BOOK I.—THE FARM

PAN TADEUSZ

OR

THE LAST FORAY IN LITHUANIA

_All rights reserved_

PAN TADEUSZ

OR

THE LAST FORAY IN LITHUANIA

A STORY OF LIFE AMONG POLISH GENTLEFOLK

IN THE YEARS 1811 AND 1812

_IN TWELVE BOOKS_

BY

ADAM MICKIEWICZ

TRANSLATED FROM THE POLISH BY

GEORGE RAPALL NOYES

1917

LONDON AND TORONTO

J. M. DENT & SONS LTD.

PARIS: J. M. DENT ET FILS

NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO.

CONTENTS

PREFACE

INTRODUCTION

LIST OF THE PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS IN “PAN TADEUSZ” WITH NOTES ON POLISH

PRONUNCIATION

BOOK I.—THE FARM

BOOK II.—THE CASTLE

BOOK III.—FLIRTATION

BOOK IV—DIPLOMACY AND THE CHASE

BOOK V.—THE BRAWL

BOOK VI.—THE HAMLET

BOOK VII.—THE CONSULTATION

BOOK VIII.—THE FORAY

BOOK IX.—THE BATTLE

BOOK X—THE EMIGRATION. JACEK

BOOK XI.—THE YEAR 1812

BOOK XII.—LET US LOVE ONE ANOTHER!

NOTES

PREFACE

THE present translation of _Pan Tadeusz_ is based on the editions of

Biegeleisen (Lemberg, 1893) and Kallenbach (Brody, 1911). I have had

constantly by me the German translation by Lipiner (ed. 2, Leipzig, 1898)

and the French translation by Ostrowski (ed. 4, Paris, 1859), and am

deeply indebted to them. The English translation by Miss Maude Ashurst

Biggs (_Master Thaddeus; or, The Last Foray in Lithuania_: London, 1885) I

did not have at hand until my own version was nearly complete; after that

I consulted it only very rarely. I do not think that I am under obligation

to it in more than a half-dozen scattered lines of my text. (Perhaps,

however, my use of _foray_ as a translation of _zajazd_ is due to an

unconscious recollection of the title of Miss Biggs’s volumes, which I

looked over several years ago, before I had even formed the plan of my own

work.) In my notes, however, my debt to Miss Biggs and her collaborators

in her commentary on _Pan Tadeusz_ is important; I have striven to

indicate it distinctly, and I thank Miss Biggs heartily for her kind

permission to make use of her work.

To my friend Miss Mary Helen Sznyter I am grateful for aid and advice in

the rendering of several puzzling passages. But my greatest debt I owe to

my wife, whose name, if justice were done, should be added to my own as

joint translator of the volume. Though she is entirely unacquainted with

the Polish language, nearly every page of the book in its phrasing bears

traces of her correcting hand. The preparation of the volume for the press

and the reading of the proof have been made easy by her skilful help.

BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA,

_December 9_, 1916.

INTRODUCTION

“No European nation of our day has such an epic as _Pan Tadeusz_. In it

_Don Quixote_ has been fused with the _Iliad_. The poet stood on the

border line between a vanishing generation and our own. Before they died,

he had seen them; but now they are no more. That is precisely the epic

point of view. Mickiewicz has performed his task with a master’s hand; he

has made immortal a dead generation, which now will never pass away. …

_Pan Tadeusz_ is a true epic. No more can be said or need be said.”(1)

This verdict upon the great masterpiece of all Slavic poetry, written a

few years after its appearance, by Zygmunt Krasinski, one of Mickiewicz’s

two great successors in the field of Polish letters, has been confirmed by

the judgment of posterity. For the chapter on _Pan Tadeusz_ by George

Brandes, than whom there have been few more competent judges of modern

European literature, is little more than an expansion of Krasinski’s pithy

sentences. The cosmopolitan critic echoes the patriotic Pole when he

writes: “In _Pan Tadeusz_ Poland possesses the only successful epic our

century has produced.”(2)

Still more important than the praises of the finest literary critics is

the enthusiastic affection cherished for _Pan Tadeasz_ by the great body

of the Polish people. Perhaps no poem of any other European nation is so

truly national and in the best sense of the word popular. Almost every

Pole who has read anything more than the newspaper is familiar with the

contents of _Pan Tadeusz_. No play of Shakespeare, no long poem of Milton

or Wordsworth or Tennyson, is so well known or so well beloved by the

English people as is _Pan Tadeusz_ by the Poles. To find a work equally

well known one might turn to Defoe’s prosaic tale of adventure, _Robinson

Crusoe_; to find a work so beloved would be hardly possible.

_Pan Tadeasz_ is so clear and straightforward in its appeal that but few

words of explanation in regard to its origin are required. Its author,

Adam Mickiewicz, was born in 1798, near Nowogrodek in Lithuania. His

father, a member of the poorer gentry of the district, was a lawyer by

profession, so that the boy was brought up among just such types as he

describes with so rare a humour in the Judge, the Assessor, the Notary,

and the Apparitor. The young Mickiewicz was sent to the University of

Wilno(3) (1815-19), where he received a good classical education, and,

largely through his own independent reading, became well acquainted with

French, German, and Russian—even with English literature. On leaving the

university he obtained a position as teacher in the gymnasium at Kowno

(1819-23). Though even as a boy he had written verses, his real literary

career began with the publication in 1822 of a volume of ballads, which

was followed the next year by a second book of poems, containing fragments

of a fantastic drama, _The Forefathers_, and a short historical poem,

_Grazyna_. These volumes reflect the romantic movement then prevalent in

Europe, of which they are the first powerful expression in Poland. They

were in large part inspired by the poet’s love for a young woman of

somewhat higher station than his own, who, though she returned his

affection, was forced by her family to marry another suitor.

In 1833 Mickiewicz was arrested as a political criminal, his offence being

membership in a students’ club at the University of Wilno that had

cherished nationalistic aspirations. With several others, he was banished

from his beloved Lithuanian home to the interior of Russia; the following

years, until 1829, he spent in St. Petersburg, Odessa, and Moscow. During

this honourable exile he became intimate with many of the most eminent men

of letters in Russia, and continued his own literary work by publishing

his sonnets, beyond comparison the finest ever written in Polish, and a

romantic poem, _Konrad Wallenrod_, based on the stubborn resistance of the

Lithuanian folk in the fourteenth century to their German foes, the

Knights of the Cross, and showing in its style marked Byronic influence.

The poem unfortunately admitted, or rather invited, an application to the

resistance of the Poles to the Russians; Mickiewicz, fearing with reason

the anger of the Russian authorities, succeeded in obtaining, just in time

to save himself from serious consequences, a passport permitting him to

leave the country.

Arriving in Germany in 1829, Mickiewicz travelled through Switzerland to

Italy. His residence in Rome, with its sacred associations, and the

meeting with new friends of a deeply religious temperament, brought about

within him a new birth of Catholic faith that strongly affected bis later

writings, notably _Pan Tadeusz._ In Rome also he became intimate with the

family of the rich Count Ankwicz, for whose daughter Eva he conceived an

affection that is reflected in the passion of Jacek Soplica for the

Pantler’s only child. On the outbreak of the insurrection in Warsaw, at

the end of the year 1830, the poet meditated returning home to join the

national forces; but he delayed his departure, and never came nearer the

scene of action than Posen and its vicinity. The grief and discouragement

caused by the failure of the insurrection, instead of crippling

Mickiewicz’s powers, seemed to spur him on to new activity. During 1833 he

wrote a continuation of _The Forefathers_, in an entirely different tone

from that of his youthful poem of ten years before. The action is based on

the persecution by the Russian authorities of the Polish students in

Wilno; the lovelorn Gustaw of the earlier poem is transformed into the

patriotic martyr Konrad. In this same year he settled in Paris, along with

many other Polish exiles or “emigrants,” who were made homeless by the

downfall of the national cause, and who, if the truth be said, were split

up into bitterly hostile factions. Mickiewicz was now beginning to assume

the role of prophet and seer. For the reproof and instruction of his

fellow-countrymen he composed his _Books of the Polish Nation and of the

Polish Pilgrimage,_ a mystical work, written in biblical prose, and

intended to bring comfort and harmony to the distracted exiles. In Paris

also, in the course of about fourteen months (1832-34), he wrote _Pan

Tadeusz,_ his greatest poem—and (with insignificant exceptions) his last.

The story of Mickiewicz’s closing years may be passed over very briefly.

In 1834 he married; his wife was subject to attacks of insanity, and all

his later life was saddened by the struggle with misfortune and poverty.

