Pan Tadeusz

by Adam Mickiewicz

  The neck had a pink riband running through.

  Her earrings, carved from cherry stones, were made

  By Simp Dobrzyński—his art a source of pride

  (They showed two hearts, an arrow, and a flame;

  Simp, as her suitor, once had given her them).

  Around her neck two strands of amber hung;

  While on her brow green rosemary was strung.

  Her braids were thrown behind her; in her hair,

  Like the reaper leading harvest rites, she wore

  A sickle, freshly slick from cutting grasses,

  Bright as the new moon in Diana’s tresses.

  Praise mingled with applause. One officer

  Took out a little notebook then and there,

  Trimmed a small pencil, licked the tip, and drew,

  Eyeing Zosia. The Judge immediately knew

  Just who the sketching artist was, although

  His colonel’s uniform had changed him so:

  In his rich epaulettes, and Spanish beard,

  And blackened mustache, truly he appeared

  A full-fledged uhlan. “Dearest Count, how are you?”

  The Judge said. “I see you keep your art things near you

  In your cartridge pouch!” The Count it was indeed:

  A recent soldier, but with his riches he’d

  Equipped a whole regiment of cavalry,

  And in his first clash had fought so fearlessly

  Napoleon had promoted him today.

  The Judge, aware of this, tried to convey

  Best wishes; but the Count just sketched away.

  There now appeared the second marriage pair—

  The Assessor, loyal aide, once to the Tsar,

  Now the Emperor. He led a gendarme squad, and though

  Appointed less than twenty hours ago,

  Already he wore the uniform—dark blue,

  With Polish facings, spurs, and saber too.

  Arrayed in all her finery, his bride,

  Tekla Hreczecha, walked solemnly at his side.

  Concerning Telimena, he’d long thought better

  Of such a match; to make that flirt the sadder

  He’d turned his affections to the Warden’s daughter.

  She wasn’t young—indeed, fifty already—

  But she kept house correctly, and was steady

  And wealthy—to the village that would come

  As dowry, the Judge had added a small sum.

  For ages the third pair did not appear.

  Impatient, the Judge sent servants to inquire.

  The groom—the Notary—while following

  The hare, it seemed, had lost the wedding ring

  And now was out there combing through the grass.

  His bride had still not finished with her dress;

  Though she was hurrying as she could, and though

  She’d maids to help, she was by no means through:

  It would be four before the job was done.

  Book XII: Let Us Love One Another

  The last Old Polish feast – A marvelous condiment service –

  An explanation of its figures – Its changes – Dąbrowski receives a gift –

  Tadeusz’s first official act as master – Gerwazy’s remarks –

  A concert like no other – A polonaise –

  Let us love one another!

  The doors were finally flung open; then

  The Warden, in a cap, head high, came in.

  He greeted no one, did not sit; today

  He had a very different role to play:

  Master of Ceremonies; he’d a baton

  To mark his office; with it, one by one

  He showed the guests their places for the dinner.

  The Chamberlain-Marshal had the place of honor

  As principal provincial officer:

  An ivory-armed, velvet-upholstered chair.

  On his right side sat General Dąbrowski;

  To his left Kniaziewicz, Pac, and Małachowski.

  Among them was the Chamberlain’s daughter; then

  Officers, ladies, lords, and gentlemen;

  Men and women interspersed in pairs

  Sat as the Warden pointed to their chairs.

  Bowing, the Judge left for the courtyard; he

  Had set up a dinner for the peasantry

  At a table two chains long. He took his station

  At the head, with the priest facing. By tradition

  New masters would give the common folk a feast

  During which they themselves would serve each guest.

  Thus Zofia and Tadeusz both were eating

  As they took round the food, instead of sitting.

  Meanwhile, indoors the diners gazed in awe

  At the huge condiment service that they saw,

  Its silver, like its workmanship, exquisite.

  The Orphan-Prince Radziwiłł, legend has it,

  Ordered it in Venice; it was decorated

  With Polish patterns that he stipulated.

  Looted in the Swedish War, it now had come—

  Who could know how—into a gentry home.

  Taken out specially today, it towered

  Huge as a carriage wheel, amid the board.

  This massive service brimmed from top to toe

  With whipped cream, and with sugar white as snow.

  A winter scene was artfully portrayed:

  In the middle, preserves like a dark wood arrayed.

  Miniature villages lined the sides; each house

  Bore sugar frosting made to look like ice.

  The tiniest figures, made of porcelain

  And dressed in Polish costumes, could be seen

  Around the rim. Like actors in a play

  They told some story; painted vividly,

  Each figure made a gesture, gave a wave—

  But for their lack of voice they seemed alive.

  What story was it? The guests were curious.

