three times he bowed and tried to back away;
but Zosia saw this modest ploy and ran
to him, bringing the sticks he used to play.
She smiled and curtsied in front of the old man,
and stroked his long gray beard: “Jankiel, please stay,
you promised me you’d play my wedding day.”
Jankiel was fond of Zosia, so he shook
his beard to show that he would not refuse;
then to the center of the crowd they took
a stool and placed the cymbalom he’d use
across his knees. He waits for the command,
meditative, like an old veteran,
called back to active duty for his land.
His grandsons lift, although they barely can,
a heavy sword, which once brought him good luck;
two pupils kneel beside the instrument
and tune the strings, testing as they pluck.
Jankiel half-shuts his eyes, becomes silent,
holding the hammers in the air a moment.
He lowers them — a triumphant measure
rings out; until he strikes the strings more briskly,
more like torrential rain than the pleasure
of good music. The crowd stares uneasily;
yet this is just a test; the storm grows soft;
Jankiel breaks off, holding the sticks aloft.
He played again; the think strings vibrated,
as though struck by the wings of a housefly,
so lightly that it seemed the sound abated.
The master turned his gaze up to the sky,
as though he was expecting inspiration,
surveyed his instrument, sure of his skill,
raising his hands after a respiration,
then lowered them both at once — strings, once still,
resounded wildly when the hammers pounded;
listeners were shocked, and yes, astounded.
It seemed a Turkish Janissary band112
marched up with clanging cymbals, bells, and drums,
inciting soldiers to martial command.
The Polonaise of the Third of May comes
breathing with joy upon the rippling strings.
Girls are eager to dance, boys take their place,
though some old men are thinking other things —
recalling the time before the disgrace,
those joyous years after the Third of May
Constitution, when they all celebrated
(all Senators and Deputies) all day
and night, when whole nation was elated.
They gave a rousing welcome to the King:
“Vivat!” they cried, “the Diet and the nation!”
and these Vivats they heard in Jankiel’s playing.
The music underwent a transformation:
the tones intensified, new rhythms shaped;
the master introduced a new false chord,
just like a hissing snake, or metal scraped
on glass, which sent a chill through the assured
listeners. They felt something sinister
intrude upon their joy, and so wondered
if the instrument went out of tune, or
if the master, once so skilled, had blundered.
But no, he struck these strings so traitorous,
disturbed the melody — this was his aim:
to split the chords with brash inglorious
tones, confederated to hurt and main
the harmony. At once the Warden knew
what Jankiel’s music meant. He hid his face
and cried: “I know that voice that rings untrue —
betrayed at Targowica, that disgrace!”
Then suddenly the strings snapped with a hiss;
the hammers rushed to the top of the scale;
and in new rhythms, reintroduced bliss,
until bass notes struck up another tale.
One could hear a thousand noises sweeping
across the strings — soldiers march off to war,
attack and fire; groaning children, weeping
mothers — the master evokes the horror
of war so well, the village girls shiver,
recalling the grief of the massacre
at Praga by the Vistula River,
the tale they’ve heard in song. But they are glad
when all the strings ring forth with joyous sound,
as if the master meant to choke these sad
outcries, beating them into the background.
No sooner had the listeners relaxed,
than once again the clanging strings grew calm;
a few strings buzzed, their tautness barely taxed
by lightly tapping sticks in Jankiel’s palm.
It seemed a fly or two tried to break free
from a spider’s web; and perhaps they did…
More strings joined in to build a harmony,
uniting legions of chords in splendid
new memories full of grief and sorrow.
They heard the wandering soldier’s song,
Through forest and wood we dutifully go…113
(Half-dead from woe, hunger, he moves along,
to fall by the feet of his faithful steed,
the horse that will dig his grave with its leg.)
and yet, for more of this old song, they plead;
the soldiers recognize their lives and beg
to hear again, recalling times with dread
when they too sang — from their homes departing,
marching into the world, all those not dead
humming the tune, their arms and clothing carting,
cross land, sea, burning sand, and crippling frost.
And when in foreign lands they often camped,
hearing this song stirred them. All was not lost.
they bowed their heads, recalling how they tramped.
Then Jankiel strove to elevate the mood;
something unheard rang out; he calmly glanced,
surveyed the strings, and with both hands imbued
the music with such art, the hammers danced.
The strings resounded like a large brass band,
and from the trumpets wafted to the sky,
the march of triumph known to all — Poland
Has Not Yet Perished. This was followed by
March, March Dombrowski, as everyone cheered,
for Dombrowski himself already had appeared.
It seemed that even Jankiel was amazed
by his own playing; he dropped he hammers,
lifting his arm. When they were fully raised,
his fox-skin hat fell onto his shoulders;
he blushed; his gaze revealed his very soul,
the flush of youth revealed inside his stare.
