The Polish Review
Library of Polish Classics
Adam Mickiewicz
Pan Tadeusz
A New Translation in Prose, with Annotations,
by Christopher Zakrzewski
New York
208/30 Press
2010
208/30 Press is an imprint of the Polish Institute of Arts and Sciences of America, Inc., a tax-exempt and non-profit educational and academic organization with headquarters in the Murray Hill section of Manhattan.
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ISBN: 978-1-930205-06-2
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BOOK ONE. THE MANOR
Argument: The young master’s return. A first encounter in a little room, a second at table. The Judge’s sober discourse on courtesy. The Chamberlain’s political reflections on fashion. Beginning of the dispute over Scut and Peregrine. The Chief Steward’s lamentation. The last Sergeant-at-Arms. A glance at the political state of affairs in Lithuania and Europe of the time.
Lithuania! [1] My homeland! You are like health: not valued until we lose you. Now that I grieve your loss, I see and set your beauty forth in all its splendor.
Holy Virgin! You, who defend Częstochowa’s bright hill! Light of Ostra Brama! Guardian of Nowogródek’s walls and pious townsfolk! [2] As when in my boyhood my sobbing mother confided me to your care and my lifeless eyes were opened (after which I found the strength to walk unaided to your holy shrine and offer thanks to God), so by a wondrous sign will you restore us to the bosom of our land. Until that day comes, bear my aching heart to those wooded hills and verdant meadows sprawled along blue Niemen’s banks. Bear it away to that patchwork of cornfields vermeiled with wheat and silvered with rye, where the wild mustard glows amber-yellow, the buckwheat shimmers like snow, the white clover mantles like a maiden’s cheek—and all this bordered by the green hem of the balks and the solitary pears that grow there.
Among these fields, years ago, there stood a manor house. Built of wood on stone foundations, it nestled in a grove of birches overlooking a little brook. From a distance the lime-daubed walls shone the whiter against the screen of dark-green poplars that kept the autumn winds at bay. While none too large, the house was spruce and trim. There was a mighty thatched barn bursting with grain. Beneath its eaves outside stood three surplus straw ricks; clearly, the region grew grain in superabundance. Everything about the domain—from the shining galaxy of stooks that ran the length and breadth of the fields, to the host of early morning plows working the vast tracts of black loam that lay in fallow, to the garden-like neatness of the grounds—testified that order and plenty made their dwelling here. The gate stood fastened back: a clear sign to passersby that the house was neighborly and welcomed all with open arms.
Just now a young gentleman drove in. Swinging his caleche and pair around the courtyard, he backed up to the veranda door and jumped out. Unattended, the horses began to tug at the grass and stray off in the direction of the gate. There was no life about the house. The veranda door stood shut with the hasp fitted over the staple and secured by a peg. Rather than seek help at the servants’ annex the traveler unfastened the door himself and ran inside. Long had he pined to greet the house. Not since leaving for the distant city to complete his schooling had he been back; at last the waiting was over.
His eager eyes ran fondly over the ancient walls. Old friends! The same tapestries and appointments had delighted him ever since he could remember; true, they seemed smaller now, not quite as lovely. The same portraits garnished the walls. Here stood Kościuszko[3] in his Cracow coat, sword raised in both hands, eyes tilted heavenward. Such was the attitude he struck when, standing on the altar steps, he swore an oath to rid our land of the three Great Powers or, failing in the attempt, cast himself upon his sword. There, in his Polish robes, brooding over his nation’s lost freedom, sat Reytan, a dagger poised at his heart. Phaedo and Cato’s Life lay open before him [4]. Farther down stood the young Jasiński—comely and morose of mien[5]. Beside him was Korsak, his comrade-in-arms [6]. Bestriding Praga’s barricade, slain Muscovites heaped about them, the pair hewed the enemy, while all around them Praga burned. Not even the old grandfather’s clock in the alcove entrance escaped the traveler’s notice. With child-like joy he ran up and pulled the cord to hear the timepiece chime out the old Dąbrowski mazurka [7].
On through the house he went in search of his old room of ten years ago. He entered the door and instantly drew back. Dumbfounded, he swept the walls with his eyes. Here was a woman’s apartment! But whose? Certainly not his uncle’s, for he was an old bachelor. Or his aunt’s; she had been away in Saint Petersburg for years. The housekeeper’s? But here was a piano bestrewn with books and scores. Sweet disarray! Only tender young hands could have wrought it. A white frock, fresh off the peg, lay draped over a chair. Fragrant pots of aster, geranium, violet, and gillyflower lined the sills.
The traveler drew up at one of the windows. Another wonder! Where stinging nettle had once rioted at the orchard’s edge there now lay a plot of flowerbeds and intersecting paths. Clumps of spearmint and ribbon grass sprouted in profusion. All around the garden ran a little fence fashioned out of uprights lashed together in a row of Vs. A bright band of daisies flickered along its base. The beds had just been sprinkled, a full watering can stood close by; yet nowhere was the gardener to be seen. She could not have gone far, for the gate-leaf still trembled from a recent nudge. Close by, on a scattering of fine dry sand as blank as snow, lay the dint of a dainty stockingless foot. From the distinct yet shallow impression it made, you could tell the foot was light and nimble. Whoever ran that way had scarcely grazed the ground.
Long stood the traveler musing by the window, admiring the view and breathing in the flower-scented air. Leaning out over the clumps of violets below, he cast curious glances up and down the garden paths. Several more footprints in the sand arrested his eye. He was busy pondering these dints, when, chancing to lift his gaze, he saw a girl perched on the fence just a short piece away. A white undergarment draped her supple frame from the bosom down; her arms and swan-like neck were bare. Only in the norning hours do girls in Lithuania disport themselves in this manner, and never in the presence of men. She was alone; yet even so she held both arms folded over her breast as if supplying the wanting veil. Her hair lay wrapped in curl papers—a mass of tight knots resembling tiny white pods; a curious headdress, for it shimmered in the sunlight like a saintly nimbus.
