ARGUMENT
Salutary counsels of Bartek, called the Prussian—Martial argument
of Maciek the Sprinkler—Political argument of Pan Buchmann—Jankiel
advises harmony, which is cut off abruptly by the penknife—Speech
of Gerwazy, which makes apparent the great potency of
parliamentary eloquence—Protest of old Maciek—The sudden arrival
of reinforcements interrupts the consultation—Down with the
Soplica!
IT came the turn of the deputy Bartek to state his case. He was a man who
often travelled with rafts to Königsberg; he was called the Prussian by
the members of his family, in jest, for he hated the Prussians horribly,
although he loved to talk of them. He was a man well advanced in years,
who on his distant travels had learned much of the world; a diligent
reader of gazettes, well versed in politics, he could cast no little light
on the subject under discussion. Thus he concluded his speech:—
“This is not, Pan Maciej, my brother, and revered father of us all—this is
not aid to be despised. I should rely on the French in time of war as on
four aces; they are a warlike people, and since the times of Thaddeus
Kosciuszko the world has not had such a military genius as the great
Emperor Bonaparte. I remember when the French crossed the Warta; I was on
a trip abroad at the time, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight
hundred and six; I was just then doing some trading with Dantzic, and,
since I have many kinsmen in the district of Posen, I had gone to visit
them. So it happened that Pan Joseph Grabowski125 and I—he is now colonel
of a regiment, but at that time he was living in the country near
Obiezierz—were out hunting small game together.
“In Great Poland126 there was then peace, as there is now in Lithuania;
suddenly the tidings spread abroad of a fearful battle; a messenger from
Pan Todwen rushed up to us. Grabowski read the letter and cried: ‘Jena!
Jena!127 The Prussians are smitten hip and thigh; victory!’ Dismounting
from my horse, I immediately fell on my knees to thank the Lord God. We
rode back to the city as if on business, as if we knew nothing of the
matter; there we saw that all the landraths, hofraths, commissioners and
all similar rubbish were bowing low to us; they all trembled and turned
pale, like those cockroaches we call Prussians, when one pours boiling
water on them. Laughing and rubbing our hands we asked humbly for news,
and inquired what they had heard from Jena. Thereupon terror seized them,
they were astonished that we already knew of that disaster. The Germans
cried, ‘Ach Herri Gott! O Weh!’ and, hanging their heads, they ran into
their houses, and then pell-mell out of their houses again. O that was a
scramble! All the roads in Great Poland were full of fugitives; the
Germans crawled along them like ants, dragging their carts, or rather
waggons and drays, as the people call them there; men and women, with
pipes and coffee-pots, were dragging boxes and feather beds; they scuttled
off as best they could. But we quietly took counsel together: ‘To horse!
Let us harass the retreat of the Germans; now we will give it to the
landraths in the neck, cut chops from the hofraths, and catch the herr
officers by the cues.’ And now General Dombrowski entered the district of
Posen and brought the orders of the Emperor to stir up an insurrection! In
one week our people so whipped and banished the Prussians that you
couldn’t have found a German to make medicine of!128 What if we could turn
the trick just as briskly and smartly now, and here in Lithuania give the
Muscovites just such another sweating? Hey? What think you, Maciej? If
Moscow picks a bone with Bonaparte, then he will make a war that will be
no joke: he is the foremost hero in the world, and has armies unnumbered!
Hey, what think you, Maciej, our Father Bunny?”
He concluded. All awaited the verdict of Maciej. Maciej did not move his
head or raise his eyes, but only struck himself several times on the side,
as though he were feeling for his sabre. (Since the partition of the
country he had worn no sabre; however, from old habit, at the mention of a
Muscovite he always clapped his hand to his left side; he was evidently
groping for his switch; and hence everybody called him Hand-on-Hip.) Now
he raised his head, and they listened in deep silence. Maciej disappointed
the general expectation; he only frowned and again dropped his head on his
breast. Finally he spoke out, pronouncing every word slowly and with
emphasis, and nodding his head in time with them:—
“Silence! Whence comes all this news? How far off are the French? Who is
their leader? Have they already begun war with Moscow? Where and on what
pretext? Which way are they going to move? and with what numbers are they
comings? Have they a large force of infantry and cavalry? Whoever knows,
let him tell!”