In 1840 he was called to a newly founded professorship of Slavic

literature at the Collège de France. His lectures as holder of this chair

are the only literary work of great importance that he produced during

this last period of his life. Soon after the completion of _Pan Tadeusz_

he had become absorbed by a religious mysticism that caused him to turn

entirely aside from poetry. In 1841 he fell under the influence of Andrzej

Towianski, a teacher who announced himself as the prophet of a new

religion. His acceptance and promulgation of a doctrine which was

pronounced heretical by the Catholic Church, and which inculcated a

religious reverence for Napoleonic traditions, made it impossible for the

French government to retain his services in a government institution, and

in 1844 he was deprived of his professorship. The accession to power of

Napoleon III. filled him with new hopes. In 1855 he journeyed to

Constantinople, wishing to aid in the war against Russia, and there he

died of the cholera. His remains, first laid to rest in Paris, were

transferred in 1890 to the cathedral at Cracow.(4)

_Pan Tadeusz_ was not the result of a momentary inspiration, but grew

gradually under the author’s hand. On December 8, 1832, he wrote to a

friend: “I am now at work on a poem of life among the gentry, in the style

of _Hermann and Dorothea_. I have already jotted down a thousand verses.”

He had evidently planned a village idyl of no great length, probably based

on the love of Thaddeus and Zosia. In a draft of the first book that is

still preserved, Thaddeus sees on the wall a picture of Joseph Poniatowski

at the battle of Leipzig (October 19, 1813), “riding a mettled steed” but

“stricken with a mortal wound.” Thus the action of the poem could not have

taken place earlier than 1814. Later, Mickiewicz threw back the time of

his action to the autumn of 1811 and the spring of 1812; thus, by giving

his poem a political background in the invasion of Russia by Napoleon, he

transformed his village idyl into a national epic. The Monk Robak, or

Jacek Soplica, and not his commonplace son Thaddeus, now became the real

hero of the poem.(5) Nor was this hero wholly a product of the writer’s

invention. There has recently been discovered a petition by Mikolaj

Mickiewicz, the father of the poet, praying the authorities to grant him

protection from one Jan Soplica, “a man of criminal sort,” who had slain

the uncle of the petitioner and was now threatening to kill the whole

Mickiewicz family and burn their house. With the character of this person

the description of Jacek Soplica’s early years agrees as closely as his

name. Mickiewicz even mentions his own kindred as the ancestral enemies of

the Soplicas (page 45). Yet one of that hated family he now made the hero

of his greatest poem. By introducing him in the guise of Father Robak,

repentant and striving to atone for past misdeeds through heroic service

to his country, he infused into his poem a romantic charm. The mystery

surrounding this figure connects _Pan Tadeusz_, an epic that is truly

classic in its dignified elevation and restraint of feeling, with _Konrad

Wallenrod_, a romantic tale conceived in the spirit of Byronic passion.

In the work of Mickiewicz as a whole two characteristics predominate: a

great intensity of feeling, which sometimes sinks into sentimentality, and

at others rises into lyric fervour; and a wonderful truth, not only to the

general impressions of his experience, but to the actual concrete facts of

it, even to such trifles as the names of persons and places. Thus _The

Forefathers,_ despite all its fantastic elements, reproduces many

incidents in which the poet himself was concerned. Furthermore, in certain

works, as in his early tale _Grazyna_, Mickiewicz had shown a wonderful

ability suddenly to detach himself from passing currents of emotion and to

rise into regions of Olympian calm, giving to his work a classic, rounded

completeness worthy of Grecian art. All these aspects of his genius are

present in _Pan Tadeusz_. Echoes of the poet’s personal emotion are heard

in Jacek’s tale of his passion for Eva; and an ardent love of country

permeates the poem and breaks out again and again with lyric force. On the

other hand the book is faithful to reality in its picture of Lithuanian

manners and customs; the great romantic poet is at the same time the first

realistic novelist of Poland. Minor details beyond number are introduced

from the writer’s personal recollections; “even the Jew’s playing of the

dulcimer the poet had heard in St. Petersburg from the famous

Silbermann.”(6) Through the whole book runs a humour not often found

elsewhere in Mickiewicz; the reports of the debates in Jankiel’s tavern

and in Dobrzyn hamlet are masterly in their blending of kindly pleasantry

with photographic fidelity to truth. The poet sees the ludicrous side of

the Warden, the Chamberlain, the Seneschal, and the other Don Quixotes who

fill his pages, and yet he loves them with the most tender affection. In

his descriptions of external nature—of the Lithuanian forests or of the

scene around Soplicowo on the moonlight night just before the

foray—Mickiewicz shows a genius for throwing a glamour of poetic beauty

over the face of common things such as has never been surpassed. Finally,

the whole poem is perfect in its proportions; from its homely beginning,

with pictures of rural simplicity and old-fashioned hospitality, it swells

into rustic grandeur in the panorama of the hunt, and at last reaches the

most poignant tragedy in the scene about the death-bed of Jacek Soplica:

then, lest the impression should be one of total sadness, the narrative

concludes with the magnificent epilogue of the last two books, full of

hopes of rescue for Poland, full of gaiety and courage. A large epic calm

pervades the whole. The age-long conflict between Pole and “Muscovite” is

the theme of the epic, but the tone is not that of passionate hatred and

revolt such as fills _The Forefathers_; human kindliness breathes through

the whole work; not indignation and rebellion, but faith, hope, and love

are at its foundation.

This brief introduction may fitly close with some verses that Mickiewicz

wrote as an epilogue for _Pan Tadeusz_, but which he never finally revised

and which were never printed during his lifetime. Since his death they

have most frequently been inserted as a prologue to the poem rather than

as an epilogue.

“What can be my thoughts, here on the streets of Paris, when I bring home

from the city ears filled with noise, with curses and lies, with untimely

plans, belated regrets, and hellish quarrels?

“Alas for us deserters, that in time of pestilence, timid souls, we fled

to foreign lands! For wherever we trod, terror went before us, and in

every neighbour we found an enemy; at last they have bound us in chains,

firmly and closely, and they bid us give up the ghost as quickly as may

be.

“But if this world has no ear for their sorrows, if at each moment fresh

tidings overwhelm them, reverberating from Poland like a graveyard bell;

if their jailers wish them an early doom and their enemies beckon them

from afar like grave-diggers; if even in Heaven they see no hope—then it

is no marvel that they loathe men, the world, themselves; that, losing

their reason from their long tortures, they spit upon themselves and

consume one another.

* * * * * *

“I longed to pass by in my flight, bird of feeble wing—to pass by regions

of storm and thunder, and to search out only pleasant shade and fair

weather—the days of my childhood, and my home gardens.

* * * * * *

“One happiness remains: when in a grey hour you sit by the fireside with a

few of your friends and lock the door against the uproar of Europe, and

escape in thought to happier times, and muse and dream of your own land.

“But of that blood that was shed so lately, of the tears which have

flooded the face of all Poland, of the glory that not yet has ceased

resounding: of these to think we had never the heart! For the nation is in

such anguish that even Valour, when he turns his gaze on its torture, can

do naught but wring the hands.

* * * * * *

“Those generations black with mourning—that air heavy with so many

curses—there—thought dared not turn its flight to a sphere dreadful even

to the birds of thunder.

* * * * * *

“O Mother Poland! Thou wast so lately laid in the grave. No man has the

strength to speak of thee!

* * * * * *

“Ah! whose lips can dare to fancy that to-day they will at last find the

magic word that will soften marble-like despair, that will lift the stony

lid from men’s hearts, and will open eyes heavy with so many tears?

“Some time—when the lions of vengeance shall cease to roar, when the blare

of the trumpet shall be stilled, when the ranks shall be broken, when our

eagles with a flight like lightning shall settle on the ancient boundaries

of Boleslaw the Brave, and, eating their fill of corpses, shall be

drenched with blood, and finally fold their wings to rest; when the last

enemy shall give forth a cry of pain, become silent, and proclaim liberty

to the world: then, crowned with oak leaves, throwing aside their swords,

our knights will seat themselves unarmed and deign to hear songs. When the

world envies their present fortune they will have leisure to hear of the

past! Then they will weep over the fate of their fathers, and then those

tears will not soil their cheeks.

“To-day, for us, unbidden guests in the world, in all the past and in all

the future—to-day there is but one region in which there is a crumb of

happiness for a Pole: the land of his childhood! That land will ever

remain holy and pure as first love; undisturbed by the remembrance of

errors, not undermined by the deceitfulness of hopes, and unchanged by the

stream of events.

* * * * * *

“Gladly would I greet with my thoughts those lands where I rarely wept and

never gnashed my teeth; lands of my childhood, where one roamed over the

world as through a meadow, and among the flowers knew only those that were

lovely and fair, throwing aside the poisonous, and not glancing at the

useful.

“That land, happy, poor, and narrow; as the world is God’s, so that was

our own! How everything there belonged to us, how I remember all that

surrounded us, from the linden that with its magnificent crown afforded

shade to the children of the whole village, down to every stream and

stone; how every cranny of the land was familiar to us, as far as the

houses of our neighbours—the boundary line of our realm!

“And if at times a Muscovite made his appearance, he left behind him only

the memory of a fair and glittering uniform, for we knew the serpent only

by his skin.

“And only the dwellers in those lands have remained true to me until now;

some as faithful friends, some as trusty allies! For _who_ dwelt there?

