Pan Tadeusz

by Adam Mickiewicz

  The priest playing checkers, mumbling his prayers,

  Attorneys smoking pipes—such splendid beaus!

  You’d learn fine manners from the likes of those.

  Today it’s quite another matter though:

  Our present guests are thoroughly comme il faut.

  The Count is here—take note, Zosia my love:

  A well-brought-up young man, and relative

  Of the governor. Be nice to him…”

  Just then

  Horses and chatter were heard—it was the men!

  Arm in arm, the two ran out to meet them.

  It took a little while till they could greet them—

  They’d gone to change, not wishing to appear

  Before the ladies in their hunting gear.

  Tadeusz and the Count, who’d swiftly dressed,

  Came first. Telimena played host—welcomed each guest

  And seated them, charming them with conversation.

  To each she introduced her young relation:

  First, to Tadeusz as close family.

  Zosia curtseyed, he bowed graciously.

  He opened his mouth to speak—but seeing her

  He was so stunned he just stood mutely there

  In front of her, turning now pale, now red.

  What turmoil churned his heart, he couldn’t have said.

  He’d recognized her, to his great dismay!

  The figure, the flaxen hair—the other day

  He’d seen them by the fence. That pleasing voice,

  In turn, had woken him to join the chase.

  The Warden finally roused him from his trance:

  Observing his pale face and faltering stance

  He counseled him to lie down in his room.

  Tadeusz took to the corner—stood there dumb—

  Leaned dazedly against the mantelpiece,

  Staring, now at the aunt, now at the niece.

  Telimena saw the strong impression made

  By his first glimpse of Zosia; occupied

  With the company, she couldn’t know the rest,

  But she kept a careful eye on the young guest.

  At last, seizing her chance she crossed the room

  To talk to him. Was he well? But why so glum?

  She plied him with questions, mentioning Zosia, joking.

  Tadeusz went on leaning there, not speaking,

  Sullen and motionless, his face distorted.

  Telimena was surprised and disconcerted.

  She swiftly changed her voice and attitude,

  Rose angrily, and in a tone most rude

  Reproaches and rebukes streamed from her tongue.

  Tadeusz jumped as if he had been stung.

  He looked askance, spat, kicked aside a chair

  Then stormed out of the room, slamming the door,

  And saying nothing.

  Luckily no one

  But Telimena saw what had gone on.

  He ran out the gate into the fields beyond.

  Like a pike a fisherman has just harpooned

  That thrashes and dives to get away, and yet

  Wherever it goes, drags goad and line with it,

  Tadeusz pulled all of his cares behind him—

  Jumped fences, ran down furrows, all at random;

  For quite some time he wandered in this mode

  Till finally, plunging deep inside the wood

  He found—whether by chance or purposely—

  The hill we know called the Temple of Reverie

  Where he had been so happy to receive,

  Just the day before, a note that presaged love.

  He looks up—and sees Telimena there!

  Pensive, alone, in posture and attire

  So changed from yesterday. She’s dressed in white,

  As if at one with the stone that is her seat;

  Eyes downcast, chin on hands—although he hears

  No sobs, he knows that she is bathed in tears.

  His heart resisted, but to no avail—

  Compassion seized him. After a certain while

  Of silent watching, hidden behind his tree,

  He sighed and told himself annoyedly:

  “You fool! She’s not to blame for your mistake!”

  He’d started to look out, craning his neck,

  When Telimena suddenly leapt up,

  Rushed hither, thither, at a single hop

  Vaulted the brook; arms spread, hair loosened, pale,

  She ran among the trees, jumped, squatted, fell

  And, powerless now to rise, squirmed on the grass.

  Her movements all betrayed profound distress—

  She grabbed at her feet, her knees, her neck, her chest.

  Thinking that she’d gone mad, or was oppressed

  By sickness, Tadeusz ran up. Her actions, though,

  Had another cause.

  Under a birch that grew

  Nearby, was a massive anthill. The swift black ants

  Traversed the grass with tireless diligence.

  Whether from need or partiality

  They specially liked the Temple of Reverie;

  From their capital down to the brook’s damp regions

  They’d trodden a pathway where they led their legions.

  Telimena, alas, had sat right on this route.

  The ants, drawn by her stockings’ gleaming white,

  Had swarmed there, tickling, biting; she had to flee,

  Brushing the insects off, then finally

  She sat so as to pick out the invader.

  Tadeusz hardly could refuse to aid her.

  Cleaning her dress, he stooped so very low

  His lips were next to Telimena’s brow.

  Positioned so close, without discussing it

  They made their peace after their recent spat

  And would have talked for goodness knows how long

  Had not the bell from Soplicowo rung:

  Dinnertime. They had to go, especially

  Since steps were heard—were they being sought maybe?

