The world? You’d battle with the Russian Tsar,
yet fear Soplica’s manor. Is it jail
that frightens you? For I’m talking of war,
not theft. And God forbid, we will not fail.
We have the right, the Count has won his plea,
and now it is our duty to enforce,
that’s how its always done — the courts decree,
the nobles carry out, and such a course
of action has always provided fame
to all Dobrzynskis. What of the foray
against Moscow in Mysz, and when you came
back with the Russian chief on the same day,
along with his friend, Pan Wolk, as captive.
We would have hung him right inside the stable,
tyrant who’d barely let our peasants live,
and served Moscow. Before we were able,
some foolish peasants took pity on him.
I won’t mention countless other forays
which we emerged from with our ranks untrimmed,
as nobles should with much profit and praise.
Why bring them up? Today your friend, the Count,
negotiated and won a decree,
yet none will take this poor orphan’s account.
Horeszko’s heir has no one now but me
to repay his ancestors’ generosity —
no one but me remains faithful for life,
my trusty sword, yes, my renowned penknife.”
“And my baptizer goes along with you,”
said the Baptist, “if I don’t lose my hand —
your sword, Gervzy, and my club, we two
will hack and slash, and let the others stand.”
“Don’t exclude me,” said Bartek The Razor,
“If you can lather him, then I can shave.”
“And I,” the Bucket added, I prefer
to move with you. A Marshall we must have,
and we must all agree, so let us cast
another ballot.” From his pocket, he withdrew
a fistful of bullets and slowly passed
them between his fingers and finally threw
them to the floor. “I vote these for the Judge.”
“I am with you,” Skoluba said, “We must unite.”
“And we,” the nobles shouted, “have our grudge.
Long live Horeszko! With Warden we’ll fight.
Vivit the half-goat, the Warden Rembajlo,
down with the Judge — to Soplica we go!”
All seem swayed by Gervazy’s rousing speech,
for each has his own particular grudge
against the Judge. There always is some breech
between neighbors — cattle trample and trudge
through a garden or crops; a tree is felled;
a boundary line disputed. What of the wealth
of the Judge? Some by envy were compelled,
some by hatred or wishing him ill health.
They crowded round the Warden and they praised;
up in the air, sabres and clubs were raised.
Old Maciek, quite sullen and motionless,
rose from his bench and walked among the crowd,
his hand on hip, as he began his address,
pronouncing each syllable, his head bowed.
After each word he paused; each one he emphasized:
“You stupid fools — to jabber over a scapegoat!
While Poland’s fate was being analyzed,
when for the common good you need to vote,
you created disputes. You’re much too stubborn
for order to resolve; you senses leave,
surrender, when the simplest grudge is reborn.
Fools such foolish advice receive.
Get out of here! A thousand kegs of warts,
a thousand hogsheads brought on devils’ carts.”
The crowd silenced, as though struck by thunder,
although their fright diminished when they heard,
“Vivat the Count,” outside. And little wonder,
for just at that moment the Count appeared,
and rode right up to Maciek’s door, followed
by ten of his armed and equipped Jockeys —
the Count astride his horse, a cape that flowed
over his suit and spreading in the breeze.
It was nut-brown, cut by a Roman tailor,
embroidered more like some great tapestry.
His rounded hat was capped with a feather;
brandishing his sword, he spun round quickly
and saluted. The nobles gathered together.
“Vivat the Count!” they yelled. “With him we’ll live
or die.” And from inside the hut, men rushed
to the window and soon became festive,
following the Warden to the door, they pushed,
and tumbling, spilled into the courtyard.
Maciek drove out stragglers, bolted the door,
Stuck his head through the window, and bellowed hard:
“I gave advice that only fools ignore.”
Jankiel slipped away, riding bareback,
Bartek the Prussian, too, and unheeded —
his continued rail against the attack.
But two men followed — after him, they sped,
screaming, “Traitor!” Mickiewicz stood apart,
silent, though it was clear from his stance,
that he plotted some evil. So they start
after him, swords drawn, with fiery glance.
Retreating, he defends without success;
wounded, against a fence — to his rescue
spring Zan and three Czechots, to gain redress.
Others follow; before the scuffle’s through,
one’s ear is slashed, and two of them must count
fingers — bleeding. The rest rush to their mounts.
The Count and Gervazy distribute arms;
they mobilize the men — as they had hoped —
throughout the settlement, passing by farms.
“Down with Soplica!” And off they galloped.
