Even the Targovica Confederation
offered me a post in their government.
I was even tempted to Russify
myself, none of the magnates would dissent,
One of their own they’d sooner crucify
than disparage a servant of Moscow.”
I couldn’t betray my country, although
it meant sufferings and degradations;
where haven’t I been? How many nations?”
...............................
Then God revealed to me the only cure:
I had to make amends and change my ways,
If possible, to make myself more pure...”
................................
“The Pantler’s daughter, Eva, passed her days
in far Siberia, where her husband,
the Senator, was exiled. She died young,
so her daughter was sent back home to Poland.
I tried to correct my terrible wrong;
Zosia was that daughter! I made arrangements.”
“Perhaps I killed him less from disappointed
love than foolish pride and arrogance.
I humbled myself, lived among monks,
I, who was proud from birth, was anointed;
I, who blustered about, flaunted my lust
and fist, lowered my head, collected alms,
called myself Robak — a worm in the dust.
I gave up the sword and I lived by the Psalms...
My wretched life had been a kind of treason;
redemption offered the only escape;
serving my homeland became my reason,
to live by blood and work, to consecrate...”
“I fought for my country, I won’t tell where;
Not for earthly glory I faced gunfire
and charging swords, yet I refuse to share
my exploits. Quiet acts these times require.”
Sometimes I was able to penetrate
the guarded border, conveying commands;
I’d gather information on the state
of affairs, take back news to foreign lands.
My friar’s hood is known throughout Galicia,
Wielkopolska too. I worked for a year
lugging stones, chained in a fortress in Prussia.
Three times the Muscovites made their point clear,
cudgeling me in Siberia.
In Spielberg, the Austrians buried me
deep in a dungeon, in carcer durum;
yet by a miracle, God ferried me
back to my people, the land I came from,
to let me die at peace with the sacraments...”
“And now, who knows, perhaps I’ve sinned again;
now I may be the cause of further laments;
perhaps I’ve hastened the insurrection,
spreading too soon the General’s command.
I wanted Soplicas to be well-armed,
at the head of Lithuania to stand.
This wish, so pure, seems to have harmed...”
“You longed for revenge, well now you have it.
God used your sword to bring my punishment;
my plan’s cut short and nothing can save it
from this tangled plot of your arrangement.
For years you have conspired to bring me down,
while my whole life was spent with this one goal —
to free Poland — the commonwealth and crown,
which I loved with that earthly part of my soul.
This hope, like my very own child, I nurtured;
I forgive you, though our future you stole.”
“Forgiveness comes from God,” the Warden assured,
“and if you’re ready to accept last rites,
Father Jacek, I won’t stand in your way.
You’ll get no Lutheran or Schismatic fights
from me. Whoever saddens the final day
commits a sin; I’ll give you consolation
instead. When my master fell to the ground,
as I knelt amid the devastation
and dipped my sword in the blood of his wound,
swearing vengeance, my master raised his head,
pointed his hand to the gate where you stood,
and made the sign of the cross. He was not dead;
he forgave the one who had spilled his blood,
and yet, I had such anger and despair,
I vowed to ignore this cross in the air.”
For almost an hour, coughs, groans, and sighs
interrupted the grave conversation.
They waited for the parish priest, till cries
were heard and pounding horseshoes on the run.
The innkeeper rushed to the door and knocked;
panting, he handed Jacek a letter.
It was sent by Fischer, Chief of Staff
of Prince Poniatowski’s Polish forces.
It told how Bonaparte now had enough
support; and so his private council endorses
his call for war. The armies will assemble.
with these decrees, the country will resemble
the ancient Union of Lithuania and Poland.
Jacek listened and then intoned a prayer.
The consecrated candle in his hand
flickered, as he held it in the air.
Something was burning in his tearful eyes;
he seemed ecstatic, though none could tell.
“And now, O Lord, to you my soul shall rise.”
All knelt at the sound of the ringing bell,
a sign the parish priest arrived as well.
Across the sky the night was now departing;
the sun’s first rays were streaming through the glass;
like diamond arrows they fell straight down, imparting
a glow seen only in icons at mass —
to the bed where the dying monk’s face shone
like a Saint beneath a fiery crown.
BOOK 11. THE YEAR 1812
Spring omens – The entrance of the armies – Religious services – The official rehabilitation of Jacek Soplica – A conversation between Gervazy and Protazy to expedite the lawsuit – Courtship of an Uhlan and a girl – Settling the dispute over the Bobtail and Falcon – Banquet – Presentation of the betrothed couple
Who could forget the year that people call
The year of the harvest, known to soldiers
as The year of the War. How they recall
in tale and song, how the excitement endures.