The crowd was silent, each man gazing at his neighbour.
“I should be glad,” said the Prussian, “to wait for the Bernardine Robak,
for all the tidings come from him. Meanwhile we should send trusty spies
across the border and quietly arm all the country round; but meanwhile we
should conduct the whole matter with caution, in order not to betray our
intentions to the Muscovites.”
“Hah! Wait, prate, debate?” interrupted another Maciej, christened
Sprinkler,129 from a great club that he called his _sprinkling-brush_; he
had it with him to-day. He stood behind it, rested both hands on the knob,
and leaned his chin on his hands, crying: “Delay, wait, debate! Hem, hum,
haw, and then run away! I have never been in Prussia; Königsberg sense is
good for Prussia, but I have my plain gentleman’s sense. This much I know:
whoever wants to fight, let him seize his sprinkling-brush; whoever
prefers to die, let him call the priest—that’s all! I want to live and
fight! Of what use is the Bernardine? Are we schoolboys? What do I care
for that Robak? Now we will all be Robaks, that is, worms, and proceed to
gnaw at the Muscovites! Hem, haw! spies! to explore! Do you know what that
means? Why, that you are impotent old beggars! Hey, brothers! It is a
setter’s work to follow a trail, a Bernardine’s to gather alms, but my
work is—to sprinkle, sprinkle, sprinkle, and that’s all!”
Here he patted his club; after him the whole crowd of gentry yelled,
“Sprinkle, sprinkle!”
The side of Sprinkler was supported by Bartek, called Razor from his thin
sabre; and likewise by Maciej, known as Bucket, from a blunderbuss that he
carried, with a muzzle so broad that from it as from a pail a thousand
bullets poured in a stream. Both cried, “Long live Sprinkler and his
brush.” The Prussian tried to speak, but he was drowned by uproar and
laughter. “Away, away with the Prussian cowards,” they shouted; “let
cowards go and hide in Bernardine cowls!”
Then once more old Maciej slowly raised his head, and the tumult began
somewhat to subside.
“Do not scoff at Robak,” he said; “I know him; he is a clever priest. That
little worm130 has gnawed a larger nut than you; I have seen him but once,
but as soon as I set eyes on him I noticed what sort of bird he was; the
Monk turned away his eyes, fearing that I might summon him to confession.
But that is not my affair—of that there would be much to say! He will not
come here; it would be vain to summon the Bernardine. If all this news
came from him, then who knows what was his object, for he is the devil of
a priest! If you know nothing more than this news, then why did you come
here, and what do you want?”
“War!” they cried. “What war?” he asked. “War with the Muscovites!” they
shouted, “to fight! Down with the Muscovites!”
The Prussian kept shouting and raising his voice higher and higher, until
he finally obtained a hearing, which he owed partly to his polite bows,
and partly to his shrill and piercing tones.
“I too want to fight,” he shouted, pounding his breast with his fist;
“though I don’t carry a sprinkling-brush, yet with a pole from a river
barge I once gave a good christening to four Prussians who tried to drown
me in the Pregel when I was drunk.”
“Good for you, Bartek,” said Sprinkler, “good for you; sprinkle,
sprinkle!”
“But in the name of the most dear Jesus, we must first know with whom the
war is and about what; we must proclaim that to the world,” shouted the
Prussian, “for what is going to make the people follow us? Where they are
to go, and when, and how, we do not know ourselves. Brother gentlemen, we
need discretion! My friends, we need order and method! If you wish war,
let us make a confederacy,131 and discuss where to form it and under whose
leadership. That was the way in Great Poland—we saw the retreat of the
Germans, and what did we do? We consulted secretly together; we armed both
the gentry and a company of peasants; and, when we were ready, we waited
Dombrowski’s orders; at last, to horse! We rose as one man!”
“I beg the floor,” called out the manager of Kleck, a spruce young man,
dressed in German costume. His name was Buchmann, but he was a Pole, born
in Poland; it was not quite certain that he was of gentle birth, but of
that they asked no questions, and everybody respected Buchmann, because he
was in service with a great magnate, was a good patriot, and full of
learning. From foreign books he had learned the art of farming, and
conducted well the administration of his estate; on politics he had also
formed wise opinions; he knew how to write beautifully and how to express
himself with elegance: therefore all became silent when he began to
discourse.
