to toast Napoleon’s health, and, of course,
the hope that Poland’s slavery will end.”
“Hah!” said Maciek. “I see what’s happening.
But don’t you know, two eagles will not nest
together; it seems that you have been riding,
Hetman, a horse with piebald back and chest.
The Emperor’s a hero; we expend
much talk of this subject. And both Pulaskis
often said, when others would defend
DuMorouier the French agent and his decrees,
that Poland was in need of a hero
who was Polish — not French, not Italian,
a true Piast — Jan, Jozef, Maciek, or so….106
And the army! For the Polish nation?
Fusileers, Grenadiers, and Sappers!
There are more German titles in this group
than national. There might as well be Tartars107
or Turks — who could understand such a troop?
Or Schismatics, whose faith in God is lacking —
I’ve seen how they assault peasant women;
they’ve been plundering churches, pillaging.
The Emperor is bound for Moscow, but when
he goes without God’s blessing, he will find108
the road quite long. I’ve heard that he’s incurred
the Bishops’ wrath.” Here Maciek stopped and dined;
dipped bread in soup, leaving off his final word.
Pan Maciek’s words stung the ears of his host.
Young men grumbled. Compelled to intervene,
the Judge announced that joy was not all lost:
the third betrothed pair at the door was seen.
It was the Notary. And yet he had
to introduce himself, unrecognized,
since in his Polish clothes he wasn’t clad.
Telimena, his wife-to-be, legalized
her wish that he renounce his dear Kontusz,109
placing a clause in the marriage contract
to make him change his wardrobe in a rush.
And so, the Notary now wore, in fact,
a French frockcoat. Yet it was clear to all
that this outfit deprived him of his soul.
He strode as though he was afraid he’d fall,
rigid as though he’d prepared for this role
by swallowing his walking stick. He dared
not glance about; he held his composure,
yet all could see just how this bridegroom fared;
a close examination shows his torture.
He doesn’t know to bow, or where to place
his hands — this man, once so fond of gesture.
He tucks his hands into an empty space,
feeling for his sash — no longer worn —
only to stroke his stomach. Noticing
his grave mistake, he face begins to turn
crimson; and then, to a distinct hissing
of whispers, he hides them in his pockets,
advancing through a dense thicket of jeers.
the thought of this frock fills him with regrets
and shame, as though disgraced among his peers.
Spotting Maciek, this quickly turned to fears.
The Notary and Maciek had been friends;
yet Maciek casts a glance so furious,
the Notary turns pale and soon defends
himself, by buttoning up his curious
frockcoat, thinking Maciek might plunder it
with his glance. But Maciek only yells out twice:
“You idiot!” And too disgusted to sit
any longer, too shocked to give advice,
he rose, gave no farewell, and quickly went,
mounting his horse, back to his settlement.
But soon the Notary’s fair beloved,
Telimena, displayed her ever radiant
beauty; everything from her head to toe proved
she knew the latest styles for this event.
The manner of her gown and her coiffure
a pen could not describe; perhaps a brush
could paint the tulle, the muslin, the cashmere,
the lace, the pearls and precious stones, the blush
upon her cheeks, the look within her eyes…
The Count was astonished to recognize
his former love. He rose from the table,
searching for his sword. “It can’t be you!”
He cried. “Here I am, yet you are still able
to clasp another’s hand? How could you do
this thing? Unfaithful creature! Fickle soul!
You’d hide your face beneath the earth in shame;
have you forgot your vows? A deed so foul!
Why have I worn your ribbons — for a game?
Woe to the rival who’s caused this affront.
Over my dead body he’ll have to walk
to reach the altar — to pay for this stunt.”
The guests rose up amid increasing talk;
the Notary was horrified at first.
As the Chamberlain rushed to reconcile
the rivals, Telimena, fearing the worst,
took the Count aside. In her own style,
she slowly whispered: “I am still not married
to the Notary; if you’re truly hurt,
tell me right away, nothing’s been agreed.
But tell me soon, you must be brief or curt —
do you love me, or have your feelings changed?
Are you prepared to wed this very day?
I’ll cancel all the plans that I’ve arranged;
I’ll leave the Notary. What do you say?
To this the Count replied, “Oh, woman, strange,
incomprehensible, and once poetic;
you now appear prosaic; what great change
has made you seek a marriage that would stick
chains around your hands instead of souls?
Please believe me, there are offers of love,
and some of them are made without avowals;
there are ties without obligations of
marriage. For when two hears can burn apart,
just like the stars they can communicate.