At last the old man looked at General
Dombrowski, before he covered up his eyes
to hide his gushing tears. “We’ve had to wait
for many years with mournful wails and sighs
for your arrival. You’re almost as late
in coming to save us as the Messiah
is to us Jews. Long ago, wandering bards
prophesied throughout Lithuania;
heaven proclaimed it when comets flew towards
our land — so live, wage war….” The old Jew wept
as he spoke, for just like a Pole he loved
his native land. To show his deep respect,
General Dombrowski, who was truly moved,
held out his hand to be kissed by the Jew.
Jankiel removed his cap and bowed down too.
It is time to begin the Polonaise:
the Chamberlain steps up and tosses back
his kontusz sleeves; he twirls and proudly displays
his mustache, choosing Zosia from the pack.
He bows, inviting her to lead the dance
with him; others line up in pairs beh
ind;
after his signal, all couples advance.
Red boots glitter, sabers, lovingly shined,
and rich brocaded belts gleam in the sun.
The leader slowly treads, without effort,
but from each step and each deliberate motion,
his every thought and feeling they report;
right here he steps, as though he wants to ask
his partner a question; he leans his head
to whisper in her ear; she tries to mask
her face, to bashful to follow his lead.
He doffs his cap, and bows once more — she deigns
to glance at him, keeping her stubborn silence.
He slows the pace to see if she complains,
and smiles when she finally returns his glance.
Then, more quickly, sizing up his rivals,
he pulls his heron-flumed cap over his brow
and shakes it till it’s cocked just right and twirls
his mustaches again, satisfied for now,
the envy of all. All the couples follow
right in his tracks, though he’d like to escape
with his lady, and so he halts the flow,
raising his arms to change the dance’s shape.
No sooner does each pair approach, than he
humbly invites couples to pass him by —
while he withdraws somewhat meditatively.
And so the course is changed; but they reply
to his elusive move; couples pursue
insistently, and from all sides they snake
around. But then, to show his wrath is true,
the hilt of his sword he forcefully takes,
as if to say, I do not care for you
who envy me. His eyes are full of challenge,
advancing straight into the dancing throng;
they dare not block his path and rearrange
themselves, to fall in line before too long.
Exclamations chime from every side.
These are, perhaps, the last looks that they’ll get,
their final chance to view this dignified
dance, led in such a way — they won’t forget.
Couples followed, moving with pomp and joy;
the circle unraveled, then contracted —
a giant snake in some serpentine ploy.
The dappled folds and colors distracted;
the different uniforms, ladies and gents,
soldiers, glittering like the slithering scales,
so that the setting sun gilds these garments,
so bright above the turf and the fence rails.
Although the dance is spirited and quick,
Corporal Dobrzynski, still known as the Sack,
does not dance and does not hear the music;
he stands aside, ringing his hands in back,
recalling when he was Zosia’s suitor:
flowers gathered, baskets braided, birds’ nests
raided, earrings carved — how he had pursued her!
Ungrateful girl — he’d answer her requests;
such wasted gifts. And though she always fled
from him, although his father had forbidden,
he still went to gaze at her from the shed;
how many times within the hemp he’s hidden,
to watch her in the garden pluck out weeds,
pick cucumbers, or feed her poultry grain.
Ungrateful girl — not to care for his deeds!
He dropped his head, thinking of her disdain,
and whistled a Mazurka. Then he jammed
his cap over his ears and left the scene.
By the cannon which had been left unmanned,
picking some cards and hoping for a queen,
he joined some old campaigners sitting down.
He drank with them, hoping to lose the past,
and if not to sweeten his sorrow, then to drown
it, for Dobrzynski’s heart was constant and steadfast.
Zosia flutters about, and though she leads
the dance, she barely can be seen; the yard
is vast — she blends in with the plants and weeds.
Her dress is green; she has yet to discard
her wreath, garland, and flowers. And as she spins,
she disappears from sight, although she guides
the dance, showing where each new figure begins,
an angel directing the planetary tides.
Her place is revealed by the dancers’ eyes
and outstretched arms, as they gather around her.
In vain her partner, the Chamberlain, tries
to stay by her side, though she must defer
to one of his rivals; they’ve lost their place
as head couple; now they must quickly yield
to another pair, setting a new pace.
General Dombrowski now heads the field,
but not for long; another pair cuts in.
The Chamberlain, devoid of hope, walks off;
Zosia, wearied by this navigation,
meets Tadesusz, brushing against his cuff.
She stays with him to finish out the phrase
and ends the dance. To prove she is finished,
she carries out more wine on large round trays.
The evening warm and still, the sun diminished;
across the sky, here and there, clouds are strewn,
deep blue above but rosy in the west;
and these small clouds portend the best of fortune
and fine weather. A flock of sheep at rest,
some resemble; others look like wild ducks
in formation. In the west are curtains,
many folds of gauze, bright pleats and tucks,
pearly at the top, gilded where that wanes,
and purple in between. The sun still glows,
then slowly pales and grays; it cannot keep
its fire, and draws some clouds about it, bows
its head, and with one breath, it falls asleep.
The nobles continue to drink and toast:
“Vivat Napoleon, the Generals!
