ready to collapse before the next frost.
The Judge was often told to build a new
structure and destroy what time had weakened;
but he preferred to renovate, postponed
the work, using props to support the bend.
Even braced, the rotting wood creaked and groaned.
Towards this cheesehouse, swaying above, Russians,
the Seneschal and Protazy both walked,
carrying on mysterious discussions.
Dragging a few long poles, the Steward stalked
through the hemp, behind them with the cook’s boy.
Silently, they raised the poles to the height
of the rotting pillar they meant to destroy,
then pushed and shoved the house with all their might,
like raftsmen pushing off the river bank.
The pillar snapped; the cheesehouse tumbled down.
A load of wood and cheese fell with a clank
and the Russian soldiers began to drown.
The line crushed — corpses lay amid the cheese,
once white, now bloodied and splattered with brains;
while those uninjured rushed behind the trees,
where the Baptizer and the Razor reign,
thundering, flashing along with the Switch.
From the manor, a mob of nobles rush;
the Count sends his cavalry from the ditch;
and fleeing Russians are caught in the crush.
Only eight Russians, behind their Sergeant,
defended themselves. They valiantly stood,
gun barrels leveled, trying to prevent
the Warden’s attack as well as they could.
He swung his penknife right into their fire.
The priest saw him and scrambled to the path,
to trip him before soldiers could refire.
They stumbled and Gervazy showed his wrath,
until bullets were whizzing by their heads.
Saved, Gervazy leapt into the dense cloud,
and slashed, sending Russians to their deathbeds.
The others feared his blade, fled in a crowd;
behind them, the Warden’s penknife waving.
The Russians reached the barn door standing open;
Gervazy followed them, swinging and raving;
all disappeared into the pitch black pen.
But Gervazy would not forsake the fight —
groans could be heard outside, and frequent blows,
then silence. The Warden comes into sight,
while at his side his bloody penknife glows.
By now the nobles had taken the field.
The scattering soldiers were once again pursued;
though Rykov stood his ground and would not yield,
until the Chamberlain spoke: “Don’t delude
yourself, Captain, you cannot defeat us.
Surrender and your honor won’t be stained;
you tried and now there’s nothing to discuss.
Wretchedness, not courage, is disdained;
throw down your arms, abandon resistance,
or let our Polish swords do you the honor.
Your only help has vanished in the distance;
you have no choice, you are my prisoner.
Rykov was overcome by this grave threat.
He bowed and gave the Chamberlain his sword,
bloodied to the hilt. “I won’t forget,
next time, to bring the big cannon forward,
for Suvorov was right when he insisted —
never attack the Poles without cannon.
If only Major Plut and men resisted
alcohol, we’d have been second to none.
But Plut permitted his soldiers to drink,
and he will have to answer to the Tsar,
for his command has brought us to this brink.
Most honored Chamberlain, don’t let this mar
our friendship: remember the Russian saying:
To be friends, you must fight now and again.
You’re good at playing as well as slaying,
but please be lenient with my wounded men.”
The Chamberlain raised up his sword.
A general pardon was then proclaimed
by the Seneschal. With this new concord,
the numerous soldiers who had been maimed
were treated and corpses cleared from the field.
The healthy soldiers were disarmed and held.
They searched in vain for Plut. He’d been concealed
inside a nettle patch since the repelled
attack; hidden deep in the leaves he lay.
And only when he saw both sides extend
their hands in peace — he left. The last foray
in Lithuania came to an end.
BOOK 10. EMIGRATION - JACEK
Deliberations regarding security of the victors — Negotiations with Rykov – Farewell – Grave revelations — Hope
The morning clouds dispersed for a moment;
like black ravens they flew up to the skies,
where once again they flocked as their ascent
ended — the sun at the peak of its rise.
From tiny clouds one immense cloud grew,
which covered half the sky; driven by the wind
it thickened and hung lower as it flew,
until it was suspended from behind
and seemed to stand as though braced by a mast,
like some giant sail, taking in all wind.
Across the heavens, south to west, it passed.
The air grew still, but silence would not last,
for it was mute as though struck dumb from fear.
The fields of grain, which had been beaten down,
now raised their golden spikes into the air
and rolled like waves, glowing golden brown.
Then motionless, they gazed into the sky
with bristling stalks. By the side of the road
green poplars and willows appeared to cry;
like mourners by a grave, they bore their load,
striking their brows, flailing their arms outstretched,
their silver tresses by the wind unbound.
Then, like the dead, expressionless, wretched,
they stood like the statue on Sypolos found —
Niobe dumbstruck by the force of her own grief;
one lonely aspen stood with trembling leaf.
