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Pan Tadeusz

Page 30

by Adam Mickiewicz


  But there are precedents. I recall cases

  With worse transgressions than our own excesses,

  Yet articles of marriage led to peace.

  The Borzdobohatys and Łopot settled thus;

  The Krepsztuls and Kupścies, Kwileckis and Turno,

  Mackiewicz and the Odynieces; Putrament and Pikturno.

  Indeed, there were worse clashes of opinion

  Than ours, dividing Pole and Lithuanian,

  Till Queen Jadwiga made a clever play

  And solved things in a non-litigious way.

  “It’s good if there’s a marriageable daughter

  Or widow—then hopes for compromise are better.

  Cases with Catholic priests, or close relations,

  Are worst, for then there can be solutions

  Through marriage. Which is why the Poles and Russians—

  Descendants of Lech and Rus, brother and brother—

  Are constantly at strife with one another;

  Why Lithuania kept legally taking on

  The Teutonic Order—till Jagiełło won.

  And, lastly, why the Rymszas’ famous suing

  Of the Dominicans was so long in doing

  Till victory went to the friars’ lawyer Dymsza,

  Hence the phrase: ‘Lord God’s mightier than Lord Rymsza.’

  I’d add: mead’s mightier than Jackknife, sir.”

  He raised his glass to the Steward sitting there.

  This moved Gerwazy. “True, too true,” he said.

  “Our Lithuania, our Poland—strange indeed

  Has been their fate! Like man and wife, united

  By God, then by the Devil separated!

  Brother Protazy—what our eyes have seen!

  And now the Poles have come to us again!

  I myself fought beside them way back when;

  I well recall those brave confederate men.

  If the late Pantler had but lived to see it!

  Oh Jacek, Jacek! But no tears; so be it.

  Since Poland and Lithuania now are teamed,

  Then all the rest is reconciled, redeemed.”

  “How strange,” declared Protazy, “that last year

  This Zosia, whose hand Tadeusz is asking for,

  Was the subject of an omen plain to spy.”

  “‘Miss Zofia’ we should call her, you and I,”

  The Steward put in. “Not only is she of age,

  She’s the Pantler’s grandchild, of fine parentage.”

  “Anyway,” Protazy went on, “as if in the skies

  Her fate was told—I saw it with my own eyes.

  One holiday here the serving folk were sitting

  Sipping their mead; two sparrows who’d been fighting

  Came clattering from the eaves—both old, both male.

  The slightly younger one’s throat was gray and dull;

  The other’s was black. Tumbling across the yard,

  Two little balls of dust now, still they sparred.

  The servants whispered that the black one there

  Should be Horeszko, and his challenger

  Soplica. When the gray one was on top

  They’d shout: ‘Hurrah Soplica! Beat him up!’

  When he was down, they called: ‘Go, gentry, go!

  Don’t lose your honor to an aristo!’

  Laughing, we watched to see who’d win. But then

  Young Zosia, overcome with pity, ran

  And placed her hand over the jousting knights.

  Such doggedness was in those tiny mites—

  They fought on in her fingers, plumage flying.

  The women, watching Zosia, were quietly saying

  That this girl’s fate was clearly to restore

  Peace to two families so long at war.

  I see the women’s prophecy’s come to be.

  Back then they meant the Count, admittedly,

  And not Tadeusz.”

  To this the Steward responded:

  “This world holds things that can’t be comprehended.

  I’ll tell you something else—not quite as curious

  As the omen, true, yet all the same mysterious.

  Back then, you know, it would have brought me joy

  To kill each last Soplica. But that boy—

  Tadeusz—I always liked him. I took note

  That when he and the other young ones fought,

  He’d always win. So every time he’d run

  Up to the castle, I would urge him on

  To ever harder tasks. Whatever he’d do—

  Catch pigeons in the tower, take mistletoe

  From an oak, or—to reach a crow’s nest—climb

  The tallest pine tree—he’d succeed each time.

  ‘He’s born under a lucky star—too bad,’

  I’d think, ‘he’s a Soplica!’ Now he’ll wed

  My lady, Miss Zofia—and the castle’s his!”

  They lapsed into their separate reveries

  And quietly drank, though now and then they said:

  “Yes, yes, Gerwazy!” “Protazy, yes indeed!”

  They sat by the kitchen window. Smoky haze

  Was pouring from it, as if from some great blaze.

  Then, through the billows a cook’s apron, white

  And gleaming, flashed like a she-dove into sight.

  Above them, head stuck quietly through the smoke,

  The Warden had been listening to their talk.

  He passed sponge biscuits on a saucer to them,

  Saying, “These go well with mead. And as you chew them

  I’ll tell the story of an altercation

  That could have led to bloody confrontation,

  When Rejtan tricked the Prince of Nassau once

  While they were hunting—that experience

  Cost me my health almost, I ought to note.

  I’ll tell you how I settled their dispute.”