Her face eluded the eye. She was looking the other way, spying someone out in the fields far below. Suddenly, descrying the party, she clapped her hands and gave out a peal of laughter. Alighting like a white bird from the fence, she skimmed the sward, threaded the garden rails, then, clearing the beds, darted up the plank that stood propped against the window ledge and burst noiselessly into the room even before the traveller had time to take notice; light and fleet as a moonbeam she entered. Trilling softly to herself, she seized her frock, flew to the mirror, and only then laid eyes on the lad. The dress fell from her hand; her face paled with fright and surprise. The traveler crimsoned like a cloud meeting the rising sun. Blinking his eyes, he covered his face and after groping in vain for a word of apology bowed and drew back. The girl uttered a faint and painful cry like a child startled in her sleep. Alarmed, the youth looked up; but she had fled the room. Confused, heart pounding thickly, he made himself scarce, wondering if this strange encounter should cause him shame, amusement, or sheer delight.
Meanwhile, the arrival of the new guest had not escaped notice at the servants’ annex. Even now his horses stood in the stalls crunching on that rich fare of oats and hay which every decent country house provides. The Judge[8] deplored the new fad of stabling the horses of visiting guests at the Jewish inn. True, his servants had not been at hand to greet the traveler; but it would be wrong to suppose his domestic service was slack. All this time they had been waiting for the Steward to dress. The Chief Steward [9] stood in for the lord of the manor; no one but he—the Judge’s distant kinsman and friend of the household—greeted and minded the guests. This evening, expecting a large party of guests for dinner, he had been busy with the preparations at the rear of the house. On catching sight of the guest, he stole back to the annex (he could scarcely receive callers in his homespun dustcoat) and slipped on the Sunday suit he had laid out that morning.
Recognizing the youth from a distance, the Chief Steward flung out his arms with a shout, fell on his neck and saluted him. There followed that confused and rapid discourse which strives in a welter of brief words to relate the events of many years: narratives begun, then cut short by queries, shouts, and sighs; then a fresh round of hugs. At last, after satisfying his curiosity on many points, the Steward advised the youth of the day’s events.
“You have hit on a good day, Tadeusz!” he said. (This was the youth’s name; they had christened him after Kościuszko, to memorialize the martial year in which he had been born [10]). “Yes, Tadeusz, my boy! You know exactly when to come: when the young ladies abound. Your uncle has plans to pick a bride for you soon, and he has a bevy to choose from! For days the neighbors have been arriving in droves to hear the boundary court settle our long-standing dispute with the Count. We expect him to come up tomorrow. The Chamberlain [11], his wife, and daughters have arrived. Our youth are presently out with the guns in the forest. The women and elders went with them to watch the harvesting nearby; they should be waiting for the youngsters by now. Come, we’ll walk down if you like. In a brace of shakes we shall meet your uncle, the Chamberlain, his wife and daughters, and the rest of the ladyships.”
The Chief Steward and Tadeusz took the road to the forest; they talked the whole way down and never ran out of things to say. By now the sun had reached the farthest marches of the sky. Less brilliant, though casting a broader light, the orb glowed with the hale ruddiness of a plowman retiring home to his rest. The flaming ball settled over the forest. A dim mist arose, thickening limb and crown, merging the trees into a single mass. The forest bulked like a vast building with its roof set ablaze. Then sinking below, the fireball flashed briefly amongst the trees like candlelight through a slatted shutter, and went out. A moment later, the clanging unison of the reaping hooks fell silent; rakes ceased scraping the meadows. This was just the way the Judge would have it. Work on his domain closed at sunset. “Our Good Lord knows best when to call it a day,” he was fond of saying. “When God’s laborer, the sun, retires from the sky, the farmer takes his cue and clears the fields.” These were his words; and to the honest overseer the Judge’s words were sacred. He saw to it that all the grain wagons, including the ones they had only begun to load, returned to the barn together. The oxen drawing the lighter burdens frisked with delight.
The entire company was even now repairing home from the forest. Despite their buoyant spirits, they went in orderly array. Tutor and children led the train. Behind them walked the Judge and the Chamberlain’s wife. Off to their side walked the Chamberlain flanked by the rest of his kin. Next came the elders and, close upon them, the young ladies and youth, the former half a step ahead of the latter as decorum requires. There was no need to admonish these folk as to the proper order; no need to array the men and the women: they instinctively knew their place. The Judge clung to old custom. Age, family, rank, and good sense received their due respect or he knew the reason why. Such regimens were the life of great families and nations, he was in the habit of saying; without order, families and nations died out. And so the entire household had grown used to order’s rule. Relations, strangers, or visiting guests biding even the briefest time at the house soon fell in with the prescribed practices of the house.
The Judge’s greeting was solemn and brief. Offering his hand to his nephew’s lips, he kissed his brow and saluted him courteously. Although he said little in the presence of his guests, it was plain from the way he dabbed his cheeks with the broad sleeve of his robe that he cared deeply for Tadeusz.
From every field, pasturage, mead, and wood, grazing beasts of every kind flocked homeward in the master’s footsteps. Bleating sheep thronged the road raising clouds of dust. Close upon them, brass bells clanking, ran a herd of Tyrolean heifers. Whinnying horses raced down from the freshly mown meadow. All eagerly sought the well where the creaking sweep stood filling the troughs to the brim.
The Judge, though weary and beset by guests, did not shirk the weighty duties of the farm. Leaving their company, he walked down to the well. There is no time like the evening for the farmer to inspect his livestock. It is a task he never entrusts to his laborers. The Judge knew all too well that nothing so fattens the horse as the eye of the lord.
