Pan Tadeusz

by Adam Mickiewicz

  Part of the land, as you know, during Targowica

  Was commandeered and given to Soplica.

  But we should take it all, not just what’s left—

  For legal costs, as punishment for theft.

  I always said: Lawsuits are useless, Count.

  I always said: A foray’s what you want!

  It’s the old way: Once you take the land, it’s yours;

  Win in the field, you’ll win your legal wars.

  Regarding the Soplicas and our feud,

  Jackknife is better than any judicial code.

  If Maciej and his Twig will help me out,

  The two of us will make mincemeat of the lot.”

  “Yes!” cried the Count. “This Gothic-Sarmatian scheme’s

  Much preferable to courtroom stratagems.

  You know, we’ll mount a raid—and on a scale

  Not seen in ages immemorial!

  What fun! In two years here, the only fights

  I’ve seen, were peasants in boundary disputes.

  This, though, bodes bloodshed. On my travels once

  I had a similar experience

  As houseguest of a prince in Sicily.

  His nephew had been kidnapped, don’t you see,

  Up in the hills, for ransom. So we took

  The vassals and serving men, and swiftly struck.

  Entering the camp before the rest, alone

  I killed two bandits and I freed our man.

  A triumph it was, Gerwazy—and how glorious

  Was our return, like feudal knights victorious!

  They met us with flowers; the prince’s daughter found me

  And, weeping for gratitude, threw her arms around me.

  When I reached Palermo, it was in the press

  And all the women pointed me out. There was

  A novel too, about the incident

  That even mentioned me by name: The Count,

  Or, Rocca Birbante Castle’s Secret. Say,

  Does this place here have dungeons?”

  “Certainly,”

  Said the Steward—“there are vast cellars. The wine there though

  Was drunk by the Soplicas long ago.”

  “We’ll arm my jockeys,” the Count eagerly said.

  “Round up the vassals!”

  “Footmen? Heaven forbid!”

  Broke in Gerwazy. “We’re not rowdies here.

  Forays aren’t made with peasants and servants, sir.

  You don’t know how these things are done just yet

  (Though vessels might help). Don’t look to your estate

  But the Dobrzyn or Rzezików settlements,

  Ciętycze, or Rąbanki—their residents

  Old yeomen, knightly blood still coursing through them,

  All friends of the Horeszkos, loyal to them,

  And bitter foes of the Soplica line!

  I personally will find three hundred men

  From all those places. Go to the palace now

  And sleep. Tomorrow there’ll be work to do.

  You like your sleep. It’s late—the second cock’s crowed.

  I’ll mind this place till dawn, then take the road

  To the Dobrzyn settlement—that’s where I’ll be.”

  At this the Count stepped from the gallery.

  First, though, he squinted through an arrow slit

  At the Soplica manor so brightly lit.

  “Shine on!” he cried. “Tomorrow at this time

  Here there’ll be light, but you’ll be plunged in gloom!”

  The pensive Steward sat on the floor, propped up

  Against a wall; his brow began to droop.

  The moonbeams lit his head devoid of hair;

  His fingers played upon it; it was clear

  That he was planning the attack to come.

  His heavy eyelids lowered; his neck felt numb.

  He nodded; knowing that sleep was imminent,

  He started saying his prayers, as was his wont.

  And yet between “Our Father” and “Hail Mary”

  Came curious visions multitudinary.

  The Steward saw the Horeszkos—his old lords—

  Some wielding maces, others armed with swords;

  Each twirled his mustache with a baleful face,

  Leveling his sword, or brandishing his mace.

  One silent mournful shade passed in the back,

  A bloodstain on his chest. Gerwazy shook—

  It was the Pantler. He made the cross all round

  And, to dispel these fearful sights, intoned

  A litany for souls in purgatory.

  Again his ears ring, and his eyes are blurry.

  He sees a host of gentry, armed and riding—

  The raid on Koralicze, Rymsza leading!

  And there’s himself, mounted on a gray steed,

  His terrible rapier raised above his head.

  He gallops in the wind, his cape aflap,

  A rakish tilt to his four-cornered cap;

  Gallops, strikes horsemen, men on foot in turn

  And locks Soplica in a burning barn.

  Then all at once his head, dream-laden, dips

  And the last Steward of the Horeszkos sleeps.

  Book VI: The Settlement

  Initial war preparations for the foray – Protazy’s expedition –

  Robak and the Judge discuss a civic matter –

  Continuation of Protazy’s expedition, which is unsuccessful –

  Digression on flax – The Dobrzyn gentry settlement –

  Description of the household and person of Maciej Dobrzyński

  A pallid dawn crept inconspicuously

  From the damp dark, and brought a lightless day.

  Little could be seen, although the sun was up.

  Mist swathed the landscape like the thatch atop

  A poor Lithuanian cottage; to the east

  A whiter band of sky seemed to suggest

  The sun would soon be on its way to earth,

  Though sleepy still and quite devoid of mirth.

