.
Not since Kosciuszko have we been rewarded
with genius like Napoleon in these places.
Once when the French, the Warta River forded,
way back in ‘06, when I had business
in Danzig, I remember, for I went
to visit kin in Poznan for a rest.
There was a man, who heads his regiment —
Pan Jozef Grabowski, who lived nearby;
we often went hunting for small game.
Wielkopolska was peaceful then, like we
maintain in Lithuania, until news came
of the terrible battle. A messenger
rushed from Pan Towden, Grabowski grabbed the note
and shouted, “So now we are out of danger!
At Jena, the Prussian forces they smote,
The victory is ours.” So I dismounted,
fell to my knees and prayed. Then we rode back
to the city, as though we had discounted
or never learned the outcome of the attack.
The Prussian governor, and each Hofrath
and each commissioner — all similar trash —
bowed deeply to us, trembled and turned pale,
just like the cockroach we call Prussian,
when boiling water is poured on its tail.
We laughed and modestly raised the question
about Jena, which struck them with such fear,
astonished that we knew of their defeat.
“Ach, herri Got!” they shout then disappear
with heads hanging, rushing to the street
in such a mad scramble. Soon all the roads
in Wielkopolska are full of fleeing
Germans, crawling like ants under their load —
carts that they call wagons and drays, dragging.
Men and women followed with pipes and teapots,
crates and feather bedding. They scuttled away
nervously, as though they ran from rifle shots.
Then we decided that we wanted to play
with the Germans, to upset their retreat,
to pummel the Governor and tear the chops
off the Hofraths — the officers unseat.
Only General Dombrowski stops
our fun, entering Poznan with the command
straight from the Emperor — Insurrection!
And so in just one week, throughout the land,
Pr
ussians were taught a serious lesson.
Couldn’t the same be done, turning the trick
against the Moscovites in our nation?
The only Russians left would be the sick
or deserting; let them face Napoleon,
let them pick a bone with Bonaparte,
For whom warfare is not a joke but art.
The greatest hero the world could ever bring;
what do you think, Maciek, our rabbit-king?”
The Baptist’s side was supported by Bartek,
known as Razor, for his thin blade, and Maciek,
known as Bucket, for the musket he owned,
its muzzle so wide a dozen bullets
flowed in a single torrent. Both intoned:
“Vivat the Baptist!” shrieking like pullets.
The Prussian tired to speak, but the turmoil
almost drowned his words, “The Prussians are cowards;
let them hide in the monk’s cowl if they’re so loyal.”
Maciek raised his head, looking towards
the Prussian. The chatter began to cease.
“Don’t scoff at Robak; he’s a cunning fox,
that little worm has gnawed a larger piece
of fruit than you — beware of his alms-box.
I saw him once, and with no hesitation,
I recognized the type of bird he was;
he left, afraid I’d hear his confession.
If he’s the source, we’d better all beware,
he’s more a priest of Satan and we can’t
trust him — he’d lead us to our death, without a care.
So why have you come? And what do you want?”
“War!” they shouted. “And whom will you fight?”
asked Maciek. “War against the Moscovite!”
Bartek the Prussian wanted to be heard;
He raised his voice to a penetrating shrill,
until the agitated crowd appeared
To notice. As he bowed they were quite still.
“I want to fight,” he said, pounding his chest,
“though I have no bludgeon, I have a pole
from a river barge — which I once blessed
four Prussians trying to drown my drunken soul
in the Pregel River.”
“And a good thing,”
said Bartek the Baptist.
“It’s good to baptize,”
said the Prussian, “but shouldn’t we be making
plans? What should we say to the world’s replies?
How to persuade the people all to follow?
Where should they go, when even we don’t know?
Gentlemen, what we need are keen judgments;
What we need is orderly deliberation.
If you want war, let’s start with the arrangements.
Should we first form a confederation —
but where and under whose leadership?
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 26