Pan Tadeusz

by Adam Mickiewicz

  These laws and rules—are we to be kept out?

  When those from our settlement were invited here

  The Steward, Mr. Rębajło, made it clear

  Great matters were afoot—matters that bore

  Not just on the Dobrzyńskis, but much more—

  On county, on all gentry. Robak too

  Had muttered something—half a word, it’s true,

  Left dangling there unfinished. Still and all

  We came, and had our neighbors come as well.

  Dobrzyńskis, it’s not just you—two hundred men

  From various settlements are here. So then,

  Let’s all discuss it. If a marshal’s wanted,

  We all should vote—let each man’s voice be counted.

  Long live equality!”

  Two Terajewiczes,

  Four Stupułkowskis too, and three Mickiewiczes

  Echoed Skołuba: “Long live equality!”

  Buchman cried: “Concord means catastrophe!”

  Sprinkler exclaimed: “We’ll manage on our own.

  Long live our marshal, Maciej—second to none!”

  “Yes!” the Dobrzyńskis shouted; “Take command!”

  “Never!” the outside gentry all rejoined.

  The crowd split into two sides; heads were swaying

  And nodding to their camp, the first group saying:

  “We disagree!” The other: “Take the baton!”

  Old Maciej sat between them. He alone

  Was mute, his head the only one at rest.

  In front of him stood Sprinkler, both hands placed

  On his great club; resting on them, his head

  Was swiveling like a gourd stuck on a rod.

  His body rocked in turn forward and back

  As he roared obstinately: “Whack and thwack!”

  Razor kept scurrying across the space

  Between where Maciej sat and Sprinkler’s place,

  While Watering Can unhurriedly made his way

  Between the factions—making peace, he’d say.

  Razor called: “Shave ’em!” Sprinkler: “Water ’em all!”

  Maciej, though quiet, was bristling, you could tell.

  After some fifteen minutes, above the noise

  And nodding heads a gleaming pillar rose:

  A rapier six feet long, six inches wide

  It was—its broad blade sharpened on each side.

  It was quite clearly a Teutonic sword

  Forged of Nuremberg steel. All stopped and stared.

  They couldn’t see who held it, but assumed:

  “It’s Jackknife! Long live Jackknife!” they exclaimed.

  “Jackknife! Rębajło settlement’s great pride!

  Hurrah for My Good Man, and his crest beside!”

  Gerwazy (for it was he) pushed through toward

  The middle and stood there, brandishing his sword.

  Reaching where Maciej sat, he lowered the blade

  In greeting: “Jackknife bows to Twig,” he said.

  “Brother Dobrzyńskis! I’ve no thoughts to share;

  I’ll just say why I asked all of you here;

  Then, what to do, and how, you’ll figure out.

  In the settlements, as you know, word’s gone about

  Of great things stirring in the world out there.

  Robak has talked of this—you’re all aware?”

  “We are!” they said. “Good. So then: for the wise,”

  He said with a sharp look, “Two words suffice,

  Right?” “Right!” they said. “When the French Emperor

  Comes from this way, from that the Russian Tsar,”

  Gerwazy said. “Then monarchs will come to blows,

  Kings clash with kings—the way it always goes.

  Should we sit quietly? When great men contend,

  Lesser men should as well—each to his kind,

  Great striking great, small battling small, you see?

  By fighting, we’ll root out all roguery

  So joy and independence can awake.

  True?” “True!” they said. “It sounds like from a book.”

  “True!” echoed Sprinkler. “Nought but whack and thwack!”

  “I can shave folks whenever!” Razor put in.

  “Yes, but,” well-manneredly said Watering Can,

  “Sprinkler and Maciej—agree who’ll take command.”

  “Agreement is for fools!” Buchman complained;

  “Public debate can only help our end.

  Hush! Listen now! The cause will benefit

  To have the Steward shed new light on it.”

  “In fact, my views aren’t new,” the Steward said.

  “Great folks weigh up great things, and so they should—

  For that we’ve emperors, kings, senate and house;

  For suchlike, my good man, Kraków’s the place,

  Or Warsaw—not our far-off Dobrzyn here.

  Confederacies aren’t drawn up by the fire

  In chalk, on bits of wood—no, you prepare

  A parchment. That’s not our task. That’s the job

  Of the old Royal or Great Lithuanian Scribe.

  My role’s to carve with Jackknife.” “Mine’s to spray

  With Sprinkler,” called Baptist. “Mine’s to prick away

  With Awl,” cried Bartek Bradawl, waving said sword.

  The Steward concluded: “You all confirm you heard:

  ‘If we’re to host Napoleon,’ Robak said,

  ‘Then first our house must thoroughly be rid

  Of trash.’ You caught that, right? You understood?

  So: who is our trash? Who murdered treacherously

  The best of Poles, and stole his property?

  Who’s trying to grab the remnants from his heir?

  Who? Need I say?”

  “Soplica—it’s quite clear,”

  Said Watering Can. “The Villain!” “The autocrat!”

  Squeaked Razor. Sprinkler added: “Spray him flat!”

