In Wielkopolska it happened that way;
Germans retreated from our grip,
and what did we do? On that very day,
we formed a secret council, then we armed
the nobles along with a company
of peasants. Yes, the Germans soon were harmed,
but we awaited orders from Dombrowski.”
“Let me be heard,” yelled a commissioner
from Kleck, young and handsomely attired,
like a German and named Buchman; however,
he was a Pole, in Poland he was sired.
No one was sure if he had noble blood,
but none questioned and all gave him respect,
for he served a great magnate, was a good
patriot, full of learning. He would inspect
foreign books for knowledge of agriculture
and conduct the business of the estate
with diligence no one dared to censure.
And politics was something he’d debate,
expressing himself with much eloquence.
And so, when he began his grave discourse,
repeating his plea, “Let there be silence,”
he cleared his throat, his lips became the source
of reasoned and harmonious phrases.
“My predecessors have spoken quite well;
they’ve touched on all the principle phases,
they’ve raised the discourse to a high level.
My current task is just to stoke the fire,
to keep these pertinent ideas burning,
to reconcile this contradictory ire.
And now, to these parts, I shall be turning —
since the divide has already been made,
I will delineate. Why undertake
this insurrection? Do not feel betrayed,
I ask this vital question for your sake.
And then, of course, that nagging question
of revolutionary authority,
for this division is a proper one.
Consider now both parts — please allow me
to reverse the order of our consideration,
and start to analyze authority.
In the history of mankind, each nation
began as savage tribes without unity,
scattered in forests and joining together
for common defense. Each individual
must sacrifice his freedom for the better
of the entire group. This alone can fuel
the first formation of society;
it is the spring, the source from which law flows.
Government — a covenant, which men decree,
and not, as wrongly thought, something that grows
from divine will. It is a social contract —
division of authority a fact.
Old Maciek asked, “Are these contracts of yours
from Kiev or Minsk, or the Babin government?81
Pan Bachman, if God has sent us Tsars
or the devil has, that is not important.
Just show us how we can relieve our torment.”
“Enough!” the Baptist yelled, “If I could leap
upon the throne and with my baptizer
drench the Tsar, there’d be no need to keep
discussing contracts with this orator,
who’d let the Orthodox Bishops revive
him with Beelzebub’s might. And there’s the rub —
the more we talk the more we let him live;
the Tsar would die from my baptizing club.”
“Excellent!” screamed Bartek the Razor, leaving
the Baptist’s side for Maciek’s, back and forth
like a shuttle across a loom weaving.
“Birch-rod and bludgeon together are worth
a whole army. So please let us agree,
and quickly we’ll splinter the Moscovites.
I’ll take my orders from the Birch-rod army.”
“Orders for parades or funeral rites,
that’s all you’ll get,” interrupted the Baptist.
“Our commands back in the Kovno brigade
were short and sweet— “Strike terror and resist
fear! Never Surrender. Brandish your blade.”
“So,” screeched the Razor, “now it’s all quite clear,
why waste ink writing our confederacy?
Maciek’s our Marshall, when his sword appears,
then we’ll have our proper authority.”
“Long live the Steeplecock,” the Baptist shouted.
“With baptizers the Tsar will soon be routed!”
But in each corner, a murmur arose;
though the center was calm, a division
was evident, so shouting, Buchman rose:
“I refuse to give my authorization!”
Soon someone else cried out, “That is vetoed.”82
from the corner came the cry of “Second,”
as Skoluba with his gruff voice bellowed,
“What’s this — to Maciek’s house we are beckoned,
called together as free-born noblemen,
deprived of our God-given right to veto,
invited by the Horeszko Warden,
who promised that great things would soon follow,
things important not only to Dobezynskis,
the whole district and the entire nation.
Robak explained his esoteric decrees,
which of us can understand his allusion?
Now we’ve convened from all over the district,
two-hundred men from village, town and city,
yet our freedom is something you’d restrict.
Let’s vote and exercise equality.”
Hearing this, two Terujewiczes and four
Sypulkowskis and three Mickiewiczes cried out:
“Vivat equality!” Amid the roar,
Buchman, on one side, tried to shout:
“If you vote yes it will be our downfall.”
To which the Baptist answered, “I doubt it.”
Maciek the Steeplecock will be our Marshall;
hand him the staff.” Dobrzynskis then shouted,
“accept it please.” Others called their vetoes,
and it was clear the council was divided
in two factions — opposing cries arose,
and in the end, nothing was declared.
In the center, Maciek was mute;
of all the heads, his was motionless.
