Pan Tadeusz: Book V: Diplomacy and the Chase

Having the chase thus ended gloriously, The Wojski from the pinewoods home returns; But Telimena now begins a hunt Deep in the lonely mansion. She indeed Sat motionless, with hands upon her lap Folded; but she two heads of game pursued In thought; considered best how to surround The two of them, and how best hunt them down;— The Count and Thaddeus. The Count, he was A young lord, heir of a great family, Good-looking very, and already somewhat In love; but what of that? he well might change. Then, did he love sincerely? Did he wish To marry with a woman some years older, Not rich? Will his relations suffer it? What will the world say? Telimena, thus Considering, from the sofa rose, and stood Her full height; one might say her stature grew. She somewhat bared her bosom, bent aside, And with attentive eyes herself reviewed, And once again asked counsel of the mirror. A moment past, she dropped her eyes, and sighed, And sat down. Well, the Count was a young lord, And rich men are inconstant in their tastes. The Count was fair-complexioned, they are not Over emotional. And Thaddeus? He was simplicity its very self, A good boy, very near unto a child! He now begins for the first time to love, And if looked after, will not easily These first bonds sever; and besides, he is Obliged to Telimena. Men, while young, Though changing in their thoughts, are in emotions Far steadier than their grandsires; they possess A conscience. Simple is a young man’s heart, And maidenlike, and long it will retain For love’s first sweetness gratitude, and will Both welcome joy, and bid farewell to it With pleasure, like a modest banquet shared With friends; the ancient debauchee alone, Whose entrails are already scorched, doth loathe That drink wherewith he drenched him to excess. These things to Telimena well were known, For she had wit and great experience.

But what will people say? Why then, depart From out their sight, to other parts remove; Live in retirement, or far better yet, Remove entirely from the neighbourhood. As for example, go a little journey Unto the capital, and introduce The young lad to the world, direct his steps, And be his helper and his counsellor, And form his heart, to have in him a friend, A brother, and at length—enjoy the world, While years suffice. Thus thinking, through the alcove Gaily and boldly many times she passed. Again she dropped her eyes. It seemed worth while Of the Count’s destiny to think; would it Not answer to push Sophy in his way? She was not rich, but in her birth his equal, Of senatorial house, a dignitary’s Daughter. And if this marriage come to pass, Then Telimena for the future owns A sure asylum in their house, as being Sophia’s relation, and the Count’s betrother. To this young couple she will be a mother.

When she this plan of action thus had formed In council with herself, she called Sophia, Who in the orchard was at play. Sophia, In morning dress, and with uncovered head, Stood, in her hands a sieve upraised. Around Her feet the poultry hastened. On one side The tufted hens pressed forward in a knot; And there the crested cocks, upon their heads Shaking the coral helmets; with their wings Oaring their way through furrows and through bushes, Widely their spur-armed feet they stretch. Behind, The bloated turkey slowly pushes on, Snorting at grumbles of his noisy spouse. Thither, like rafts almost, with lengthy tails, Steer o’er the meadow, and at times descend, Like flakes of snow, the pigeons silver-plumed; In centre of a circle of green turf The poultry circle, noisy, stirring, crowds, Engirdled by a band of pigeons, like A snowy ribbon, varied in the midst By stars, by spots, by stripes. Here amber beaks, There coral crests, from out the depth of plumage Like fish from under waves, rock to and fro, Like water-tulips; thousand eyes like stars Gleam towards Sophia. In the centre she Towered high above the birds, herself all white, Like to a fountain, playing amid flowers; O’er wings and heads she scattered from the sieve With pearl-white hand, a plenteous, pearly rain Of wheaten grains. Such grain, of noble tables Worthy, is used to make Litvanian rosol. Sophia from the household stores abstracts This grain to feed her poultry, doing mischief Unto the housekeeping. She heard the call Of “Sophy!” ’twas her aunt’s voice. So she flung The dainty’s last remains unto the birds, And twirling round the sieve, as dancers twirl A tambourine around, and beating time Upon it, did the playful girl skip o’er The peacocks, pigeons, hens. The birds, confused, Did flutter upwards all tumultuously. Sophia, the ground scarce touching with her feet, Appeared to soar the highest among them all. Before her the white doves, which in her course She startled, flew as though before the car Of Pleasure’s lovely goddess. In Sophia Flew through the window, with a joyous cry, And rested on her aunt’s lap, out of breath. And Telimena, kissing her, and stroking Beneath the chin, considered with delight The child’s high spirits, and her beauty, for She truly loved her charge. But now again Her features she composed to gravity; She rose, and walking to and fro along The alcove, with her finger on her lips, Pronounced these words: “My dear Sophia, you quite Forget your age and station; this same day You end your fourteenth year. It now is time To abandon cocks and turkeys. Fie! a fit Amusement for a dignitary’s daughter! And you have been caressing at your will The unwashed children of the peasantry. To look upon you, Sophy, grieves my heart; Your face is tanned quite horribly, just like A very gipsy. And you walk and move Quite like a country girl. Now, for the future I will amend all this, to-day begin; And I will bring you out into the world, Into the drawing-room, unto the guests. We now have many guests here. Take thou heed Thou dost not make me be ashamed of thee.”