  Here, though, the cooks came with a pressing matter:

  Who should arrange the condiments on their platter?

  The Warden left. Musing, the two old men

  Drank on and turned to the garden once again.

  The maid and the handsome uhlan had remained,

  Talking. He had her palm in his left hand

  (His right was in a sling, making it clear

  That he’d been wounded). He was saying to her:

  “Zofia, before we can exchange our rings

  You have to tell me—I need to know these things.

  Last winter you already were prepared

  To pledge—then, though, I didn’t accept your word.

  What use could a forced promise be to me?

  Back then I’d only been here fleetingly,

  And furthermore I lacked the arrogance

  To think you’d love me at a single glance.

  I’m not vain; however long it needs,

  I’d rather earn your favor with my deeds.

  Today you’ve graciously renewed your vow;

  Yet what can I have done to win it now?

  Perhaps you’re driven, not by sentiment,

  But pressure from my uncle and your aunt?

  Marriage, though, is a weighty thing indeed,

  Zosia; follow your heart, and pay no heed

  To your aunt’s coaxings, uncle’s threats as well.

  If friendliness for me is all you feel

  Then our engagement ought to be deferred.

  I’d never force you, Zosia, to give your word.

  We’ll wait, especially that since yesterday

  I’m with the local regiment—I’ll stay

  As an instructor till my wounds are mended.

  So, dearest Zosia?”

  To this Zosia responded,r />
  Head raised, eyes fixed on his eyes bashfully:

  “I’ve rather forgotten how things used to be.

  I know they all said I should marry you,

  And what my elders wished, and heaven too,

  I always accepted.” She went on to say,

  Looking down: “Remember how you went away

  That stormy night when Father Robak died?

  I saw how hard it was for you. I spied

  A tear in your eye, and I confess: that tear

  Entered my heart. Since then I’ve been quite sure

  Of our attachment; when I’d say a prayer

  In your intention, you’d be standing by

  With that big teardrop glistening in your eye.

  Then the Chamberlain’s wife took me along with her

  To Vilna, and we spent the winter there.

  But I missed Soplicowo, and the room

  Where we first met, and where you’d later come

  To say goodbye. Somehow the thought of you,

  Like an autumn-planted seedling, grew and grew

  All winter in my heart, till, as I say,

  I realized that every single day

  I missed that room, and something breathed to me

  That I’d find you there again—which came to be.

  And so I’d speak your name to one and all—

  This was in Vilna, during carnival.

  The girls said I’m in love; well, if it’s true

  That I love someone, surely it is you.”

  Hearing her words, Tadeusz was content.

  They left the garden arm in arm and went

  Up to that chamber—now a lady’s—where

  Tadeusz once had lived, ten years before.

  The Notary, dressed to the nines, was there today,

  Attending to his lady fiancée,

  Handing her powders, little flasks and pots,

  And signet rings, and chains, and beauty spots.

  He watched her with a smile, triumphantly.

  Her work now almost done, his bride-to-be

  Gazed in the mirror to consult the Graces.

  The maids were freshening their mistress’ tresses

  With curling irons or, kneeling on the floor,

  Were working on the ruffles that she wore.

  While the Notary stood at his intended’s chair

  The cook’s boy tapped the pane: there was a hare!

  It’d left the osiers, crossed the field, and hidden

  Among the vegetables growing in the garden.

  It could be flushed from the seedbeds and tracked down,

  With the hounds positioned so it couldn’t run.

  Assessor, with Falcon’s collar, was scuttling out;

  Notary called Bobtail quickly and followed suit.

  Men and hounds stationed by the fence, the Warden,

  Fly swatter firm in hand, entered the garden.

  He swished it, stamped, and clapped to scare the hare.

  The houndsmen held the dogs, pointing to where

  The creature moved, and clicked their tongues discreetly.

  The hounds, ears pricked, lifted their noses mutely

  Into the wind, anxiously quivering,

  Like two twin arrows on a single string.

  The Warden then cried: “Sick him!” The hare had wheeled,

  Slipped through the fence and run into the field.

  Falcon and Bobtail dashed directly at it

  From two sides, like a bird’s two wings; they caught it

  And sunk their teeth like talons in its spine.

  The creature gave a single doleful whine

  Like a newborn child! The houndsmen came. The hare

  Was dead; the hounds tore its white belly fur.

  The hunters patted their dogs. The Warden then

  Took the hunting knife strapped to his belt, bent down

  And cut the hare’s feet off. “Both dogs equally

  Deserve this token of proficiency,”

  He said, “each swift and powerful as the other—

  Like Pac and his palace, they belong together,

  The hunter just as worthy as the hound.

  So then: your long, fierce quarrel’s at an end.

  You asked me to see that justice should be done,

  Now here’s my verdict: both of you have won.

  Each of you, take your pledge back; you’d do best

  To make your peace.”