“I beg the floor,” he repeated; he twice cleared his throat, bowed, and
with tuneful lips thus proceeded:—
“My predecessors in their eloquent speeches have touched on all the
principal and decisive points, and have raised the discussion to a higher
plane; it only remains for me to unite into one focus the pertinent
thoughts and considerations that have been put forward: I have the hope of
thus reconciling contrary opinions. I have noted that the entire
discussion consists of two parts; the division is already made, and that
division I follow. First: why should we undertake an insurrection? in what
spirit? That is the first vital question. The second concerns the
revolutionary authority. The division is a proper one, only I wish to
reverse it, and begin with the authority: when once we understand the
authority, from it I will deduce the nature, spirit, and aim of the
insurrection. As for the authority then—when I survey with my eyes the
history of all humanity, what do I perceive therein? Why, that the human
race, savage, and scattered in forests, gathers together, collects, unites
for common defence, and considers it; that is its first consultation. Then
each lays aside a part of his own liberty for the common good; that is the
first foundation, from which, as from a spring, flow all laws. We see then
that government is created by agreement, and does not proceed, as men
erroneously hold, from the will of God. Thus, since government rests upon
the social contract, the division of power is only its necessary
consequence.”
“So there you are at contracts! Do you mean those of Kiev or of Minsk?”132
said old Maciej. “You must mean the Babin government!133 Pan Buchmann,
whether God or the devil chose to cast the Tsar upon us I will not dispute
with Your Honour; Pan Buchmann, tell us, please, how to cast off the
Tsar.”
“There’s the rub,” shouted Sprinkler; “if I could only jump to the throne,
and with my brush—splash—once moisten the Tsar, then he wouldn’t come
back, either through the Kiev tract or the Minsk tract, or by any one of
Buchmann’s contracts; the Russian priests would not revive him either by
the power of God or by that of Beelzebub—the only brave way is to
sprinkle. Pan Buchmann, your speech was very eloquent, but eloquence is
nothing but noise; sprinkling is the principal thing.”
“Good, good, good!” squealed Bartek the Razor, rubbing his hands, and
running from Sprinkler to Maciek like a shuttle thrown from one side of
the loom to the other. “Only do you, Maciek of the switch, and you, Maciek
of the club, make up your disagreement, and, so help me Heaven, we will
knock the Muscovites to splinters; Razor advances under the orders of
Switch.”
“Orders are good on parade,” interrupted Sprinkler. “We had a standing
order in the Kowno brigade, a short and pointed one: ‘Strike terror and be
not terrified; fight and do not surrender; advance always, and make quick
strokes, slish, slash!’ ”
“Those are my principles,” squealed Razor. “What’s the use of spilling ink
and drawing up acts of confederation? Do you want one? That’s the whole
question. Maciej is our marshal and his little switch is his baton of
office.”
“Long live Cock-on-the-Steeple!” shouted Baptist. The gentry answered,
“Vivant the sprinklers!”
But in the corners a murmur had arisen, though it was stifled in the
centre; evidently the council was dividing into two sides. Buchmann
shouted: “I will never approve an agreement; that’s my system.” Somebody
else yelled “Veto,”134 and others seconded him from the corners. Finally
the gruff voice of Skoluba was heard, a gentleman from another hamlet.
“What is this, my friends of the Dobrzynski family? What does all this
mean? How about us, shall we be deprived of our rights? When we were
invited from our hamlet—and the Warden, My-boy Rembajlo invited us—we were
told that great things were to be done, that the question did not affect
the Dobrzynskis alone, but the whole district, the entire gentry; Robak
mumbled the same thing, though he never finished his talk and always
stammered and expressed himself obscurely. Well, finally we have gathered,
and have called in our neighbours by messengers. You Dobrzynskis are not
the only men here; from various other hamlets there are about two hundred
of us here; so let us _all_ consult together. If we need a marshal, let us
all vote, with an equal voice for each; long live equality!”
