Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works

by Adam Mickiewicz

  he felt such shame beside her innocence.

  His Uncle could never arrange this match.

  Against Satan’s snares he had no defense:

  the devil knows which lies and sins will catch

  a youth — and when to withdraw with a smile.

  Tadeusz felt despised and repugnant;

  he’d squandered his future in a short while,

  and felt that this was a just punishment.

  Amid this storm of feelings, sudden calm

  overcame him when he thought of the duel:

  killing the Count — what a perfect balm;

  he’d die or get revenge upon the scoundrel.

  Then he forgot the source of his anger;

  it came in a flash and quickly vanished.

  deeper sorrows seized him, even stranger —

  the thought arose that could not be banished:

  if the Count and Zosia loved each other,

  what right did he have to ruin their bliss?

  If they were to marry, why should he even bother

  to destroy other people’s happiness?

  He fell into despair. How could he save

  himself? Where could he flee, but to the grave?

  He ran to the shining pools in the meadow

  and stood above the bogs, drowning his gaze

  greedily in the brackish depths below.

  The marshy odor put him in a daze,

  as he sucked the gases into his lung.

  and he felt the rapture of suicide,

  which, like all wild and stormy passions, sprung

  from the imagination. Giddy inside,

  he longed for the bog, and he would have tried,

  but Telimena, spotting his crazed figure,

  guessed at his state, as he ran to the marsh,

  and though she burned with justified anger,

  she was scared. Judgment, not her heart, was harsh.

  Sad that Tadeusz dared to love another,

  she wished to punish him but not destroy,

  and followed, screaming, arms waving above her.

  “Please stop, you fool, you are no more a boy.

  Marry someone else, for I don’t care,

  or go away,” she said to his vague stare.

  What strange new twist of fate. Along the bank

  the Count rode, leading his band of Jockeys.

  Charmed by the night, the Count helplessly sank,

  submerged in underwater harmonies.

  Like Aeolian harps the choirs resounded,91

  for no frogs sing as sweet as those in Poland.

  He halted his horse and remained dumbfounded,

  forgetting the expedition he planned.

  His ears and eyes bathed in the marshy shapes,

  imagining some nocturnal landscapes.

  Though dark, the fields and skies now teemed with life.

  Across two ponds, almost like two lovers

  facing each other, joyous, free from strife,

  lying alone in bed without covers —

  one pond was clear, smooth as a girl’s cheek,

  the other murky, dark, as though stippled

  with a new beard. And golden sand, like sleek

  blond hair encircled one; the other bristled

  with osier stalks and curled tufts of willow.

  Each had a tiny stream that met between,

  like two hands joined, continuing below,

  a waterfall into a deep ravine,

  glimmering in sharp light from the moon,

  fragmented into a thousand slivers.

  You’d think a water nymph, humming a tune,92

  with one hand poured from bottomless pitchers,

  sprinkling handfuls of gold from her apron.

  Beyond the ravine to a plain it flowed,

  meandered and grew calm, but still ran on,

  though only the shimmering moonlight glowed.

  like the Serpent of Zmudz, which seemed to sleep

  amid heather, changing from silver to gold,

  and vanish suddenly into the deep

  green of moss and fern. Then it recoiled

  into an alder wood. The black horizon

  rose in the distance — a spirit in mist.

  In this ravine, an old mill was hidden;

  like a guardian who spies on a tryst

  between lovers, angers hearing their talk,

  Outraged by what he sees there by the brook,

  and mutters threats to those he meant to stalk —

  just so this mill suddenly rattled and shook

  its mossy forehead, twirled its massive fist,

  and clanged its jaw. The nightmare serenade

  was drowned in the clamor of grinding grist.

  All this startled the Count in his promenade.

  The Judge crossed himself: “In the name

  of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,

  you are a gentleman. Did you become

  a brigand? Does this behavior befit

  a man of your noble birth and station?

  I will not permit this brutal attack.”

  Soplica’s servants rushed into position,

  some with clubs, some with guns prepared to crack.

  The Seneschal was caught in disbelief,

  eyeing the Count, his knife concealed in sleeve.

  The battle began. The Judge tried to defend,

  and vainly blocked the terrible onslaught.

  In the alders, flintlocks sparked without end,

  the cavalry tramped cross the bridge and fought.

  “Down with Soplica” chimed throughout the air.

  The Judge recognized Gervazy’s command.

  “We’ll fight,” the Count shouted, “Better beware;

  surrender, for I have more allies at hand.”

  The Sheriff rushed up shouting, “In the name

  of the imperial authority,

  give up your swords and drop this senseless game

  before I’m forced to summon the army.

  You know the fine for sneak attacks at night

  are quite severe as writ….” The Count then struck

  him with his sword, swinging with all his might.

  The Sheriff fell in the nettle, dumbstruck;

  wounded or dead, first casualty of night.

  “I see,” said the Judge, “this is brigandage.”

