“To-day, for us, unbidden guests in the world, in all the past and in all the future — to-day there is but one region in which there is a crumb of happiness for a Pole: the land of his childhood! That land will ever remain holy and pure as first love; undisturbed by the remembrance of errors, not undermined by the deceitfulness of hopes, and unchanged by the stream of events.
* * * * * *
“Gladly would I greet with my thoughts those lands where I rarely wept and never gnashed my teeth; lands of my childhood, where one roamed over the world as through a meadow, and among the flowers knew only those that were lovely and fair, throwing aside the poisonous, and not glancing at the useful.
“That land, happy, poor, and narrow; as the world is God’s, so that was our own! How everything there belonged to us, how I remember all that surrounded us, from the linden that with its magnificent crown afforded shade to the children of the whole village, down to every stream and stone; how every cranny of the land was familiar to us, as far as the houses of our neighbours — the boundary line of our realm!
“And if at times a Muscovite made his appearance, he left behind him only the memory of a fair and glittering uniform, for we knew the serpent only by his skin.
“And only the dwellers in those lands have remained true to me until now; some as faithful friends, some as trusty allies! For who dwelt there? Mother, brothers, kindred, good neighbours! When one of them passed away, how tenderly did they speak of him! How many memories, what long-continued sorrow, in that land where a servant is more devoted to his master than in other countries a wife to her husband; where a soldier sorrows longer over his weapons than here a son over his father; where they weep longer and more sincerely over a dog than here the people weep for a hero!
“And in those days my friends aided my speech and cast me word after word for my songs; like the fabled cranes on the wild island, which flew in spring over the enchanted palace and heard the loud lament of an enchanted boy: each bird threw the boy a single feather; he made him wings and returned to his own people.
* * * * * *
“O, if some time I might attain this joy — that this book might find shelter beneath roofs of thatch, and that the village girls, as they spin and turn the wheel, humming the while their much-loved verses, of the girl who so loved to make music that while fiddling she lost her geese, or of the orphan, who, fair as the dawn, went to drive home the birds at eventide — if even those village girls might take into their hands this book, simple as their songs!
“So in my own day, along with the village sports, they sometimes read aloud, under the linden tree on the green, the song of Justina, or the story of Wieslaw; and the bailiff, dozing at the table, or the steward, or even the master of the farm, did not forbid us to read; he himself would deign to listen, and would interpret the harder places to the younger folk; he praised the beauties and forgave the faults.
“And the young folk envied the fame of the bards, which in their own land still echoes through the woods and the fields; of bards to whom dearer than the laurel of the Capitol is a wreath plaited by the hands of a village girl, of blue cornflowers and green rue.”
LIST OF THE PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS IN “PAN TADEUSZ” WITH NOTES ON POLISH PRONUNCIATION
The principal characters in Pan Tadeusz are as follows. The approximate pronunciation of each proper name is indicated in brackets, according to the system used in Webster’s New International Dictionary.
Thaddeus (Tadeusz) Soplica [Ta-dĕ’ōōsh Sŏ-plē’tsä].
Jacek Soplica, his father [Yä’tsĕk],
Judge Soplica, brother of Jacek.
Telimena, a distant relative of the Soplicas and of
the Horeszkos [Tĕ-lĭ-mĕ’nä, Hŏ-rĕsh’kŏ].
Zosia, ward of Telimena [Zŏ’shä],
Hreczecha, the Seneschal [Hrĕ-chĕ’hä].
The Chamberlain.
Protazy Brzechalski, the Apparitor [Prŏ-tä’zĭ Bzhĕ-häl’skĭ].
The Assessor.
Bolesta, the Notary [Bŏ-lĕs’tä].
The Count, a distant relative of the Horeszko
family.
Gerwazy Rembajlo, the Warden, formerly a servant
of the Horeszko family [Gĕr-vä’zĭ Rĕm-baĭ’wŏ].
Rykov, a Russian captain [Rĭ’kŏf].
Jankiel, a Jew [Yän’kyĕl].
Maciej (Maciek) Dobrzynski [Mä’chā (Mä’chĕk)
Dŏb-zhĭn’skĭ].
Sprinkler (also called Baptist), Bucket, Buzzard,
Razor, Awl, the Prussian: all members of
the Dobrzynski clan.