Who knows, the earth reveals his heart,
circling the sun, pursuing the moon, his mate;
he may gaze upon her, but not come near.”
“Enough of this; I’m not some heavenly sphere.”
She said. “But by the grace of God, female.
I know the rest; it’s all nonsense to me.
Now I warn you, if from your word, I fail
to marry, if you disrupt this ceremony,
God is my witness, I will attack you
with my sharp nails.”
“I won’t” the Count replied,
“disturb your happiness, that would not do.”
With sad eyes and contempt, he turned aside,
trying to punish his unfaithful love,
and with interplanetary fire, tried
another young lady’s spirit to move.
The Seneschal, eager to restore peace,
brought up once more his much beloved story —
the wild boar amid the Nalibok trees,
when Prince Rejtan sought to reduce the glory
of Prince de Nassau. But no one really cares;
they finish off their ices, then proceed
to leave the castle, eager for fresh air.
The peasants were passing pitchers of mead
outside; their food hand long since disappeared.
Musicians’ instruments were set in tune.
All were anxious to dance, yet two whispered
off to the side — they would not break off soon.
Tadeusz spoke: “Zosia, , we must discuss
this matter that has occupied my mind.
my Uncle knows; he leaves it up to us.
According to law, the village behind
the castle is part of my inheritance.
And yet, as my wife, a considerable
part falls to you; let’s leave nothing to chance;
now that we have Poland, we are able
to profit much from this fortunate change;
but what will the peasants gain from our luck?
Simply another master they’ll exchange.
They were governed with kindness, never struck,
but what will happen to them when I’m gone?
I am a soldier; we are both mortal;
I am human too, and I fear my own
caprices; I’d feel more secure if I could tell
the authorities that the peasants’ fate
will fall under protection of the law..
We’re free; why not let them enjoy our state?
We’ll give them land, and not just hay and straw —
the land where they were born, that they’ve acquired
through bloody toil, the work that makes us rich.
But let me warn you, we will be required
to live more modestly, to make a switch,
if we indeed give our peasants the land;
our income will decrease. Now I was raised
in modest circumstance; nothing grand
and extravagant would ever be praised.
Yet you, Zosia, of higher birth; you spent
your youth in Petersburg; what kind of life
could you expect within a place so distant
from society? You’d be a farmer’s wife!”
Zosia replied, “I don’t have the authority;
as a woman — it clearly rests with you.
I am too young, but know that I’ll agree,
wholeheartedly, whatever you decide to do.
If freeing the peasants makes us more poor,
then you, Tadeusz, will become more dear.
My birth means nothing to me any more;
I was orphaned, and the terrible fear
that I’d remain, Soplicas have dispelled —
in your home, as a daughter, I have dwelled.”
“I don’t dread country life; if long ago
I lived in the city, it’s long forgotten.
To be with hens that cluck, roosters that crow,
that’s sure to give me more pleasure than ten
St. Petersburgs. If I have sometimes yearned
for balls and gatherings, well that was childish;
that life would bore me now; I learned
last year in Vilno, when all winter I would wish
to be back home, living the life for which
I was born. And I don’t dread the labor;
I’m young, healthy; for me it’s not a switch.
I wear a ring of keys; I know which door
each fits — you’ll see, I can manage the household.”
No sooner had Zosia clearly extolled
the virtues of being a farmer’s wife,
than Gervazy approached, amazed and glum:
“I’ve heard the Judge speak of freedom and life,
but I can’t comprehend where this comes from.
What has liberty to do with peasants?
It sounds to me just like some German notion.
Now I trace origins back to events
in paradise: all true men of devotion
agree — we’re all descendents of Adam.
But I have heard that peasants stem from Ham,
Jews from Japhet. We nobles come from Shem,
and it is our job to watch over them.
But now the parish priest is teaching us
that this was true according to old law;
that all has changed, of course, it’s obvious —
that though Lord Jesus was born in the straw,
surrounded by Jews in a peasant’s barn,
he, who descended from kings, had this plan,
that all men, yes, even those poorly born,
would be equal to the wealthiest man.
That is the way it is, so it must be,
especially since I’ve heard that you’ve agreed,
my Lady, and you have authority.
But if, indeed, the peasants will be freed,
I warn you, if this liberty lacks
meaning, if it’s nothing but an empty word…
For the Muscovites imposed such a tax
when the late Pan Karp’s serf-freeing occurred,
the peasants starved, having been taxed threefold!
So this is my advice; you must follow
the old custom and have them ennobled;
a coat of arms, a crest, you must bestow.
