to empty the balls. When he’s counted all,
the apparitors raise their arms at once;
the newly elected names they announce.”
“And yet, one noble clearly disagrees:
he’s stuck his head out the window and stares
with looks so bold and insolent, he’d seize
the entire halls just to give some scares.
Who couldn’t guess that man shouts ‘Veto!”
See how his boastful challenge stirs the crowd
outside. See them rush to the door and go,
sabers drawn, to the kitchen. Yes, a loud
and bloody battle will break out — but no!
Pay close attention — in the corridor
a priest dressed in chasuble advances.
He brings the host and raises it, this prior,
led by a boy in surplice, who distances
the men by ringing a bell with great zeal.
And once they see this man of God, they sheath
their swords and quickly cross themselves and kneel.
And wherever the old priest turns, beneath
his upraised arms, the clink of weapons cease;
for all is calm and all returns to peace.”
“Too bad you younger men can not recall
just how it was among our turbulent
sovereign nobles. Though arms were held by all,
when true faith flourished, we ruled by consent.
Laws were respected and no need for police;
liberty grew with order, and glory
from abundance — for those were our decrees.
In other lands, I’ve heard a different story:
the government maintains soldier and gendarme,
constable and police; but it takes the sword
to guarantee one from another’s harm;
there is no liberty; please take my word.”
The Chamberlain tapped his tobacco case.
“Pan Seneschal,” he said, “could you postpone
until later your history of this place?
We hear, and yet our stomachs growl and groan;
don’t take offence — we’d like to eat quite soon.”
At this the Seneschal laid down his staff.
“Your Excellency,” he said, “one scene remains
to be explained, then you can eat and laugh.
The maker of this centerpiece took pains
to represent the Diet’s history.
Right here the new Marshall is carried out
by his followers, and to his glory,
the nobles toss their hats up and they shout,
‘Vivat!’ Yet the outvoted candidate
lingers alone; upon his gloomy brow
his cap pulled down. Nearby, his wife, in wait
has guessed the outcome. Now she too will show
signs of defeat, thinking of the honor
she might receive, now lost for three more years.
Luckily the maid is almost upon her,
for she’s about to faint or burst in tears.”
Finally, the Seneschal gave the signal
that he’d concluded his lengthy accounts;
servants entered in pairs; their trays were full
of food: first soup was served in great amounts —
beet soup known as royal and rich clear broth
prepared with skill as in old Polish times.
Into this broth, the Seneschal throws both
tiny pearls and a golden coin, which chimes
against the pot. Such broth, it’s often said,
fortifies the health, purifies the blood.
And yet what words could possibly evoke
delicious tastes, no longer known or served:
arkus, kontuz, blemas: the first egg yoke
mixed with sweet curds and whey; then veal, reserved
from birth for sausage, within a chicken broth;
the last, a rich and sweet almond aspic.
Then the main courses came: cod stuffed with both
civets and musk; and on the side were thick
caramels, dried plums, pine nuts, and creams.
But the fish were the most extraordinary —
salmon from Carpathian Mountain streams,
sturgeon, caviar from Venice and Turkey;
pike and pickerel, almost a yard long;
capon carp and noble carp and flounder.
Last, they brought a dish, aroma strong;
a masterpiece, an uncut fish, rounder
and longer than most. Only the head was fried;
the center had been baked, and the broad tail
was a ragout, with sauces on the side.
The guests, little concerned about this detail,
don’t care about this culinary puzzle;
they eat like soldiers in a castle stormed;
abundant Hungarian wine they guzzle.
Meanwhile, the centerpiece had been transformed.
Stripped of its snow, it turned to shades of green,
as the light froth of ice began to thaw,
revealing a base heretofore unseen.
And so, a new season the guests now saw,
sparkling with green, a multi-colored spring.
The grains come forth, as though with yeast they grow;
saffron wheat and gilded corn now mixing
with rye, in silver leaves and shiny dew;
and buckwheat chocolate was manufactured,
and apples and pears, blooming in an orchard.
The gifts of summer do not last for long;
in vain they beg the Seneschal to halt
the change — for they would like him to prolong
the sun. But it is spinning through the vault
of heaven, as the seasons change. Already,
the grain is painted with gold, and the heat
inside causes a thaw that is steady.
Grass turns yellow to show summer’s retreat,
and crimson leaves slowly begin to fall,
as though a wind had stripped the leaves all bare:
once adorned, they now stand naked and tall —
cinnamon sticks and twigs, placed with such care,
to simulate pine groves in such a way
that needles could be made from caraway.