Then two Terajewiczes and four Stypulkowskis and three Mickiewiczes
shouted, “Vivat equality,” taking the side of Skoluba. Meanwhile Buchmann
was crying, “Agreement will be our ruin!” Sprinkler yelled: “We can get
along alone without you; long live our marshal, the Maciek of Macieks! Let
him have the baton!” The Dobrzynskis cried, “We beg you to take it!” but
the rest of the gentry shouted with one voice, “We forbid it!” The throng
was breaking up into two groups, and, nodding their heads in contrary
directions, one faction cried, “We forbid,” and the other, “We beg you.”
Old Maciek sat in their midst the one dumb man, and his head alone was
unmoved. Opposite him stood Baptist, resting his hands on his club, and,
moving his head, which was supported on the end of the club, like a
pumpkin stuck on the end of a long pole, he nodded it, now forward and now
backward, and cried incessantly, “Sprinkle, sprinkle!” Up and down the
room the mobile Razor ran constantly from Sprinkler to Maciej’s bench, but
Bucket slowly walked across the room from the Dobrzynskis to the other
gentry, as if he were trying to reconcile them. One shouted continually,
“Shave,” and the other, “Pour”; Maciek held his peace, but he was
evidently beginning to be angry.
For a quarter of an hour the uproar seethed, when above the bawling crowd,
out of the throng of heads, there leapt aloft a shining pillar. This was a
sword two yards long and a whole palm broad, sharp on both edges.
Evidently it was a German sword, forged of Nuremberg steel; all gazed at
the weapon in silence. Who had raised it up? They could not see, but at
once they guessed.
“That is the penknife, long live the penknife!” they shouted; “vivat the
penknife, the jewel135 of Rembajlo hamlet! Vivat Rembajlo, Notchy,
Half-Goat, My-boy!”
At once Gerwazy, for it was he, pressed through the crowd into the middle
of the room, carrying his flashing penknife; then, lowering the point
before Maciek as a sign of greeting, he said:—
“The penknife bows to the switch. Brothers, gentlemen of Dobrzyn, I will
give you no advice. Not at all; I will only tell you why I have assembled
you; but what to do and how to do it, decide for yourselves. You know the
rumour has long been current among the hamlets that great things are
preparing in the world. Father Robak has been talking of this; do not you
all know this?” (“We know it,” they shouted.) “Well, so for a wise head,”
continued the orator, looking sharply at them, “two words are enough. Is
not that true?” (“It is,” they said.) “Since the French Emperor is coming
from one direction,” said the Warden, “and the Russian Tsar from the
other, there will be war; the Tsar and the Emperor, kings and kings, will
start to pummel one another as monarchs usually do—and shall we sit quiet?
When the great begin to choke the great, let us choke the smaller, each
his own man. When we set to smiting above and below, great men great ones,
and small men small ones, then all the rascals will be overthrown, and
thus happiness and the Polish Commonwealth will bloom again. Is not this
so?”
“As true as if you were reading it out of a book,” they said.
“It is true!” repeated Baptist, “drop after drop, every bit.”
“I am always ready to shave!” exclaimed Razor.
“Only make an agreement,” courteously begged Bucket, “under whose
leadership Baptist and Maciej shall proceed.”
But Buchmann interrupted him: “Let fools agree; discussions do not harm
the common weal. I beg you to be silent.” (“We are listening.”) “The case
gains thereby; the Warden is considering it from a new point of view.”
“Not at all,” shouted the Warden, “I follow the old fashion. Of great
things great men should think; for them there is an Emperor, and there
will be a King, a Senate, and Deputies. Such things, my boy, are done in
Cracow or in Warsaw, not here among us, in the hamlet of Dobrzyn. Acts of
confederation are not written on a chimney with chalk, nor on a river
barge, but on parchment; it is not for us to write such acts. Poland has
the secretaries of the Kingdom and of Lithuania; such was the ancient
custom: my business is to whittle with my penknife.”
“To sprinkle with my brush,” added Sprinkler.
“And to bore with my awl,” cried Bartek the Awl, drawing his sword.
“I summon you all to witness,” concluded the Warden; “did not Robak tell
you, that before you receive Napoleon into your house you should sweep out
the dirt? You all heard it, but do you understand? Who is the dirt of the
district? Who traitorously killed the best of Poles; who robbed and
plundered him? Who? Must I tell you?”