  Copying the sky, on earth all ran behind:

  The cows left late for the pasture, where they found

  The hares at a tardy breakfast. Normally,

  By dawn they’re back among the trees; today,

  However, beneath the fog they munched their grass,

  Dug holes, or else in pairs gave playful chase,

  Letting their minds rest in the open air.

  They had to leave, though, now the cows were here.

  The woods are quiet; no birds are singing, although

  They’re up. They shake the dew off, grip the bough,

  Eyes closed again, head tucked beneath a wing,

  Awaiting the sun. A stork is clattering

  By a puddle; mist-soaked crows perch upon stacks

  Of hay and, bills agape, hold lengthy talks

  That farmers loathe because they augur rain.

  The farmers themselves are working, and long gone.

  Reaper girls sing their simple song together

  Monotonous and plaintive as the weather,

  The sadder since it melts into the haze

  Unechoed; the sickles rasp, the grain replies.

  The men at work on this second mowing pause

  As each verse ends; they hum, and hone their blades

  To the rhythm that the melody provides.

  All are hidden; the swish of blades, the keen

  Of voices, make a symphony unseen.

  Their overseer sits on a bale of hay.

  He’s bored; ignoring the work, he looks away

  And eyes the highway and the crossroads, where

  Extraordinary things are in the air.

  On the h
ighway and the roads, since break of day

  There’s bustle; a peasant cart speeds on its way

  Fast as a post coach. A gentry britzka too

  Jolts past at speed; a second; a third also.

  From the left-hand road a messenger comes racing

  Like a courier; from the right, twelve horses chasing.

  They’re hurrying hither, thither, everywhere.

  But what does all this mean? The overseer

  Stands at the roadside, curious, but in vain

  He calls to them—he can’t stop anyone,

  Nor see their faces in the mist. They flit

  Like ghosts—he only hears the horses’ feet

  And, stranger still, at times a clinking sword.

  The overseer’s excited, and he’s scared.

  Though the country then was quiet, people had long

  Been whispering of war, and mentioning

  The French, Dąbrowski, and Napoleon.

  Was this the war—these horses, these armed men?

  The overseer ran to the Judge to tell

  All that he’d seen, and learn a bit as well.

  At Soplicowo, the previous evening’s matter

  Had left them all unsettled. The Warden’s daughter

  Had gathered the women for fortune-telling; the men

  Were dealt their hands for mariasz—but in vain.

  Nobody wished to play; the men were sitting

  Puffing their pipes, the womenfolk were knitting;

  Even the flies were sleeping.

  The Warden, bored

  By the quiet, sought out the servants. He preferred

  The kitchen, with the housekeeper’s loud cries,

  Cook’s shouts and blows, the boisterous kitchen boys.

  The roast on the skewer, turning steadily,

  Soon had him musing, placid as could be.

  The Judge had long been in his study writing.

  The Bailiff sat outside the chamber, waiting.

  The job once done, Protazy was invited

  To hear the Judge’s charge: the Count indicted

  For defamation and for calumny;

  Gerwazy charged in turn with battery,

  And both with slander. Legal costs were claimed

  As well. The local court would be informed.

  The writ was to be personally served, today,

  Before sundown. Protazy solemnly

  Extended ear and hand, hearing his mission.

  His gravity, though, concealed a deep elation.

  Mere thought of a trial made him feel young again.

  Delivering all those summonses back then

  He’d receive blows, but also handsome fees.

  Like a veteran knowing only wartime days

  Who now lies crippled in the hospital—

  Hearing a distant drum or bugle call

  He jumps from bed: “At the Russians!” comes his cry,

  And on his wooden leg he stomps away

  So fast, the youngsters almost are outpaced.

  Protazy donned his bailiff’s clothes posthaste.

  Not the żupan or the kontusz—both of these

  Were saved for major court formalities.

  For traveling he wore britches and a coat

  Whose buttoned tails could be, as he saw fit,

  Worn down below his knees or else rolled up;

  And a cap with earflaps tied with cord on top,

  Worn up in decent weather, down for rain.

  Dressed so, he left on foot, taking his cane.

  For bailiffs before a trial, like wartime spies

  Before a battle, need many a disguise.

  Good thing Protazy bolted with his writ—

  He wouldn’t have had much time to relish it.

  At Soplicowo plans were being remade.

  Robak had called to see the Judge, and said

  Pensively: “This Telimena’s problematic,

  This aunt here—she’s flirtatious and erratic.

  When Zosia found herself orphaned and poor,

  Jacek had Telimena care for her.

  He’d heard that she was kind and worldly-wise.

  But here she’s stirring trouble, I realize.

  I’ve been observing her and all her schemes.

  She has Tadeusz in her sights, it seems,

  Or maybe the Count, or both at once. So look:

  We need her out of the way, or folks may talk.