Mother, brothers, kindred, good neighbours! When one of them passed away,

how tenderly did they speak of him! How many memories, what long-continued

sorrow, in that land where a servant is more devoted to his master than in

other countries a wife to her husband; where a soldier sorrows longer over

his weapons than here a son over his father; where they weep longer and

more sincerely over a dog than here the people weep for a hero!

“And in those days my friends aided my speech and cast me word after word

for my songs; like the fabled cranes on the wild island, which flew in

spring over the enchanted palace and heard the loud lament of an enchanted

boy: each bird threw the boy a single feather; he made him wings and

returned to his own people.

* * * * * *

“O, if some time I might attain this joy—that this book might find shelter

beneath roofs of thatch, and that the village girls, as they spin and turn

the wheel, humming the while their much-loved verses, of the girl who so

loved to make music that while fiddling she lost her geese, or of the

orphan, who, fair as the dawn, went to drive home the birds at eventide—if

even those village girls might take into their hands this book, simple as

their songs!

“So in my own day, along with the village sports, they sometimes read

aloud, under the linden tree on the green, the song of Justina,(7) or the

story of Wieslaw;(8) and the bailiff, dozing at the table, or the steward,

or even the master of the farm, did not forbid us to read; he himself

would deign to listen, and would interpret the harder places to the

younger folk; he praised the beauties and forgave the faults.

“And the young folk envied the fame of the bards, which in their own land

still echoes through the woods and the fields; of bards to whom dearer

than the laurel of the Capitol is a wreath plaited by the hands of a

village girl, of blue cornflowers and green rue.”

1 Quoted from a letter of Krasinski, by Kallenbach, _Adam Mickiewicz_

(Cracow, 1897), vol. ii. p. 174.

_ 2 Poland, a Study of the Land, People, and Literature_ (London and

New York, 1903), p. 284.

3 Vilna on our maps; Wilno is the Polish spelling.

4 English readers are fortunate in possessing an excellent account of

the life and writings of Mickiewicz in the work by Miss Monica M.

Gardner, _Adam Mickiewicz, the National Poet of Poland_ (London and

New York, 1911).

5 I am here indebted to Kallenbach (_Adam Mickiewicz_, Cracow, 1897),

and Pilat (Introduction to edition of _Pan Tadeusz_ of _Towarzystwo

Literackie_, Lemberg).

6 Brückner, _Geschichte der polnischen Litteratur_ (Leipzig, 1901), p.

371.

7 By Franciszek Karpinski, 1741-1825.

8 By Kazimierz Brodzinski, 1791-1835.

LIST OF THE PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS IN “PAN TADEUSZ” WITH NOTES ON POLISH

PRONUNCIATION

THE principal characters in _Pan Tadeusz_ are as follows. The approximate

pronunciation of each proper name is indicated in brackets, according to

the system used in _Webster’s New International Dictionary_.

Thaddeus (Tadeusz) Soplica [Ta-dĕ’ōōsh Sŏ-plē’tsä].

Jacek Soplica, his father [Yä’tsĕk],

Judge Soplica, brother of Jacek.

Telimena, a distant relative of the Soplicas and of

the Horeszkos [Tĕ-lĭ-mĕ’nä, Hŏ-rĕsh’kŏ].

Zosia, ward of Telimena [Zŏ’shä],

Hreczecha, the Seneschal [Hrĕ-chĕ’hä].

The Chamberlain.

Protazy Brzechalski, the Apparitor [Prŏ-tä’zĭ Bzhĕ-häl’skĭ].

The Assessor.

Bolesta, the Notary [Bŏ-lĕs’tä].

The Count, a distant relative of the Horeszko

family.

Gerwazy Rembajlo, the Warden, formerly a servant

of the Horeszko family [Gĕr-vä’zĭ Rĕm-baĭ’wŏ].

Rykov, a Russian captain [Rĭ’kŏf].

Jankiel, a Jew [Yän’kyĕl].

Maciej (Maciek) Dobrzynski [Mä’chā (Mä’chĕk)

Dŏb-zhĭn’skĭ].

Sprinkler (also called Baptist), Bucket, Buzzard,

Razor, Awl, the Prussian: all members of

the Dobrzynski clan.

Henryk Dombrowski [Hĕn’rĭk Dŏm-brŏf’skĭ].

Otton-Karol Kniaziewicz [Ŏt’tŏn-Kä’rŏl Knyä-zhĕ’vĭch].

The following names are frequently mentioned in the poem: Kosciuszko

[Kŏ-shchōōsh’kŏ], Rejtan [Rä’tän], Mickiewicz [Mits-kyĕ’vĭch]. Note also

the words _wojewoda_ [vŏ-yĕ-vŏ’da] and _kontusz_ [kŏn’tōōsh].

Polish names in this book are generally given in their original spelling,

except that the diacritical marks used on many letters in the Polish

alphabet are here omitted, and that _on_ (or _om_) and _en_ (or _em_) are

substituted for the nasal vowels indicated in Polish by _a_ with a cedilla

and _e_ with a cedilla. But the English names _Thaddeus, Sophia, Eva,

Rosa, Thomas_, and _Joseph_ have been substituted for the Polish forms

_Tadeusz, Zofia, Ewa, Roza, Tomasz,_ and _Jozef_. (Yet the Polish title of

the poem, _Pan Tadeusz,_ has been left unchanged, as it has become widely

known through works on Poland, and as a suitable substitute for it is hard

to find: _Pan Thaddeus_ would be a displeasing hybrid.) The few Russian

names that occur are given as though transliterated from the Russian, not

in the Polish form: _Suvorov_, not _Suwarow_.

The Polish _Pan, Pani_, and _Panna_ correspond roughly to the English

_Mr., Mrs._, and _Miss_. But _Pani_ may be used of unmarried women of high

social station; it is regularly applied to Telimena, and once, by the

reverent Gerwazy, even to little Zosia (page 320).

As an aid to the pronunciation of the minor names the following directions

may be of some service:—

Accent all names on the penult, or next to the last syllable.

Pronounce _cz_ as _ch, sz_ as _sh, rz_ as _zh_ (azure), _j_ as _y_ (_aj,

ej, oj_ as _ī, ā, oi_). _W_ is ordinarily pronounced as _v_, but before

surd consonants it has the sound _f_. _Ch_ is pronounced as in German, but

before vowels it need not be distinguished from the English _h_. The

Polish _l_ has two values, one of which resembles the English _l_, while

the other (the crossed _l_) approximates to the English _w_. _S_ is

ordinarily pronounced as in English, but before _i_ it has a sound

somewhat like _sh_; _si_ before a vowel (as in _Zosia_) has the same

sound, the _i_ not being pronounced, but serving as an indication of the

“soft” pronunciation of the preceding sibilant. In the same circumstances

_z_ (and _zi_) are pronounced somewhat like _zh_. The Polish alphabet also

contains a dotted _z_ (here represented by plain _z_) which is pronounced

like _zh_. _Dz_ before _i_ (and _dzi_ before a vowel) are pronounced

somewhat like English _j_ in _jet_. _C_ is ordinarily pronounced like

_ts_, but _c_ before _i_ (and _ci_ before a vowel) are sounded somewhat

like _ch_.

The vowels may be given the familiar “Italian” values; _y_ need not be

distinguished from _i_. (But on _i_ as a diacritical sign, modifying a

preceding sibilant, see the preceding paragraph.) Furthermore, _i_

following a consonant (not a sibilant) and preceding a vowel, is

pronounced like _y_, as in _Jankiel_ (Yän’kyĕl).

These rules, it must be said, are incomplete and inexact to a degree that

will shock any person with a scientific knowledge of Polish pronunciation.

In the present instance brevity seemed of more importance than strict

accuracy.

PAN TADEUSZ

OR

THE LAST FORAY IN LITHUANIA1

BOOK I.—THE FARM

ARGUMENT

Return of the young master—A first meeting in the chamber, a

second at table—The Judge’s weighty lecture on courtesy—The

Chamberlain’s political remarks on fashions—Beginning of the

quarrel over Bobtail and Falcon—Lamentations of the Seneschal—The

last Apparitor—Glance at the political conditions of Lithuania and

Europe at this period.

LITHUANIA, my country, thou art like health; how much thou shouldst be

prized only he can learn who has lost thee. To-day thy beauty in all its

splendour I see and describe, for I yearn for thee.

Holy Virgin, who protectest bright Czenstochowa and shinest above the

Ostra Gate in Wilno!2 Thou who dost shelter the castle of Nowogrodek with

its faithful folk! As by miracle thou didst restore me to health in my

childhood—when, offered by my weeping mother to thy protection, I raised

my dead eyelids, and could straightway walk to the threshold of thy shrine

to thank God for the life returned me—so by miracle thou wilt return us to

the bosom of our country. Meanwhile bear my grief-stricken soul to those

wooded hills, to those green meadows stretched far and wide along the blue

Niemen; to those fields painted with various grain, gilded with wheat,

silvered with rye; where grows the amber mustard, the buckwheat white as

snow, where the clover glows with a maiden’s blush, where all is girdled

as with a ribbon by a strip of green turf on which here and there rest

quiet pear-trees.

