A single man who had an aim as true.
I knew another. With just as good a shot
He saved two men—I myself witnessed it
In the Nalibocka Forest, when Deputy
Rejtan and the Prince of Nassau came to stay.
Those lords did not begrudge a gentleman’s fame—
They were the first to raise a toast to him.
They gave him lavish presents, and what’s more,
A wild boar’s skin—I’ll tell you of that boar,
and of the shot I saw, because I find
Today’s experience brings it back to mind,
And it happened to the best shots of my day—
The Prince of Nassau and Rejtan, that’s to say.”
The Judge broke in abruptly, serving more drink:
“Warden, let’s toast to Robak’s health. I think
That if we cannot give him compensation
At least we ought to offer a donation.
That bear he shot—I’ll warrant that its meat
Will take the friars a good two years to eat.
But not the skin—that I’ll take forcibly,
Or humbleness will make him give it me—
Or I’ll buy it with a roll of sable fur.
We shall decide its fate. God’s servant there
Captured first place, and honor; now the skin
Will be awarded by our Chamberlain
To the hunter he deems to merit second prize.”
The Chamberlain rubbed his brow and frowned; a buzz
Arose, as each man claimed it. One averred
He’d found the bear; one wounded it; a third
Had called the dogs; a fourth had turned the brute
Into the woods. Assessor and Notary fought,
One singing the virtues of his Sanguszkówka,
The other, those of his Sagałasówka.
“Neighbor,” the Chamberlain said at last, “it’s true
The monk deserves first place; it’s harder, though,
To choose who should be second. It seems to me
Each man participated equally,
Each was as brave and skillful. But two of us
Faced circumstances specially perilous,
Their bodies only inches from the bear’s:
Tadeusz and the Count. The skin is theirs.
As the younger person, and what’s more
Kin to our host, Tadeusz will yield, I’m sure.
So, Count: the spolia opima’s yours in full.
May this fine trophy grace your hunting hall:
Memento of our chase here, allegory
Of hunting fortunes, spur to future glory.”
Glad to think he’d pleased the Count, he ended,
Quite blind to how the other man felt wounded.
For the Count, at mention of a hunting hall,
Had raised his head instinctively; and all
He saw—stags’ heads, antlers like laurels grown
By many a father to adorn his son;
The serried portraits hung on pillars; the bright
Półkozic coat of arms placed up aheight—
All called to him with voices of the past.
His daydream shattered: here he was, a guest
in his own home—heir of Horeszkos, sitting
With the Soplicas, his age-old foes, and eating!
The envy he felt toward Tadeusz turned him
Against his hosts still harder as it burned him.
He said with a bitter smile: “I have no room
For such a splendid gift in my small home;
Let it wait with these trophies for redressal,
Till the Judge deigns to return them with the castle.”
The Chamberlain, who sensed where this was veering,
Tapped on the snuff box, asking for a hearing.
“Good for you, Count,” he said, “for being able
To mind your own affairs even at table,
Unlike your voguish peers, who live it up
Without a care. But I expect and hope
To find a ruling agreeable to all.
The castle plot’s most problematical;
But it can be offset with other land,
As follows…” Here he started to expound
His plans, as thorough as they always were.
But halfway through, there was a sudden stir
Far down the table; something had been discerned,
Some people pointed, others looked around
Till finally all heads, like stalks of wheat
Bent by a rearward wind, turned in retreat
Back down the hall.
There, where a portrait hung
Of the late Pantler—the last Horeszko—among
The pillars, a little door lay half-concealed;
By it, a ghostly figure was revealed:
Gerwazy! They knew his build, his face, his breast
In the yellow tunic with its silver crest.
Not doffing his cap, nor bowing, ramrod-straight
He walked into the chamber, stern and mute.
A gleaming key gripped daggerlike in his hand,
He opened a clock case and began to wind.
In the far corners of the hall, their backs
Against pillars, stood a pair of longcase clocks.
Eccentrics long in conflict with the sun,
At evening time they’d often chime for noon.
Gerwazy hadn’t ever tried to mend them,
Yet every evening he made sure to wind them,
With his big key tormenting the poor pair.
This was the very moment for the chore.
While the Chamberlain continued to dilate
Upon the case, the Steward tugged the weight.
The rusty cogwheels screeched. The Chamberlain
Winced and broke off; he said: “Friend, if you can,
Put off your pressing duty for the now,”
And he resumed. Out of sheer mischief, though,
With the second weight the Steward pulled harder still.
The bullfinch perched on top opened its bill
And, flapping its wings, began to sing the chime.