The Baptist was attempting to refute
the latest motion, seeming to caress
his club — his head resting upon the knob,
looking like a pumpkin on a pole.
Swaying from side to side, he told the mob:
“Baptize!” The Razor then resumed his role
of shuttlecock, crazily rushing about
from Maciek’s bench, to where the Baptist sat.
The Bucket paced across the room to shout
at dissenting nobles, to tell them that
they must agree with all the Dobrzynskis.
One yelled, “To shave,” another, “To drench,”
as the level of furor did increase
Maciek’s jaw clearly began to clench.
A full-fledged shouting match was not postponed;
for more than ten minutes the din continued;
then all at once a flashing pole was raised —
a rapier, long and broad, with both sides honed,
its Nuremburg handiwork always praised,
as all admired its well-forged cutting blade,
Wondering whose it was, they settled down,
but quickly guessed — their fears clearly allayed —
“Penknife, long live the Penknife of renown!
Vivat Rembajlo, the crest upon his coat,
long live the notched-head Milord, the Half-Goat!”
Gervazy squeezed himself through the large crowd,
his Penknife raised. He then lo
wered the tip
to show respect, as Maciek watched and bowed.
“Penknife yields to “Little Rose’s grip.
Fellow nobles, Dobrzynskis — no advice,
I will simply repeat why we’re all here,
whatever course of action you devise.
You’ve heard the rumors flying through the air —
we all expect magnificent events.
Father Robak explained; do you all know?”
“We know,” they shouted.
“So you must now sense
that words are not enough.” He told them how,
as Buchman glanced sharply: “Well, is that true?”
“True!” They replied.
“The Emperor will advance
from one side, and then what will the Tsar do?
Of course, from the other — it’s just a dance
between monarchs, to music that’s martial.
Do we just sit and wait? Or do we let
the strong strangle the strong, without the small
strangling the small? Or rather do we set
our sights on bringing the small rascals down?
If we’d just slash, the Commonwealth would thrive —
is this not true!” Gervazy showed his frown.
“True!” they replied with such insistent drive,
it seemed they read from a missal. “It’s true,”
the Baptist said. “I’m ready to baptize.”
“And I — to shave,” the Razor added, too.
“But let’s agree on how to win the prize,”
the Bucket said politely. “Who commands,
the Baptist or Maciek?” But he was interrupted
by Buchman: “Will you fools lower your hands;
let the Warden resume what you’ve disrupted.”
“Of course,” said the Warden, “follow the old;
only great men should ponder such great things,
Lords and Senators, Deputies, their fold —
such things, Milords, in Krakow, are for kings,
or Warsaw, not for us in these back woods.
An act of federation is no comment
chalked on a chimney, not a bill for goods
sent on a barge, but fine words on parchment.
Poland has scribes; it’s not our job to write,
a custom so honorable and old.
My task is to use my Penknife to fight,
to whittle.”
“Mine to drench,” the Baptist growled.
“To bore with my sharp awl — my favorite labor,”
shouted Bartek the Awl, drawing his saber.
“So,” the Warden concluded, “this I witness.
The Priest once said, before you entertain
a guest as great as Bonaparte, the mess
must first be cleared away, washed and swept clean.
You’ve heard, but do you truly understand?
What is this district’s trash? What treachery
Remains unpunished? Who plunders your land
and steals your legacy? Oh can’t you see?”
“Of course — Soplica!” the Bucket broke in.
The Razor added, “That scoundrel, tyrant.”
“We must baptize, to cleanse him of his sin,”
the Baptist shouted. “Such a traitor can’t
escape the gallows,” was Buchman’s outcry.
“Down with Soplica,” was the crowd’s reply.
Bartek the Prussian defended the Judge,
rising above the throng, and discontented:
“Brothers, listen, for I won’t budge
until you hear me out. This man’s demented!
Was this matter ever discussed? To punish
one for his brother’s sin is unchristian.
This scheme is just the Count’s idle wish.
When has the Judge Soplica harmed you men?
Accuse him? He should take you all to court;
he’d halt the case, still pay the penalty.
Don’t forget the lawsuit, and that, in short,
it’s him against the Count — both are wealthy —
let one Lord fight another on a whim.
A tyrant? He was the first to forbid
his peasants to bow down in front of him,
calling it sinful. He would sit amid
farmers and eat and pay the village tax,
unlike magnates in Kleck, where Pan Buchman
prefers the German way. Now he attacks
the Judge as a traitor. I’ve known the man
since childhood — honest then, honest today.
He loves Poland more than anything.