Vivat Tadeusz, Zosia, and their host,
the Judge. Vivat the married couples!”
They drank, praising themselves who attended,
those invited who couldn’t come, and all
their friends. And long before the night ended
they toasted the dead, sacred to recall.114
And I was there among the guests and ate
their food and drank their vodka, wine, and mead;
all that I heard and saw about their fate
I’ve written in this book for you to read.115
Endnotes.
1 Everyone in Poland knows of the miraculous image of Our Lady at Jasna Gora in the Pauline monastery in Czestochowa.
2 Tadeusz Kociuszko was the most famous Polish Patriot and was also from Lithuania. He is known to Americans for his distinguished service in the Revolutionary War. In numerous paintings he is shown wearing a Krakow peasant costume, leading a peasant revolt.
3 Rejtan was a member of the Bar Confederacy who went insane and killed himself.
4 A solider and poet from Wilno who perished during the Praga massacre.
5 A deputy in the Four-Year Diet or Assembly.
6 This refers to the massacre at Praga, a Warsaw suburb across the Vistula (Wisla) River.
7 The song of the Polish Legions under General Dombrowski, “Poland has not yet perished, as long as we live….”
8 The Seneschal (wojski or tribunus) was once an officer responsible for the wives and children of the nobility, though the role later became merely titular. There was a custom in Lithuania to give respected persons ancient titles, which became legalized through usage.
9 The Official or Chamberlain (Princeps Nobilitatis) was formerly the Judge in boundary disputes.
10 An allusion to Seutonius’ Life of Vespasian.
11 A reference to
the plica polonica, a scalp condition in which the hair becomes matted and twisted together — common among peasants in the northeastern border regions of Poland.
12 There were many such apocryphal stories among the Russian peasantry about this general.
13 The Notary was an appointed clerk of the court.
14 The Sheriff (assessor) was a type of rural policeman, elected or appointed.
15 King Stanislaw Poniatowski — see introductory notes.
16 Niesolowski the Governor was the last Wojewoda of Nowogrodek. He presided over a revolutionary government in Wilno. A Wojewoda was the chief dignitary of a Polish province.
17 According to Polish mythology, three brothers (Leck, Czech, and Rus) were founders of the Polish, Bohemian, and Russian nations.
18 There was a famous factory in Sluck that produced gold brocade and large belts.
19 The Court Calendar (Trybunalska Wokanda) was a long narrow book which listed the names of plaintiffs and defendants. Protazy, as apparitor or bailiff, was obligated to carry summonses and make legal proclamations.
20 This is an allusion to Napoleon’s golden eagles and the silver eagles of Poland, since the Polish coat-of-arms shows a white eagle on a red field.
21 Polish Legions — see introductory note.
22 General Jan Henryk Dombrowski, 1755-1818 — see introductory note.
23 Warsaw Duchy — see introductory note
24 Robak, in Polish, means worm.
25 The Archbishop — between the death of one sovereign and the Election of another, the Archbishop of Gniezo was Interrex.
26 The Pantler (Stolnik) was an old Lithuanian title, often translated As “Cupbearer.”
27 The Castellan was next in dignity to a Wojewoda. This title Required some military service and entitled its holder to a seat in the Senate.
28 Black soup, served at the table to a young requesting a young woman’s hand signified refusal. It was a thick soup of duck’s or goose’s blood, vinegar and spices.
29 The Constitution of the Third of May 1791 was said by Edmund Burke to be the noblest benefit received by any nation at the time, “being built on the same principles which make our British Constitution so excellent.”
30 From The Oath, translated from the Yiddish by Harold Rabinowitz, a novella by Chaim Grade about Jewish life in Lithuania between the two world wars: “Nonetheless, Gavriel began going to the Rabbi for lessons once again, and even visited him in his store. By the store’s doorway, during the summer, there stood baskets of fruit, at which Gavriel gazed with sad longing. The fruit seemed to him like a joyous greeting from the fields and forests, and he could gauge the time of the season by the kinds of fruit in the baskets. The blackberry season was long since past, and so was the season for red raspberries and the hard green gooseberries. The transparent white currants had also disappeared, and the yellow honey-sweet cherries and soft, mirror-smooth black cherries became rare visitors. Now juicy ripe plums beckoned him with their dark-purple skins and deep-red fleshy bodies. The vegetable gardens were having their say too: the first young potatoes with their cherubic rosy skins were soon followed by the large, bulbous potatoes; radishes with notched heads as tough as bark; sparkling white heads of cabbage; and green cucumbers — thin and twisted, some wide and swollen. Next to last year’s wreaths of onions, lying on the wooden stands in their thin brown skins, this year’s fresh green ones winked with their long white heads crowned by their stubby roots. Each time Reb Avraham-Abba raised his eyes from his book and looked out the open door at the fruits and vegetables outside, he would once again reflect that only he who makes a blessing over the fruit and knows that nothing grows by itself has the double joy of the blessing as well as the fruit.”
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 41