The Chief Steward and the Sergeant-at-Arms [12] stood candle in hand at the manor door. They were having words, apparently at odds. Profiting from the Steward’s absence, Protazy had ordered the banquet table removed and installed in the castle ruins that stood in plain view at the edge of the forest. Why this unwarranted move? The Steward made a wry face and muttered his regrets. The Judge was stunned, but it was too late; the deed was done—past remedy. Better to extend their apologies to the guests and escort them to the castle. As they made their way to the ruins, the Sergeant-at-Arms enlarged on his reasons for crossing his master’s plans. The manor house was too small to seat so large a party of distinguished guests. The castle hall was spacious and in good repair; the vault still stood in one piece. True, the walls were cracked and there was no glass in the casements, but who cared in the summertime. As for the cellars, they were still within easy reach of the serving staff. On and on he rambled, tipping the Judge occasional winks. From the look on his face you could tell Protazy had weightier reasons in the back of his mind.
The castle stood two thousand paces from the house. It was a splendid edifice of imposing bulk: the former hereditary seat of the Horeszko family whose last heir had perished during the time of troubles [13]. State seizures, careless trustees, and awards of court reduced the domain to rack and ruin. A portion of the estate fell to distant relations on the female side, while the remainder went to the numerous creditors. No one cared to take the castle. (The local gentry hadn’t the means to maintain it.) But then, having come into man’s estate, the neighboring Count, a wealthy young squire distantly related to the Horeszkos, returned from his travels abroad and took a fancy to the castle walls. He made much of their Gothic lines. It made no difference that the builder was no Goth but an architect from Wilno, as the Judge proved to him by producing the papers. Still the Count’s show of interest in the castle was enough to set the Judge thinking along similar lines; no one knows why. They both laid claims at the zemstvo [14]. The case went before the Senate. From there it worked its way back to the district count, then went before the Governor’s Council. Finally, after great expense and a dozen decrees, the case landed right back in the boundary court.
The Sergeant-at-Arms was not off the mark in observing that the castle hall could seat all the members of the bar and the invited guests. The chamber was ample as a refectory, with a sweeping vault supported by pillars, a stone-flagged floor, and trim, austerely appointed walls. Beamed frontlets of stag and roebuck hung mounted all round. Engraved on each trophy was the date of its acquisition, the place, and the winner’s coat of arms. The Horeszko Half-Goat emblazoned the vault.
Entering in orderly fashion, the guests formed a circle around the table. The Chamberlain took the seat of honor (it was the privilege of his post and senior years). He bowed to the ladies, elders, and youth. Beside him stood the Bernardine almsman and the Judge respectively. The priest recited a brief benison in the Latin tongue; the men took vodka, then all sat down and fell to, silently dispatching the beet leaf borsch—chilled Lithuanian-style [15].
Although he was just a lad, Tadeusz shared the post of honor with the ladies and the Chamberlain. Between his uncle and himself there was an empty seat, which seemed to cry for an occupant. The Judge kept glancing at it, then at the door as if expecting someone to enter at any minute. Tadeusz followed his uncle’s eyes with his gaze; now it flew to the door, now it settled on the vacant seat. A remarkable thing: all around him sat young ladies at whom no prince would have turned up his nose. All were of gentle birth, young, and pretty; yet here was Tadeusz staring at an empty seat. The place was a riddle, but youth is partial to reading riddles. Thus distracted, Tadeusz spoke scarcely a word to the Chamberlain’s comely daughter who sat at his side. Never once did he change her plates or fill her wine goblet or seek to entertain the ladies with the courteous talk enjoined by table etiquette. The vacant seat held him spellbound; indeed, it was no longer empty. His mind had filled it. A thousand guesses swarmed around it. So, in the aftermath of a rain shower, the marsh frogs overrun a solitary meadow: a lone figure stands among them, as when, on a sunny day, the white-browed lily breaks the surface of a lake.
They brought forth the third course. The Chamberlain, after apportioning a few drops to Mistress Rose’s goblet and nudging a dish of salted cucumbers toward his youngest daughter, seized the moment to remark, “Though I am old and clumsy, it seems I must wait on you, my dears.” At once several youths sprang up to serve them.
The Judge looked askance at Tadeusz. Arranging the sleeves of his robe, he poured himself a glass of Hungarian wine, then proceeded to address the company:
“These days it is customary to send our youth to the city to study. I will not deny our sons and grandsons surpass us elder-folk in book learning; yet I cannot help noticing that our youth are poorly schooled in the manners of genteel society. In my day, young noblemen went for periods of training at the courts of lords. I myself spent ten years at the house of the Chamberlain’s father, the Royal Governor.” [16] (Here the Judge squeezed the Chamberlain’s knee.) “It was he who groomed me to serve the public and made a man of me. Only when he was fully satisfied did he let me go, and for this my house holds his memory dear. Every day I pray the Lord grant him eternal rest. True, I left his court to take up the tillage of our fields; and even though I profited far less from his efforts than others worthier of his lordship’s grace (these later rose to our nation’s highest offices), yet no one here would find fault with my breeding and manners. I say this without hesitation. Courtesy is no easy art; nor is it of small account, for there is more to it than showing a graceful leg or greeting every Tom, Dick, and Harry with a smile. Such newfangled ways may be suited to the merchant class, but they are not the ways of Old Poland—or the nobility.
“Everyone deserves respect; aye, but respect takes many forms. A father’s regard for his child is one form of civility, a husband’s public esteem for his wife, another, and a master’s for his servant, still another. Polite conduct entails the drawing of distinctions! Much study is required to appraise a person correctly and accord him his due respect. Not even our elders exempted themselves from this learning. Through polite discourse the nobility handed down our nation’s living tradition. Through courteous talk our minor gentry caught up on local events. We recognized a fellow gentleman by the simple fact that everyone knew him and took him seriously. That is why our nobility always safeguarded their manners. Today one no longer asks, ‘Who is he?’ ‘What is his family?’ ‘With whom has he lived?’ ‘What has he accomplished?’ So long as he is not a government spy or a beggar, he enters wherever he pleases. As Emperor Vespasian was indifferent to the smell of his money and cared less for the hand or country it came from [17], so no one bothers to appraise a man’s family or manners. Face value and the minter’s stamp are all that seem to matter these days. We appraise our friends in the same way the Jew assays his coinage.”