Amid such fields years ago, by the border of a brook, on a low hill, in a

grove of birches, stood a gentleman’s3 mansion, of wood, but with a stone

foundation; the white walls shone from afar, the whiter since they were

relieved against the dark green of the poplars that sheltered it against

the winds of autumn. The dwelling-house was not large, but it was

spotlessly neat, and it had a mighty barn, and near it were three stacks

of hay that could not be contained beneath the roof; one could see that

the neighbourhood was rich and fertile. And one could see from the number

of sheaves that up and down the meadows shone thick as stars—one could see

from the number of ploughs turning up early the immense tracts of black

fallow land that evidently belonged to the mansion, and were tilled well

like garden beds, that in that house dwelt plenty and order. The gate

wide-open proclaimed to passers-by that it was hospitable, and invited all

to enter as guests.

A young gentleman had just entered in a two-horse carriage, and, after

making a turn about the yard, he stopped before the porch and descended;

his horses, left to themselves, slowly moved towards the gate, nibbling

the grass. The mansion was deserted, for the porch doors were barred and

the bar fastened with a pin. The traveller did not run to make inquiries

at the farmhouse but opened the door and ran into the mansion, for he was

eager to greet it. It was long since he had seen the house, for he had

been studying in a distant city and had at last finished his course. He

ran in and gazed with eager emotion upon the ancient walls, his old

friends. He sees the same furniture, the same hangings with which he had

loved to amuse himself from babyhood, but they seemed less beautiful and

not so large as of old. And the same portraits hung upon the walls. Here

Kosciuszko,4 in his Cracow coat,5 with his eyes raised to heaven, held his

two-handed sword; such was he when on the steps of the altar he swore that

with this sword he would drive the three powers from Poland or himself

would fall upon it. Farther on sat Rejtan,6 in Polish costume, mourning

the loss of liberty; in his hands he held a knife with the point turned

against his breast, and before him lay _Phaedo_ and _The Life of Cato_.

Still farther on Jasinski,7 a fair and melancholy youth, and his faithful

comrade Korsak8 stand side by side on the entrenchments of Praga, on heaps

of Muscovites, hewing down the enemies of their country—but around them

Praga is already burning.

He recognised even the tall old musical clock in its wooden case near the

chamber door, and with childish joy he pulled at the string, in order to

hear Dombrowski’s old mazurka.71

He ran about the whole house and searched for the room that had been his

own when he was a child, ten years before. He entered, drew back, and

surveyed the walls with astonished eyes: could this room be a woman’s

lodgings? Who could live here? His old uncle was unmarried, and his aunt

had dwelt for years in St. Petersburg. Could that be the housekeeper’s

chamber? A piano? On it music and books; all abandoned in careless

confusion: sweet disorder!

Not old could the hands have been that had so abandoned them! There too, a

white gown, freshly taken from the hook to put on, was spread upon the arm

of a chair. In the windows were pots of fragrant flowers: geraniums,

asters, gillyflowers, and violets. The traveller stepped to one of the

windows—a new marvel was before him. On the bank of the brook, in a spot

once overgrown with nettles, was a tiny garden intersected by paths, full

of clumps of English grass and of mint. The slender wooden fence,

fashioned into a monogram, shone with ribbons of gay daisies. Evidently

the beds had but just been sprinkled; there stood the tin watering-pot

full of water, but the fair gardener could nowhere be seen. She had only

now departed; the little gate, freshly touched, was still trembling; near

the gate could be seen on the sand the print of a small foot that had been

without shoe or stocking—on the fine dry sand, white as snow; the print

was clear but light; you guessed that it was left in quick running by the

tiny feet of some one who scarce touched the ground.

The traveller stood long in the window gazing and musing, breathing in the

fragrance of the flowers. He bent down his face to the violet plants; he

followed the paths with his curious eyes and again gazed on the tiny

footprints; he kept thinking of them and trying to guess whose they were.

By chance he raised his eyes, and there on the wall stood a young girl—her

white garment hid her slender form only to the breast, leaving bare her

shoulders and her swan’s neck. Such attire a Lithuanian maiden is wont to

wear only early in the day; in such she is never seen by men. So, though

there was no witness near, she had folded her arms on her breast, in order

to add a veil to her low garment. Her hair, not spread out in loose

ringlets but twisted in little knots and wrapped in small white

curl-papers, marvellously adorned her head, for in the sunlight it shone

like a crown on the image of a saint. Her face could not be seen, for she

had turned towards the meadow, and with her eyes was seeking some one far

off, below her. She caught sight of him, laughed, and clapped her hands;

like a white bird she flew from the wall to the turf, and flashed through

the garden, over stiles and flowers, and over a board supported on the

wall of the chamber; before the young man was aware, she had flown in

through the window, glittering, swift, and light as a moonbeam. Humming to

herself, she seized the gown and ran to the mirror; suddenly she saw the

youth, and the gown fell from her hands and her face grew pale with fright

and wonder. The face of the traveller flamed with a rosy blush, as a cloud

when it is touched with the morning glow; the modest youth half closed his

eyes and hid them with his hand; he wished to speak and ask for pardon,

but only bowed and stepped back. The maiden uttered a pitiful, indistinct

cry, like a child frightened in its sleep; the traveller looked up in

alarm, but she was there no longer; he departed in confusion and felt the

loud beating of his heart; he knew not whether this strange meeting should

cause him amusement or shame or joy.

Meanwhile in the farmhouse they had not failed to notice that some new

guest had driven up before the porch. They had already taken the horses to

the stable and already, as befits an honourable house, had given them

generously of oats and hay, for the Judge9 was never willing to adopt the

new fashion of sending a guest’s horse to a Jew’s inn. The servants had

not come out to welcome the traveller, but do not think that in the

Judge’s mansion service was careless; the servants were waiting until the

Seneschal10 should attire him, who now behind the mansion was arranging

for the supper. He took the place of the master, and in his absence was

wont himself to welcome and entertain guests, being a distant relative of

the master and a friend of the house. Seeing the guest, he stealthily made

his way to the farmhouse, for he could not come out to greet the stranger

in a homespun dressing-gown; there he put on as quickly as he might his

Sunday garment, made ready since early morning, for since morning he had

known that at supper he should sit with a multitude of guests.

The Seneschal recognised the traveller from afar, spread out his arms, and

with a cry embraced and kissed him. Then began a hurried, confused

discourse, in which they were eager to tell the events of many years in a

few brief words, mingled, as the tale went forward, with queries,

exclamations, and new greetings. When the Seneschal had asked his fill of

questions, at the very last he told the story of that day.

“It is good, my Thaddeus,”—for so they called the young man, whose first

name had been given him in honour of Kosciuszko, as a token that he was

born at the time of the war11—“it is good, my Thaddeus, that you have

returned home this day, just when we have with us so many fair young

ladies. Your uncle is thinking of soon celebrating your marriage. You have

a wide choice: at our house a numerous company has for days been gathering

for the session of the territorial court, to conclude our ancient quarrel

with the Count. The Count himself is to arrive to-morrow; the

Chamberlain12 is already here with his wife and daughters. The young men

have gone to the wood to amuse themselves shooting, and the old men and

the women are looking at the harvest near the wood, where they are

doubtless awaiting the young men. Come on, if you wish, and soon we shall

meet your dear uncle, the Chamberlain, and the honoured ladies.”

The Seneschal and Thaddeus walked along the road towards the wood and

could not say enough to each other. The sun was approaching the end of his

course in the sky and shone less strongly but more broadly than by day,

all reddened, as the healthy face of a husbandman, when, after finishing

his work in the fields, he returns to rest: already the gleaming circle

was descending on the summit of the grove, and already the misty twilight,

filling the tips and the branches of the trees, bound and, as it were,

fused the whole forest into one mass, and the grove showed black like an

immense building, and the sun red above it like a fire on the roof; then

the sun sank; it still shone through the branches, as a candle through the

chinks of window shutters; then it was extinguished. And suddenly the

scythes that were ringing far and wide among the grain, and the rakes that

were being drawn over the meadow, became quiet and still; such were the

orders of the Judge, on whose farm work closed with the day. “The Lord of

the world knows how long we should toil; when the sun, his workman,

descends from heaven, it is time for the husbandman to withdraw from the

field.” So the Judge was wont to speak, and the will of the Judge was

sacred to the honest Steward; for even the waggons on which they had

already begun to load the sheaves of grain, went unfilled to the stable;

the oxen rejoiced in the unaccustomed lightness of their load.

The whole company was just returning from the grove, gaily, but in order;

first the little children with their tutor, then the Judge with the wife

of the Chamberlain; beside them the Chamberlain, surrounded by his family;

after the older people came the young ladies, with the young men beside

them; the young ladies walked a half-step before the young men: so decorum

bids. No one there had arranged the order, no one had so placed the

gentlemen and the ladies, but each without conscious thought kept the

order: for the Judge in his household observed the ancient customs, and

never allowed that respect should be neglected for age, birth,

intelligence, or office: “By such breeding,” said he, “houses and nations

win fame, and with its fall, houses and nations go to ruin.” So the

household and the servants grew accustomed to order; and a passing guest,

whether kinsman or stranger, when he visited the Judge, as soon as he had

been there a short time, accepted the established ways of which all about

him breathed.

