“There are more Lithuanians,” a lieutenant put in.
“One soldier’s known as Razor; another man
Carries a blunderbuss with the flanqueurs,
While two Dobrzyńskis serve with the chasseurs
As grenadiers.”
“Yes, that’s all very well,”
Dąbrowski said. “But what of their general—
This Jackknife whose feats I’ve heard the Warden praise
As if he were some giant of former days?”
“Jackknife stayed here; however, he was afraid
They’d seek him, so he hid,” the Warden said.
“He spent all winter in the woods, poor man—
He just came out. But he’s a knightly one;
He could be of use in martial times like these,
Though age has brought some slight infirmities.
Yet here he is!”
The Warden indicated
Where servants and villagers had congregated
Out in the hall. A bald head, gleaming, shone
Above the other heads like a full moon.
It rose and set three times among the rest:
The Steward was bowing. He emerged at last
And said:
“Grand Hetman, sir, Excellency
Or Général, whatever the term might be,
Rębajło’s the name. I’m at your service—me
And my Jackknife here, whose tempering alone
(Not mount, or lettering) brought such renown
That even you have heard of it, my lord.
If it could talk, it might well say a word
In praise of this old hand, which, glory be,
Has offered service long and loyally
To homeland, and to the great Horeszko line
Whose glorious memory today lives on.
Good sir! Few village clerks can trim a quill
Like Jackknife has trimmed heads innumerable—
Not mentioning the noses and ears galore.
Through all this, not one nick did it incur;
And it was never stained by lawlessness—
It was open war, or duels. Except for this:
One time alone—Lord, may he rest in peace!—
An unarmed man was killed, alas! It was,
However, pro publico bono, heaven knows.”
Dąbrowski laughed. “Let’s see this Jackknife then.—
It truly is a headsman’s blade, my man!”
He studied the massive sword admiringly
And showed it to others in the company.
All tried, but hardly any officer
Could even hoist the weapon in the air.
They said Dembiński could have—he was known
For his strong arm; that day, though, he was gone.
Among those present, only Captain Dwernicki,
Squadron commander, and Lieutenant Różycki
Were able to wield the massive length of steel.
Thus each man picked it up to test his skill.
But General Kniaziewicz, tallest there,
Proved strongest too. He gripped the rapier
As if it were a light épée; he flashed it
Above the diners’ heads, and as he swished it
Recited Polish swordsman’s terms: high blow,
Crosscut and windmill blow, strike from below,
Lunge, counterpoint, thrust, topcut, number three:
All learned at the Cadet Academy.
And as he trained and laughed, the Steward, kneeling,
Embraced his legs and groaned, damp-eyed with feeling,
At every swordstroke: “Brilliant, General!
Were you a confederate? Brilliant! Admirable!
That’s the Puławskis’ thrust! That’s Sawa’s there!
That’s Dzierżanowski’s move! Who taught you, sir?
Maciej Dobrzyński, surely! Not to boast—
I swear though, I invented that last thrust,
In the Rębajło settlement alone
It’s known. It bears my name: the ‘my-good-man.’
Who showed you it? It’s my thrust! Mine!”
He stood,
Threw his arms round the general, and said:
“Now I can die content! Somebody’s there
To give my darling the necessary care.
It’s something that night and day I’ve dwelled upon:
Whether my sword will rust when I am gone.
I see it won’t, though! Throw those sticks away
At once, dear General; pardon what I say,
But German toothpicks? No! You ought to wield
A sword that’s worthy of a gentry child.
And so: my Jackknife at your feet I place.
It is the dearest object I possess.
I never had a wife or child; this blade
Was always child and wife to me instead.
From dawn to dusk I held it lovingly
And then at night it slumbered next to me!
When I grew old it hung above my bed
Like Jews have the Ten Commandments overhead.
I’d thought to take it to my grave with me.
Now, though, I’ve found an heir. Yours it shall be!”
Half touched and half amused, the General smiled:
“Friend, if you’re giving me your wife and child,
Then for the rest of your allotted span
You’ll be an orphan and a widowed man!
What payment for this precious offering could
Ease your bereavement and your orphanhood?”
“Am I Cybulski,” the Steward said in a huff,
“Who, the song says, played cards and lost his wife
To a Russian? I’m content in knowing for sure
My Jackknife will shine before the world once more
In such a hand! But General—bear in mind
The blade is long, the strap must be untwined.
Plus: always start at the left ear, then cut
With both hands—the blade will slice from head to gut.”
The sword was much too long to wear right then;
The General had it taken to his van.
