Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works

by Adam Mickiewicz

  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