Short were the greetings that the Judge bestowed upon his nephew. With

dignity he offered him his hand to salute, and kissing him on the temple

he gave him a hearty welcome; though out of regard for the guests he

talked little with him, one could see from the tears that he quickly wiped

away with the sleeve of his _kontusz_,13 how he loved young Thaddeus.

After the master all, both men and beasts, were returning home together

from the harvest fields and from the grove, from the meadows and from the

pastures. Here a flock of bleating sheep squeezed into the lane and raised

a cloud of dust; behind them slowly stepped a herd of Tyrolese heifers

with brazen bells; there the horses neighing rushed home from the freshly

mown meadow. All ran to the well, of which the wooden sweep ceaselessly

creaked and filled the trough.

The Judge, though wearied, and though surrounded by guests, did not

neglect the weighty duties of his farm, but himself went to the well: at

evening a farmer can best see how his stable prospers, and never entrusts

that care to servants—for the Judge knew that the master’s eye fattens the

horse.

The Seneschal and Protazy the Apparitor14 were standing in the hall,

lanterns in hand, and were arguing with some warmth, for in the

Seneschal’s absence the Apparitor had secretly ordered the supper tables

to be carried out from the mansion and to be set up hastily in the old

castle of which the remains could be seen near the wood. Why this

transfer? The Seneschal made wry faces and begged the Judge’s pardon; the

Judge was amazed, but the thing had been done; it was already late and

difficult to correct it; he preferred to make excuses to his guests and to

lead them to the ruins. On the way the Apparitor kept explaining to the

Judge why he had altered his master’s arrangements: on the farm no room

was spacious enough for so many guests—and guests of such high station; in

the castle the great hall was still well preserved, the vaulted roof was

whole—to be sure one wall was cracked and the windows were without panes,

but in summer that would do no harm; the nearness of the cellars was

convenient for the servants. So speaking, he winked at the Judge; it was

evident from his mien that he had other, more important reasons, but

concealed them.

The castle stood two thousand paces from the mansion, of stately

architecture, and of imposing bulk, the ancestral home of the ancient

house of the Horeszkos. The owner had perished at the time of the

disorders in the country;15 the domain had been entirely ruined by the

sequestrations of the government, by the carelessness of the guardians,

and by the verdicts of the courts; part had fallen to distant relatives on

the female side, the rest had been divided among the creditors. No one

wished to take the castle, for a simple gentleman could hardly afford the

cost of maintaining it; but the Count, a rich young noble and a distant

relative of the Horeszkos, when he became of age and returned home from

his travels to live near by, took a fancy to the walls, explaining that

they were of Gothic architecture, though the Judge from documents tried to

convince him that the architect was from Wilno and not a Goth. At all

events the Count wished to have the castle, and suddenly the same desire

seized the Judge, no one could tell why. They began a suit in the district

court, then in the court of appeal, before the Senate, again in the

district court and before the governor’s council; finally after great

expense of money, and numerous decrees, the case returned again to the

court of domains.

The Apparitor said rightly that in the hall of the castle there was room

both for the gentlemen of the bar and for the invited guests. This hall

was as large as a refectory, and it had a vaulted roof supported on

pillars, and a stone flooring; the walls were unadorned, but clean. Upon

them were fastened the horns of stags and roes, with inscriptions telling

where and when these trophies had been obtained; there too were engraved

the armorial bearings of the hunters, with the name of each written out in

full; on the ceiling gleamed the Half-Goat, the arms of the Horeszkos.

The guests entered in order and stood about the table. The Chamberlain

took his place at the head; this honour befitted him from his age and his

office; advancing to it he bowed to the ladies, the old men, and the young

men. By him took his station a Bernardine monk, a collector of alms for

his order, and next the Bernardine was the Judge. The Bernardine

pronounced a short grace in Latin, brandy was passed to the gentlemen;

then all sat down, and silently and with relish they ate the cold

Lithuanian salad of beet leaves.16

Thaddeus, though a young man, by virtue of being a guest, had a seat at

the head of the table, with the ladies, beside His Honour the Chamberlain;

between him and his uncle there remained one empty place, which seemed to

be awaiting some one. The uncle often glanced at this place and then at

the door, as though he were assured of some one’s coming and desired it;

and Thaddeus followed his uncle’s glance to the door, and with him fixed

his eyes on the empty seat. Marvellous to relate, the places round about

were occupied by maidens on whom a prince might have gazed without shame,

all of them high born, and every one young and pretty; but Thaddeus kept

looking at that spot where no one was sitting. That place was a riddle;

young people love riddles. Distraught, to his fair neighbour the

Chamberlain’s daughter he said only a few scattering words; he did not

change her plate or fill her glass, and he did not entertain the young

ladies with polite discourse such as would have shown his city breeding.

That one empty place allured him and dazzled him; it was no longer empty,

for he had filled it with his thoughts. Over that place ran a thousand

guesses, as after a rain, little toads hop hither and thither over a

lonely meadow; among them one form was queen, like a water lily on a fair

day raising its white brow above the surface of a lake.

The third course was being served. The Chamberlain, pouring a drop of wine

into Panna Rosa’s glass and passing a plate of cucumbers to his younger

daughter, said: “I must wait on you myself, my dear daughters, though I am

old and clumsy.” Thereat several young men started up from the table and

served the young ladies. The Judge, throwing a sidelong glance at Thaddeus

and adjusting somewhat the sleeves of his kontusz, poured out some

Hungarian wine and spoke thus:—

“To-day, as the new fashion bids us, we send our young men to the capital

to study, and I do not deny that our sons and grandsons have more book

learning than their elders; but each day I perceive how our young men

suffer because there are no schools that teach how to conduct oneself in

polite society. Of old, the young gentry went to the courts of the lords;

I myself was for ten years a member of the household of the Wojewoda,26

the father of His Honour the Chamberlain.” (As he said this he pressed the

Chamberlain’s knees.) “By his counsels he fitted me for the public

service, and did not dismiss me from his care until he had made a man of

me. In my home his memory will ever be dear; each day do I pray God for

his soul. If at his court I profited less than others, and since my return

have been ploughing the fields at home, while others, more worthy of the

regard of the Wojewoda, have since attained the highest offices in the

land, at least this much I profited, that in my home no one will ever

reproach me for failing to show respect or courtesy to all—and boldly do I

say it, courtesy is not an easy science, nor one of slight account. Not

easy, for it is not confined to moving one’s legs gracefully in bowing or

to greeting with a smile each man one meets; for such fashionable courtesy

seems to me that of a merchant, not that of old Poland, nor that of a true

gentleman. Courtesy should be extended to all, but for each it is

different; for not without courtesy is the love of children for their

parents, or the regard paid by a husband to his wife in society, or that

of a master for his servants, and yet each sort of courtesy has its

distinctive mark. One must study long in order without mistake to pay to

each his due respect. And our elders did study: in noble mansions the

discourse furnished the listener a living history of his land, and the

talk among the gentry formed the household annals of the county. Thereby a

brother gentleman was made to feel that all knew of him and did not esteem

him lightly; so a gentleman kept a watch upon his own habits. But to-day

you must ask no man who he is or of what parents, with whom he has lived

or what he has done. Every man enters where he will, so long as he be not

a government spy or a beggar. As Vespasian did not smell of money,17 and

cared not to know whence it came, from what hands or lands, so now they

care not to know a man’s family or habits. It suffices that he be of full

weight and that the stamp be seen upon him; thus men value friends as Jews

value money.”

While speaking thus, the Judge surveyed his guests in order; for though he

always spoke fluently and with discretion, he knew that the youth of

to-day are impatient, that they are bored by long speeches, even by the

most eloquent. But all were listening in deep silence; the Judge with his

eye seemed to take counsel of the Chamberlain; the Chamberlain did not

interrupt the speech by praise, but with a frequent nodding of his head he

assented to it. The Judge ceased speaking, the other with a nod begged him

to continue. So the Judge filled the Chamberlain’s beaker and his own cup,

and spoke further:—

“Courtesy is no slight thing: when a man learns to respect as is fitting

the age, birth, virtues, and ways of others, at the same time he comes to

recognise also his own dignity; as in weighing with scales, in order to

learn our own weight, we must put some one in the opposite pan. And worthy

of your especial attention is the courtesy that young men owe to the fair

sex, above all when the distinction of family, and the generosity of

fortune heighten inborn charms and talents. Through courtesy is the path

to the affections, and by it houses are joined in splendid union—thus

thought our elders. And therefore——”

Here the Judge with a sudden turn of his head nodded at Thaddeus and

bestowed on him a stern glance; it was evident that he had now reached the

climax of his speech.