As to what happened to it, guesses flew
But, then or later, no one really knew.
Dąbrowski turned to Maciej: “And you, friend?
Our coming, so it seems, has left you pained?
You’re quiet, and bitter? Does your heart not stir
To see these gold and silver eagles? Hear
Kościuszko’s reveille sound out so close?
I thought that you were more adventurous.
If you yourself won’t arm and saddle up,
At least be glad with us—drink to the hope
Of Poland, sir, and to Napoleon!”
Maciej, though, said; “I know what’s going on.
But sir, two eagles cannot share a nest.
The favor of the great never does last.
The Emperor a hero! What can I say!
Whenever they would see Dumouriez
My good friends the Puławskis would declare
That Poland needs a Polish hero here—
Not a Frenchman or Italian, but our own:
A Józef, Jan, or Maciej—one homegrown.
“They say it’s a Polish force—these fusiliers,
Though, chasseurs, grenadiers, and cannoneers!
You hear more foreign names bandied around
Than Polish titles! Who can understand!
And surely these Tartars or these Turks are needless,
Whatever they are—schismatics—Godless, creedless!
I’ve seen it: village women being attacked,
Passers-by robbed as well, and churches sacked.
If he is traveling without his God!
I hear that now he’s excommunicated.
It’s all…” At this point Maciej hesitated,
Turned to his soup, and did not talk again.
What he had said displeased the Chamberlain.
Young men were muttering; to clear the air
The Judge presented the third marriage pair.
The Notary introduced himself—no one
Had recognized him. He would always don
Polish attire, but now his wife forbade him
The kontusz, and by marriage contract made him,
Like it or not, dress in the Gallic style.
His tailcoat clearly cost him half his soul.
He strutted cranelike, stiff and straight—you’d think
He’d swallowed a stick. His staring face was blank;
His torment, though, was plain—he didn’t know
How he should bow, or where his hands should go:
He who loved gesturing! He tucked them in
Behind his belt—there was no belt; poor man,
He only stroked his belly, turned bright red,
Put both hands in one pocket hole instead
And pressed on, lashed by jokes and whispering,
Ashamed as if he’d done some wicked thing.
Then he met Maciej’s eye, and shook with fear.
Till now the two had been close friends; but here
The old man eyed him like a thunderclap.
The Notary blanched and did his buttons up,
For Maciej’s gaze seemed more than capable
Of stripping him naked. Maciej twice cried: “Fool!”
He found this new attire so odious
That, saying no goodbyes, he left the house,
Mounted, and rode off homeward right away.
Meanwhile the Notary’s fetching fiancée,
Telimena, allowed her loveliness to glow,
Dressed modishly as she was from top to toe.
Her gown, and what she wore upon her head,
No pen could put in words. Perhaps instead
An artist’s brush could paint those muslins, tulles,
Those laces, cashmeres, all those pearls and jewels,
Those rose-pink cheeks, those eyes like flashing pools.
The Count knew her at once. Pallid, wide-eyed
He stood, looked for his sword. “It’s you?” he cried.
“Or do my eyes deceive me? Here you stand
Before me, clutching someone else’s hand?
You faithless creature! You inconstant soul!
shame, you ought to crawl into a hole!
Then you’ve forgotten your so-recent vow?
I’ve been an idiot! Why did I wear this bow!
But woe to the rival who’s insulted me!
I’ll die before I let this marriage be!”
The Notary had no notion what to do.
All rose; the Chamberlain rushed to calm the two.
But Telimena took the Count aside
And whispered: “I haven’t yet become his bride.
If you don’t wish it, tell me just one thing,
And tell me straight, at once, no wavering:
Inside, do you still love me steadfastly?
If so, are you prepared to marry me?
Here, now? If so, then I’ll turn down this man.”
The Count said: “Woman, you’re beyond my ken!
Your heart was ruled by poetry once; today
It’s thoroughly prosaic, I have to say.
What are your marriages but manacles
That can inhibit hands, but never souls?
Know: there are declarations undeclared,
Commitments though there is no written word.
Two hearts that burn far off from one another
Like stars, through trembling rays converse together.
Perhaps that’s why the earth’s drawn to the sun—
Who knows!—and why it’s kindly to the moon:
They gaze at each other always, but alas,
Try as they might, they never can draw close!”
“Enough!” she stopped him. “I’m a woman, sir,
Not a planet, for heaven’s sake! So talk no more,
I know the rest now—quit your blethering.
