Gervazy changed from long to short and squat;
the ropes stretched and creaked but to no avail;
they wouldn’t snap no matter how he fought.
Almost senseless, he hid his angry face
slumping to the ground to hide his disgrace.
Drums rolled in the distance, at first quite faint,
then grew louder as the rumbling increased.
The Count proclaimed his furious complaint.
The officer ordered the Jockeys released
from ropes but locked inside the lower hall
under guard. The nobles were marched outside
where the Russian army set up a small
camp. The Baptist began to curse and cried.
Headquarters stood outside by poplar trees,
with Polish nobles prepared to defend —
Birbaszes, Hreczechas, and Podjajskis;
each was the Judge’s relative or friend,
who rushed to his aid on news of attack,
for all had long been at odds with Dobrzynskis.
Who had summoned the Russian battalion?
Who rode through the district and brought them back?
And did Jankiel mount his quickest stallion
to rouse Soplica’s allies? The Notary?
Only rumor could name the emissary.
The rising sun seemed ensconced in a gorge,
stripped of its rays, half-hidden in black clouds —
a glowing horseshoe in a blacksmith’s forge.
The driving winds enclosed the dawn in shrouds,
as though the clouds carried thick blocks of ice,
and one of the eastern winds sprinkled rain,
which another dried — repeated twice.
And thus, only the cold and damp remain.
The Major ordered that the beams, left to dry
by the fence, be dragged into the courtyard,
where his men employed their axes to pry
them apart, and cut notches in the hard
wood. And then the legs of the prisoners
were placed in openings, another beam
set on top, and nails driven by soldiers,
so legs were squeezed — as though a bulldog team
clamped down their jaws. Their hands were tightly bound,
and to increase the torment, the Major
threw their hats, coats, and tunics to the ground,
as though they’d lost their clothes in a wager.
The nobles sat in stocks, teeth chattering,
as rain increased and clouds were gathering.
And so the Judge was moved to intercede;
Telimena joined in, with Zosia, weeping,
for treatment more humane, they start to plead,
decrying this cruel manner of keeping
captives. Captain Nikita Rykov,
a reasonable man who could be swayed,
agreed with their entreaties well enough,
but Major Plut’s orders must be obeyed.
Major Plut was a Pole by birth, once called
Plutowicz, a scoundrel, who often lied
and cheated, whose love of Poland paled,
when — to serve the Tsar — he Russified.
The Major stood outside smoking his pipe.
If someone bowed, he simply raised his nose
and blew out smoke, indifferent to each gripe
or plea. His answer in a cloud of smoke arose.
The Judge made sure the Captain was appeased;
the Sheriff joined in too, and all three tried
to conclude the matter of the manor seized,
without recourse to courts of government.
The Captain to Major Plut quickly went.
“What do we want with all these prisoners?
Take them to trial? So many difficulties
you’ll cause the nobles — they’ll resent your labors.
There’s no reward and none that you will please.
Better to settle the delicate matter;
let the Judge provide due compensation,
The goats will be whole and the wolves fatter.
We’ll say that we came at his invitation.
The Russian proverb: Everything’s possible,
just be discrete, or Take care of yourself,
as well as the Tsar. So let’s not quibble;
concord, not discord, leads to the warm stove-shelf.
We’ll make no report — there’s nothing at stake,
for God gave us hands in order to take.
Major Plut rose, laughing out of anger.
“Have you gone mad? We are serving the Tsar,
not protecting ourselves against some danger;
stupid, old Rykov, how crazy you are!
We are at war and this is a revolt;
it must be quashed at once, or it’s too late.
Your bargaining comes as a clear insult;
I’ll teach these scoundrels not to tempt their fate.
I know these Dobrzynskis; let them get wet.”
He burst out laughing and looked out the window.
“Take off that coat! At a masked ball we met,
and he is responsible for our row.
I was dancing, when he yelled, ‘throw him out,
that thief,’ for at that time I was accused
of stealing and rumors had spread about.
It was not his business, so I refused,
for it was a regimental affair.
I danced the Mazur and he shouted again,
‘Thief!’ as the nobles all began to stare.
And so I waited till he felt to my grip,
and then I said, ‘I’ll get even, by God,
The goat will come, save the butcher a trip.’
And now, Dobrzynski, I’ve cut a birch rod.”
He leaned to the Judge, and whispering, said,
“although there are ways if the Judge preferred,
a thousand rubles in cash for each head;
take it or not, for that’s my final word.”
The Judge bargained, but the Major stalked off
in clouds of smoke, fuming like a foundry,
The Judge behind, emitting a nervous cough,
while the ladies implored — on the boundary
of hysteria. “Major, what will you gain?
There was no battle, blood, there was no pain.