  It sets a bad example; our young couple

  Might quarrel, and then your plans would be in trouble.

  “Plans?” cried the Judge with unaccustomed heat.

  “There is no plan—I’ve put an end to it!”

  “What?” Robak broke in. “That makes no sense at all.

  What foolishness is this now? Some new brawl?”

  “Not of my making,” said the Judge. “A trial

  Will show it was the Count, conceited fool,

  And the rogue Gerwazy, as any court will gather.

  Too bad you missed the castle dinner, Father—

  You’d have seen plainly how I was defamed.”

  “You should avoid that place!” the monk exclaimed.

  “You know how I loathe it; I’ll not set foot in there

  Ever again. More discord? Lord, I swear!

  What happened? Things must be set straight. I’m through

  With all this folly—I’ve better things to do

  Than reconcile litigious foes. But, well,

  I’ll do it one more time.”

  “What? Reconcile?

  Reconcile be damned!” the Judge burst out,

  Stamping a foot. “What do you think of that!

  My guest he is, yet he’d impose his will!

  Know this: Soplicas do not reconcile.

  They sue, and they must win, though it may be

  Six generations till the victory.

  It’s bad enough that at your bidding, I went

  Three times to mediation. From this point

  There is no reconciliation! None!”

  (He strode round, stamping both feet one by one.)

  “What’s more, for what he did last evening, he’ll

  Apologize, or else there’ll be a duel!”

  “But Judge, when Jacek learns of this, despair

  Will kill him! Evil enough has been done there

  By the Soplicas, surely. I’ll not say

  A single word about that dreadful day.

  Then Targowica gave your family—

  As well you know—Horeszko property.

  Jacek swore an oath in expiation

  That he’d restore it for his absolution.

  He took in Zosia, the Horeszkos’ heir,

  Paid amply for her schooling and her care.

  He wished to marry his Tadeusz to her,

  To reunite two feuding houses through her

  And give her back her birthright, honorably.”

  “So?” cried the Judge. “What do you want of me?

  I didn’t know Jacek—never met him once.

  I heard about his life of violence

  When studying with the Jesuits, subsequently

  As governor’s page. They gave me property,

  I took it; he said: Take Zosia in, I did—

  I’ve raised her, thought about her future good.

  I’m tired of all this female messiness!

  And why’s the Count mixed up in all of this?

  How is the castle his? Friend, it’s well known

  He’s only the Horeszkos’ distant kin.

  And he slights me? I should extend a hand?”

  “Brother, there’s reason to,” the friar returned.

  “Think—Jacek wished to send his son away

 
To join the army—then he had him stay

  In Lithuania. Why? He’s needed here

  At home! You’ve heard the widespread talk, I’m sure—

  That I’ve brought fitful news about. Well, brother,

  It’s time to say it all to one another.

  This is momentous! War is here! A war

  For Poland! War, yes! We’ll be Poles once more!

  When I arrived here on my secret mission

  The vanguard was already in position

  Over the Niemen. Napoleon has grown

  A host such as the world has never known!

  And with the French there is a Polish force!

  Our Józef, our Dąbrowski, and of course

  All our white eagles! At the Emperor’s sign

  They’ll cross the river—and Poland lives again!”

  The Judge put on his glasses slowly, stared

  At Robak, listened to him without a word,

  Sighed deeply; in his eye there was a tear…

  And then he threw his arms around the friar.

  “Dear Robak!” he exclaimed, “is all this true?

  “Dear Robak!” he kept saying, “is it true?

  After so many false alarms! They’d shout,

  ‘Napoleon’s coming!,’ remember? And we’d wait.

  ‘He’s in the Duchy, he beat the Prussians,’ they said,

  ‘He’s here!’ And what—at Tilsit peace was made!

  Is it all true? Your mind’s not tricking you?”

  “As God’s in heaven,” Robak affirmed, “it’s true!”

  “Blessed be the lips that bring this information!”

  The Judge exclaimed, arms raised in exultation.

  “Your mission will profit your community

  And you. They’ll get two hundred sheep from me;

  While you—you praised my sorrel yesterday

  And seemed to take a liking to the bay.

  Today they’ll both be harnessed to your cart.

  Ask what you will—whatever should please your heart

  Is yours. But leave this business with the Count.

  He’s wronged me; now the summons has been sent,

  It wouldn’t be right.”

  The friar stared dismayed

  At the Judge; rubbing his hands, he shrugged and said:

  “Napoleon’s bringing freedom to our nation,

  The world shakes—and you think of litigation?

  After all that you’ve heard, you sit there, calm,

  With folded arms, when this is the very time

  To act!”

  “Act? Meaning what?” the Judge inquired.

  “Brother!” the friar burst out. “You’ve still not heard

  What I’ve been saying? Your heart’s not speaking to you?