“Why, it is Soplica,” interrupted Bucket; “and now he even wants to snatch
the remnants from the hands of the heir; he is a scoundrel.”
“O, he is a tyrant!” squealed Razor.
“Then sprinkle him!” added Baptist.
“If he is a traitor,” said Buchmann, “to the gallows with him!”
“Hurrah!” they all cried, “down with Soplica!”
But the Prussian ventured to undertake the defence of the Judge, and cried
with arms held up towards the gentry:—
“Brother gentlemen! O! O! By God’s wounds, what means this? Warden, are
you mad? Was it this we were discussing? Because a man had a crazy, outlaw
brother, shall we punish him on his brother’s account? That is a Christian
way of doing things! The Count is behind all this. As for the Judge’s
being hard on the gentry, that is not true! In Heaven’s name! Why, it is
you who summon _him_ to court, but he always seeks a peaceful settlement
with you; he yields his rights and even pays the costs. He has a lawsuit
with the Count, but what of that? Both are rich; let magnate fight
magnate: what do we people care? The Judge a tyrant! He was the first to
forbid that the peasants should bow low before him, saying that that was a
sin. Often a company of peasants—I have seen this myself—sit at table with
him; he has paid the taxes for the village, and it is quite different at
Kleck, though there, Pan Buchmann, you run things in German fashion. The
Judge a traitor! I have known him since we were in the primary school; as
a lad he was honest, and to-day he is the same; he loves Poland above
everything, he keeps up Polish customs, he will not yield to Muscovite
fashions. Whenever I return from Prussia, and want to wash off the German
taint, I drop in at Soplicowo, as the centre of Polish ways; there a man
drinks and breathes his Country! In God’s name, brothers Dobrzynski; I am
one of you, but I will not let the Judge be wronged; nothing will come of
that. It was not thus in Great Poland, brothers: what a spirit! what
harmony! It is pleasant to remember it! There no one dared to interrupt
our counsels with such a trifle.”
“It is no trifle to hang scoundrels!” shouted the Warden.
The murmur was increasing. Suddenly Jankiel asked a hearing, jumped on a
bench, took his stand on it, and thus raised above their heads a beard
like a tavern bush, which hung down to his belt. With his right hand he
slowly took from his head his foxskin hat, with his left he adjusted his
disordered skull-cap; then he tucked his right hand in his girdle and
spoke thus, bowing low to all with his foxskin hat:—
“Well, gentlemen of Dobrzyn, I am nothing but a Jew; the Judge is no kith
or kin of mine; I respect the Soplicas as very good gentlemen and my
landlords; I respect also the Bartek and Maciej Dobrzynskis, as good
neighbours and my benefactors; but I say thus: if you want to do violence
to the Judge, that is very bad; some of you may get hurt and be killed.
But how about the assessors? and the police-captain? and the prison? For
in the village near Soplica’s house there are heaps of soldiers, all
yagers! The Assessor is at the house; he need only whistle, and they will
march right up and stand there ready for action. And what will happen
then? But if you are expecting the French, why the French are still far
off, a long road. I’m a Jew and know nothing of war, but I have been in
Bielica, where I met Jews straight from the boundary. The report is that
the French were stationed on the river Lososna, and that if there is to be
war, it will not come till spring. Well, I tell you, wait; the farm of
Soplicowo is not a fair booth, that is taken apart, put in a waggon, and
carried off; the farm will stand as it is until spring. And the Judge is
no Jew in a rented tavern; he won’t run away, you can find him in the
spring. But now pray disperse, and don’t speak aloud of what has occurred,
for to talk of it will do no good. And I beg you all, kind gentlemen,
follow me: my Sarah has given birth to a little Jankiel, and to-day I
treat the crowd; and the music is splendid! I will order bagpipes, a bass
viol, and two fiddles; and Pan Maciek, my friend, likes old July mead and
a new mazurka. I have new mazurkas, and I have taught my kids to sing just
fine.”