They ate chicken and geese, just as you saw.
They’ll pay damages, according to statute,
and there will be no official complaints,
for this was just a neighborly dispute.”
“It’s clear you’ve been reading The Lives of the Saints,”
said the Major, “and not The Yellow Book.”
“What Yellow Book?” the Judge questioned, confused.
“It’s like your statutes with a newer look;
a book of Martial Law,” he said, amused.
“It’s full of words like noose and Siberia.
Polish laws have been consigned to the shelf,
since it has been proclaimed in Lithuania.
According to it, even you yourself
should fear Siberia and hard labor.”
“I will appeal,” said the Judge, “to the Senate.”
“Appeal it if you must, but know the Tsar
himself has sanctioned this new, martial state —
and most likely the penalty he’d double.
Appeal, dear Judge, but know that if I must,
I’ll turn you in to pay for all this trouble.
We have reason to suspect and distrust;
Jankiel’s a spy who has long been observed
frequenting your home. He leases your tavern;
for that alone I’d think that you deserved
to be arrested.”
“Me — you would intern?”
So while both sides intensified their wrath,
new guests arrived along the manor path.
<
br /> A strange entrance indeed! Leading the pack:
a huge black ram rushing like courier;
its horns, like two big loops, were curled back,
decked out with bells and clanging like a crier;
two more protruded from the sides of its skull,
brass bells shaking. Oxen, a flock of sheep
and goats followed behind, their carts so full,
so laden, they sunk into the mud — deep.
All watched the alms-collecting monk enter.
The Judge, acting as host, greeted his guest
from the threshold. The priest sat in the center
of the first cart, and he was dressed
in robes, hiding his face — but recognized
at once by prisoners as he signaled
for silence. Next followed Maciek, disguised
as a peasant, although his secret entrance failed
when the nobles began to shout and cheer.
“Fools!” old Maciek yelled, showing them his glare.
Next came Bartek the Prussian, his coat threadbare;
Mickiewicz and Pan Zan took up the rear.
Meanwhile, Isajewicz and the Podhajskis,
Birbacz, Kotwicz, Wilbik, and Biergel,
witnessing their neighboring Dobrzynskis
subjected to torments more known in hell,
lessened their anger and wished to forgive;
for the Polish noble, though quarrelsome
and quick to fight, is never vindictive.
So, to old Maciek, they eagerly come,
surrounding his cart, awaiting his advice.
He tells them they must wait — repeats it twice.
The Bernardine ambled into the room,
almost unrecognized. Though in his cowl,
his usual meditative gloom
was replaced with a bright and cheerful howl,
a jolly monk of old, his head held high.
He laughed before speaking, chuckling aloud.
“Good day, fine day, and here’s the reason why:
exquisite hunting, sirs. What a crowd.
Prize game! Skin the nobles, take their hide,
or bridle them, for they’ll kick up a row.
I congratulate you, Major, what pride
you must feel, having bagged the young Horeszko.
A fatty morsel, and rich from way back.
Don’t let him go for less than three hundred
gold ducats. Then reach into the sack —
just a few cents will keep us monks well fed.
Don’t forget me, for I pray for your soul,
and often think about the soldier’s fate;
into a major’s ear dear death will call.
Remember how Jesuits used to prate:
Death executes the executioner,
And hauls the well-dressed man from the ball;
It bandies about the dandy at dinner;
Even the priest is soon deceased, quick as the sinner;
And the uniform he likes best of all.
Our Mother Death is like an onion,
When pealed, she’s quick to bring you tears.
Nothing escapes her vast dominion;
What’s here today rots and disappears:
The child that drowses, the rogue that carouses.
This is what the Jesuit espouses.95
All that we have — what we now eat and drink!
And so, dear Judge, I think it’s time for breakfast.
I’ll sit at the table, what do you think?
Stewed meat and gravy, Captain, can’t you taste;
perhaps a bowl of punch filled to the brink.”
The Soplica household gaped at the priest
and his jolly countenance in disbelief.
The Judge ordered the cook, “Prepare a feast.”
Soon punchbowl, sugar, bottles, and stewed beef
were brought. Plut and Rykov began to eat,
greedily slurping punch, bolting their food;
together devoured twenty plates of meat
in one-half hour, for the punch was good.
The satisfied Major sprawled in a chair,
drew out his pipe and with a banknote lit it,
wiping the breakfast crumbs with quite a flair;
trying to impress women with his wit.
“Ladies so lovely make a fine aperitif;
I swear by my rank that such a breakfast
is best enjoyed with a lady’s kerchief.
We must play cards — twenty-one or whist.
Or dance the Mazurka. The devil knows
I’m the finest dancer in all regiments.”