Thereupon the Chamberlain tapped his golden snuffbox and said:—

“My dear Judge, in former times it was still worse. At present I know not

whether the fashion changes even us old men, or whether the young men are

better than before, but I see less cause of scandal. Ah, I remember the

times when on our fatherland there first descended the fashion of

imitating the French; when suddenly brisk young gentlemen from foreign

lands swarmed in upon us in a horde worse than the Nogai Tatars, abusing

here, in our country, God, the faith of our fathers, our law and customs,

and even our ancient garments. Pitiable was it to behold the yellow-faced

puppies, talking through their noses—and often without noses—stuffed with

brochures and newspapers of various sorts, and proclaiming new faiths,

laws, and toilets. That rabble had a mighty power over minds, for when the

Lord God sends punishment on a nation he first deprives its citizens of

reason. And so the wiser heads dared not resist the fops, and the whole

nation feared them as some pestilence, for within itself it already felt

the germs of disease. They cried out against the dandies but took pattern

by them; they changed faith, speech, laws, and costumes. That was a

masquerade, the licence of the Carnival season, after which was soon to

follow the Lent of slavery.

“I remember,—though then I was but a little child,—when the Cup-Bearer’s

son came to visit my father in the district of Oszmiana, in a French

carriage; he was the first man in Lithuania who wore French clothes.

Everybody ran after him as after a buzzard;18 they envied the house before

the threshold of which the Cup-Bearer’s son halted his two-wheeled chaise,

which passed by the French name of cabriolet. Within it sat two dogs

instead of footmen, and on the box a German, lean as a board; his long

legs, thin as hop-poles, were clad in stockings, and shoes with silver

buckles; the tail of his wig was tied up in a sack. The old men burst out

laughing at that equipage, but the country boors crossed themselves,

saying that a Venetian devil was travelling abroad in a German carriage.

To describe the son of the Cup-Bearer himself would be a long story;

suffice it to say that he seemed to us an ape or a parrot in a great

peruke, which he liked to compare to the Golden Fleece, and we to

elf-locks.19 At that time even if any one felt that the Polish costume was

more comely than this aping of a foreign fashion, he kept silent, for the

young men would have cried out that he was hindering culture, that he was

checking progress, that he was a traitor. Such at that time was the power

of prejudice!

“The Cup-Bearer’s son announced that he was going to reform us and

introduce order and civilisation; he proclaimed to us that some eloquent

Frenchmen had made a discovery, that all men are equal—though this was

written long ago in Holy Writ and every parish priest prates of it from

the pulpit. The doctrine was ancient, the question was of its application.

But at that time such general blindness prevailed that they did not

believe the oldest things in the world if they did not read of them in a

French newspaper. The Cup-Bearer’s son, despite equality, had taken the

title of marquis. It is well known that titles come from Paris, and at

that time the title of marquis was in fashion there; however, when in the

course of years the fashion changed, this same marquis took the title of

democrat; finally, with the changing fashion, under Napoleon, the democrat

arrived from Paris as a baron; if he had lived longer, perhaps he would

have shifted again, and instead of a baron would have called himself once

more a democrat. For Paris boasts of frequent changes of fashion, and

whatever a Frenchman invents is dear to a Pole.

“Thank God, that now if our young men go abroad, it is no longer for

clothes, nor to seek new laws in wretched printing shops, nor to study

eloquence in the cafes of Paris. For now Napoleon, a clever man and a

swift, gives us no time to prate or to search for new fashions. Now there

is the thunder of arms, and the hearts of us old men exult that the renown

of the Poles is spreading so widely throughout the world; glory is ours

already, and so we shall soon again have our Republic. From laurels always

springs the tree of liberty. Only it is sad that for us the years drag on

so long in idleness, and they are always so far away. It is so long to

wait!, and even news is so scarce. Father Robak,”20 he said in a lower

voice to the Bernardine, “I have heard that you have received tidings from

beyond the Niemen; perhaps you know something of our army?”

“Not a thing,” answered Robak with indifference; it was evident that he

had not enjoyed listening to the talk. “Politics bore me; if I have a

letter from Warsaw, it is on business of our Order. That is the affair of

us Bernardines; why should we talk of that at supper? Here there are

laymen, whom such things do not concern.”

So speaking, he looked askance at a Muscovite guest who was sitting among

the banqueters; this was Captain Rykov, an old soldier who was quartered

in a village hard by, and whom the Judge for courtesy’s sake had invited

to the supper. Rykov ate with a relish, and had been mixing little in the

conversation, but at the mention of Warsaw he raised his head and said,

with a Russian accent, and with a few slips of expression:—

“Chamberlain! Ah, sir, you are always curious about Bonaparte, and are

always eager to hear from Warsaw. Ah, Fatherland! I am no spy, but I

understand Polish.—Fatherland! I feel it all, I understand! You are Poles,

I am Russian; just now we are not fighting—there is an armistice, so we

are eating and drinking together. Often at the outposts our fellows will

be chatting with the French and drinking brandy; when they cry ‘Hurrah,’

then comes the cannonading. There’s a Russian proverb: ‘I love the man I

fight with; clasp your sweetheart to your heart, but beat her like a fur

cloak.’ I say we shall have war. An adjutant of the staff came to Major

Plut21 the day before yesterday: ‘Get ready for the march!’ We shall move

either against the Turks or the French. O, that Bonaparte is a rare bird!

Now that Suvorov is gone maybe he will give us a drubbing. In our regiment

we used to say, when we were marching against the French, that Bonaparte

was a wizard22—well, so was Suvorov a wizard too, so there were tricks

against tricks. Once in battle, where did he disappear? To look for

Bonaparte! But he changed himself into a fox, so Suvorov became a hound;

so Bonaparte changed again into a cat; they started to claw each other,

but Suvorov became a pony. Now notice what happened with Bonaparte

finally——”

Here Rykov broke off and began to eat. At that moment the servant came in

with the fourth course, and suddenly the side doors were opened.

A new guest, young and fair, came in; her sudden appearance, her beauty

and her carriage, her toilet, all attracted the eye. Everybody greeted

her; evidently all except Thaddeus were acquainted with her. Her figure

was fine and elegant, her bosom charming; her gown was of pink silk, low

cut, and with short sleeves, the collar of lace. In her hands she twirled

a fan for mere pastime, for it was not hot; the gilded fan as it waved

spread around it a dense shower of sparks. Her head was like a milliner’s

model; the hair was frizzled and curled and intertwined with pink ribbons;

amid them a diamond, half hidden from sight, shone like a star in the tail

of a comet. In a word it was a holiday toilet; several whispered that it

was too elaborate for the country and for every day. Though her skirt was

short, the eye could not see her feet, for she ran very swiftly, or rather

she glided, like the puppets that on the Festival of the Three Kings boys

hidden in booths slide to and fro. She ran in and, greeting all with a

slight bow, was about to seat herself in the place reserved for her. That

was difficult, for there were no chairs for the guests, who were sitting

in four rows on four benches; either a whole row must move or she must

climb over the bench. Skilfully she managed to squeeze in between two

benches, and then between the table and the line of those seated at it she

rolled on like a billiard ball. In her course she brushed past our young

man, and, catching a flounce on some one’s knee, slipped a little, and in

her distraction supported herself on the shoulder of Thaddeus. Politely

begging his pardon, she took her seat between him and his uncle, but she

ate nothing; she only fanned herself, or twirled the handle of her fan, or

adjusted her lace collar, or with a light touch of her hand smoothed her

ringlets and the knots of bright ribbon among them.

This interruption of the conversation had lasted some four minutes.

Meanwhile there had begun at the end of the table first gentle murmurs and

then conversation in a subdued voice; the men were discussing their day’s

hunting. Between the Assessor23 and the Notary24 there had arisen a

stubborn and more and more noisy dispute over a bobtailed hound, in the

ownership of which the Notary took pride, maintaining that this dog had

caught the hare; while the Assessor was demonstrating, despite the

arguments of the Notary, that that honour belonged to his own hound

Falcon. They asked the opinion of the others; so all in turn took sides

either for Bobtail or for Falcon, some as experts, others as eyewitnesses.

At the opposite end of the table the Judge was saying in a low voice to

his new neighbour: “I beg your pardon, we had to sit down, it was

impossible to put off supper till later; the guests were hungry, for they

had had a long walk over the fields; and I thought that to-day you would

not join us at table.” After these words he talked quietly with the

Chamberlain over a full winecup about political affairs.

Since both ends of the table were thus occupied, Thaddeus gazed intently

at the unknown lady. He remembered that when he had first glanced at the

place he had at once guessed for whom it was destined. He blushed, and his

heart beat faster than its wont. So he now beheld, the solution of the

mystery upon which he had pondered. So it had been ordained that by his

side should sit that beauty whom he had seen in the twilight; to be sure

she now seemed of taller stature, for she was in full dress, and costume

may make one seem larger or smaller. But the hair of the first had seemed

short and of a bright golden colour, while this lady had long, curling,

raven tresses. The colour must have come from the sun’s rays, which at

evenfall shed a glow over everything. At that time he had not noticed the

girl’s face—she had vanished too quickly. But thought is wont to guess a

lovely face; he had imagined that surely she must have black eyes, a fair

complexion, and lips as red as twin cherries; in his neighbour he found

such a face, such eyes, and such lips. In age perhaps there was the

greatest difference; the little gardener had seemed to him a young girl,

this lady was already of ripe years. But youth never asks beauty for its

baptismal certificate; to a young man every woman is young, to a lad every

beauty seems of his own age, and to an innocent boy every sweetheart seems

a maiden.