  The frightened chatter was quickly drowned out

  by Zosia’s wailing: she rushed to the Judge

  grabbed him round the neck and gave a shout.

  Then Telimena ran between the horses,

  turned to the Count and knelt, clasping her hands.

  “Why have you unleashed these evil forces

  upon us? Tell us, what are your demands!”

  She gave out a shrill scream, throwing back

  her head, her hair streaming. “By all that’s Holy,

  I beg you, my dear Count, halt this attack.

  Please, I beseech, why don’t you stop this folly;

  or would you kill those who stand in your way?”

  She fainted and the Count came to her aid.

  “Zosia, Telimena, what do you day?

  My sword will not be stained during this raid

  with innocent blood — you are my prisoners.

  I am reminded of the time in Italy,

  under the cliffs near Birbante towers,

  I captured the brigands’ camp in the valley,

  murdered the thieves with guns, while those who threw

  down arms were tied with rope to their disgrace,

  and then marched back to town for all to view.

  Later, they were hanged at Mount Etna’s base.”

  And then, for Soplicas, a stroke of luck:

  the Count had better horses than the rest,

  and so he halted them behind, while he pressed

  on, determined that the first blow be struck

  by him. He led his cavalry by a mile —
/>   his Jockeys, disciplined and obedient.

  The others, in true revolutionary style,

  were raging, quick to hang, expedient.

  The Count had time to cool his burning rage,

  deliberating how to end the fight

  without bloodshed. He finally set the stage

  by locking the Soplicas for the night

  inside the manor, prisoners of war,

  and posting sentries right at every door.

  Meanwhile, the nobles swarmed into the yard,

  encircling the manor and storming it.

  “Down with Soplica!” the cavalry roared,

  but found leader and staff quick to submit.

  They wanted a battle and sought a foe;

  barred from the manor, they rushed to the grange

  and stormed the kitchen, where pots in a row

  and the flickering fire brought a change.

  The aroma of food, dogs gnawing bones

  from the dinner meal inflamed the men,

  capturing their hearts. Once hard as stones,

  they now warmed by thoughts of food again.

  Weary from the march and daylong meeting,

  a few exclaimed, “Let’s eat!” Others, “Let’s drink!”

  The throng of nobles stood in ranks repeating

  these chants, and in the end, could hardly think

  of war — when gnawing hunger replaced courage.

  The mouthwatering army went to forage.

  Gervazy was turned away from the door

  of the Judge by the Count’s vigilant guard.

  unable to wreak the vengeance he swore,

  he decided to play the other card:

  to establish the Count on legal ground.

  Adept in legal matters, experienced,

  he sought the Apparitor, whom he found,

  after a search, behind the stove, entrenched.

  He grabbed him, dragging him along the path,

  and touched his penknife’s tip to this man’s chest.

  “Proclaim at once, or you will feel my wrath!

  The Count Horeszko, of the half-goat crest

  is lord of this castle, Soplica manor,

  the village, the sown fields and fallow land:

  cum gias, boris, ganicrabus,93

  kmetonibus, scuten, et omnibus robus,

  ey quidiudam allis. You know the manner;

  now bark the whole thing out, you understand.”

  The Apparitor pressed his thumbs inside his belt.

  “Dear Warden, please wait, I will carry out

  your command, but please consider the result:

  such a proclamation will have no clout,

  coerced by force and in the dead of night.”

  “What force?” the Warden asked. “There’s no attack.

  I’ve been polite and if you wish more light,

  I’ll strike sparks with my penknife — you won’t lack

  illumination; I’ll restore your sight!”

  “My dear Gervazy,” said the Apparitor,

  “no need to sulk — for as highest court

  officer, I won’t debate with rancor.

  We all know that a plaintiff might resort

  to one like me to deliver his writ,

  but he’s just a messenger of the law,

  and can’t be punished just for serving it.

  I can hardly believe what I just saw;

  you have no right to place me under guard;

  I’ll write a summons if you fetch a torch,

  but I insist we do it in the courtyard.

  Brothers, now please meet me on the porch.”

  To make his words more audible, he mounted

  a pile of logs next to the orchard fence;

  but though his oratory was discounted,

  he crawled beneath the beams, and in a moment’s

  time, he vanished, as though blown by the wind.

  A sound was heard: he plopped into the cabbage,

  and soon his white hat could be seen behind

  the hemp, flitting like a dove freed from a cage.

  The Bucket fired a shot but missed his mark,

  and from the crunching stakes, it was quite clear

  Protazy reached the hops, hid in the dark.

  All were certain he wouldn’t reappear.

  “I protest!” he shouted — they tried to look

  for him between the osier bed and marshy brook.

  After his protest died out in the distance,

  like a final shot on a ramparts conquered,

  Soplica manor gave up its resistance.

  The hungry nobles foraged and plundered:

  the Baptist found his way to the cowshed

  and clubbed one bull and two calves on the snout;

  the Razor plunged his sword so that they bled

  from the neck; the Awl, likewise, rushing about,

  impaled hogs and suckling pigs with his blade.