The Judge regarded his guests one by one. Although he spoke with ease and argued his case well, he was aware that youth today lacked patience and found long discourse tedious, no matter how eloquently delivered. He need not have worried; they listened with rapt attention. He glanced at the Chamberlain for an approving sign. The Chamberlain forbore to break in, replying instead with frequent nods of his head. The Judge remained silent. At last, on receiving another nod, he charged their goblets and resumed his theme.
“Now courtesy is no trifling matter. By learning to appraise others according to their years, family, manners, and qualities, we learn to value ourselves. We gauge our weight by setting others on the opposite scale. But what is most deserving of your attention, gentlemen, is the courtesy a young man owes the fairer sex; the more so, when substance and a noble house enhance her natural grace and merits. This is the path to the heart’s affections; it paves the way to splendid alliances. That is what our elders thought, but then—”
He broke off, then, turning abruptly to Tadeusz, shook his head and shot him a stern look; clearly, he had come to the point.
The Chamberlain tapped on his gilded snuffbox. “Come now, Judge,” he said, “in our time things were even worse. These days I cannot be sure if we elders have not changed with the times. Today’s youth may not be as bad as we think; anyhow, I see less scandal now. Oh, I recall when the mania for all things French first came to our land. Trendy young men from abroad fell upon us in hordes worse than the Nogai Tatars. They reviled God, the faith of our fathers, our laws and customs, and even our time-honored dress. What a deplorable sight they were: sallow-faced ninnies drawling through their noses (often they had no nose at all), brandishing pamphlets and gazettes, espousing newfangled religions, laws, and modes of dress. That riffraff held our minds in thrall, for when God resolves to chastise a nation he first robs her folk of their reason. The wiser among us lacked the courage to stand up to those dandies. The whole nation feared them like a plague, for everyone felt the contagion’s lurking germ. We decried those fops, yet still we aped them. We changed our faith, speech, laws, and dress. It was a masquerade, a mardi gras of license, swift on the heels of which came the season of Lent—enslavement! [18]
“Though I was but a boy then, I remember the Cupbearer’s son pulling up in front of my father’s house in the Oszmiana district. He was the first in Lithuania to parade himself in the French fashion. People swarmed about him like swallows around a buzzard. The sight of his two-wheeled chaise parked in front of a house (they called it a cabriolet in French) aroused everyone’s envy. Instead of footmen, two small dogs sat perched on the boot. On the box sat a tall German valet, lean as a lath, with long thin shanks resembling hop-stakes. He wore silk stockings, low shoes with silver buckles, and a net over his hair, which was tied in a queue.
“Our elder-folk snorted with laughter at the sight of that turnout. The rustics blessed themselves, swearing a Venetian devil was abroad in a German coach. As to the Cupbearer’s son, his appearance baffled description. Let us just say he put us in mind of an ape or a parrot in an outlandish wig, which he likened to the Golden Fleece and we to a mangy pelt. If any among us thought our Polish apparel better than aping foreign fashions, then we kept our own counsel out of fear of arousing the youth, for they would shout us down as culture’s foes, impediments to progress, and traitors to our land. Such were prejudices that held sway in those times.
“The Cupbearer’s son declared his aim to refine our ways, reform our system of rule, and bring in a constitution. Certain articulate Frenchmen had made a discovery, he claimed. All men were created equal. Now I say, has not Holy Writ always taught this? Does not every parish priest proclaim it from the pulpit? The doctrine is old; its application, aye, there’s the rub! But we were so blinded then that none of us took the venerable things of the world seriously, unless a French gazette stooped to mention them. For all his talk of equality, the Cupbearer’s son became a marquis. Titles, as you know, come from Paris, and marquisates were all the rage. But fashion changed, and our marquis promptly became a democrat. When under Bonaparte the winds of fashion changed again, our democrat returned from Paris a baron. Had he lived another year, the dear baron would doubtless have re-espoused the democratic cause. Paris prides herself on her frequent about-faces of fashion. Whatever France contrives is bound to appeal to the Pole.
“If our youth now go abroad, then thank God it is not to shop for clothes, or browse the street booths for new laws, or learn the art of speech in the coffeehouses of Paris. Our wise and reckless Bonaparte gives us little time for fashions and idle talk. Today we hear the rumble of arms. Our old hearts swell with pride that our countrymen should once again be the talk of the world. The glory of our nation lives, which means our Commonwealth shall rise again! Liberty’s tree sprouts perennially from the laurel’s stock. But, alas, the years drag on in so much idleness, and our compatriots have still so far to come. The waiting is long. News is scarce. Reverend Father!” (Here the Chamberlain lowered his voice and turned to the Bernardine monk.) “I hear you bear news from Warsaw. Any word of our troops?”
“None! None at all!” rejoined Father Robak with a careless air (plainly the talk unsettled him). “Politics bores me. The letter I carry from Warsaw is my congregation’s business, for religious alone. No need to discuss it at the table; it is of no concern to laymen.”
Robak glanced sidelong down the table at their Russian guest. Captain Rykov was a seasoned old soldier quartered in the neighboring village; the Judge had invited him out of courtesy. Until now he had been eating heartily and taken little part in the talk, but at the mention of Warsaw he looked up.