The eloquence of the universally beloved Jankiel touched the hearts of his
hearers; there arose cries and exclamations of joy; the murmur of
approbation was even spreading beyond the house, when Gerwazy aimed his
penknife at Jankiel. The Jew jumped down and disappeared in the crowd; the
Warden shouted:—
“Begone, Jew, don’t stick your fingers into the door; this is not your
business! Prussian, because you, sir, conduct your trading with the
Judge’s pair of miserable boats, are you shouting for him? Have you
forgotten, my boy, that your respected father used to make the trip to
Prussia with twenty Horeszko boats? Thence he and his family grew rich;
yes, and every one of you that are living here in Dobrzyn. For you old men
remember, and you young men have heard, that the Pantler was the father
and benefactor of you all. Whom did he send as manager to his Pinsk
estates? A Dobrzynski. Who were his accountants? Dobrzynskis. He chose
none for majordomos and none for butlers except Dobrzynskis; his house was
full of Dobrzynskis. He pressed your cases before the courts, he gained
pensions for you from the king; he put your children by droves in the
Piarist136 schools, and paid for their clothes, board, and lodging; when
they grew up he even got places for them, also at his own expense. Why did
he do this? Because he was your neighbour. To-day Soplica’s landmarks
touch your borders; what good has _he_ ever done you?”
“Not a bit!” interrupted Bucket, “for he is an upstart that rose from
being a petty landholder. But how haughtily he blows out his cheeks, pooh,
pooh, pooh; how high he holds his head! You remember, I invited him to my
daughter’s wedding; I offered him drink, but he wouldn’t take it; he said:
‘I don’t drink as much as you gentry; you gentry swill like bitterns.’
What a magnate! a milksop made of pastry flour!137 He wouldn’t drink, so
we poured it down his throat; he cried, ‘This is an act of violence!’ Just
wait; I’ll pour it into him out of my bucket!”
“The knave!” exclaimed Baptist; “I’ll just sprinkle him on my own account.
My son used to be a clever lad; now he’s turned so stupid that they call
him Buzzard,138 and he has become such a ninny all because of the Judge. I
said to him once, ‘What do you run off to Soplicowo for? If I catch you
there, God help you!’ Immediately he slunk off to Zosia again, and stole
through the hemp; I caught him, and then took him by the ears and
sprinkled him. But he blubbered and blubbered like a peasant’s baby:
‘Father, you may kill me, but I must go there!’ and he kept on sobbing.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ I asked, and he told me that he was in love
with Zosia, and wanted to have a look at her! I felt sorry for the poor
lad, and said to the Judge: ‘Judge, give me Zosia for Buzzard.’ ‘She is
still too young,’ he answered. ‘Wait about three years, and then she may
do as she likes.’ The scoundrel! He lies; he’s already arranging another
match for her. I have heard of it; just let me screw myself in there at
the wedding, and I’ll bless their marriage bed with my sprinkler.”
“And shall such a scoundrel hold sway,” cried the Warden, “and ruin
ancient magnates, better men than he? And shall both the memory and the
name of the Horeszkos perish! Where is there gratitude in the world? There
is none in Dobrzyn. Brothers, do you wish to wage war with the Russian
Emperor and yet do you fear a battle with Soplicowo farm? Are you afraid
of prison! Do I summon you to brigandage? God forbid! Gentlemen and
brothers, I stand on my rights. Why, the Count has won several times and
has obtained no few decrees; the only trouble is to execute them! This was
the ancient custom: the court wrote the decree, and the gentry carried it
out, and especially the Dobrzynskis, and thence grew your fame in
Lithuania! Yes, at the foray of Mysz the Dobrzynskis alone fought with the
Muscovites, who were led by the Russian general Voynilovich, and that
scoundrel, his friend, Pan Wolk of Logomowicze. You remember how we took
Wolk captive, and how we were going to hang him to a beam in the barn,
because he was a tyrant to the peasantry and a servant of the Muscovites;
but the stupid peasants took pity on him! (I must roast him some time on
this penknife.) I will not mention countless other great forays, from
which we always emerged as befitted gentlemen, both with profit and with
general applause and glory! Why should I remind you of this! To-day the
Count, your neighbour, carries on his lawsuit and gains decrees in vain,
for not one of you is willing to aid the poor orphan! The heir of that
Pantler who nourished hundreds, to-day has no friend except me, his
Warden, and except this faithful penknife of mine!”
“And my brush,” said Sprinkler. “Where you go, dear Gerwazy, there will I
go too, while I have a hand, and while this splish-splash is in my hands.