The miracle had long been expected,
preceded by rumor and premonition;
and when the spring sun warmed the neglected
earth, a strange mood seized the Lithuanian
people — they felt that some force would destroy
the earth, yet not without yearning and joy.
When the cattle were driven to pasture
that spring, although they were famished and lean,
they reluctantly went and would not venture
near the spring corn that was already green,
sprouting up from the frozen soil. Instead,
they fell to the ground where the earth was plowed,
where each cow in turn lowered its head,
and chewing its cud of winter feed, bellowed.
The peasants, too, dragging their wooden plows,
did not celebrate the end of winter
by singing songs; they had been hard to rouse
for work, and now they lazily saunter,
as though they forgot how to sow and reap;
halting so often their oxen fall asleep.
They anxiously gazed at the western sky,
as if they expected to see something divine;
something was strange with the birds flying by:
the stork had returned to its native pine,
its white wings spread an early standard of spring.
The chattering swallows flocked by the la
ke,
gathering mud for the nests they were making.
That night strange calls could be heard in the brake:
the sound of woodcocks dragging bits of hay.
Above the forest, a flock of wild geese,
weary from flight, honking leads the way.
Beyond them, cranes whose wailing would not cease.
hearing this, the watchman asks astonished:
what confusion the winged kingdom brings,
and why the birds had been so early banished.
Soon flocks of finches, plover, and starlings
appear amid bright tufts and flashing plumes,
to rise up in the hills, fall to the meadows —
and so it seems a new cavalry looms:
a strange array of uniforms and rows
and rows of never before seen weapons.
Platoons arrive like gushing, melting snows,
flooding the roads. The clatter of iron
shod feet accompanies the sight of black shakos
and glittering bayonets in the distance,
an infantry countless as swarming ants.
All faced north, for it seemed now that the spring
arrived, everything moved behind the birds,
driven by some mysterious promptings
from the southern paradise northward.
Horses and men, cannon and campfires aglow;
everywhere the earth trembles, a thunderous roar.
War! War! In Lithuania there is no
place so remote, no province so far
away that sounds of war could not be heard.
In forests, where peasants had dwelt for years,
where generations had never ventured
beyond the trees, those who had no other fears
than gusting wind and cold, now heard strange cries.
Men who had known no other guests than beasts
that shared the woods, heard sounds they couldn’t recognize:
the sky strangely aglow, something released,
which seemed to stray from the field of battle,
seeking the forest where it tore up stumps,
shredded branches, uprooted the nettle.
The bison in the moss raised up their rumps
and shuddered, the long gray hair of their manes
bristled as they propped themselves on front legs
and gazed at the wondrous sparks in the heavens —
when all of a sudden, amid some twigs,
a smoldering shell whirled and hissed,
and split apart a trunk like a lightning bolt.
The bison had never before witnessed
such might, and fled to hide from the assault.
But where was the battle? The young men ask;
they seize their arms; women throw up their hands
in despair; and they all put on the mask
of war, certain of triumph in their lands.
“God’s with Napoleon!” they shout and weep,
“And the great Napoleon is with us!”
Oh spring, how long our countrymen will keep
alive this memory so glorious —
the war and the harvest. For while the grain
and grass blossomed, so many human hopes
flowered too, nourished by this bloody rain;
and from this, the beautiful dream develops.
Soplica estate lay close to the road,
where two commanders pressed from the Nieman —
our Prince Josef Poniatowski, followed
by the King of Westphalia, Hierononym,
whose armies occupied most of the land
in Lithuania, from Grodno to Slonim.
The king had given his men the command
for three days rest, and though fatigued, worn out,
Polish soldiers complained they would not stand
further delay, eager to load and shoot.
The Prince set up headquarters in the town,
but on Soplica’s estate, forty-thousand
troops set up camp and started to bed down.
The Generals joined them: Dombrowski and
Kniaziewicz, Malochowki, Giedrojc,
Grobowski, along with all the rest.
When they arrived, it was already late;
wherever they could, they set up quarters:
the old castle, the manor, by the gate.
Sentries were stationed all around the borders;
exhausted men went straight to their bedrolls;
over the camp a silence quickly came.
Only shadows of the wandering patrols
appeared, and from campfires, guttering flame.