  And now the onslaught threatened the poultry:

  vigilant geese, whose ancestors once saved

  Rome from the Gaulish tribes’ real treachery,

  flocked in the corner, vainly screeching for help;

  although instead of Manlius, the Bucket

  attacked the coop — tying one goose to his belt,

  he struck it, while the rest honked wildly.

  Geese stuck out their necks, ganders hissed, nipping

  at him as he fled, feathers, soft and downy.

  It seemed that wings transported him, whipping

  like Chochlik, the evil, winged spirit.94

  The butchery was so much more ferocious,

  though less vociferous among the chickens.

  The young Sack climbed a ladder, dangling a noose,

  and snared crested roosters and shaggy hens.

  One by one, he strangled them and piled

  these lovely birds, once fed pearl barely from a sieve,

  now dead from this impudent Sack grown wild.

  And for this crime, Zosia will not forgive.

  Recalling ancient times, Gervazy removed

  his belt and asked others to do the same.

  Then up from the cellar he pushed and shoved

  barrels of mead, brandy, beer. As he came,

  they grabbed one and uncorked, snatching others

  rolling them to the castle over land.

  There, for the night, they camped in their quarters,

  where the Count established his post command.

  Campfires kindled, men brew, broil, and bake.

  Tables sag under the meat; alcohol

  flows in torrents. Nobles remain awake,

  guzzling, stuffing; and singing fills the hall.

  But bit by bit, they yawn and grow drowsy;

  eyes blink, heads nod, and each slumps in his place:

  one with a bowl, one with a mug now empty,

  one with a slab of beef up to his face.

  The victors sing, but with a fainter breath,

  vanquished soon by sleep, brother of death.

  BOOK 9. THE BATTLE

  The dangers of a disorderly camp – relief troops and an unexpected surprise – the sad plight of the nobles – the alms’ collector’s visit and an omen of rescue- Major Plut, with excessive wheedling, brings a storm upon himself – pistol shots, the sounds of combat – deeds of the Baptist and dangers faced by Maciek – the Bucket’s ambush rescues Soplica estate – cavalry reinforcements, infantry attack – deeds of Tadeusz – duel of commanders, interrupted by treason – the Seneschal’s decisive strategy tilts the scales – Gervazy’s bloody deeds – magnanimous victor

  The nobles snored so soundly, not even

  gleaming torches could arouse these sleepers,

  when the hall was entered by several dozen

  soldiers. Like wall spiders we call The Reapers,

  that attack dozing flies, barely a buzz,

  long legs encircling them to suffocate —

 
they entered just like this grim master does;

  and slumbering nobles shared the flies’ fate.

  Without a buzz, seemingly lifeless, they lay

  until they were seized by powerful arms

  that tossed them up like sheaves of hay.

  Only the Bucket, famed in district farms

  for having no equal at meal or feast,

  who could easily down two casks of mead

  before his speech or step faltered the least,

  who capped this night with a similar deed —

  only he showed signs the others were wanting.

  He blinked, squinted and what then did he see?

  A nightmare! Two dreadful faces panting

  above him, each with mustaches, mangy

  and long, which they flourished like wings.

  The terrified Bucket tried first to cross

  himself, but when he tried he felt bindings

  around his wrists and realized that he’d lost

  his freedom. Spirits wrapped him like a baby

  in swaddling clothes. So hard was he trying

  to escape, he shut his eyes, and maybe,

  it seemed his blood ran cold and he was dying.

  But the Baptist defended his own camp,

  until he found himself bound in his sash.

  He wriggled, flapped, leapt wildly with a stamp,

  and fell into the sleepers with a crash,

  rolling over heads, writhing like a pike

  on top of sand. He roared, sounding like a bear:

  “This is treachery! Who ordered this strike?”

  Sleepers awoke but were unable to answer,

  “Treachery, violent treachery — from where?

  The outcry reached the mirrored hall and echoed;

  the sleeping Count, his Jockeys, and Gervazy

  awoke; and the Warden vainly bellowed,

  finding himself and his penknife bound tightly.

  By the window he saw a few armed men

  in black-vizored caps and green uniforms.

  One with a sash ordered the other ten

  with the tip of his sword: “Tie up these worms,”

  he whispered. The jockeys were bound like sheep;

  two guards with bayonets prepared to leap

  on him if their commander gave the word.

  Gervazy recognized the Moscovites.

  He had often been in similar plights;

  many times his legs and arms had been bound,

  and still he’d freed himself; he knew the art

  of breaking rope, sure a way would be found.

  Still strong and confident, he tried to start:

  crossing his eyes, as if to sleep, he stretched

  his arms and legs, stomach contracted,

  doubled over, as if both parts attached.

  He puffed his chest and strained, his role enacted

  like snakes that hide by coiling head and tail.