Lazy cattle, usually loath to return,
began to run, leaving their cowherd behind,
abandoned their pasture, fleeing to the barn.
The bull began to scrape the earth and grind
its horns against a tree, scaring the herd
with its sinister roar. Cows raised their eyes,
gaping, opened their mouths, and lowing, answered.
The pigs stayed back, gnashing bundles of rye;
grunting they tried to steal hay for their sty.
Birds hide in the forest or in thick grass
of roof thatch, while by the pond ravens flock,
their black eyes watching black clouds pass.
They strut back and forth, as though to mock
the clouds, sticking out tongues from their dry throats,
spreading their wings and awaiting their bath.
Even ravens, sensing the storm that floats
overhead, spread their wings, follow the path
of the rising clouds over the forest.
And finally, swallows, proud of their quick flight,
pierce the black clouds as though someone has pressed
a trigger and gunshot ripped through the night.
By now, the terrible fighting concluded;
the nobles marched their captives through the door,
leaving the field of battle secluded.
Outside, the elements waged their fierce war.
Sunlight still gilded the land to the west,
which s
hone a dismal yellowish-red tone;
while clouds cast huge shadows over the rest,
like a net which gathered all for its own.
But gusting winds whipped up the still forest;
one after another, strong as a gale,
bringing a rain with drops as big as hale.
Suddenly the wind split apart the cloud;
whirling columns swept across the meadow,
over the pond where they hung like a shroud,
stirring up the muddy water below.
They moved to the fields — willow branches snapped.
The uncut grass, torn like handfuls of hair,
mixes with curling sheaves, flying and trapped
in the howling wind heaving them through air.
One column of wind descends to the ground,
tunnels and digs in the earth new furrows,
openings that another gale found,
raising a pillar black of earth that blows
and whirls across the field on legs of sand,
thin at the base, bulging at the summit,
increasing in fury, growing more grand,
like a pyramid. And coming from it,
as from the funnel of a blaring horn
to herald the storm, a blasting fanfare:
chaos of water and whirling clouds, borne
by the wind with hay and branches stripped bare
of leaves, grass that was plucked, sod that was torn:
wind batters the forest, howling like a bear.
The downpour started, as though from a sieve.
Lightning, thunder, great sheets of water fell,
Buckets drenching the earth without reprieve,
joining watery cloud and watery well
with gigantic strings, blacker than night.
At times the entire horizon cracks;
the storm’s angel, the sun, shows all its light,
then hides its bright face and covers its tracks,
as thunder slams its door, right on its face.
Then new darkness, more dense and palpable,
descends. From the same chaotic place,
The thunder-claps cease and the changeable
rain subsides, but only to be aroused
again with furious howls and gushing
water — till everything around is soused.
Minutes later it seems to be hushing
the trees; and quiet, still furnished proof:
constant patter of raindrops on the roof.
Such was the force this dismal storm employed,
casting in darkness the whole battleground.
The road was flooded and the bridge destroyed,
like an ancient fortress with moats around,
the farm was totally impenetrable.
So news of the battle at Soplica estate
did not get out; and this unforeseeable
fortune alone secured the nobles’ fate.
In the Judge’s room, deliberations
were in progress, as Robak lay in bed,
exhausted, with bloody lacerations,
though sound in mind and very far from dead.
He issued orders — the Judge carried out:
the Chamberlain summoned, the Warden told
to bring Rykov, who was detained about
an hour behind closed doors and offered gold.
But Captain Rykov refused the offer,
throwing down the ducat-laden purse.
“Poles, brothers,” he said, ‘don’t make this tougher;
you say all Muscovites are thieves or worse;
well now you know it isn’t always true.
I am Captain Rykov, with quite a few
decorations — eight medals, three crosses:
this one for Oczakov, this for Izmail96
in Turkey, where we suffered great losses;
this for Novi, where our efforts would fail;97
this for East Prussia, this Korsak’s retreat
from Zurich. Also, to show my prowess
with the sword, I was three times sent to meet
the Feldmarshall; twice the Tsar wished to express
his joy at my role in the Prussians’ defeat.”
“And yet Captain,” interrupted the priest,
“What will become of us without your terms?
You gave your word we Poles would be released.”
“It’s true I gave my word and that confirms
my pledge — why should I want to ruin you?
I am an honest man, I like you Poles,
for such a joyous group I never knew,
good with the bottle and the battle, fine souls.
In Russia, we say, If you ride in front
you’ll hide tomorrow, for today you beat,
tomorrow you’re beaten. What’s the affront?