  The Warden raised his baton and started thus

  (Meanwhile, vodka was served before they ate):

  “My worthy gentlemen, if you’ll permit:

  The peopled scene you see here recreates

  The history of our regional council meets.

  The votes, the triumphs, each quarrel and debate—

  I worked it out. Let me elucidate.

  “Here on the right the gentry all are massed—

  No doubt awaiting some pre-council feast.

  The table’s laid, yet no one’s seating them.

  They wait in groups; their conversations hum.

  And see: in each small circle one man stands

  Whose open mouth, raised eyebrows, waving hands,

  Show he’s the speaker— giving some explanation,

  Fingers and gestures aiding his narration.

  He’s pushing for his candidate—although

  Not all are swayed, as their expressions show.

  “True, those in the second group are listening. One,

  Hands tucked inside his belt, leans closely in;

  Another turns his mustache, hand to ear

  To memorize each word, it would appear.

  The speaker pats his pocket happily:

  It’s worked; their votes are his now, he can see.

  “The third group’s different though—the speaker here

  Can barely keep a single listener.

  See: they all pull away, they can’t abide it.

  One of them is so mad he cannot hide it;

  He stops the speaker’s mouth—his fist is raised—

  No doubt he’s heard his rival being praised.

  One’s dropped his forehead like a bull half-crazed,

  Meaning to grab the other’s
horns, you’d say.

  Some grip their swords; others have stormed away.

  “One gentleman stands quietly to the side—

  A neutral, we see. He hesitates, afraid:

  Who will he vote for? He can’t answer that,

  So he asks fate: he lifts his hands up flat,

  Fingers aimed at each other; in this stance

  He shuts his eyes and leaves his vote to chance—

  For if his fingers meet, he’ll opt for yea;

  But if they miss, his choice will be a nay.

  “At left, a priory dining hall’s depicted;

  Today it’s where the gentry have collected.

  The elders sit on benches, while the young

  Stand at their backs and view what’s happening.

  The marshal’s in the middle with the bowl,

  Counting the balls they vote with, watched by all.

  The last ball’s out; the bailiffs with a cry

  Announce who’s been elected, hands raised high.

  “One man pays this consensus no attention;

  He leans through the kitchen window in dissension.

  See how he stares so boldly, mouth agape,

  As if he wished to eat the whole place up.

  He’s shouting ‘Veto!’—it’s not hard to guess.

  See how the others, spurred to factiousness,

  Rush for the door to where the man must be.

  They’ve grabbed their swords; things may end bloodily.

  “But an old priest runs down the hallway there,

  Wearing his chasuble—see him? That’s the prior.

  He raises the monstrance; at a bell-ring all

  Are asked by an altar boy to leave the hall.

  They sheathe their swords, they cross themselves, and kneel;

  The priest glares at the last faint clinks of steel.

  His coming at once brings calm and harmony.

  “You young folks don’t how things used to be:

  For all their arms, their stormy willfulness,

  Our gentry had no need of a police.

  With strong faith, and respect for law, there came

  Freedom with order, plenty with good name!

  Other lands have enforcers, so they say—

  Gendarmes and constables and polizei.

  But swords alone are no security—

  I can’t believe those realms are truly free.”

  The Chamberlain tapped upon his snuffbox here.

  “If you will, leave these tales for later, sir.

  This council history’s all well and good,

  But we’re all hungry! Have them bring the food.”

  The Warden bowed, baton close to the ground.

  “Your Excellency, be so very kind

  And let me explain what the last scene’s about.

  So: the new-chosen marshal’s carried out

  On his supporters’ shoulders. The gentry cheer—

  See there?—and toss their caps into the air.

  Across from them, the losing gentleman

  Pulls on his hat, plunged deep in thought, alone.

  His wife’s at home; she’s guessed what’s happening

  And fainted in her housemaid’s arms, poor thing!

  Instead of ‘Your Excellence,’ for three years more

  She’s to be ‘Honorable’ merely, as before!”

  The Warden was done. He waved his baton; at once

  Pairs of footmen started to advance

  Carrying the dishes. “Royal” barszcz they brought,

  And an Old Polish broth superbly wrought

  In which the Warden secretly had thrown

  Pearls in small number, and a single coin

  (Such soup is cleansing and medicinal).

  More dishes came, more—who could name them all!

  Today such foods have vanished—who shall know

  The kontuz, arkas, blemas of long ago,

  The forcemeats and the sauces they put on,

  Made with musk, civet, fondant, pine nut, prune.

  The fish! Dried Danube salmon; in addition

  Beluga; caviars, Turkish and Venetian;

  Pike of all sizes—medium, large, and small;

  Flounders; well fattened carp, and carp royale!

  Each one’s served whole, what’s more—the chef’s great pride:

  The middle’s roasted, while the head is fried;

  The tail’s in gravy, perfectly applied.