BOOK 8. THE FORAY
The Seneschal’s astronomy – the Official remarks on comets – mysterious scene in the Judge’s room – Tadeusz, wishing to disentangle himself, is more deeply ensnared – a new Dido – the foray – the Apparitor’s final protest – the Count conquers Soplica estate – assault and massacre – Gervazy the butler – banquet after the foray
An uncanny moment of calm before the storm,
when blowing clouds stop overhead and gather,
a menacing face, winds that alarm;
yet it won’t release them — for it would rather
study the land with its bright flashing eyes,
and mark off spots to hurl bolts of lightning.
Soplica manor, hushed just like the skies,
a premonition that was frightening
and strange, had shut all mouths and transported
bodies to realms where spirits consorted.
The Judge and guests, after the evening meal,
went outside to enjoy the cool night air;
seated on the turf-bench, they seemed to feel
their own somber mood — all they did was stare
up at the sky, which seemed now to descend,
condense, and creep much closer to the ground,
concealed in the dark for some secret end.
Earth and sky consorted, and the strange sound
of lovers — emotions in translation,
muffled sighs, whispers from lips half-closed —
filled the air with its special elation:
thus the music of evening was composed.
Screech owls hooted from the manor garret;
bats rustled their flimsy wings and took flight
to windows where glowing candles were set.
Moths, whirling and beating, lured by the light
and white linen in w
hich the women dressed,
flocked to Zosia’s face, to her bright eyes,
which they mistook for candles. She expressed
horror, hands waving, emitting faint sighs.
Outside, huge clouds whirled by, and swarms of insects
orbited like spheres; she could discriminate,
amid the thousand different dialects,
the chord of the midge-fly in deep debate
with mosquito false-notes — none would abate.
The evening concert was barely beginning;
the meadow-musicians, instruments in tune;
three times the corncrake, undisputed king
of fiddlers shrieked; and from the marsh, a loon
chimed in, and soon the bass of the bittern.
the snipe added his drum; the rest, in turn.
And then the insect buzz, the chirping din
resounded in chorus from two large ponds,
like lakes on some far Caucasian mountain,
silent by day, that at twilight respond
with enchanted play. One pond to the bottom
was clear and sandy — from its deep blue breast,
arose a voice that was calm and solemn.
The other was muddy; its turbid chest
in mournful and passionate cries answered.
Both ponds harmonized: frogs were croaking;
an earthshaking fortissimo thundered,
a gentle hum from the other evoking,
complaining lament and distressing sigh —
two ponds conversing through a field of rye.
The dust thickened; the eyes of wolves now shone
through willow groves on the bank of a stream,
and farther, fires of shepherds camped alone.
Yet soon, the moon’s silvery, torch-lit gleam
brightened forest and earth, leaving the air,
as land and sky lay side by side, uncovered,
slumbering like a happily married pair.
So that within pure arms, the sky discovered
earth’s breast, which for it, the moon recovered.
Already one star glittered, then another,
a thousand, million, an infinity.
Castor the head, and with Pollux, his brother,
Lele and Polelle of Slavic mythology,
though more popular zodiacs demand
Lithuania and The Kingdom of Poland.
Libra, the starry scale, holds out its pans;
on the day of creation, it is said,.
God weighed all things, according to his plans,
fixing their weights, and placing them instead
into the vault of his heavenly abyss.
He hung these golden scales up in his heavens,
and from this model, man has patterned his.
A ring of stars known as The Great Sieve
shines to the north; through it God once sifted
grain to the earth — when he began to give
sustenance to Adam, and insisted
that in the Garden he no longer live.
Somewhat higher is David’s Car, all readied,
and pointing the way to the polar star.
Lithuanians call it an unjust deed
to call it his, for this angelic car
belonged to Lucifer when God was challenged,
when he galloped along the Milky Way,
ready to fight. His arrogance avenged
by Archangel Michael, who tipped the dray,
dumping Lucifer. He let it stay,
stretched and broken, because one would dare —
forbidden by Michael — the cart’s repair.
In Lithuania, it’s also known —
and this was learned from the ancient Rabbis —
the dragon that above the earth has grown
to wind its starry coils around the skies,
which astronomers wrongly call a serpent,
is a great fish called The Leviathan.
It dwelt in seas until the dreadful event
known as the deluge, when the waters ran
out of the oceans and the great fish perished.
As reminder and curiosity,
angels transported its remains, cherished,
up to heaven — a priest might similarly
hang in his church, thinking they held some worth,
leg bones or ribs of giants dug from earth.84
The Seneschal gleaned these tales from old books
or heard from legends. And the old man
has poor eyesight and must strain when he looks,
or use glasses, but from memory can
relate shape and form of each constellation,
and point to each star’s future destination.