Thaddeus, though he was now almost twenty years of age, and from childhood

had dwelt in Wilno, a large city, had been under the charge of a priest,

who looked after him and brought him up in the rules of strict

old-fashioned virtue. Therefore Thaddeus brought home to his native heath

a pure soul, a lively imagination, and an innocent heart, but at the same

time no small desire to sow his wild oats. He had some time ago resolved

that he would permit himself to enjoy in the country his long forbidden

liberty; he knew that he was handsome, he felt himself young and vigorous;

and as an inheritance from his parents he had received health and good

spirits. His name was Soplica; all the Soplicas, as is well known, are

large, strong, powerful men, apt at the soldier’s trade, but less diligent

over their books.

Thaddeus had not degenerated from his forebears; he rode well on horseback

and walked well; he was not dull, but he had made little progress in his

studies, though his uncle had spared nothing on his education. He liked

better to shoot, or to practise with a sabre; he knew that they had

intended to fit him for the army, that his father in his will had

expressed this desire; while sitting in school he yearned constantly for

the sound of the drum. But his uncle had suddenly changed his first

intentions, and had sent him word to come home and to marry and take over

the farming; he had promised to give him at first a little village, and

later the whole estate.

All these virtues and good qualities of Thaddeus had attracted the gaze of

his neighbour, an observant woman. She had measured his tall and shapely

form, his strong shoulders, his broad chest, and she looked into his face,

on which a blush rose as often as the young man met her eyes. For he had

already entirely recovered from his first timidity, and looked on her with

a bold glance, in which fire blazed; even so did she gaze on him, and

their four pupils glowed opposite one another as do candles at the Advent

mass.

She started a conversation with him in French. Thaddeus had returned from

town, from school: so she asked his opinions about new books and authors,

and from his answers derived new questions; she went so far as to speak of

painting, of music, of dancing—even of sculpture! She proved herself

equally familiar with the pencil, with tunes, and with books, until

Thaddeus was petrified by so much learning, and feared that he might

become the butt of ridicule, and stammered like a little lad before his

teacher. Luckily the teacher was beautiful and lenient; his neighbour

guessed the cause of his perturbation, and shifted the talk to less deep

and difficult subjects, to the cares and troubles of existence in the

country, and how one must amuse oneself, and how divide the time in order

to make village life gay and pleasant. Thaddeus answered more boldly, and

things went better; in a half-hour they were already fast friends, they

even started jests and small quarrels. Finally she placed before him three

little balls of bread, three persons to select from; he chose the nearest.

The two daughters of the Chamberlain frowned at this; his neighbour

laughed, but she did not tell him whom that happy ball was meant to

signify.

At the other end of the table they were amusing themselves quite

differently, for there the adherents of Falcon, suddenly gathering

strength, descended pitilessly on the party of Bobtail. Mighty was the

strife; they had not yet eaten the last courses; standing up and drinking,

the two factions wrangled. But most terribly was the Notary ruffled—just

like a blackcock; when he had once begun, he poured forth his speech

without a pause, and adorned it most effectively by his gestures. (The

Notary, Pan Bolesta, had once been a lawyer; they called him the preacher,

because he was over fond of gestures.) Now he had placed his hands on his

sides, extending his elbows backward, and from under his armpits he was

thrusting forward his fingers and long nails, thereby representing two

leashes of hounds. He was just concluding his speech:—

“Hurrah! The Assessor and I let them go at once, at the very same time, as

if the two triggers on a double-barrelled gun had been pressed by one

finger. Hurrah! They started, and the hare like an arrow shot into the

field; the dogs after him——” (Here as he spoke he ran his hands over the

table and with his fingers marvellously imitated the movement of the dogs)

“the dogs after him, and they headed him off a bit from the wood. Falcon

rushed forward, a fleet dog, but with a poor head; he got the start of

Bobtail by so much, a finger’s breadth; I knew that he would miss. The

hare was no common rogue; he made as if straight for the field, and after

him the pack of hounds. The rogue of a hare I Once he knew that the dogs

were in a bunch, pst! he went to the right, with a somersault, and after

him the stupid hounds; but again, zip! to the left, in just two jumps. The

dogs after him, zip! to the left, and my Bobtail, whack!”

Shouting thus the Notary leaned over the table and ran his fingers clear

to the other side, and screamed “whack” just over the ear of Thaddeus.

Thaddeus and his neighbour, suddenly startled right in the middle of a

conversation by this outburst, involuntarily withdrew their heads from

each other, like treetops tied together, when the storm parts them; their

hands, which had been lying close together under the table, quickly drew

apart, and their two faces were clothed with a single blush.

“It is true, my dear Notary,” said Thaddeus, in order not to betray his

embarrassment, “it is true, without doubt; Bobtail is a finely built

hound—if he is equally good at seizing the game.”

“Good at seizing!” cried the Notary, “my favourite dog; the idea of his

not being good at seizing!”

So Thaddeus once more expressed his pleasure that so handsome a dog had no

fault; regretted that he had seen him only as he was returning from the

wood, and that he had not had time to appreciate all his good points.

At this the Assessor trembled, dropped his wine-glass from his hand, and

levelled at Thaddeus the glance of a basilisk. The Assessor was less noisy

and less given to gestures than the Notary, thinner and shorter; but he

was terrible at masquerade, ball, or village diet, for they said of him

that he had a sting in his tongue. He could make up such witty jests that

you might have had them printed in the almanac; they were all so malicious

and pointed. He had formerly been a man of property, but he had entirely

squandered his inheritance from his father, and his brother’s estate as

well, through cutting a figure in high society; now he had entered the

service of the government, in order to be of some importance in the

district. He was very fond of hunting, both for the sport of it and

because the peal of the horn and the sight of the circle of beaters

recalled to him the days of his youth, when he had kept many hunters and

many famous hounds. Of his whole kennel but two dogs remained, and now

they wanted to belittle the glory of one of these! So he approached, and,

slowly stroking his side whiskers, said with a laugh—but it was a laugh

full of poison:—

“A hound without a tail is like a gentleman without an office. A tail is

likewise a great help to a hound in running. And do you, sir, regard the

lack of one as a proof of excellence? However, we may refer the matter to

the judgment of your aunt. Though Pani Telimena has been living in the

capital, and has only recently been visiting our neighbourhood, yet she

knows more about hunting than do young sportsmen: for knowledge comes of

itself with years.”

Thaddeus, upon whom this thunderstorm had unexpectedly descended, arose in

confusion, and for some moments said nothing, but looked upon his rival

more and more terribly and sternly; at that moment by great good luck the

Chamberlain sneezed twice. “Vivat!” cried everybody; he bowed to the

company, and slowly tapped his snuffbox with his fingers. The snuffbox was

of gold, set with diamonds, and in the middle of it was a portrait of King

Stanislaw.25 The king himself had given it to the father of the

Chamberlain; after his father the Chamberlain bore it worthily; whenever

he tapped upon it, it was a sign that he wished to have the floor for a

speech. All became silent, no one dared open his lips. He spoke:—

“Honoured gentlemen, my beloved brothers, the woods and meadows alone are

the hunter’s forum, therefore such matters I will not pass upon within

doors, but I will dissolve our sitting until to-morrow, and will not

permit further argument from either faction to-day. Apparitor, call the

case for to-morrow in the field! To-morrow the Count too will be here with

all his hunting train, and you, my neighbour Judge, will ride out with us,

and Pani Telimena, and the young ladies and gentlemen; in a word we will

form a great official hunting party, and the Seneschal, too, will not deny

us his companionship.”

So saying he offered his snuffbox to the old man.

The Seneschal had been sitting at the corner among the hunters; he had

been listening with closed eyes, but had said not a word, although the

young men had often inquired his opinion, for no one understood hunting

better than he. He kept silent, weighed in his fingers the pinch of snuff

that he had taken from the box, and meditated long before he finally used

it; he sneezed until the whole room echoed, and shaking his head, he said

with a bitter smile:—

“O how this saddens and amazes me in my old age! What would the hunters of

old times say of this, if they should see that amid so many gentlemen, in

so large a gathering, disputes over a hound’s tail had to be debated? What

would old Rejtan say of this were he to come to life again? He would go

back to Lachowicze and lay himself in his grave. What would the old

wojewoda Niesiolowski26 say, a man who still has the finest kennel in the

world, and maintains in lordly wise two hundred hunters, and who has a

hundred waggon-loads of nets in his castle of Woroncza, and yet for so

many years has been abiding like a monk within his house? No one can

persuade him to accept an invitation to hunt; he refused even

Bialopiotrowicz27 himself! For what would he capture at your hunts? It

would be fine glory, if such a gentleman, in accordance with the present

fashion, should ride out against rabbits! In my time, sir, in hunter’s

language, the boar, the bear, the elk, the wolf were known as noble

beasts, but beasts without tusks, horns, or claws were left for hired

servants or farm labourers. No gentleman would ever consent to take in

hand a musket that had been put to shame by having small shot sprinkled in

it! To be sure they kept hounds, for when they were returning from a hunt

it might happen that some wretched hare would start up from beneath a

steed; then they let loose the pack at it for sport, and the little lads

chased it on ponies before the eyes of their parents, who hardly deigned

to look on such a chase, much less to quarrel over it! So I beg that Your

Honour the Chamberlain will deign to recall your commands, and will

forgive me that I cannot ride to such a hunting party, and never will set

foot in one! My name is Hreczecha, and since the days of King Lech28 no

Hreczecha has ever ridden out after hares.”