That’s the soldier’s lot — even in defeat.
There is no need for anger and hatred.
In Zurich, half our infantry was dead;
I lost my regiment at Austerlitz;
at Raclawice, your famed Kosciuszko,98
back when I was a sergeant, led a blitz.
Your peasants with scythes put on quite a show
and mowed down my platoon. So much blood spilled
at Ozakov, but what else could I do?
At Maciejowice, alone, I killed
two brave nobles; with this bayonet I slew
them; and as one advanced holding a scythe,
and sliced off the hand of our cannoneer,
still holding the fuse. You Poles take the prize!
I know that your homeland you hold quite dear;
I sympathize, yet I’m the Tsar’s Captain —
he commands, I must obey. Let Poland
be Poland, and let Muscovites remain
in Moscow. But the Tsar won’t understand.”
To this the Judge replied, “My dear Captain,
everyone knows that you’re an honest man.
You’ve been encamped nearby for years;
please don’t get angry when we offer gold;
don’t take offence and aggravate our fears.
We know you can’t be bought or sold,
but you do lack money, so it appears.”
“My poor soldiers!” Rykov cried out. ‘All hacked
and stabbed — my regiment has been wiped out,
and all because of Plut’s command, which lacked
authority. It’s his fault, and no doubt
he’ll have to answer for it to the Tsar.
Keep the money for yourselves, gentlemen,
my Captain’s pay, you’d be surprised, goes far —
enough for punch, pipe tobacco, and when
I want to dine and drink, I visit here,
carouse a bit and chat — that’s how I live.
I’ll defend you in court, it’s only fair,
I’ll testify on your behalf, I give
my word of honor. We’ll say we visited,
danced and drank, perhaps the punch was strong,
when Plut accidentally exhibited
his gun, which fired...a battle before long.
And that’s how the battalion diminished.
But you, gentlemen, use your gold to grease
the inquiry; soon it will be finished.
But pay attention, let me say my piece,
I swear by my rapier that Plut commands;
I am only second. And while he lives
there’s trouble, so don’t leave it in his hands;
he’s full of tricks, so be prepared for what he gives.
Plug his mouth with banknotes, stuff them tight.
Well, gentlemen, and you with the long sword,
where’s Plut, I haven’t seen him yet tonight,
where is he being held, and what’s his word?”
Gervazy glanced about — stroked his bald pate;
he motioned nonchalantly with his arm
as if to
show their problems would abate,
that he’d arranged it so there’d be no harm.
Rykov persisted: “Has Plut guaranteed
his silence?” But the Warden felt harassed
by Rykov’s talk and clearly disagreed.
He pointed his thumb to the ground and passed
his hand in front, trying, as he swung,
to cut off further discourse. “Now I swear
by my Penknife, that Plut will hold his tongue
for a long time.” The Warden grabbed the air,
snapped his fingers and briskly shook his hand,
as if this were a sorcerer’s command.
This gesture was clearly comprehended;
those who heard wondered what the Russian thought;
their gloomy silence had far from ended
when Rykov spoke: “The wolf that robbed was caught.”
“Requiescat in pace!’ The Chamberlain said.
“It was God’s hand,” the Judge interrupted,
“not mine — I didn’t know that he was dead.”
Yet from his pillow the priest erupted,
scolding the Warden, then turning morbid,
“to kill a prisoner is a great sin,
and such retribution Christ would forbid.
You will answer to God, my poor Warden.
And yet there are some grounds for forgiveness;
if the execution was carried out
Pro Publico Bono, not foolishness.”
The Warden bowed his head as though devout;
he faced the priest and blinked, his voice was low.
He repeated, “Pro Publico Bono.”
There was no further talk of Major Plut,
though the next day they searched the house and ground,
even offered rewards for his corpse, but
he had vanished, was nowhere to be found,
as though he’d been carried off by the stream.
Rumors were rife, and everyone conjectured,
but no one knew his fate. Yet it would seem
the Warden held the key as he lectured,
“Pro Publico Bono, the priest explained.”
In vain they badgered him to tell;
if the Seneschal knew, the secret remained
locked in his mind, silenced as by a spell.
After negotiations, Rykov bowed
and left the room. Robak summoned the rest
of the warrior-nobles — and this crowd
the grave Chamberlain solemnly addressed.
“Brothers, God favored our weapons today;
I will be blunt, I must admit to you
the consequence of this battle will weigh
heavily upon us, not just the few
who fought — everyone must share the blame.
When the monk spread the news too zealously,
the Warden and nobles compounded the shame.
They misconstrued words, acted jealously.
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 33