This creature, sad to say, was past its prime;
It hiccupped and it squealed. The Chamberlain,
Seeing the guests were laughing, stopped again.
“Good Steward,” he cried, “or hoot-owl rather: please,
If your beak’s dear to you, then stop that noise!”
Gerwazy heard the threat but paid no heed.
Left hand on hip, the right one solemnly laid
Atop the clock, he held his pose and spoke:
“My little Chamberlain, surely you joke!
Sparrows are smaller, but in their abodes
They’re bolder than the owl where it intrudes.
A steward’s no owl—an owl by night goes breaking
Into another’s home. I’ll send it packing!”
“Remove that man!” the Chamberlain shouted. “Count!”
Cried the Steward, “Are you seeing this affront?
Is it not stain enough upon your honor
To drink with these Soplicas, eat their dinner?
Must I—Gerwazy Rębajło—overseer
Of the Horeszkos’ castle—must I stand here
Abused in my masters’ house? You’ll let that pass?”
“Silence in court!” Protazy now called thrice.
“I, Protazy Baltazar Brzechalski, who bear
Two names—I, former crier of the courthouse, or
Bailiff, as it is known—hereby proclaim
A formal review. All those here of good name
I call to act as witnesses today.
I summon the Assessor, to
testify
For His Honor Judge Soplica, and attest
This trespass by an uninvited guest.
The Judge’s legal ownership is clear
From the simple fact that he is dining here.”
“Bum-bailiff! I’ll show you!” the Steward hissed.
Grabbing the keys that dangled at his waist,
He twirled them around, then hurled them with all his might.
Like a slingshot stone the mass of iron took flight—
Protazy’s head would have disintegrated,
But luckily he ducked, and death was cheated.
All jump up; for a second no one talks;
Then the Judge cries: “Put that scoundrel in the stocks!
Go!” His manservants hastened one and all
Down the narrow gap between the bench and wall.
The Count, though, blocked their way using his chair,
His foot braced on this flimsy barrier.
“Stay, boys!” he shouted. “Listen, Judge: no one
Is free, in my own house, to harm my man.
Complaints about him should be addressed to me.”
The Chamberlain eyed the Count reprovingly:
“I’m able to punish the brazen fellow, sir,
Without your help; while you, you’re premature
To claim possession before a verdict’s passed.
Sit down—you’re neither owner here, nor host.
Have some respect, if not for someone older,
Then for the county’s leading office holder.”
“Fine,” muttered the Count. “Enough discussion. Please,
Bore others with your ranks and offices.
Just drinking with you’s bad enough—I find
It always leads to crassness of some kind.
I see the insult to my dignity.
A sober farewell. Gerwazy, follow me!”
This was the last thing that the Chamberlain
Thought he would hear. He’d just refilled his wine;
Dumbstruck by the Count’s discourteousness,
He held the carboy still against his glass,
Tipped his head sideways and inclined his ear,
Eyes open wide and mouth gaping ajar.
Still speechless, he gripped his wineglass like a vise.
It rang and broke; the liquid splashed his face.
You’d think that it had set his soul ablaze,
So vividly did the fire burn in his gaze.
He spoke, seeming to chew the first words up
Then spit them out: “The impudent young pup!
Insolent boy! I’ll show him…Tomasz, my sword!
I’ll teach him manners. Hang him high! He’s bored
By offices and ranks! It pains his hearing!
I’ll help—just wait till I cut off his earring!
Throw him out—now! Tomasz, my sword! To arms!”
The Chamberlain’s friends ran up at these alarms.
The Judge restrained his arm: “Wait, sir: it’s me
Who’s been provoked. Protazy, my sword! You’ll see—
He’ll dance like a circus bear upon a chain!”
Tadeusz, though, held them back: “Good Chamberlain,
And you too, Uncle—is it even decent
To talk to this dandy? There are young folk present!
Leave it to me—I’ll put him in his place.
Count: challenging older men—how valorous!
Tomorrow we’ll see how brave a knight you are—
Choose weapons and place: we’ll settle it then and there.
For now, leave while you can!”
The advice was sound—
Steward and Count were truly in a bind.
At the high end of the table there was yelling;
At the other end however, bottles came sailing
Round the Count’s head. The frightened women pled
And wept. “How dreadful!” Telimena said;
She raised her eyes, she stood—and promptly fainted,
Her lovely neck across the Count’s arm slanted,
Her swanlike bosom resting on his chest.
The Count, annoyed, broke off and did his best
To bring her round.
Meanwhile the Steward, already
Dodging glasses and stools, was looking unsteady.
The Judge’s men, fists raised, closed in on him.
Luckily Zosia was watching; overcome
With pity, she came running and approached
To shield the old man, small thin arms outstretched.