He leaned towards the ladies, assumed a pose,
replacing his pipe smoke with compliments.
“Let’s dance!” shouted Robak. “I’ll down this flask,
and though a priest, I can tuck up my gown
from time to time, kick up my heels, just ask.
Consider, though, Major, right now we down
this mead, while your men are freezing outside.
It’s fine for us to sport — let them partake.”
“Perhaps, though it’s not for me to decide,”
said the Major. “If the Judge gives, they’ll take.”
Facing the Judge, the monk whispered, “Abide
by my wishes, bring them a cask of rotgut.”
And so inside the house with laughs and shouts
the command carouses; and then shut
out, the soldiers engage in drinking bouts.
Captain Rykov emptied his cup in silence;
the Major drank and flirted with the ladies,
his zeal to dance becoming more and more intense.
He tossed his pipe and dropping his entreaties,
seized Telimena’s hand; but she ran off.
He staggered over to Zosia and bowed:
“Please dance,” he said. Then, “Rykov, that’s enough;
drop your pipe, we need music, fast and loud.
You play balalaika — take that guitar
and play a Mazurka. I’ll lead the dance.”
The Captain tightened the strings with a bar;
Plut begged Telimena for one more chance.
“My word, as Major,” he insisted,
“I’m Polish and not Russian, and if I lied,
I’m a son of a bitch.” Still she resisted.
“Why would I lie? It can be certified;
ask any soldier in the Second Army,
the tenth core of the Second Infantry
of this regiment, that I’m Major Plut;
that no one can dance the Mazur like me —
I’m known for my leaps and my nimble foot;
come now, don’t be so coy and standoffish,
I might get mad and then be forced to punish.”
He grabbed Telimena and placed a kiss
on her shoulder with a loud, smacking sound.
Tadeusz jumped, for he could not dismiss
this violation — and knocked Plut to the ground.
“Shoot and aim right for the bastard’s head!”
Tadeusz grabbed and fired, his eye was good,
but he missed, though Plut was singed by the lead,
and deafened by the explosion — quite loud.
Rykov waved his guitar, “This is revolt!”
He cried, bashing Tadeusz with the wood.
The Seneschal watched this brutal assault,
and then swung back his arm and hurled his knife.
It whizzed through the air, between several heads,
and seemed destined to cut short Rykov’s life,
but struck the base of the guitar instead,
piercing, shattering the delicate wood,
shielding the Captain from a certain death.
“Soldiers, revolt!” he cried, loud as he could,
trembling, frightened, trying to catch his breath;
he drew his sword, as he once more grew bo
ld,
defending himself back to the threshold.
The nobles poured in from the other hall;
They climbed through open windows, swords held high,
Maciek’s Little Switch in front of all.
Plut, by the door with Rykov, gave a cry
for aid and their nearest men responded.
Gleaming bayonets stuck in through the door,
three black helmets, visors lowered, rounded
the corner — just what Maciek waited for;
he pressed against the wall and watched their entrance,
then raised his sword and struck a mighty blow
that might have severed all three heads at once,
but Maciek’s eyes were poor. Eager to show
his wrath, he missed their necks, walloped instead,
their helmets, which fell clanging to their feet.
Bayonet met sword, but no one was dead;
along the path Russians made their retreat.
Yet more turmoil: for three Soplica allies
vied together to pry apart the beams
and free Dobrynskis, emitting loud cries.
The Moscovite soldiers answered with screams
and took up arms, the Sergeant took his bayonet
and stabled Podhajski, wounding still two more,
shooting a third and slashing all he met.
Some fled, but the Baptist rose up and tore
his ropes, lifted his fist and smashed the Russian,
whose face then struck the lock of his musket
as he fell. There would have been an explosion,
for he jarred the trigger which was reset,
but, drenched in blood, it would not fire at all,
and the Sergeant fell by the Baptist’s feet.
Bending down, he seized the gun by the barrel
and waved it overhead, prepared to fight.
Whirling like a windmill, he struck two privates
and one Corporal. The rest made a retreat,
terrified, rushing to the manor gates.
They shredded rope and demolished the stocks.
The nobles, unfettered, humped in the cart
used to collect alms, and found under stacks
a bundle which they quickly tore apart:
rapiers, muskets, scythes, clubs, and cutlasses.
The Bucket uncovered two blunderbusses
and a bag of bullets under the stack.
He loaded both, handing one to the Sack.
More Russians arrived in such disorder —
turmoil so great they couldn’t fight back.
Too close to fire, soldiers took the order
for hand-to-hand combat, so close they stood
that steel met flesh, each time inflicting harm,
bayonet against sword, blade on wood,
fist on fist and arm on arm.
Rykov led some of his men to the fence,
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 31