“Ah, Chamberlain!” he observed. “Always eager for news of Warsaw and Bonaparte! Yes, your country! I am no spy. I speak your Polish tongue. One’s country! I know what that means; after all, I am a Russian, and you are Poles. For the moment we are not at strife. We enjoy an armistice. We eat and drink together; our boys at the forward posts knock back vodkas and chum with the French. But when the huzzah breaks forth, prepare for a cannonade! Our proverb says it best, ‘Love the man you love to thump.’ ‘Love him like your own soul, then dust him good and proper like a fur coat.’ Oh, I tell you, war is brewing! Just days ago the staff adjutant called on Major Plut. ‘Prepare to march!’ he says. Turks, French—it’s all the same. But Bonaparte’s a card all right. Without our Suvorov [19], he may trump us yet. When our troops marched on the French, word went out that Bonaparte had magic [20]. But Suvorov knew the dark arts too, so it was spell against spell! On the battlefield once, we looked about—no sign of Bonaparte! He had turned himself into a fox; so Suvorov becomes a hound. Bonaparte shifts shape again; now he’s a cat. He starts slashing with his claws, and, presto, Suvorov’s a pony! Then see what becomes of Bonaparte—”
Rykov broke off and returned to his plate. A servant entered with the fourth course; at the same time, the side door swung open.
A young, comely new guest entered the hall. Her tall stature, handsome looks, and exquisite attire immediately drew the company’s gaze. The guests greeted her; clearly, all but Tadeusz had made her acquaintance. Svelte and ample-bosomed, she had on a low-cut frock of pink silk with short sleeves and a thread-lace collar. A generous shower of sparks flashed from the gilded fan that whirred in her hand (a bauble to fiddle with, as it wasn’t hot). She wore no headdress. Her hair was a mass of ringlets, pink ribbons, and curls. A diamond gleamed discreetly among the ribbons like a star in a comet’s tail. In a word, she was dressed for a gala event, a tad too smart—muttered some—for everyday country wear. Though her frock was short, her feet eluded the eye. She moved swiftly, or rather she glided along like the Twelfth Night figurines, which boys, unseen by the viewer, push across the stage.
In she swept, greeting the guests with a slight bow, and made for the seat reserved for her. This was not easy. The Manor was short of chairs. The company sat on wooden benches arranged in a square. Should they move back or oblige her to leap the bench? But she managed deftly to squeeze in between two benches. Like a billiard ball she shot around the table, clearing the corridor the guests had made for her. But, as she whisked past Tadeusz, she caught her flounce on someone’s knee, stumbled and, in her distraction, leaned her hand on the youth’s shoulder. Begging his pardon, she took her seat between him and the Judge. There she sat, ignoring her food, whirring her fan, fidgeting with the stem, now running her hand over her collar of Belgian lace, now smoothing her bright clusters of ribbonry.
After a lapse of some four minutes, talk began to pick up again, this time at the far end of the table—first in an undertone, then loud enough to be heard. The men’s talk ran upon the day’s hunt. A heated exchange arose between the Notary and the Assessor [21] over the former’s bobbed greyhound. Passionately fond of his dog, the Notary insisted Scut had nabbed the hare. To spite him, the Assessor claimed the laurels for his own greyhound, Peregrine. They sought out the views of the other guests. Soon everyone around them had taken sides, some championing Scut, others, Peregrine, some claiming to be experts, others, eyewitnesses.
“My apologies, dear,” muttered the Judge to his new partner at table, “but we had to sit down. We could delay no longer. The guests were hungry after their long ramble in the fields. I thought you mightn’t be dining with us tonight.” At this he poured the Chamberlain and himself a full goblet and struck up a quiet conversation on a political theme.
With both ends of the table thus absorbed, Tadeusz took leisure to study the stranger. Yes, he had suspected on first laying eyes on the seat whose place it would be. The blush mounted in his cheeks; his heart raced with unwonted vigor. The mystery of his thoughts stood solved! Fate had ordained that the beauty he had glimpsed in the twilight should sit at his elbow. True, now that she was dressed, she looked taller. (Clothes have a way of enhancing or diminishing one’s stature.) The girl he had glimpsed in the garden had short golden hair; this woman’s hair was long, raven-black, and wound into ringlets. No doubt the light had deceived him, for the setting sun endues everything with a reddish tint. He had not seen her face; it had fled his gaze too swiftly. But the mind’s eye has a way of divining fair looks. He had pictured her with dark eyes, a fair complexion, and cherry lips. This woman’s eyes, mouth, and face were just as he had imagined. Where the two seemed most to differ was in age. The gardener had been but a girl; yet here was a grown woman. But youth does not probe into Beauty’s birth certificate. To the eyes of a youth all women are young, all beauties his peers. A pure-minded lad looks on every heart’s pride as a tender maiden.
Although Tadeusz was almost twenty and grew up in the great city of Wilno, he had been confided to the care of a priest and raised in the old strict manner. And so, while he had come home possessed of an unsullied soul, a lively mind, and a guileless heart, there was also active within him a strong yen to cut loose. Even before leaving the city, he had resolved to taste the long-denied freedoms of country life. He was conscious of his youth and rugged good looks. He came by his vigor honestly; after all, he was a Soplica, and everyone knew the Soplicas were a tough and sturdy clan—apt at soldiering, less so at learning.
Tadeusz brought no disgrace on his fathers. He rode ably, walked with a strong stride, and was by no means dull-witted, though he had shown little scholarly promise, this despite the small fortune his uncle had spent on his schooling. Shooting a gun and wielding a sword were more in his line. He knew he was going for a soldier; his father had stated as much in his will. And so all through school he had yearned for the soldier’s drum. But then his uncle changed his mind. He recalled him home with plans for marriage and handing down the estate; first a small hamlet, then the rest of the domain.
All of these gifts and qualities drew the discerning eye of Tadeusz’s companion. She sized up his tall, handsome build, his broad chest and burly shoulders. She studied his face. The color rose to his cheeks every time she met his gaze. But soon he had mastered his bashfulness and was staring boldly back at her with an ardent eye. She returned his gaze. Two pairs of blazing orbs faced each other like rorate candles [22].
She struck up a conversation in French. Seeing that the lad had been at school in the city, she sought out his views on new books and authors. His replies brought on fresh queries. But then—heavens!—she launched into painting, music, dance, and even the plastic arts. She proved to be equally at ease with letters, the brush, and the score. Her show of knowledge rendered Tadeusz speechless. Terrified of being made an object of ridicule, he stammered out his answers like a schoolboy before his master. Happily, his master was pretty and lenient. Guessing the cause of his dismay, she turned to less taxing, less cerebral matters such as rural living, its tedium, bothers, and amusements. She spoke of the art of apportioning one’s time with a view to making life in the country happy and pleasant.