Be warned though: say one word—the slightest thing
To stop my wedding—and by all that’s true
I swear I’ll take my fingernails to you
And—”
“I’ll not be a hindrance,” the Count said;
With a sad and scornful look he turned his head.
To punish the fickle one, he sought a new love
And took the Chamberlain’s daughter as his true love.
The Warden, hoping to calm the altercation
With wise examples, picked up his narration
Of Rejtan and the Prince of Nassau’s row
Over a boar. The guests, however, by now
Had finished their ice cream, and left the hall,
The castle courtyard offering some cool.
The villagers’ feast was ending; mead was flowing.
Music struck up—the dance would soon get going.
They looked for Tadeusz, who, off to one side,
Was whispering intently with his bride.
“Zosia! There’s something of great gravity
I need to ask you. My uncle will agree,
He’s said. You know that of the villages
I’m to inherit, many by law are yours.
These people aren’t my serfs—you are their lord.
I’d only make this change with your accord.
We have our beloved homeland once again;
But for the peasants, will this blessing mean
No more than that a different lord will reign?
They have been kindly ruled till now, it’s true.
But when I die, who will I leave them to?
I am a soldier—we’re both mortal; plus
I’m human—I fear my own capriciousness.
It’s safer to renounce my own authority
And let the serfs enjoy the law’s security.
Since we are free, let’s free our serfs as well.
Let them inherit the land where they now dwell,
Which they have conquered with their bloody toil
And from it, feed us and enrich us all.
Be aware, though—our income will be less;
We’ll need to live modestly if we opt for this.
My life has long been economical.
But you’re well-born; you lived in the capital
As a child. Will you agree to spend your life
Here in the country, like a farmer’s wife?”
Zosia responded unassumingly:
“I’m a woman; governing isn’t up to me.
You’re the husband; I’m too young to give my view.
Whatever you decide, I’ll stand with you.
If, freeing the serfs, you shall be left the poorer,
To me, Tadeusz, you’ll be only dearer.
I don’t know much about my birth—or care.
I am aware that I was orphaned, poor,
And the Soplicas took me as their own,
Raised me, and found a match for me. The town
Is long gone and forgotten; I’ve no fear
Of country living—I always loved it here.
Trust me, I like my roosters and my hens
More than St. Petersburg’s fine citizens.
At times I’ve missed it all; I realize, though,
That’s childishness. The city bores me now.
In winter I stayed in Vilna passingly
;
That made it clear the rural life’s for me.
Away from Soplicowo, I longed for it.
I’m not afraid of work; I’m young, I’m fit,
I know how to keep the keys, and mind the house—
You’ll see how soon I’ll learn to run the place!”
As Zosia finished, Gerwazy, irked and red,
Came up to her. “I know of this!” he said;
“I’ve heard this freedom mentioned by the Judge.
But what it means for the manor, I can’t gauge.
I fear it’s something German! Liberty
Is for the gentry, not the peasantry!
It’s true, we all descend from Adam of old.
But the peasants come from Ham, so I’ve been told,
The Jews from Japheth; the gentry are from Shem,
And so, as the eldest, we rule over them.
Of course, our priest says something different—
That it was so in the Old Testament
Then Christ the Lord, although from royalty,
Was born a Jew in a peasant stable. He
Brought three estates to peace and parity.
If we’ve no choice, then so be it already,
Especially if in all these things my lady,
The Honorable Miss Zofia, concurs.
She orders, I obey—the power is hers.
Just see that these liberties aren’t words alone,
As the late Mr. Karp’s example’s shown:
When he gave freedom to his serfs, the Russians
Imposed a triple tax, and brought privations.
Recalling the old custom, I suggest
You make the peasants gentry, with your crest:
Miss, you should give Półkozic to some of them,
While you can give Leliwa, sir, to some.
When peasants become gentry, with a coat of arms
And equal standing that the Sejm confirms,
I’ll say it’s so.
Your husband shouldn’t fret
That after, you’ll be pressed to make ends meet,
For God forbid that I should ever see
A magnate’s daughter brought to drudgery.
There is a way: in the castle, there’s a chest
Where the Horeszko tableware’s amassed,
Along with bracelets, pearl strings, signet rings,
Horse tack, rich plumes, fine swords and other things—
The Pantler’s treasure, hidden from plunderers.
Miss Zofia now inherits it—it’s hers.
I guarded it closely from no matter who—
The Russians, and from you Soplicas too.
Plus, I’ve a sack of thalers of my own,
Given by my lord, or earned from jobs I’ve done.
I’d thought that when the castle was returned
Pan Tadeusz Page 32