  At the old man’s request

  The hunters’ gazes met; their faces shined,

  And they shook hands that long had not been joined.

  “I had pledged horse and tack,” said the Notary,

  “And given this ring as arbitrator’s fee—

  A promise guaranteed by legal deed.

  A pledge, once uttered, cannot be unsaid.

  Warden, please keep the ring as souvenir.

  Engrave your name there—or, if you prefer,

  Put the Hreczecha crest. The sard’s unspoiled,

  The ring itself eleven-karat gold.

  The uhlans took the horse; the horse tack, though,

  I kept. It’s praised by people in the know

  As snug, and stout, and handsome as you will.

  The seat is narrow, in Turk or Cossack style.

  The pommel’s set with precious stones; the seat

  Is lined with heavy silk to soften it.

  The rider sits deep in the saddle tree

  On a smooth cushion, comfy as can be.

  And when you gallop” (Notary Bolesta, who

  Loved acting things out, as everybody knew,

  Feigned mounting on a horse, and set off lolloping

  Across the room, pretending he was galloping)

  “—And when you gallop, the caparison

  Gleams like gold droplets splashing in the sun,

  For the silk cloth has gold threads running through,

  And the broad silver stirrups are gilded too.

  The straps of the bridle and the harness shimmer

  Where rows of mother-of-pearl buttons glimmer;

  The breastplate shows a moon lying on its back,

  Like the Leliwa crest. This curious tack—

  Captured upon Podhajce field, they say,

  From some renowned, high-ranking Turkish bey—

  Is yours, Assessor: a mark of my esteem.”

  Pleased at the gift, the Assessor answered him:

  “I’d staked my rare dog collars, given to me

  By Prince Sanguszko—garnished splendidly

  With golden studs, and covered in shagreen,

  With their silk leash, its worksmanship as fine

  As the bright jewel it bears. I’d purposed them

  In legacy for my children, who will come,

  No doubt—you know my wedding is today.

  But in exchange for your gift, Notary,

  Please do accept these items—they’ll remind us

  Of the years-long dispute that’s now behind us

  And ended for us both so honorably.

  Between us now may there be harmony!”

  Then they went in to tell those gathered there

  That Bobtail and Falcon’s quarrel was no more.

  A rumor claimed the hare came from the Warden,

  Who’d raised it himself, then loosed it in the garden

  To end the conflict with an easy kill.

  He’d done it so discretely, with such skill,

  That all of Soplicowo had been fooled.

  Years afterward, the cook’s boy finally told,

  Seeking to stir the rivalry of old.

  The Warden, though, denied it through and through

  And not one person thought the story true.

&
nbsp; At table in the castle hall together

  Awaiting dinner, the guests talked with each other.

  The Judge, in his official uniform,

  Came in with Tadeusz, and Zofia on his arm.

  Tadeusz, left hand to his temple pressed,

  Saluted his commanders as he passed.

  Zofia, her eyes cast downward, features flushed,

  Curtseyed to all those present as she blushed

  (Her aunt had taught her how to curtsey nicely).

  She wore a betrothal wreath—was dressed precisely,

  In fact, as at the chapel, when she’d given

  A springtime sheaf to honor the Queen of Heaven.

  She’d cut another sheaf for the visitors;

  With her right hand she passed out grasses, flowers,

  Her left straightening the sickle that she wore.

  Each general kissed her hand and took a flower.

  Zosia, still blushing, curtseyed to her elders.

  Then General Kniaziewicz took her by the shoulders,

  Kissed her paternally, then raised her up

  And placed her smartly on the table top.

  Eveyone present cried “Bravo!” and clapped;

  Her figure and her beauty left them rapt,

  And, too, her simple Lithuanian dress—

  For all these leaders, who in homelessness

  Had wandered the world over, near and far,

  The national costume had a strange allure,

  Reminding them of many a long-gone year

  And long-lost love; at the table now, eyes raised,

  And almost brought to tears, they gazed and gazed.

  Some asked Zosia to slightly lift her head

  And show her eyes; some asked, if she agreed,

  To spin about. The modest girl turned round,

  But shyly hid her eyes behind her hand.

  Tadeusz watched with a smile of happiness.

  Whether she’d been advised to wear that dress,

  Or led by instinct (girls can always tell

  Intuitively what will suit them well)—

  In any case, for the very first time that morning

  She had been scolded by her aunt for spurning

  Fashionable clothing; but with tears she’d won

  Permission to keep her simple outfit on.

  The skirts were long and white, on top of them

  A short green camlet gown with a pink hem.

  The bodice too was green; across her chest

  Pink ribbons held the bosom snugly laced

  Like a flower bud nestling safe among its leaves.

  Billowing from her shoulders, two white sleeves

  Shone like a butterfly’s wings spread wide for flight,

  The wrists held in by drawstrings and tied tight.

  The blouse was narrow at the collar too—

 

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