Tadeusz’s replies became increasingly bolder. Within half an hour the pair were fast friends and even partaking in squabbles and jokes. She rolled three bread pellets on the table before him. He had to chose between three individuals. He picked the nearest, at which the Chamberlain’s two daughters sitting beside them signaled their displeasure with a frown. Tadeusz’s partner chuckled, but refrained from naming the lucky pellet.
Meanwhile, the far end of the table was engaged in other games. Peregrine’s champions had suddenly grown in strength and were mounting a furious assault on the Scuts. The dispute ran high, and the last courses lay untouched. Both factions were up on their feet, yelling and draining their cups. By far the most enraged among them was Bolesta the Notary. Given the floor, he went on like a millrace, gracing his speech with expressive gestures. (He had served on the bar where his habit of extravagant gesticulation earned him the nickname of Preacher.) At this moment, his arms were pulled in, his elbows thrust back. Two long-nailed fingers representing the greyhounds’ slips pointed forward. He was just concluding his account.
“See-ho! Together we slip the leashes, the Assessor and I, like the hammers of a double barrel released at the pull of the trigger. They’re off! See-ho! The hare makes a sprint for the field. The dogs come hard on his heels.” (Here the Notary ran his hands over the table, uncannily mimicking the hounds’ movements with his fingers.) “Hard on his heels! In no time they cut him off from the forest, then whoosh! Peregrine spurts on ahead. Aye, he’s a nimble one, but hotheaded. He leads Scut by so much—by a whisker. Still, I knew the hare would give him the slip. Crafty cony! He makes as if straight for the field with the hounds fast on his traces. Crafty little hare! No sooner does he sense the pack bunching up behind him than zip! he veers right and turns a somersault. The fool dogs swerve to the right after him, then lickety-split! he veers left. In two bounds he’s put ground between them; but the hounds are back on his tail. He’s heading for the forest; and that’s when my Scut goes—whap!”
Here, bending over, the Notary ran his fingers over to the other side of the table and roared, “whap!” right over Tadeusz’s ear.
Caught by surprise in the midst of their quiet talk, Tadeusz and Telimena instinctively drew back their heads like the crowns of adjacent trees sundered by a strong gust of wind. A pair of close-set hands sprang out from under the table as two faces broke out into a single blush.
Striving to hide his distraction, Tadeusz rejoined, “No doubt you are right, Mr. Notary, your bobbed one’s a handsome beast, no disputing. If he should be as quick at the—”
“Quick!” roared Bolesta. “My cherished hound not quick?”
Again Tadeusz expressed delight that such a handsome beast should be accounted faultless in every respect. But he had seen the dog only once, on their way back from the forest; hardly sufficient time in which to form an estimate of a greyhound’s qualities.
At this the Assessor bridled with anger. Dropping his cup to the floor, he pierced the youth with a basilisk’s eye. Though smaller and slighter and less given to shouting and gesticulation than the Notary, he was a force to be reckoned with at every masquerade party, ballroom, and regional diet. People said he had a sting in his tongue, for he could deliver sallies so witty as to merit inclusion in the almanac—all of them spiteful and barbed. Formerly a man of means and substance, he had frittered away his own and his brother’s inheritance by consorting with high society; now he had entered the government service to wield influence in the district. Hunting was his abiding passion. Besides affording him great amusement, the sight and sounds of the horn and beaters recalled the days of his youth when he had employed scores of hunters and kept a kennel of first-rate hounds. Of those former hounds only two remained; and now the prowess of one of these had been called into question. Drawing closer to Tadeusz, he casually stroked his side-whiskers and, with a smile brimming with venom, remarked:
“A bobbed greyhound is like a gentleman without a berth. A tail gives a hound dispatch; and you take its absence for a virtue! How say we put the case to your auntie? Though Mistress Telimena resides in the capital and only recently bides in our parts, yet I daresay she knows more about the chase than the callow hunter, for experience, surely, comes with years!”
Dumbfounded by this devastating poke, Tadeusz leapt to his feet and glared at his rival with an eye that grew increasingly more terrible and ominous. But the Chamberlain chose this very moment to sneeze twice. “Bless you!” they cried in a chorus. He bowed to the guests and beat a slow tattoo on his snuffbox. The article was wrought of gold, inlaid with diamonds, with a miniature of King Stanislas [23] in the center. It had been the gift of the King to the Chamberlain’s father, and now the Chamberlain, after his sire, carried it proudly. A rap on the lid signaled his wish to address the company. The guests fell silent and listened intently.
“Honorable gentlemen and fellow nobles!” he said. “The field and forest are the hunter’s only proving ground. I will not undertake to settle such matters indoors; and so I defer the matter until tomorrow. No further rejoinders today from either side! Sergeant-at-Arms! We adjourn until tomorrow into the fields. Tomorrow the Count and his entire shooting party will join us. You, dear Judge and neighbor, will be so kind as to accompany us, as will Mistress Telimena and all the young ladies and ladyships. In a word, we shall organize a splendid day of sport as befits the occasion. And I expect our Steward to honor us with his company as well!” Saying which, he passed his snuffbox down to the Steward.
The Chief Steward sat with the hunters at the bottom of the table. All this time he had been listening in silence, squinting his eyes. More than once the youth had sought out his views, for he knew the hunting-craft better than anyone in the district. Long he remained silent, deliberating over the pinch of snuff he had taken; at last, drawing the grains into his nostrils and sneezing with such force that the entire hall rang out, he shook his head and smiled a bitter smile.