Henryk Dombrowski [Hĕn’rĭk Dŏm-brŏf’skĭ].
Otton-Karol Kniaziewicz [Ŏt’tŏn-Kä’rŏl Knyä-zhĕ’vĭch].
The following names are frequently mentioned in the poem: Kosciuszko [Kŏ-shchōōsh’kŏ], Rejtan [Rä’tän], Mickiewicz [Mits-kyĕ’vĭch]. Note also the words wojewoda [vŏ-yĕ-vŏ’da] and kontusz [kŏn’tōōsh].
Polish names in this book are generally given in their original spelling, except that the diacritical marks used on many letters in the Polish alphabet are here omitted, and that on (or om) and en (or em) are substituted for the nasal vowels indicated in Polish by a with a cedilla and e with a cedilla. But the English names Thaddeus, Sophia, Eva, Rosa, Thomas, and Joseph have been substituted for the Polish forms Tadeusz, Zofia, Ewa, Roza, Tomasz, and Jozef. (Yet the Polish title of the poem, Pan Tadeusz, has been left unchanged, as it has become widely known through works on Poland, and as a suitable substitute for it is hard to find: Pan Thaddeus would be a displeasing hybrid.) The few Russian names that occur are given as though transliterated from the Russian, not in the Polish form: Suvorov, not Suwarow.
The Polish Pan, Pani, and Panna correspond roughly to the English Mr., Mrs., and Miss. But Pani may be used of unmarried women of high social station; it is regularly applied to Telimena, and once, by the reverent Gerwazy, even to little Zosia (page 320).
As an aid to the pronunciation of the minor names the following directions may be of some service: —
Accent all names on the penult, or next to the last syllable.
Pronounce cz as ch, sz as sh, rz as zh (azure), j as y (aj, ej, oj as ī, ā, oi). W is ordinarily pronounced as v, but before surd consonants it has the sound f. Ch is pronounced as in German, but before vowels it need not be distinguished from the English h. The Polish l has two values, one of which resembles the English l, while the other (the crossed l) approximates to the English w. S is ordinarily pronounced as in English, but before i it has a sound somewhat like sh; si before a vowel (as in Zosia) has the same sound, the i not being pronounced, but serving as an indication of the “soft” pronunciation of the preceding sibilant. In the same circumstances z (and zi) are pronounced somewhat like zh. The Polish alphabet also contains a dotted z (here represented by plain z) which is pronounced like zh. Dz before i (and dzi before a vowel) are pronounced somewhat like English j in jet. C is ordinarily pronounced like ts, but c before i (and ci before a vowel) are sounded somewhat like ch.
The vowels may be given the familiar “Italian” values; y need not be distinguished from i. (But on i as a diacritical sign, modifying a preceding sibilant, see the preceding paragraph.) Furthermore, i following a consonant (not a sibilant) and preceding a vowel, is pronounced like y, as in Jankiel (Yän’kyĕl).
These rules, it must be said, are incomplete and inexact to a degree that will shock any person with a scientific knowledge of Polish pronunciation. In the present instance brevity seemed of more importance than strict accuracy.
BOOK I. — THE FARM
ARGUMENT
Return of the young master — A first meeting in the chamber, a second at table — The Judge’s weighty lecture on courtesy — The Chamberlain’s political remarks on fashions — Beginning of the quarrel over Bobtail and Falcon — Lamentations of the Seneschal — The last Apparitor — Glance at the political conditions of Lithuania and Europe at this period.
Lithuania, my
country, thou art like health; how much thou shouldst be prized only he can learn who has lost thee. To-day thy beauty in all its splendour I see and describe, for I yearn for thee.
Holy Virgin, who protectest bright Czenstochowa and shinest above the Ostra Gate in Wilno! Thou who dost shelter the castle of Nowogrodek with its faithful folk! As by miracle thou didst restore me to health in my childhood — when, offered by my weeping mother to thy protection, I raised my dead eyelids, and could straightway walk to the threshold of thy shrine to thank God for the life returned me — so by miracle thou wilt return us to the bosom of our country. Meanwhile bear my grief-stricken soul to those wooded hills, to those green meadows stretched far and wide along the blue Niemen; to those fields painted with various grain, gilded with wheat, silvered with rye; where grows the amber mustard, the buckwheat white as snow, where the clover glows with a maiden’s blush, where all is girdled as with a ribbon by a strip of green turf on which here and there rest quiet pear-trees.