Here the laughter of the young men drowned the speech of the Seneschal.

They rose from the table; the Chamberlain moved first; this honour

befitted him from his age and his office; as he advanced he bowed to the

ladies, the old men, and the young men. After him went the Collector of

Alms, and the Judge alongside the Bernardine; at the threshold the Judge

offered his arm to the Chamberlain’s wife, Thaddeus to Telimena, the

Assessor to the Carver’s daughter, and finally the Notary to Panna

Hreczecha, the daughter of the Seneschal.

Thaddeus went to the stable with several of the guests, and felt

disturbed, glum, and morose; he thought over all the events of the day,

the meeting and the supper by the side of his fair neighbour—and in

particular the word “aunt” buzzed continually in his ear like an

importunate fly. He would have liked to learn more about Pani Telimena

from the Apparitor, but he could not catch him; nor did he see the

Seneschal, for immediately after supper all had followed the guests out,

as befits serving men, and had gone to prepare the rooms for rest. The

older people and the ladies slept in the mansion; the young men Thaddeus,

as the host’s representative, had been directed to take to the stable,

where they were to sleep on the hay.

Within a half-hour it was as quiet on the whole estate as in a cloister

after the bell for prayer; the silence was interrupted only by the voice

of the night watchman. All were asleep. The Judge alone did not close his

eyes; as the head of the estate, he was thinking over a walking party, and

the coming entertainment within the house. He gave orders to the stewards,

the overseers, and the grain-wardens; to the scribes, the housekeeper, the

huntsmen, and the grooms; and he had to look through all the day’s

accounts; finally he told the Apparitor that he wished to undress. The

Apparitor undid his belt, a belt from Sluck,29 a massive belt, on which

glittered tassels thick as helmet-plumes; on one side it was gold brocade

with purple flowers, on the reverse black silk with silver cross-stripes.

Such a belt may be worn equally well on either side, golden for a holiday,

and black for mourning. The Apparitor alone knew how to undo and fold up

this belt; he took this trouble upon himself and ended with the following

speech:—

“Where was the harm that I moved the tables to the old castle? No one has

lost thereby, and you, sir, will perhaps gain, for the suit now before the

court concerns the ownership of that castle. From this day we have

acquired a right to the castle, and notwithstanding all the fury of the

opposite side I will prove that we have taken the castle into our

possession. For whoever invites guests to supper in a castle proves that

he holds possession there—or takes it; we will even summon the opposite

side as witnesses: I remember such happenings in my time.”

The Judge was already asleep. So the Apparitor quietly went out into the

hall, seated himself by a candle, and took from his pocket a little book

that always served him as a Prayer Book,30 and from which he never was

parted, either at home or on a journey. It was the Court Calendar;31 there

in order were written down cases which years ago the Apparitor had

proclaimed with his own voice, before the authorities, or of which he had

managed to learn later. To common men the Calendar seems a mere list of

names, but to the Apparitor it was a succession of magnificent pictures.

So he read and mused: Oginski and Wizgird, the Dominicans and Rymsza,

Rymsza and Wysogierd, Radziwill and Wereszczaka, Giedrojc and Rodultowski,

Obuchowicz and the Jewish commune, Juraha and Piotrowski, Maleski and

Mickiewicz, and finally Count Horeszko and Soplica; and, as he read, he

called forth from these names the memory of mighty cases, and all the

events of the trial; and before his eyes stand the court, plaintiff,

defendant, and witnesses; and he beholds himself, how in a white smock and

dark blue kontusz he stands before the tribunal, with one hand on his

sabre and the other on the table, summoning the two parties. “Silence!” he

calls. Thus dreaming and finishing his evening prayer, gradually the last

court apparitor in Lithuania fell asleep.

Such were the amusements and disputes of those days in the quiet

Lithuanian village, while the rest of the world was swimming in tears and

blood, and while that man, the god of war, surrounded by a cloud of

regiments, armed with a thousand cannon, harnessing to his chariot golden

eagles beside those of silver,32 was flying from the deserts of Libya to

the lofty Alps, casting thunderbolt on thunderbolt, at the Pyramids, at

Tabor, Marengo, Ulm, and Austerlitz. Victory and Conquest ran before and

after him. The glory of so many exploits, heavy with the names of heroes,

went roaring from the Nile to the North, until at the shores of the Niemen

it was beaten back as from crags by the Muscovite lines that defended

Lithuania as with walls of iron against tidings terrible for Russia as the

plague.

And yet now and then, like a stone from the sky, news came even to

Lithuania; now and then an old man, lacking a hand or a foot, who was

begging his bread, would stand and cast cautious eyes around, when he had

received alms. If he saw no Russian soldiers in the yard, or Jewish caps,

or red collars, then he would confess who he was: he was a member of the

Polish legions, and was bringing back his old bones to that fatherland

which he could no longer defend. Then how all the family—how even the

servants embraced him, choking with tears! He would seat himself at the

board and tell of history more strange than fable; he would relate how

General Dombrowski33 was making efforts to penetrate from the Italian land

into Poland, how he was gathering his countrymen on the plains of

Lombardy; how Kniaziewicz34 was issuing commands from the Roman Capitol,

and how, as a victor, he had cast in the eyes of the French an hundred

bloody standards torn from the descendants of the Cæsars; how

Jablonowski35 had reached the land where the pepper grows and where sugar

is produced, and where in eternal spring bloom fragrant woods: with the

legion of the Danube there the Polish general smites the negroes, but

sighs for his native soil.

The words of the old man would spread secretly through the village; the

lad who heard them would vanish suddenly from home, would steal

mysteriously through the forests and swamps, pursued by the Muscovites,

would leap to hiding in the Niemen, and beneath its flood swim to the

shore of the Grand Duchy of Warsaw, where he would hear sweet words of

greeting, “Welcome, comrade!” But before he departed, he would climb a

stony hill and call to the Muscovites across the Niemen: “Until we meet

again!” Thus there had stolen away Gorecki, Pac, and Obuchowicz;

Piotrowski, Obolewski, Rozycki, Janowicz, the Mirzejewskis, Brochocki and

the brothers Bernatowicz, Kupsc, Gedymin, and others whom I will not

enumerate; they had abandoned their kinsmen and their beloved land, and

their estates, which were seized for the Tsar’s treasury.

Sometimes there came to Lithuania a collector of alms from a foreign

convent, and after he became more closely acquainted with the lords of an

estate, he would show them a gazette, which he cut out from his scapulary.

In it would be set forth the number of soldiers and the names of all the

leaders in every legion; with an account of the victory of each or of his

doom. After many years, a family would have news for the first time of the

life, the glory, or the death of a son; the house would put on mourning,

but dared not tell for whom they mourned. The neighbours merely guessed

the news, and only the quiet grief of the gentry, or their quiet joy, was

the gazette of the peasants.

Robak was probably just such a mysterious collector of alms; he often

conversed apart with the Judge, and always after these talks tidings of

some sort spread abroad in the neighbourhood. The bearing of the

Bernardine betrayed the fact that this monk had not always worn a cowl,

and had not grown old within cloister walls. Over his right ear, somewhat

above his temple, he had a scar as broad as one’s palm, where the skin had

been sheared off; and on his chin was the recent trace of a lance or

bullet; these wounds he had surely not received while reading the missal.

But not merely his grim glance and his scars, even his movements and his

voice had something soldierlike about them.

At the Mass, when with uplifted arms he turned from the altar to the

people, in order to pronounce, “The Lord be with you,” he often turned as

skilfully—with a single movement—as if he were executing a

right-about-face at the command of his captain; and he pronounced the

words of the liturgy to the people in the same tone as an officer standing

before a squadron: the boys who served him at the mass remarked this.

Robak was also better versed in political affairs than in the lives of the

saints; and when he was riding about gathering alms he often tarried in

the district town. He had a multitude of interests: now he received

letters, which he never opened in the presence of strangers; now he sent

off messengers, but whither and for what he did not say; often he stole

out by night to the squires’ mansions, and continually whispered with the

gentry; he trudged through all the neighbouring villages, and in the

taverns talked not a little with the village boors, and always of what was

going on in foreign lands. Now he came to arouse the Judge, who had

already been an hour asleep; surely he had some tidings.