“Ah!” he said. “I cannot tell you how this shocks and grieves an old timer like me. What would our hunters have said on seeing so many lords and noblemen having to settle a dispute over a greyhound’s tail? What would old Reytan say if he were raised to life? Why, he’d return in disgust to his grave in Lachowicze! And what of old Niesiołowski [24], the Governor? To this day he keeps a kennel of the world’s finest scenthounds and a retinue of ten-score hunters, to say nothing of the hundred cartloads of nets he keeps in store at his castle in Worańcza. All these years he has remained closeted up in his hall like a hermit, and no one has yet enticed him into a spot of hunting. Why, he even refused Białopiotrowicz himself! [25] But what kind of quarry would he be hunting on your expeditions? Some glory for a great lord to go tearing after a rabbit as is the fashion now! In the hunter’s parlance of my day, gentlemen, it was the boar, the bear, the wolf, and the elk that deserved the title of noble game. A beast without tushes, horns, or claws was left to the paid servant or manorial flunkey! No self-respecting nobleman took into his hand a gun bearing the indignity of being loaded with small shot. True, they had dogs at hand, but that was only for after the hunt, in case a returning horse should rouse some wretched hare. Then, for fun, they would release the dogs and watch the youngsters urge their ponies after it. Even then they hardly bothered to watch much less argue over a hound. So, your lordship, I beg you, revoke your command. Forgive me, but I cannot hunt this way. Never will I take part in it! I bear the name Hreczecha, and since the time of old King Lech [26] no one ever saw a Hreczecha go haring after a rabbit—”
The youngsters’ laughter drowned out the rest of his reply; meanwhile, the company rose from the table. The Chamberlain was the first to leave (it was the privilege of his post and senior years). He swept out, bowing to the ladies, elders, and youth. After him went the Bernardine almsman, followed by the Judge. On reaching the door, the Judge offered his arm to the Chamberlain’s wife. Tadeusz did likewise with Telimena; next followed the Assessor with the Carver’s daughter; and last, the Notary—with Mistress Hreczecha, the Steward’s daughter.
Tadeusz walked to the barn with a group of the guests. Confused, angry, and dejected, he was at pains to sort out the day’s events: the encounter in the house and the meal with his partner at table. Worst of all, the remark “auntie” buzzed about his ear like an irritating fly. He wished to learn more about Telimena from Protazy, but the Sergeant-at-Arms had slipped away. Neither was the Chief Steward anywhere to be seen. As servants of the manor, they had both returned to the house with the guests to prepare their sleeping quarters. The ladies and elders were lodging in the manor house. The youth would bed down in the barn; upon Tadeusz fell the task of leading them there.
Half an hour later, a hush had settled over the Manor as over a cloister at vespers. Only the watchman’s calls broke the stillness. The guests were all in bed—all except the master of the house who was busy organizing the hunt and laying plans for the reception to follow. Instructions went out to the overseers, foremen, helpers, clerks, bailiff-mistress, hunters, and grooms; finally, after running his eye over the day’s accounts, the Judge gave Protazy leave to undress him.
The Sergeant-at-Arms loosened his belt. It was a noble garment, crafted in the town of Słuck [27], woven from strands of gold and hung with gleaming tassels—thick and plumy like a helmet crest. One side was lined with a brocaded cloth bearing a pattern of purple flowers, the other, with black silk set off with silver checkers. You could wear the article on either side, gold on gala days, silky-black in seasons of mourning. Only the Sergeant-at-Arms knew how to unfasten and fold the belt. He was engaged in this very operation as he concluded his argument.
“So what harm was there in removing the tables to the castle? No one suffered as a result, and you may even profit by it. Is not the castle the object of our suit? As of today, legal title is vested in us, and despite the fierce contentions of the other side, I intend to prove it. Whoever invites his guests to the castle for dinner proves de facto he is owner there. We shall even serve subpoenas on the opposition to appear as witnesses! I recall similar cases in my day.”
But by now the Judge was sound asleep. The Sergeant-at-Arms tiptoed into the hallway. Taking a seat beside a candle, he reached into his pocket and drew out a notebook. The article served him like a daily missal [28]; at home or away he was never without it. It was a court calendar[29], listing all the actions he had called before the bench and many others of which he learned after completing his term of office. To a layman, it was a mere list of names; to the Sergeant-at-Arms, it conjured up a host of marvelous images. And so, leafing through the pages, he fell to reminiscing: Ogiński versus Wizgird, the Black Friars v. Rymsza, Rymsza v. Wysogird, Radziwiłł v. Mme. Wereszczaka, Giedrojć v. Rdułtowski, Obuchowicz v. the Jewish Council, Juracha v. Piotrowski, Maleski v. Mickiewicz; and, last of all, Soplica v. the Count. On he read, recalling the famous cases along with every detail of the proceedings. Court, disputant, and witness passed before his eyes. He saw himself, decked out before the court in his white tunic and navy-blue robe, one hand resting on his sword, the other beckoning to the parties to approach the bench. “Come to order!” he called; and so he mused on. At last, after saying his prayers, Protazy, the last of Lithuania’s Sergeants-at-arms, nodded off to sleep.
Such was the sport and feuding in Lithuania’s rustic nooks while the rest of the world foundered in a deluge of blood and tears; when that god of war, compassed by a cloud of regiments and a thousand field-pieces, yoked both gold and silver eagles [30] to his war chariot and winged his way from the Libyan sands to the lofty Alps, raining bolt after bolt on the Pyramids, Tabor, Marengo, Ulm, and Austerlitz. Victory and conquest stood as his van and rear. Glory, swelling with exploits, great with heroes’ names, thundered northward from the Nile, until at Niemen’s banks she dashed herself like a wave on the rock of Moscow’s host, a wall of iron shielding Lithuania from tidings which Russia feared like a pestilence.