Amid such fields years ago, by the border of a brook, on a low hill, in a grove of birches, stood a gentleman’s mansion, of wood, but with a stone foundation; the white walls shone from afar, the whiter since they were relieved against the dark green of the poplars that sheltered it against the winds of autumn. The dwelling-house was not large, but it was spotlessly neat, and it had a mighty barn, and near it were three stacks of hay that could not be contained beneath the roof; one could see that the neighbourhood was rich and fertile. And one could see from the number of sheaves that up and down the meadows shone thick as stars — one could see from the number of ploughs turning up early the immense tracts of black fallow land that evidently belonged to the mansion, and were tilled well like garden beds, that in that house dwelt plenty and order. The gate wide-open proclaimed to passers-by that it was hospitable, and invited all to enter as guests.
A young gentleman had just entered in a two-horse carriage, and, after making a turn about the yard, he stopped before the porch and descended; his horses, left to themselves, slowly moved towards the gate, nibbling the grass. The mansion was deserted, for the porch doors were barred and the bar fastened with a pin. The traveller did not run to make inquiries at the farmhouse but opened the door and ran into the mansion, for he was eager to greet it. It was long since he had seen the house, for he had been studying in a distant city and had at last finished his course. He ran in and gazed with eager emotion upon the ancient walls, his old friends. He sees the same furniture, the same hangings with which he had loved to amuse himself from babyhood, but they seemed less beautiful and not so large as of old. And the same portraits hung upon the walls. Here Kosciuszko, in his Cracow coat, with his eyes raised to heaven, held his two-handed sword; such was he when on the steps of the altar he swore that with this sword he would drive the three powers from Poland or himself would fall upon it. Farther on sat Rejtan, in Polish costume, mourning the loss of liberty; in his hands he held a knife with the point turned against his breast, and before him lay Phaedo and The Life of Cato. Still farther on Jasinski, a fair and melancholy youth, and his faithful comrade Korsak stand side by side on the entrenchments of Praga, on heaps of Muscovites, hewing down the enemies of their country — but around them Praga is already burning.
He recognised even the tall old musical clock in its wooden case near the chamber door, and with childish joy he pulled at the string, in order to hear Dombrowski’s old mazurka.
He ran about the whole house and searched for the room that had been his own when he was a child, ten years before. He entered, drew back, and surveyed the walls with astonished eyes: could this room be a woman’s lodgings? Who could live here? His old uncle was unmarried, and his aunt had dwelt for years in St. Petersburg. Could that be the housekeeper’s chamber? A piano? On it music and books; all abandoned in careless confusion: sweet disorder!
Not old could the hands have been that had so abandoned them! There too, a white gown, freshly taken from the hook to put on, was spread upon the arm of a chair. In the windows were pots of fragrant flowers: geraniums, asters, gillyflowers, and violets. The traveller stepped to one of the windows — a new marvel was before him. On the bank of the brook, in a spot once overgrown with nettles, was a tiny garden intersected by paths, full of clumps of English grass and of mint. The slender wooden fence, fashioned into a monogram, shone with ribbons of gay daisies. Evidently the beds had but just been sprinkled; there stood the tin watering-pot full of water, but the fair gardener could nowhere be seen. She had only now departed; the little gate, freshly touched, was still trembling; near the gate could be seen on the sand the print of a small foot that had been without shoe or stocking — on the fine dry sand, white as snow; the print was clear but light; you guessed that it was left in quick running by the tiny feet of some one who scarce touched the ground.