Watchwords were passed, as sentries changed or crossed
the fields and meadows, checking each outpost.
The soldiers slept. The Judge, the generals,
the guests, had long been carried off in dream.
Of all the eyes, only the Seneschal’s
remained open. Held in such high esteem,
he had to prepare the next day’s banquet,
a feast dear to the Polish heart, worthy
of such guests, in keeping with the spirit
of the solemn church and family holiday.
Two couples would exchange their wedding vows;
and General Dombrowski made it known
he wished to eat a Polish meal before he goes.
Though it was late, the Seneschal had flown
about to all the neighboring estates,
collecting cooks to follow his directions.
Some worked by the huge bowls and serving plates,
while he tucked up his sleeves and wrapped an apron
around his waist and donning his nightcap,
roaming through the kitchen, wielding his swatter.
To protect his delicacies, he’d snap
his wrist at any greedy fly, no matter
how small; while with his other hand he took
from his pocket his spectacles and wiped —
and reached for, unwrapped, and opened a book.
The book his hand now tightly gripped
was called The Perfect Cook, and it contained
all known recipes for the Polish table,
described in great detail. It is maintained
that when Count Tenczyn served his remarkable
feasts in Italy (which pleased Pope Urban
the Eighth) he followed this book religiously.
The same holds true for the Radziwill clan,
especially Beloved Karol, when he
would entertain Stanislaw the King —
they still discuss his marvelous banqueting.
The Seneschal read and comprehended;
he ordered cooks who carried out with skill.
Dozens of knives chopped and cleavers pounded;
not one of the cooks’ helpers remained still.
They carried wood and pails of milk or wine,
emptied kettles, spiders, and stewing pans.
Pots were steaming, the stove began to shine,
the leather bellows were pumped to fan
which flared and ignited the wood,
when the Seneschal poured melted butter
over logs. (Only the wealthy would
permit such extravagance, such utter
excess.) Some boys stuffed bundles of dried twigs,
while others set immense roasts on the spits —
beef, dear, haunches of wild boar and stags.
The others plucked wild fowl by pits,
where feathers rose in clouds, the birds stripped bare:
blackcocks and grouse, but not so many hens;
for back when Dobrzynskis attacked the lair,
during the ill-fated foray, the chickens
were slaughtered by the Sack, who didn’t care
that he annihilated Zosia’s dear flock.
The few that remained were not even fit
for medicine, and the So
plica’s stock
of poultry, once known throughout the district,
had not recovered. Yet nothing else was spared
for this banquet; from nearby farms they packed
abundant supplies, which were sent and prepared;
so one might say: Bird’s milk is all they lacked.
The two things necessary on the host’s part,
Soplica’s house combined — plenty and art.
On the Day of the Annunciation,100
the sacred day of the Blessed Mother,
the morning sky helped with the preparation.
Without a cloud it loomed like some other-
worldly sea, where stars like pearls shone beneath
the waves. Then, from the side a tiny cloud
floating above the earth, plunged into the sheath —
an angel detained by a human crowd
at prayer, that now must rush back to its hearth.
From all surrounding towns and villages,
Lithuanian people gathered on the lawn,
as though they’d read in the Almanac pages,
that by the chapel, just after dawn,
a miracle would occur. So now they came,
in part because they were devout, in part
from curiosity, which are the same
to those who knew the famous names by heart —
the Generals, the Legion’s commanders
who attended Mass today, those honored
like patron saints, who valiantly endured
homelessness and poverty and exile
to serve Lithuania during her trial.
The officers were quickly surrounded;
they stared at soldiers who grouped at the hedge.
The Lithuanians were astounded
to hear these men speak the Polish language,
their countrymen, uniformed, armed, and free.
Mass had begun, although the sanctuary
could not contain the crowds, so people knelt
on grass outside, while looking through the door
of the chapel where holy icons dwelt.
The peasants’ heads were uncovered, their hair
was white and pale as flax but shone like gold
ripened fields of grain. And here and there,
girls’ braids, adorned with flowers, hours old,
loose-flowing ribbons and some peacock plumes,
blossomed like corncockles and cornflowers
amid the wheat. Then when the bell resumes
its ring, heads bend, like grain before mowers.
This day the farmers bring the first tribute
of spring, and spread fresh-cut bundles of green
around the Blessed Mother. Then they distribute
large bouquets and wreaths around and between
icons; they even decorate the belfry
and galleries. At times the morning wind
stirring from the east, wrenched the flowers free.
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 36