Yet every now and then, like a stone cast from heaven, a piece of news reached even Lithuania. An armless or legless old beggar showed up at the door and asked for bread. On receiving his alms, he cast wary glances around the yard. Once satisfied there was no Russian soldier, Jewish skullcap, or scarlet collar about, he told them who he was: a legionnaire dragging his old bones back to his native soil—the soil he no longer had the strength to defend. How the household, servants and all, choked back their tears and fell about his neck! Led to the table, he proceeded to relate stories far stranger than any fable: of Dąbrowski enlisting Poles in the Lombard plains [31]; of the General’s attempts to reach Poland from Italy; of the victorious Kniaziewicz issuing orders from the Capitol [32]; of the hundred bloody flags he had torn from Caesar’s scions and cast at the feet of the French; of Jabłonowski leading his Danube legion to the far ends of the earth [33]. There, among the pepper groves and sugar-cane fields, in the fragrant forests that blossomed in a constant flourish of spring, he rained destruction on the black folk and pined for home.
The old campaigner’s tales circulated quietly about the countryside, eventually to reach the ears of a youth, who then promptly vanished from his home. Evading the Muscovite troops, he beat his way stealthily through forest and swamp, plunged into the Niemen, and swam submerged to the other side—to the old Crown’s banks, where a friendly “Welcome, mate!” greeted his ears. Only after climbing a rock and yelling out, “I’ll be back!” to the Muscovite on the other side, did he walk away. Górecki made it across; so did Patz, Obuchowicz, Piotrowski, Obolewski, Kupść, Różycki, Janowicz, Brochocki, Gedymin, the Bernatowiczes, Mieżejewskis, and many others. They forsook their kin, their beloved land, and all their goods, which the czarist treasury promptly seized for its coffers.
From time to time, an almsman arrived from a foreign abbey to beg for alms. After acquainting himself with the manor holders, he produced a newssheet concealed in the lining of his scapular. The gazette recorded the muster and nominal rolls of every legion along with detailed accounts of the glorious deeds or valiant deaths of each of the officers. And so, after many long years, a family received word of their son: how he had lived, won fame, and died; whereupon the entire household put on the livery of grief. Exactly whom they mourned, they would not say; the neighborhood could only surmise. Silent grief or quiet expressions of joy were our landed gentry’s only means of spreading the news.
Now it appeared that Robak was one such secret envoy. Not seldom was he seen conferring privately with the Judge. After each such talk, a fresh piece of news made the round of the district. Judging by his looks, this monk had not always gone about in a cowl or spent his years within cloistered walls. From a point between his right ear and temple, a scar traveled a handsbreadth across the dome of his skull. His chin bore the mark of a grazing lance or ball; clearly, he had not won these from reading the sacramentary.
But it was not just his stern gaze and scars; his very port and manner of speech had something of a military character. At holy mass, when turning to his flock with outspread arms to say “Pax vobiscum!” [34] he would do so briskly, in a single sweep, as if executing an about-face on command. He barked out the cadences of the liturgy like an officer addressing his troops—at least so his altar boys thought at mass; indeed, he seemed better versed in political affairs than in the lives of the saints. While questing for alms, he would often stop in the district town and run all manner of errands. He received letters (never opening them with strangers present) or dispatched messengers (where he sent them and why, no one knew). Often he would steal out at night to talk with the manor holders. He conferred endlessly with the nobility, beat well-worn paths to the surrounding villages, and dropped in at the taverns to chat with the rustics; invariably he spoke of events abroad.
So, now, the Judge, who had been asleep for an hour, was the object of such a visitation; clearly, the monk had news to impart.
BOOK TWO. THE CASTLE
Argument: Hunting with greyhounds. A sightseer at the castle. The last of the Horeszko retainers recounts the story of his late master. A glance at the garden. A girl among the cucumbers. Breakfast. Telimena’s anecdote of Saint Petersburg. A fresh outbreak of hostilities over Scut and Peregrine. Father Robak’s intervention. The Chief Steward’s discourse. A wager. Let’s go mushrooming!
Who among us can forget the days when as growing lads we slung a gun over the shoulder and struck out whistling into the fields? Neither ridge nor fence stood in our way. We cleared a boundary strip and never gave trespassing a thought. In Lithuania the sportsman is like a ship sweeping the seas. He goes wherever, whichever way he pleases. When he scours the heavens with his eye, he is like a prophet reading the omens. No cloud but a host of intelligible signs! With the earth he communes like a sorcerer. To the townsman Nature stands mute; to the hunter she whispers in a vast range of voices.
The corncrake rasps in the meadow. Useless to spy him out: he glides through the grass like a pike probing the Niemen. Overhead, from heights no less profound, the hidden skylark peals out his springtime matins. The broad-winged eagle whistles through the airy spaces, startling the sparrows even as comets alarm the Czars. Yonder hovers the hawk. Pinned like a butterfly to the sky, he beats his wing in the sunlight; then, spying a bird or leveret in the field below, he drops like a shooting star.
When will the Lord vouchsafe an end to our wanderings? When shall we make our home again in our ancestral fields? Oh to ride again with a cavalry that makes war on wild rabbits! To march as infantrymen against the birds! To know no battle-gear but the reaping hook and scythe; no newssheets but our household accounts!
The sun had risen over Soplica Manor’s outbuildings. Even now his beams filtered into the barn. Through chinks in the blackened thatch, flickering bands of golden light poured in, flooding the fresh and fragrant hay on which the youth had made their beds. As a young lass wakes her sweetheart with an ear of grain, so with his morning rays the sun teased the lips of the sleeping guests. Even now the sparrows frisked and chirped in the rafters. Thrice the gander gaggled. Each time a chorus of turkeys and ducks picked up the burden like an echo; the lowing of driven cattle filled the air.
The youth were up; only Tadeusz slumbered on. So much had last night’s banquet upset him that the crowing cock found him still tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Eventually, the heaped-up hay closed over his head like a wave and bore him off to sleep; now dead to the world he lay. A draft of air caused his eyelids to flicker. The creaking barn-door swung open with a crash, and in came the Bernardine monk, Father Robak, swishing his knotted belt. “Surge, puer!”[1] he yelled, laying the gnarled rope smartly across Tadeusz’s back.