  The guests, however, showed no curiosity

  In the dish’s name, nor in its virtuosity.

  With martial appetites they began to dine,

  Washing the food down with Hungarian wine.

  In the meantime, though, the service had changed color:

  Greenery had replaced the snowy pallor,

  For the sugary icing, light and delicate,

  Had melted slowly in the summer heat,

  So what had been concealed could now appear.

  The scene showed a new season of the year:

  The brightness of a multicolored spring.

  All sorts of different grains were burgeoning—

  Rich golden spikes of saffron-tinted wheat;

  Buckwheat made artfully of chocolate;

  Rye clad in artist’s silver leaf. By these

  Were orchards of blooming pear and apple trees.

  Summer—but the guests had barely time to see it.

  In vain they asked the Warden to delay it:

  As with a planet’s fated round, again

  The season turned now: the gold-painted grain

  Melted in turn; the grass was seen to fade,

  The leaves upon the branches all turned red

  And fell—from an autumn wind, you would have guessed.

  The trees, a moment earlier fully dressed,

  Stood naked now, by frost and gale left bare.

  Cinnamon sticks is what they really were,

  Or sprigs of laurel made to look like pines

  With needles that were tiny caraway grains.

  To nibble with their wine, the guests reached out

  And took a branch, a tree trunk, or a root.

  The Warden circled the service jovially

  And gazed in triumph at the company.

  Henryk Dąbrowski seemed astonished, saying:

  “My dearest Warden, is this shadow-playing?

  Has old Pinetti shared his tricks? Are there

  Such services still in Lithuania, sir?

  Are all your feasts in this traditional mode?

  Tell me, for all my life’s been spent abroad.”

  The Warden bowed and said, “No, General,

  What you have seen here is no godless skill!

  It’s to recall those glorious feasts of old

  That once our ancient masters used to hold,

  When Poland enjoyed great power and good cheer.

  I learned to make it from this volume here.

  “But is this custom commonly maintained?

  Alas! New ways have crept into our land.

  What’s called ‘excess’ is spurned by many men;

  They eat like Jews, grudge guests both food and wine.

  Hungarian wine’s old-fashioned, so they think—

  Fake Muscovite champagne is what they drink.

  Later, at cards they lose so much they might

  Have hosted a hundred gentry that same night.

  Even (I’m speaking from the heart today;

  Don’t hold it against me, Chamberlain, I pray)

  —When I brought out this service, even he—

  The Chamberlain I mean—made fun of me:

  He said that it’s a tedious old contraption

  More like a children’s toy—hardly an option


  For honored visitors at such a meal!

  Judge—you said too that folks would find it dull!

  Yet from these gentlemen’s surprise, I see

  It was worthwhile to share this artistry!

  “When shall we serve such worthy guests a meal

  Again in Soplicowo? Who can tell.

  General, I see you know a thing or two

  About entertaining. I give this book to you:

  You’ll find it useful when you throw a feast

  For Napoleon—or foreign kings at least.

  If you’ll permit me, though, before I give it

  I’ll tell the tale of how I came to have it.”

  Outside the door, however, voices neared.

  “Long live the Weathercock!” many folk cheered.

  A throng, with Maciej at the head, appeared.

  The Judge led Maciej to the table, seating him

  High among the generals, though berating him

  In gentle terms, saying: “Neighbor, you’re so tardy

  Our dinner party’s almost through already.”

  “I always eat early,” Maciej said. “I’m here

  Not for the food, but out of a desire

  To view our national army personally.

  Say what you like, there’s not that much to see.

  The gentry spotted me, grabbed me, brought me through,

  You put me here—for which, my thanks to you.”

  He took his plate and turned it upside down

  To show he’d not eat; then sat there with a frown.

  “Mr. Dobrzyński,” said Dąbrowski then,

  “So you’re Kościuszko’s famous hewer of men—

  Maciej the Twig. I know your reputation!

  And here you’re still in excellent condition!

  All these years later! I’ve grown old, you know,

  Kniaziewicz also has turned gray. You, though,

  Could fight much younger men; and I’ve heard tell

  That Twig of yours still flourishes as well—

  You gave the Russians a thrashing recently.

  But where are your brothers? I should like to see

  Your Jackknives and your Razors—all those last

  Traces of Lithuania’s ancient past.”

  “After that victory,” the Judge explained,

  “Almost all the Dobrzyńskis had to abscond

  To the Duchy—no doubt they joined some legion there.”

  “Indeed,” said a junior cavalry officer,

  “In my second company, there’s a whiskered, wild

  Sergeant Major Dobrzyński—‘Sprinkler,’ he’s styled,

  Though the Poles have dubbed him ‘Lithuanian Bear.’

  If you wish, sir, I’ll have him summoned here.”