  Arriving back together would look bad,

  So Telimena sneaked to the right and made

  For the garden, while Tadeusz hugged the hedge

  By the main road on the left. Both were on edge:

  Telimena thought she’d glimpsed behind a trunk

  The gaunt and hooded features of the monk;

  Tadeusz once or twice clearly caught sight

  To his left, of a tall figure dressed in white.

  He wasn’t sure, but had a presentiment

  It was the English frock coat of the Count.

  They ate in the Castle. Protazy—paying no heed

  To what the Judge explicitly forbade—

  While all were gone had stormed the place once more,

  “Laying claim” (his words) by serving dinner there.

  Entering in order, each guest stood to wait.

  The Chamberlain had the place of honor—his right

  By age and rank. He bowed as he came past

  To the ladies, the older men, the youngsters last.

  The monk was absent; standing at his seat

  Was the wife of the Chamberlain, to her husband’s right.

  The Judge, when he had shown each guest their place,

  Said a Latin blessing, and he made the cross.

  The men drank vodka; then, sitting, the company

  Ate chilled beet soup, with gusto, wordlessly.

  After the soup came chicken, crab, asparagus,

  Accompanied by Hungarian wines and Malagas.

  They ate and drank in silence. Since the year

  The castle walls were first constructed—here

  Where countless guests had been so amply fê
ted,

  And cheers so frequently reverberated—

  There’d never once been such a gloomy meal.

  The only sounds in the vast and echoing hall

  Were popping corks and rattling plates; you’d swear

  Some evil spirit had gagged the diners there.

  The silence had many roots. The hunters, loquacious

  When first they returned, had found things more vexatious

  Once they had thought them through and come to see

  That they’d emerged here less than gloriously.

  Did it have to be that a single hooded priest—

  Out of the blue like that—should have surpassed

  The county’s best shots? Disgrace! What would they say

  In Oszmian and Lida—counties down that way

  And rivals in marksmanship for centuries?

  The hunters contemplated things like these.

  Assessor and Notary, at daggers drawn

  Already, thought of their hounds’ fresh shame. Again

  They saw the ignoble hare outside the wood

  Flashing its tail defiantly as it fled,

  Lashing their hearts as if it were a whip.

  They sat, heads drooping low over their soup.

  Assessor had more cause yet for aggravation,

  Eyeing Telimena and his competition.

  Telimena sat sideways to Tadeusz; red-faced,

  She barely glanced at him. She did her best

  To entertain the Count, trying all she could

  To draw him out and to improve his mood—

  For he’d returned strangely morose from walking

  (Or rather, as Tadeusz thought, from stalking).

  He listened to Telimena with a frown,

  His manner haughty, almost scornful; then

  He sat close as he could to Zosia, filled

  Her glass, served her new dishes, bowed and smiled,

  Performed a thousand courtesies, made eyes

  At her, and now and then let out deep sighs.

  Despite this act, though, it was clear that hurting

  Telimena was his actual goal in flirting,

  Since time and again, as though quite by the bye

  He glanced toward her with a baleful eye.

  Telimena had no idea why this should be.

  She shrugged and thought—more eccentricity.

  Glad at the newfound interest he displayed,

  She turned to her neighbor on the other side.

  Tadeusz too was dour; he neither ate

  Nor drank, but listened to others, eyes on his plate.

  Telimena filled his wineglass; he was pained

  At her presumption; asked how he felt, he yawned.

  He’d changed so much in a single evening—blamed her

  For being too quick to start romance; condemned her

  For her indecorously low-cut frock.

  Then, when he looked right at her—what a shock!

  He saw things clearly now. A single glance

  At Telimena’s pink-cheeked face—at once

  The awful secret lay in evidence:

  She was wearing rouge, by heaven!

  Whether the stuff

  Was of poor quality, or had rubbed off,

  Beneath it coarser skin showed here and there.

  Maybe Tadeusz himself, leaning too near

  On the grass, had brushed the red—a dust as light

  As on a butterfly’s wings—from its base of white.

  Telimena had not managed in her haste

  To readjust her colors; they still were mussed,

  Especially round the mouth. Tadeusz’s eyes,

  Having found one treachery, like canny spies

  Reviewed her other charms and soon laid bare

  Falsenesses present here, there, everywhere:

  Two missing teeth—wrinkles upon the skin

  Of her forehead—lots more hidden beneath her chin!

  Tadeusz realized—sadly!—how it was best

  Not to put looks too closely to the test;

  How wrong to inspect one’s lover, to divert

  One’s tastes and heart—but who can rule the heart?

  Duty’s no substitute for a love that’s flown;

  Her eyes could never warm his soul again.

  Those eyes—like moonlight, bright but heatless—played

  On the surface of a soul grown cold inside.

  Berating himself like this, he lowered his face,

  Bit on a rueful lip, and held his peace.