But no one listened to his tales this evening;
the Dragon, Scales, and Sieve were all ignored.
Eyes and minds to a new guest were cleaving,
recently observed and unexplored.
A comet of great strength and magnitude
appeared and seemed to fly directly north;
passing The Chariot, its eye now viewed
the forsaken place of Lucifer’s birth,
wishing to occupy that spot, now vacant.
Dragging its tail across one-third the sky,
and wrapped itself around stars as it went,
collecting with its net as it flew by.
It seemed the heavens followed from afar
this comet aimed straight at the polar star.
Each night, with silent apprehension,
Lithuanians gazed at the sky,
tracking this celestial evil omen,85
comparing it to others, asking why
they heard such sinister cries of birds
flocked in deserted fields, sharpening beaks,
as though expecting carrion rewards.
And why their dogs dug in the ground by creeks,
and howled furiously, as though the scent
of death their frantic tunneling unearthed —
for war or starvation these things portend.
And the forest watchman was not the first
to have seen, wandering through cemeteries,
the Maid of Pestilence, tall as the trees,86
waving a bloody kerchief in the breeze.
Such were the fears of the common people,
while in the courtyard of Soplica manor,
the Judge’s guests and the honored Official
rested in a sedate though gloomy manner,
until the Chamberlain looked up, dismayed:
under the moonlight his tobacco case glowed
(covered in gold and with diamonds inlaid;
and under glass, King Stanislas’ portrait showed.)
He tapped the case and took a pinch, “Gentlemen,”
he said, “all this strange talk about a comet,
reminds me of nights in some college den;
a fool might just as well discourse upon it.
In Vilno, I studied astronomy,
where Pani Puzynin, wealthy and wise,
with profits from her village economy,
more than two-hundred peasants in size,
purchased various glasses and telescopes.
A famous priest manned the observatory
and the school, as well, from his rectory.
Finally he abandoned his stellar hopes,
his professorship, too — and then returned,
until his death — to the monk’s life he spurned.
I also knew Pan Sniadecki quite well,87
a clever man, though not a Jesuit.
Astronomers regard the skies, he’d tell,
planet or comet, when they look at it,
much like a peasant viewing a fine coach:
he knows it drives to the King’s residence,
and that from there, the tollgate will approach,
until he sees it vanish in the distance.
Whom did it ca
rry? What did the King say?
Ambassadors of peace or war dispatched?
They don’t care at all! In some long passed day,
I can recall when Branecki first hatched
his plan: to Jassy. He followed the trail,88
a train of Targowica Confederates,
trailing behind just like a comet’s tail.
And everyone entered public debates,
even peasants, whose minds are not so deep,
guessed that the tail was an omen of doom.
This comet tonight they nickname the Broom,
thousands will die when it begins to sweep.”
The Seneschal politely spoke, “I’ve heard.
though barely ten years old, I can recall
Sapieha, a Lieutenant, clad and armored.
Later he was appointed Court Marshall,
and died Chancellor of Lithuania
at one-hundred ten. With King John the Third,
and Hetman Jablonowski, at Vienna,
the late Chancellor was being quartered.
He told how John was sitting on his mount
as the Papal Nuncio blessed his journey;
the Austrian ambassador, Wilczek, the Count,
embraced his feet, letting the reins go free,
when the King shouted out, “Look to the skies!”
Above their heads comet was streaming,
along the path of Mohammed’s armies,
from east to west, its tail long and gleaming.
The priest Barochowski — a panegyric
about the triumph at Cracow composed.
Orientis Fulmen, he called the lyric,
declaiming all the threats the comet posed.
In his tract, Janina, I also read
about King John’s noble expedition,
and saw, engraved, the standard of Mohammed —
the comet that announced his elevation.”
“Amen,” replied the Judge. “This is no jest.
I do believe it was just as you said.
Today a hero enraptures the west;
does this comet foretell what lies ahead?”
The Seneschal sadly lowered his eyes:
“A shooting star announces a new war —
or just a quarrel it might prophesize.
Perhaps it has appeared above this manor
to threaten us with domestic misfortune.
We’ve had our share of suspenseful wrangling,
during the hunt and in the afternoon,
and then at dinner. We have this entangling
debate — the Sheriff and the Notary;
and now Tadeusz has challenged the Count;
a bear hide has caused them to disagree.
If the Judge had not hindered my account,
I’d have them reconciled at the table.
I’d like to relate another event
that seems in many ways comparable:
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 28