  “The traitor!” cried Buchman. “Hang him from a bough!”

  “Now!” all were yelling. “Strike Soplica now!”

  The Prussian, though, bravely took the Judge’s side,

  Shouting to the gentry, arms flung wide:

  “Brothers! For goodness’ sake! What is all this?

  Steward, what’s wrong—are you delirious?

  Is that what we were saying? A man is mad,

  And banished—so punish his brother in his stead?

  That’s hardly Christian! This is the Count’s conniving.

  The Judge mistreat the gentry? By all that’s living,

  It isn’t so! It’s you who always sue—

  He’s always trying to make peace with you,

  Concede, even pay costs! They’ve a court case,

  Him and the Count—so what? They’re prosperous,

  Let them contend. It shouldn’t interest us.

  The Judge a despot? First master to command

  That peasants shouldn’t bow down to the ground,

  Saying it was a sin? I’ve often seen

  The peasants sitting down with him to dine.

  He pays their tithes—unlike in Kleck, I feel,

  Which Mr. Buchman runs in the German style.

  The Judge a traitor! I’ve known him since first grade.

  Decent he was back then, decent he’s stayed.

  That man loves Poland, nurtures Polish ways,

  Spurns Russian fashions. Following my stays

  In Prussia, to cleanse myself of German air

  I visit Soplica—Poland’s heart, I swear!

  A man can drink and breathe the Homeland there!

  Dobrzyńskis—I’m your brother, but I’ll
not

  Allow the Judge to be maligned like that.

  Folks in Great Poland never were like this!

  They have such spirit, such harmoniousness!

  None would have dared use such clichés.” “You’re wrong!”

  Cried the Steward. “They’re not clichés! The villains should hang!”

  The noise grew; Jankiel asked to say a word.

  He jumped up on a bench, his waist-long beard

  Like bundled straw above them. Lifting up

  His right hand, he took off his fox-trimmed cap,

  Straightened his yarmulke with his left, and then,

  Tucking that hand inside his belt, began,

  Bowing to the Dobrzyńskis, cap in hand:

  “I’m just a Jew, sirs, I’m in no way bound

  To the Judge. But the Soplicas I esteem

  As landlords and good masters. I feel the same

  Toward you Barteks, Maciejs—you’ve all been

  Good neighbors to me, decent gentlemen.

  It’s very bad to think of using force

  Against the Judge: there could be fighting; worse—

  Killing…What of the sheriffs? The soldiery?

  Jaegers are stationed at the fort nearby.

  The sheriff’s there as well; one word from him,

  They’ll be lined up and marching double-time.

  Then what? If it’s the French you’re waiting for,

  They’re still far off. I’m ignorant of war,

  A Jew like me. But in Bielica recently

  Some border Jews said the French army’s presently

  On the Łososna, where they’re gathering,

  And if there’s war, it won’t be till the spring.

  “So I say: wait! The Judge’s house is not

  Some market stall that he can take apart

  Then drive away—his place won’t cease to be,

  And he himself’s no passing Jewish lessee—

  Come spring he’ll still be there, he won’t have flown.

  So then: take stock, and keep your voices down.

  Don’t talk about the past, for talk’s in vain!

  Follow me if you care to, gentlemen:

  My Sura’s had a little Jankiel, so:

  Drinks are on me! And there’ll be music too:

  Bagpipes, string bass, two fiddles in the lead.

  Good Mr. Maciej likes old linden mead

  And new mazurkas. I’ve some new ones in,

  And now I’ve taught my kids to sing them feyn.”

  Jankiel was widely liked. The thoughts he’d voiced

  Touched them all. They applauded, they rejoiced;

  The hum of assent was even heard outside.

  But the Steward aimed his sword at Jankiel’s head.

  Jankiel ducked down. Gerwazy cried: “Out, Jew!

  Don’t stick your nose where you’ve no business to.”

  You, Mr. Prussia—now you’re the Judge’s man

  Because you shipped a bargeful of his grain?

  Have you forgotten? Your father would deliver

  Twenty Horeszko boatloads down the river.

  It made him wealthy, him and his family.

  Everyone here at Dobrzyn will agree—

  The young have heard it said, the old recall—

  The Pantler was caring father to you all.

  Who did he pick as steward for his estates

  At Pina? A Dobrzyński! Balance sheets,

  Household, table—whose hands were they put in?

  Dobrzyńskis’ alone. His whole staff was your kin!

  He backed the legal cases that you’d bring

  And got you perpetuities from the King.

  He sent your children to the Piarist school—

  Uniforms, board and lodging paid in full;

  Then helped them advance with generosity.

  And why? Because the man was neighborly!

  Soplica’s acres border on your own.

  What favors has he done for you?” “Not one!”

  Said Watering Can. “He’s lost his gentry roots.

  Nose in the air—he’s too big for his boots!

  I asked him to my daughter’s wedding, yes?

  He wouldn’t share a glass. ‘I drink much less

  Than you—you gentry drink like fish!’ he goes.

  So now he’s one of those fragile aristos!