Polish customs and not the Russian way
he upholds. How often, when returning
from Prussia, wanting to wash away all trace
of Germanness, the Judge’s home I’d visit,
for there you discover it’s no disgrace
to drink in and breathe in the Polish spirit,
though I am your brother, I won’t permit
you to wrong the Judge. It won’t be good.
In Wielkopolska — such a different spirit,
a sense of harmony and not this flood
of emotions, bickering over trifles.”
The Warden screamed, “Yes, with swords and rifles.”
Jankiel asked to be heard, hopped on a table
and raised his straw-like beard, down to his waist.
He first removed his cap fashioned from sable,
adjusted his yarmulke as he faced
the crowd, one hand tucked into his wide belt,
the other raised — courteously he knelt.
“Nu, gentlemen, I am only a Jew,
the Judge nothing to me, yet I
respect Soplica, for he is one of the few
magnates worthy of it. I won’t neglect
the Dobrzynskis, the Bartkes and Macieks —
all good neighbors and my benefactors.
But I will say this — without proper pretext
you can’t attack Soplica using force;
you might get killed. What has clouded your vision?
Did you forget the Sheriff and his prison?
In the village nearby, soldiers are camped,
so the Sheriff only has to whistle;
they’ll march as soon as their orders are stamped.
That’s it — the prospects are clearly dismal.
Forget the French, for they are far away.
I’m just a Jew who knows nothing of war,
but I’ve been in Bielic; the Jews there say,
reports from the border — do not ignore —
say the French army will be camped till Spring.
So why not wait? The Soplica manor
is not some market stall for dismantling,
then hauled from town to town by some carter.
It rests on firm foundations and will stand
till Spring. The Judge is not a tenant paying rent,
he will not flee, he’ll still be on his land.
So please return home and stop this dissent.
My wife gave birth to yet another Jankiel;
I’ll treat you all to music and good food.
I’ll even hire bagpipes, bass, and fiddle;
my summer mead is sure to make your mood
festive. Maciek, a new Mazurka I’ll be playing;
my children learned some brand-new songs to sing.”
Jankiel was popular; his eloquence
penetrated their hearts, applause was rife,
as murmurs of approval bridged the distance —
until Gervazy pointed his penknife
at Jankiel, who leapt when he saw the blade appear.
The Warden yelled: “If you value your life,
you’ll waste no time in getting out of here!”
“Pan Prussian, just because the Judge takes trade
from two miserable river barges,
you defend
him — so halt your sad tirade.
Have you forgotten the generous charges
your dear father collected, just to float
twenty Horeszko barges? He grew rich!
Everyone in Dobrzyn should take note:
remember how My Lord tried to enrich
your fathers. Surely you’ve heard of his efforts —
who did he send to manage his estate
in Pinsk? And who maintained his books in court?
For Stewards and butlers there’s no debate,
his manor was full of his Dobrzynskis.
He argued your cases at the Tribunal,
and gained from the King your pension increase.
Scores of your children he sent to school,
and paid the Piarists for their board and lodging,83
and when they grew, secured them positions.
And why? Because it was the proper thing
for a good neighbor. Now the situations
have changed — and what has Soplica been doing?”
“Nothing!” the Bucket yelled, “because he comes
from petty landowners; he’s too puffed up, I think,
he holds his nose up high when he is in our homes.
At my daughter’s wedding, I offered him a drink
that he refused. “I don’t imbibe as much
as you lesser nobles who drink like gadflies.”
He’s just a fox inside a rabbit’s hutch,
a magnate who prefers delicacies.
A milksop! He did not drink, so we poured
it down his throat. “This act I won’ forget,”
he protested, though I clearly assured
him, next time I’d pour it from my bucket.”
The Baptist said, “It is time to attack.
My once sensible son is now a fool.
Blame the Judge, when they call him The Sack.
I asked him why to Soplica he’d crawl,
and said I’d beat him if he went again.
And yet he did, sneaking through the hemp to visit
Zosia. I caught and beat him — but in vain;
he wailed like a child and would not quit.
‘You can kill me,” he cried, “but I will go.’
‘Why?’ I asked. Sobbing, he said, ‘ I love
Zosia, I must see her.’ After this show
I pitied the poor creature and I drove
to the manor: ‘Let your Zosia wed
my Sack.” He said, “She’s young, so wait three years,
and then let her decide.’ And now, instead —
he has arranged a match for her. Who cares,
I’ll go to the wedding and make a mess,
their wedding bed my baptizer will bless.”
“Can such a scoundrel maintain his dominion?”
asked the Warden, “while better lords he’d ruin?
While the Horeszko memory and appellation
now fades? Is there no gratitude in Dobrzyn?
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 27