The guests who had been drinking cups of wine
tore off the branches, stumps, and roots to chew
as snacks. The Seneschal, proud of his fine
centerpiece, circled it to get a better view.
General Dombrowski feigned astonishment:
“May I ask if these are Chinese shadows,
or has Pinetti the Conjurer been sent
from Italy with his black magic shows?
Are such displays so commonplace these days
in Lithuania? These customs leave me awed.
tell me — I’m unfamiliar with your ways,
you know I’ve spent all of my life abroad.”
The Seneschal replied and bowed to this:
“No, Pan General, this is no godless art,
but a clear reminder of the glorious
banquets, which were such a necessary part
of life among our magnates, when Poland
was blessed by God with happiness and might.
All that I’ve done, I hope you understand,
I’ve read about in books. You are quite right
to act astonished; such ancient custom,
alas, has all but vanished from our land.
These days new fashions spring upon us from
God knows where. Young men say they cannot stand
such vast expense; grudgingly serving drink and food;
they’re stingy with this fine Hungarian wine;
they would prefer to serve something that’s rude
and devilish — adulterated champagne
from Moscow. Then, following their meager dinner,
they’ll los
e so much at cards, that the winner
a hundred gentlemen could entertain.
And yet, I feel I must be very frank
and tell how even our most honored guest
(I truly hope he won’t think me a crank)
scoffed at me when I reached into the chest
to get this masterpiece. Antiquated,
he called it, a tiresome contrivance,
better left for children. And he related
how he thought it unfit, at variance
with such a gathering of distinguished men.
And Judge, even you said they’d all be bored.
But after all, it is my own opinion,
having observed our guests lack of discord
and great astonishment — this centerpiece
was well worth it. Besides, when again
will we have so many dignitaries?
You see, Pan General, there’s much to gain
in a banquet, by learning this fine art;
for when you entertain foreign monarchs —
yes, even Napoleon Bonaparte —
let me conclude my talk with these remarks.”
A murmur of voices was heard outside
shouting, “Long live Maciek the Steeplecock!”
The crowd pushed through the door by Maciek’s side;
then the Judge then took his guest with an arm-lock,
and happily led him to his special place
among the other honored guests. He said,
“Maciek, only a bad neighbor would fail to grace
our dinner table. “It’s almost time for bed;
“I try to eat early,” Maciek replied,
I came only out of curiosity,
not hunger. Even if I really tried,
I couldn’t stay away — I had to see.”
He overturned his plate to show the room
he would not eat, and silenced into gloom.
“Pan Dobrznski,” General Dombrowski
said to him, “Are you the famous swordsman
from the time of Kosciuszko, the very
Maciek know for his Switch? But this I can
not understand, you are healthy and spry,
after so many years — look how I’ve aged.
Kniaziewicz, too, has grayed and soon will die,
but you could hold your own if war were waged
today; you could compete with younger men;
your Switch still blooms! I’ve heard you gave a thrashing
to the Moscovites. Where are your brethren?
I’d love to see those pocketknives slashing,
those razors shaving, those Lithuanian
relics, the last of their kind, so dashing.”
“General,” replied the Judge, “they all fled
after the victory. Refuge they sought
in the Warsaw Kingdom. They are not dead;
I’m sure they joined the Legions where they fought.”
“It’s true,” a young squadron chief interrupted,
“One of my men, a scarecrow with a mustache,
was a cavalry major who disrupted
so many enemy camps with his lash.
This Dobryznski calls himself The Baptist;
Mazovians call him The Lithuanian
Bear. But if the General insists,
I’ll order my sergeant to bring him in.
“More of his clan,” a lieutenant added,
“I’ve seen a soldier who is called The Razor,
and one who hauls a blunderbuss, who’s led
a band of grenadiers, one a chasseur.”
“But what about their chief?” the General
questioned. “I want to know about this Penknife,
whose miraculous deeds the Seneschal
has extolled, whose deeds seem larger than life.”
“This Penknife,” the Seneschal responded,
is not in exile, though he was in fear
that if there was an inquiry be would be hounded.
The poor devil, all winter long was near
enough, hiding himself in nearby forests.
Now he’s returned, for in these times of war,
we need just such a knight who’d face all tests;
though it’s a shame his youth we can’t restore.
But here he is….” The Seneschal pointed
into the vestibule, where villagers
and servants were huddling in a disjointed
mass. Above their heads, one bald head towered,
shining like the full moon. Three times, at least,
it emerged and once more it disappeared
into a cloud of heads, as towards the feast
he advanced and bowed to the nobles’ cheers.