  He didn’t drink; we did. ‘Awful!’ he said.

  I’d gladly see to watering his head!”

  “That schemer!” Baptist put in. “The things he’s done

  Deserve Sprinkler too. A clever lad, my son—

  But now he’s gone so daft they call him Simp.

  And it’s the Judge’s fault he’s such a chump.

  I told him: ‘Why go to Soplicowo, why?

  If I ever catch you there, God help you, boy.’

  But he snuck off to Zosia through the hemp.

  I caught him by the ear, gave him a thump;

  He started bawling, and the little imp

  Says: ‘Kill me, I have to go!’ I ask, ‘What is it?’

  He says he loves Zosia—has to pay a visit!

  To see her! I felt sorry for the kid.

  I tell the Judge: ‘Let Simp and Zosia wed.’

  ‘She’s young,’ he says; ‘Let’s see if she’s inclined

  In three years’ time.’ He’s someone else in mind,

  The liar! I’ll make damn sure I’m at that wedding,

  With Sprinkler too, so I can bless their bedding.”

  “Why should a rogue like that rule in the country,”

  Cried the Steward, “Ruining older, better gentry?

  The fine Horeszko name will perish surely.

  Where’s gratitude? Not here in Dobrzyn, clearly.

  Brothers! You want to fight the Russian tsar

  But war with Soplicowo—that you fear?

  You’re scared of the garrison. Do I incite

  To banditry? No! I’m on the side of right.

  The Count has won in court—the ruling’s there,

  It just needs applying. That’s how things once were:

  The court would rule, the gentry would enforce,

  Especially the Dobrzyńskis—that’s the source

  Of your great glory!

  You alone contended

  In the Mysz foray with the Russians commanded

  By General Wojniłowicz and his friend

  rom Łogumowicze, Mr. Wołk, the fiend.

  Remember how we captured Wołk, and meant

  To hang him from a beam in punishment

  For beating his serfs and being a Russian toady.

  But the dumb peasants let him go from pity!

  (One day, by Jackknife he’ll be skewered, and roasted.)

  There were too many forays to be listed;

  As befits gentry, we emerged each time

  To glory, gain, and general acclaim!

  “Yet now the Count, your neighbor, grapples in vain

  With courts and rulings, the poor orphaned man.

  Not one of you will offer help! The heir

  Of the Pantler, who provided so much care,

  Has only me, the Steward, as his friend—

  Me, and the trusty Jackknife in my hand!”

  “And Sprinkler, dear Gerwazy!” Baptist said.

  “I’m at your side, wherever you may lead,

  So long as I am armed. Two’s more than one,

  By God! I’ll spray, you cut, we’ll soon be done,

  Chop-chop! The rest of them can gab away!”

  “Brothers, you won’t turn down my company,”

  Razor put in; “You lather ’em, I’ll shave.”

  “Me too,” said Watering Can. “I’d rather leaver />
  With you, since no one here can choose a leader.

  What good is voting—I’ve got something better”

  (He took his bullets out and jangled them).

  “Bullets, not ballots! Let’s take Soplica some!”

  “We’re with you!” cried Skołuba. “We’ll come too!”

  Everyone else exclaimed: “We’re joining you!

  Long live the Horeszkos and their crest! We vow

  To back the Steward! Strike the Soplicas now!”

  Such was the power of the Steward’s eloquence.

  For the Judge had given each of them offense,

  As happens with neighbors—some small damage done,

  Trees wrongly felled, a wandering property line.

  Anger drove some; others begrudged the scale

  Of the Judge’s wealth. But hatred bound them all.

  They surged en masse toward the Steward, waving

  Swords, clubs…

  Then Maciej, who had been unmoving

  And grim, rose, crossed to the middle of the room,

  Stood arms akimbo, stared in front of him

  And, shaking his head, spoke out, enunciating

  Each word with pauses, clearly articulating

  And speaking slowly: “Ah! you fools! you fools!

  Sow the wind, the storm will crack your skulls!

  While there was talk of bringing back the nation,

  Of the common good, it was all disputation,

  You fools! You couldn’t agree on what to do,

  Nor pick someone to be in charge of you.

  But soon as grievances are touched upon,

  Fools, suddenly you’re all in unison!

  Out! As my name is Maciej, go to hell,

  Ten thousand devils there will treat you well!”

  They all were dumbstruck; no one said a word.

  Right then, however, outside a shout was heard:

  “Long live the Count!” The Count it was—he’d come,

  Armed, and with ten armed jockeys following him.

  He rode a splendid horse; his coat was black,

  While over it he wore a nut-brown cloak,

  Sleeveless and broad, hasped at the neck, that draped him

  Around the shoulders, and sheathlike enwrapped him.

  In a round feathered hat, with sword in hand

  He waved a greeting as he cantered round.

  “Long live the Count! For life or death!” they cried.

  The gentry thronged the windows, looked outside,

  And rushed together in a surging tide

  To follow the Steward out into the yard.

  Maciej chased out the rest; he closed and barred

  The door, repeating through the window: “Fools!”