They stopped;
Gerwazy inched back—and was gone.
They looked for him beneath the table; then
On the far side, he suddenly popped up.
Hefting a bench seat in his powerful grip
He swung it around his head, cleared half the floor,
And grabbed the Count; they moved toward the door,
Screened by the bench. Right at the threshold, though,
Gerwazy paused; once more he eyed his foe,
Pondering whether to pull coolly back
Or—newly armed—retry his martial luck.
He chose the latter. Holding the bench in front
Like a battering ram, he rocked back and—head bent,
Chest out, foot lifted—he was on the brink
Of charging—when he saw the Warden, and he shrank.
The Warden had sat there, quiet, with lowered gaze,
Pensive, it seemed. He’d only raised his eyes
When the Count had quarreled with the Chamberlain
And threatened the Judge. The Warden to begin
Twice took a pinch of snuff, and wiped his eyes.
The Judge was only distant kin of his
But still had hosted him with courtesy;
The Warden cared for his welfare mightily.
So he observed the fray with interest.
He laid his hand softly on the table, placed
His knife beside it—handle by the tip
Of his index finger, blade toward his lap—
Then rocked his palm a little back to front—
Idly it seemed, yet staring at the Count.
Knife-throwing—in close-up combat a dire art—
In Lithuania was rarely seen, apart
From older men. The Steward in many a case
Had used it in brawls. The Warden was an ace.
His throw—quite plainly—would be violent,
And he was clearly aiming at the Count
(the last Horeszko, though on the distaff side).
The young folks missed what the Warden’s moves implied.
Gerwazy, though, paled; shielding the Count, he stole
Toward the doorway.
“Grab them!” cried one and all.
A wolf that’s suddenly ambushed at its kill
Will rush at the dogs intruding on its meal.
But drawing near, it hears the quiet click
Of a gun being cocked. It knows that sound; a look
Reveals, behind the hounds, a hunter crouching,
His elbow on his knee, his finger touching
The trigger, the barrel aimed at the animal…
The wolf’s ears droop and, tucking in its tail,
It runs, pursued by the gleeful yapping pack
Close at its heels. At times the wolf turns back,
Fangs bared, and snaps its jaws; immediately
The dogs all scatter, yelping. In such a way
Gerwazy retreated, still inspiring fear
With the wielding of the bench and with his stare,
Then vanished through the door behind his master.
“Grab them!” again was heard; but the Steward was faster—
All of a sudden he stood above them, up
In the organ loft. He tore a creaking pipe,
Then another, from its place. Throwing them down
From such a height would have caused ruin unknown.
Few of the guests, however, had stayed around.
The servants too were scared to stand their ground
And, grabbing the dishes, followed their masters out,
Leaving behind them many a bowl and plate.
And who was the last to depart the battlefield
Spurning the threats and blows? Protazy—installed
By the Judge’s chair, he stood with signal poise
And read his pronouncement in his bailiff’s voice
Till he was done, then quit the empty ground,
Leaving debris and casualties behind.
There were no human deaths; but the benches all
Had broken legs; the table, lame as well
And stripped of its cloth, lay upon platters soiled
With wine, like a knight upon his bloody shield.
Turkeys and chickens also had been lost,
Forks jutting still from many a fresh-stabbed breast.
Next moment, the Horeszkos’ empty hall
Was once again as quiet as usual.
In gathering dark, the dinner remnants lay
Like a nighttime banquet on Forefathers’ Day
Where the dead will gather once they’ve been invited.
In the attic, three times now the owls have hooted
Like wizards greeting the moon as it comes up
And shines through the window on the tabletop,
Atremble like a purgatorial soul;
Like the waking damned, rats scurry from their hole.
They eat, they drink; a champagne bottle, lost
In a corner, pops to raise a phantom toast.
Upstairs though, in the so-called Mirror Room
(Which had no mirrors to justify the name)
The Count out on the gallery watched the gate.
A breeze blew; on one shoulder hung his coat.
He draped the rest of it around his neck—
Tails, other sleeve—in the manner of a cloak.
Gerwazy paced the room at a long stride.
Each man talked to himself, preoccupied.
The Count said: “Pistols or swords—the choice is theirs.”
“Castle and village,” the Steward said, “both are ours.”
“My uncle, my nephew,” the Count cried, “all the clan—
Summon them!” “Sir,” cried the Steward, “while you can,
Seize castle and lands!” He faced the Count to add:
“If you want peace, then grab it all, by God!
What use are courts? The matter’s plain as you please—
Your family had this place for centuries.
Pan Tadeusz Page 16