Two are a pair! In Heaven’s name, my Gerwazy! You have your sword, I have
my sprinkling-brush! In Heaven’s name, I will sprinkle, and do you strike;
and thus slish and slash, splish and splash; let others prate!”
“But, my brothers,” said Razor, “you will not exclude Bartek; all that you
may soap I will shave.”
“I too prefer to move on with you,” added Bucket, “since I cannot make
them agree on the choice of a marshal. What care I for votes and balls for
voting? I have other balls.” (Here he took from his pocket a handful of
bullets and rattled them.) “Here are balls!” he cried, “all these balls
are for the Judge!”
“We will join you,” shouted Skoluba, “indeed we will!”
“Where you go,” cried all the gentry, “where you go, there will we go
also! Long live the Horeszkos! Vivant the Half-Goats! Vivat the Warden
Rembajlo! Down with the Soplica!”
And thus the eloquent Gerwazy carried them all away, for all had their
grudges against the Judge, as is usual among neighbours; now complaints of
damage done by cattle, now for the cutting of wood, now squabbles over
boundary lines: some were aroused by anger, others merely by envy for the
wealth of the Judge—all were united by hatred. They crowded about the
Warden, and raised aloft sabres and sticks.
At last Maciek, hitherto sullen and motionless, rose from his bench and
with slow steps came out into the middle of the room and put his hands on
his hips: looking straight before him and nodding his head, he began to
speak, pronouncing slowly every word, pausing between them and emphasising
them:—
“O stupid, stupid idiots! Whoever dances, you will pay the piper. So long
as the discussion was over the resurrection of Poland and had to do with
the public weal, idiots, all this time you quarrelled! It was impossible,
idiots, either to debate, idiots, or to get order among you, or to put a
leader over you, idiots! But let any one raise his private grudges,
idiots, then straightway you agree! Get out of here! for, as my name is
Maciek, I wish you to millions, hundreds of hundreds of thousands of
waggons of hogsheads, of drays of devils!!!”
All were hushed as if struck by lightning! But at the same moment a
terrible shouting arose outside the house, “Vivat the Count!” He was
riding into Maciej’s yard, armed himself, and followed by ten armed
jockeys. The Count was mounted on a mettled steed and dressed in black
garments; over them a nut-brown cloak of Italian cut, broad and without
sleeves, and fastened at the neck with a buckle, fell from his shoulders
like a great shroud. He wore a round hat with a feather, and carried a
sword in his hand; he wheeled about and saluted the throng with the sword.
“Vivat the Count!” they cried; “we will live and die with him!” The gentry
began to gaze out of the cottage through the windows, and to press
continually towards the door behind the Warden. The Warden went out, and
behind him the crowd tumbled through the door; Maciek drove out the
remnant, shut the door, bolted it, and, looking out through the window,
said once more, “Idiots!”
But meanwhile the gentry had rallied to the Count. They went to the
tavern; Gerwazy called to mind the days of old, and bade them give him
three Polish girdles, by means of which he drew from the vaults of the
tavern three casks, one of mead, the second of brandy, and the third of
beer. He took out the spigots, and immediately three streamlets spurted
forth, gurgling, one white as silver, the second red as carnelian, the
third yellow: with a triple rainbow they played on high; they fell in a
hundred cups and hummed in a hundred glasses. The gentry ran riot: some
drank, others wished a hundred years to the Count, all shouted, “Down with
the Soplica!”
Jankiel rode off on horseback, silently, without saddle; the Prussian
likewise, unheard, though he still discoursed eloquently, tried to slip
away; the gentry chased him, crying that he was a traitor. Mickiewicz
stood apart, at some distance, without either shouting or giving counsel,
but from his air they perceived that he was plotting something evil: so
they drew their blades, and at the shout of “Down with him” he retreated,
and defended himself; he was already wounded and leaning on the fence,
when Zan and the three Czechots sprang to his aid. After this the men were
separated, but in that scuffle two had been wounded in the hand, and one
had got cut over the ear. The rest were mounting their horses.
The Count and Gerwazy marshalled them and distributed arms and orders. At
last, all started at a gallop down the long street of the hamlet, crying,
“Down with the Soplica!”