  Yet some bad spirit brought a new temptation—

  To hear the Count and Zosia’s conversation.

  The girl, charmed by her partner’s courtesies,

  At first had blushed and turned away her gaze;

  Then the two began to laugh, and in the end

  Spoke of a meeting that took place by chance

  In the garden—of burdock leaves and trampled plants.

  Tadeusz, ears strained to the maximum,

  Swallowed the bitter words, digesting them

  Heavily, deep within. The way a snake

  Imbibes the venom of plants then goes to lurk,

  Coiled by the roadside, flicking its forked tongue,

  Till some unwary foot should come along—

  So did Tadeusz, poisoned by jealousy,

  Seem casual, yet inside seethed angrily.

  At the happiest gathering, an angry few

  Will soon pass on their mood to others too.

  The hunters were quiet already; following suit

  As they sensed Tadeusz’s bile, the rest fell mute.

  Even the Chamberlain was hushed and glum,

  Seeing his daughters in their youthful prime—

  Well-dowered, good-looking, considered locally

  The most sought-after matches there could be—

  Sit silent, ignored by young men silent too.

  The Judge, as host, was wondering what to do.

  While the Warden, seeing how all kept to themselves,

  Said that the company were not Poles but wolves.

  This man was indisposed to quiet. He liked

  To talk, and liked it too when others talked.

  No wonder! His life was spent at rallies, hunts,

  At council meetings, communal events.

  He was, then, used to always hearing noise,

  Even when he was still, or chasing flies,

  Or sitting in a daydream, eyes shut tight.

  By day he needed discourse, and by night

  He either had to hear the rosary

  Or stories. He was a sworn enemy

  Of pipes—thought up by Germans to foreignize us.

  “A quiet Pole’s a German,” was one of his phrases.

  He wished to rest in talk now he was old.

  Quietness woke him—as a miller, lulled

  By the rumbling of the wheels, at a sudden hush

  Will jerk awake and stammer: “Word become flesh!”

  He bowed toward the Chamberlain with a look,

  And gestured to the Judge to ask to speak.

  To his mute sign, both gentlemen replied

  With their own bows, meaning: Please go ahead.

  He started:

  “I’d ask the young folks if I may

  To talk at table the traditional way,

  Not chew in silence. Are we monks, I wonder?

  Gentry who do not talk are like the hunter

  Whose bullet’s rusting in his gun. For me

  I like our forebears’ volubility.

  After the hunt they dined, not just to eat,

  But above all to voice their every thought.

  They’d speak of guns, of beaters, finding grounds

  For prais
e or censure; marksmanship and hounds

  Would be debated. All this would produce

  An uproar cherished like a second chase.

  I know the reason for this stormy mood—

  It’s all because of Father Robak’s hood.

  You’re blushing for your failed shots! Don’t be red-faced.

  I’ve known much better hunters who still missed.

  It’s the sportsman’s timeless round—hit, miss, retry.

  Myself, I’ve hunted since I was a boy,

  Yet I’ve missed too. Tułoszczyk (an ace shot),

  Even the late Rejtan, didn’t always hit.

  I’ll tell of Rejtan later; as for the beast

  And that our two young men let it get past

  And didn’t approach it, though they had a spear—

  This we should neither criticize, nor admire.

  To have a loaded gun, yet run away,

  Meant cowardice supreme back in the day.

  Yet shooting blindly, without taking aim,

  While the beast was far—this was an act of shame.

  But when you’ve let the game come properly close,

  And drawn a bead on it—if you should miss

  You can retreat without disgrace, or use

  A hunting spear—but only if you choose,

  It’s not required. The spear, as is well known,

  Is for defensive purposes alone.

  That’s how things were traditionally, in short.

  So trust me, please—don’t take your flight to heart,

  My dear Tadeusz, honorable Count!

  When you remember this day’s incident

  Recall too what the old Warden liked to say:

  Never get in another hunter’s way,

  Nor should two men take aim at the same game.”

  Right when the Warden uttered the words “same game,”

  The Assessor sotto voce said: “same dame.”

  The young folk cried: “Bravo!” Laughs resonated

  As the Warden’s words of warning were repeated,

  The final one especially—some said “game,”

  To which the others, chuckling, shouted: “dame!”

  Notary said: “skirt,” Assessor: “flirt,” his eyes

  Fixing Telimena with a piercing gaze.

  Not having meant to needle anyone,

  The Warden missed the whispering going on.

  Pleased he’d amused the young folks, he turned now

  To the hunters, with hopes to cheer them too somehow.

  Pouring himself another glass, he said:

  “I don’t see Robak anywhere. It’s too bad—

  I wanted to tell him of a curious case

  Suggestive of the hunt that just took place.

  The Steward said he only ever knew