Zosia should give the half-goat to her fold;
Tadeusz should give the star and the crescent.
If this is done, I will accept reforms,
the full equality of each peasant
bearing, for all to see, a coat of arms.”
“But you, Tadeusz, made your wife upset.
The loss of land will make you impoverished.
God forbid, a Lord’s grand-daughter won’t get
calluses, not at least until I’ve perished.
I have a plan; the castle has a chest
in which the Horeszko table service
is kept, along with signet rings, the best
pearl necklaces, rich plumes, marvelous
cutlasses, caparsions — treasures
that the Pantler buried deep in the ground,
that I’ve protected from all plunderers.
I’ve guarded them and kept them safe and sound
from Muscovites and you, dear Soplicas.
I also own a good-sized pouch that’s filled
with my own thalers; and this small amount
was saved through years of service, from gifts willed
to me. I thought I’d use my golden coin
to mend the castle walls, but now it seems
the farm will need these pennies. I will join
you, Pan Soplica, and what Zosia deems
fit for me — that I’ll happily accept.
I’ll rock to sleep a third generation
of Horeszkos; your child will be adept
with my Penknife, if that child is a son.
A son, I’m sure, for when the land is torn
by war, new sons are always being born.”
Gervazy barely spoke his final word,
when Protazy walked up, quite dignified.
He bowed, then with a gesture self-assured,
withdrew from his Kontusz’s inside
pocket, a long panegyric, almost
two and a half sheets long, in rhyme.
A younger, non-commissioned officer composed
the poem — he had been famous at one time110
for all the odes he wrote. Later he donned
the uniform, unable to retreat
from the habit of versifying on demand.
The first three hundred lines were quite a treat:
Thou art the one who has now sent
The exquisite bliss or torment.
When your sweet glance falls on Bellon,
Swords break, as though fell on.
This day cruel Mars yields to Hymen;
The hissing viper to his fen
Crawls back, soothed by your gentle palm;
The Hydra of Discourse is calm….
But just in time! There was lively applause;
Tadeusz and Zosia began to clap,
wishing he’d halt before the next clause.
This noise awoke the Judge from his short nap,
and at the parish priest’s instigation,
he read Tadeusz’ bold proclamation.
Barely had the peasants heard the news,
when they surrounded the young lord and fell
to their lady’s feet, where they refuse
to rise until they shout: “May you be well!”
In tears. Tadeusz cried: “Free citizens,
&n
bsp; equals, fellow Poles!” And Dombrowski cried:
“to the common folk and to our defense!”
The peasants then repeated from the side:
“Long live our leaders and our new free choice!”
A thousand voices thundered in one voice.
Only Buchman stood apart from the joy;
he praised the plan but wished to modify,
appoint a commission that would employ
legal advisors…and to codify…
But Buchman’s point was met with levity;
it could not be applied with brevity.
Out in the yard, the officers now stood
beside ladies, in pairs, while village men
lined up next to theirs. No longer could
they wait: “Polonaise!” rang in unison;111
the military band assumed its place .
But then the Judge addressed the General:
“I ask you, sir, today might we replace
this orchestra? Today we must recall
the ancient custom of our family
to celebrate just like a village ball.
The cymbal player stands, his hands yet free;
the fiddler has already dropped his jaw;
the bagpiper has bowed, he’d like instructions.
If we send them away, then some unwritten law
will be broken, and everyone will be
disappointed. The peasants only dance
to their own music; so let them feel free
to play — for everyone will have a chance
for a good time. Then your orchestra can
play later. He signaled and they began.
The fiddler rolled his sleeves up carefully;
he squeezed the fingerboard, rested the bridge
beneath his chin, and sent his bow quickly
across the strings — a race horse had no edge
on him. The bagpiper blew, inflating
his sack, and then began to flap his arm
as if it were a wing anticipating
flight — his puffed-out cheeks had all the charm
of the moon-faced children of Boreas.
A cymbalon player was all they lacked.
Of all the cymbalom players, one was
far superior — none had the impact
of Jankiel, who put all others to shame.
(Janiel had hid, God knows where, all winter;
but when the Generals appeared, he came.)
About his skill there was no dissenter;
he was the master and he was unequaled.
And so they begged old Jankiel to take part;
they pointed to the instrument, appealed
to his good sense, complimenting his art.
The Jew declined; he claimed his hands were stiff,
out of practice, and that he’d be embarrassed
to play in such a state. He felt that if
he did, the gentlemen would fail to be impressed,
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 40