“Most excellent Hetman of the Crown, or is
it General, whichever is correct,
I am the Warden Rembajlo, and this
is my Penknife — you’ve heard of its effect.
It’s not the handle, not the inscription;
its fame stems from the temper of its blade.
You have already heard the description
of its deeds, and praise for the hand that made
it work. My service is long and faithful;
not just my homeland but Horeszkos’ too,
a clan whose virtues all nobles extol.
Milord, I do not think a scribe an do
with figures and pens to keep his books exact
what I, with my Penknife, can accomplish —
it would tax his powers to add and subtract,
for many heads I’ve lopped off with a swish;
and yet, my sword has not a single notch;
no murderous deed has ever tarnished it.
For oftentimes I would prefer to watch
from a safe distance, preferring to hit
only in warfare or else in a duel.
Only one time an unarmed man did fall
beneath my blade, and he was just a fool,
for whom Our Lord will grant rest eternal.
His death, my witnesses must surely know
was just — it was Pro Publico Bono.”
“Show us,” replied the laughing General,
“this famed Penknife, this executioner’s
delight.” He struggled to raise it with all
his strength, then passed it on to the others.
In turn they gripped the hilt; only a few
could raise it up. Perhaps the famed Dembinski
could handily brandish it, with this two
powerful arms — this the men could agree,
but he was away, and of those present,
only the squadron chief Derwinski
and Rozycki, the platton lieutenant
managed to swing this pole from iron cast,
from hand to hand, in turn, as it was passed.
But General Kniaziewicz, the tallest,
turned out to be the strongest of the group,
seizing the sword as if it were the smallest
rapier, and swinging it with a great swoop.
He brandished the blade, which flashed like lightning,
calling to mind old Polish fencing moves:
cross stroke, mill, the crooked slash, the frightening
downward blow, the stolen slash (a jab that proves
the fencing master), attitudes of tierce
and counterpoint, which is the former in reverse.
While he displayed his fencing skills to all,
Rembajlo the Warden embraced his knees,
and at each turn of sword, he gave a wail.
“General, I see that you’ve learned Pulaski’s105
thrust, that you fought with the Confederates.
There is Dzierzanowski’s attack, and there
is Sawa’s move; you must have learned these hits
from Maciek Dobrzynski’s old hand, but where
did you learn that other? And not to boast,
but that
slashing stroke is my own invention,
known in Rembajlo village by a host
of Rembajlos only. When they mention
that move, they speak of it as Milord’s Thrust.
Who showed that grip to you? I feel at peace
knowing such skill is held by one I trust.
For many years, my haunting fears increased,
after my death, my sword might rust away —
but now it will not rust! Please, General,
tell our youth not to use the thin epee,
a German billiard cue, fit for a girl.
It saddens me to see one on one’s belt.
I lay my Penknife at your feet — my most
dear possession, for which I’ve always felt
so much. I never had a wife to boast
about, nor children; yet this very sword
was my wife and child, the one who kept
me company, stirring when I stirred,
always by my side, whenever I slept.
When I grew old it hung upon the wall
like the Jews’ Commandments. I planned to store it
with me in the grave — that thought I recall,
now that I’ve found a new owner for it.”
The General, smiling, was clearly moved.
“Comrade,” he said, “if you would yield to me
your wife and child, the only things you loved,
you’d be a childless and solitary
widower — what sort of compensation
could I provide to sweeten your old age?”
“Am I Cebulski?” he cried with indignation,
“who gambled away his wife, played cribbage
with Moscovites? We have all heard that song.
It brings me joy to know my sword will shine
before the world, held by a hand so strong.
Remember, General, lengthen the line
of your strap, for the blade is very long;
and always when you slash, make your attack
cutting from the left ear, using both hands;
then cut straight from the head down to the stomach.”
The General, taking the sword, commands
his servants to place it in a wagon,
for it is much too long for him to wear.
And what became of it has long been one
of the great mysteries. No doubt you’d hear
many versions, repeated every year.
Dombrowski turned to Maciek: “Why are you
so displeased? Its seems that our arrival
has made you sour. What does your heart do,
if not skip a beat, when you see, in full
regalia, the gold and silver eagle?
When the trumpets blast Kosciuszko’s reveille?
Maciek, I thought the sight of such regal
forces might stir you, but if you can’t be
urged to draw your sword or mount your horse,
at least you’ll drink and join in with your friend
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 39