The traveller stood long in the window gazing and musing, breathing in the fragrance of the flowers. He bent down his face to the violet plants; he followed the paths with his curious eyes and again gazed on the tiny footprints; he kept thinking of them and trying to guess whose they were. By chance he raised his eyes, and there on the wall stood a young girl — her white garment hid her slender form only to the breast, leaving bare her shoulders and her swan’s neck. Such attire a Lithuanian maiden is wont to wear only early in the day; in such she is never seen by men. So, though there was no witness near, she had folded her arms on her breast, in order to add a veil to her low garment. Her hair, not spread out in loose ringlets but twisted in little knots and wrapped in small white curl-papers, marvellously adorned her head, for in the sunlight it shone like a crown on the image of a saint. Her face could not be seen, for she had turned towards the meadow, and with her eyes was seeking some one far off, below her. She caught sight of him, laughed, and clapped her hands; like a white bird she flew from the wall to the turf, and flashed through the garden, over stiles and flowers, and over a board supported on the wall of the chamber; before the young man was aware, she had flown in through the window, glittering, swift, and light as a moonbeam. Humming to herself, she seized the gown and ran to the mirror; suddenly she saw the youth, and the gown fell from her hands and her face grew pale with fright and wonder. The face of the traveller flamed with a rosy blush, as a cloud when it is touched with the morning glow; the modest youth half closed his eyes and hid them with his hand; he wished to speak and ask for pardon, but only bowed and stepped back. The maiden uttered a pitiful, indistinct cry, like a child frightened in its sleep; the traveller looked up in alarm, but she was there no longer; he departed in confusion and felt the loud beating of his heart; he knew not whether this strange meeting should cause him amusement or shame or joy.
Meanwhile in the farmhouse they had not failed to notice that some new guest had driven up before the porch. They had already taken the horses to the stable and already, as befits an honourable house, had given them generously of oats and hay, for the Judge was never willing to adopt the new fashion of sending a guest’s horse to a Jew’s inn. The servants had not come out to welcome the traveller, but do not think that in the Judge’s mansion service was careless; the servants were waiting until the Seneschal should attire him, who now behind the mansion was arranging for the supper. He took the place of the master, and in his absence was wont himself to welcome and entertain guests, being a distant relative of the master and a friend of the house. Seeing the guest, he stealthily made his way to the farmhouse, for he could not come out to greet the stranger in a homespun dressing-gown; there he put on as quickly as he might his Sunday garment, made ready since early morning, for since morning he had known that at supper he should sit with a multitude of guests.
The Seneschal recognised the traveller from afar, spread out his arms, and with a cry embraced and kissed him. Then began a hurried, confused discourse, in which they were eager to tell the events of many years in a few brief words, mingled, as the tale went forward, with queries, exclamations, and new greetings. When the Seneschal had asked his fill of qu
estions, at the very last he told the story of that day.
“It is good, my Thaddeus,” — for so they called the young man, whose first name had been given him in honour of Kosciuszko, as a token that he was born at the time of the war— “it is good, my Thaddeus, that you have returned home this day, just when we have with us so many fair young ladies. Your uncle is thinking of soon celebrating your marriage. You have a wide choice: at our house a numerous company has for days been gathering for the session of the territorial court, to conclude our ancient quarrel with the Count. The Count himself is to arrive to-morrow; the Chamberlain is already here with his wife and daughters. The young men have gone to the wood to amuse themselves shooting, and the old men and the women are looking at the harvest near the wood, where they are doubtless awaiting the young men. Come on, if you wish, and soon we shall meet your dear uncle, the Chamberlain, and the honoured ladies.”
The Seneschal and Thaddeus walked along the road towards the wood and could not say enough to each other. The sun was approaching the end of his course in the sky and shone less strongly but more broadly than by day, all reddened, as the healthy face of a husbandman, when, after finishing his work in the fields, he returns to rest: already the gleaming circle was descending on the summit of the grove, and already the misty twilight, filling the tips and the branches of the trees, bound and, as it were, fused the whole forest into one mass, and the grove showed black like an immense building, and the sun red above it like a fire on the roof; then the sun sank; it still shone through the branches, as a candle through the chinks of window shutters; then it was extinguished. And suddenly the scythes that were ringing far and wide among the grain, and the rakes that were being drawn over the meadow, became quiet and still; such were the orders of the Judge, on whose farm work closed with the day. “The Lord of the world knows how long we should toil; when the sun, his workman, descends from heaven, it is time for the husbandman to withdraw from the field.” So the Judge was wont to speak, and the will of the Judge was sacred to the honest Steward; for even the waggons on which they had already begun to load the sheaves of grain, went unfilled to the stable; the oxen rejoiced in the unaccustomed lightness of their load.
Adam Mickiewicz Collected Poetical Works Page 44