Sophia sprang up from her seat, and clapped Her hands with joy, and with both arms she hung About her aunt’s neck; and by turns she laughed, And wept aloud with joy. “Oh! auntie, ’tis So long since I saw any visitors! Since here I have been living among hens And chickens, I have only seen one guest, A wood-pigeon; and I am just a little Wearied of sitting here in the alcove; And even the Judge says it is bad for health.”

“The Judge,” her aunt broke in, “was constantly Tormenting me to bring thee out into Society; he mutters to my face, That thou already art grown up; he knows Not what he says; the old man never lived In good society. But I know better How long a damsel must have been prepared To cause sensation, entering in the world. For know, Sophia, that when young persons grow In people’s very sight, though fair, though witty, They can cause no sensation, where all folks Were used to see them from a child. But let A finished, grown-up damsel suddenly Shine forth, from neither here nor there, before The world, then all around her press, desiring To see her; they consider all her movements, And every look; they listen to her words, Repeat them unto others; and when once A damsel is the fashion, every one Must praise her, even though she please them not. I trust thou knowest how to find thy level; Thou in the capital hast grown up. Though Thou hast lived for two years in this neighbourhood, Thou hast not quite forgotten Petersburg. Then, Sophy, make your toilet, from the bureau; For in it thou wilt find all things for dressing. Make haste, for they will soon be back from hunting.”

A lady’s maid and serving-girl were called; A pail of water in a silver basin Was poured. Sophia, like a sparrow in The sand, did flutter, hands and face, and neck She washed; and Telimena all her stores From Petersburg did open, of perfumes, Pomades; with choice perfume she sprinkled o’er Sophia, the odour filled the room, she smoothed Her locks with gum. Sophia then put on White silken stockings, and morocco shoes Of thin white leather; meanwhile were her stays Laced by the lady’s maid, who over her Then threw a dressing-jacket; then were pinched The papilottes with heated tongs; the curls Not being too short, were woven in two braids, The locks upon her forehead waving free. But freshly gathered cornflowers in a braid Woven, the servant brought to Telimena, Who fastened them with skill to Sophy’s locks, Passing from right to left; the flowers stood forth In pleasing contrast with the light fair locks, As though with corn-ears; then the dressing-gown Removed, the toilet all was done. Sophia Threw on a white frock o’er her head; her hand Held a white cambric handkerchief; and thus She looked completely like a lily white.

The last completing touch to locks and dress Now given, she received command to walk Across the chamber, and again its length, While Telimena, with a practised eye, Reviewed her niece, grew angry, shrugged her shoulders; Till at Sophia’s curtseying, in despair She cried, “Ah me! Sophia, thou seest now What ’tis to live with birds and shepherd folk. Thou standest with thy feet apart, just like A boy, and starest round to right and left. A thorough hoyden! Curtsey! See how awkward!” “Oh! auntie,” cried Sophia, quite sadly; “how Am I to blame? You kept me shut up, auntie, And I had none to dance with; and I liked From very weariness to nurse the children, And feed the poultry; wait a little, auntie; Let me but be a little among people, And you shall see how I will cure myself.”

“In truth,” her aunt replied, “of two bad things, ’Tis better far to live with birds, than with Those vulgar folks who late were guests with us. That parish priest for ever muttering prayers, Or playing draughts, and that solicitor With his pipe! Nice cavaliers! and pretty manners You would have learned from them. But now at last There’s somebody to whom to show oneself. We in the house have some distinguished guests. And mind, Sophia, there’s a young Count here, A gentleman of breeding, kinsman to A Wojewode; remember, pray, to be Polite to him.” The neigh of horses near, And hunters’ murmurs were already heard; They are near the door already. “There they are!” And seizing by the hand Sophia, she ran Into the drawing-room. As yet the hunters Had entered not the room; they first must change Their dresses, for they had no wish to meet The ladies in their shooting jackets. First Of all the young men Master Thaddeus And the Count entered, soon as well might be.

Then Telimena fills a hostess’ duties, She welcomes those incoming, places them, And entertaineth them with conversation. To every one in turn presents her niece; To Thaddeus first, as a near relative. Sophia politely curtseyed; he bowed low. He wished to speak to her, half-oped his lips; But looking in her eyes such trouble seized him, That standing dumb before her, he now blushed, And now grew pale. What was within his heart Himself he guessed not, but he felt himself Most miserable, for he knew Sophia; He knew her by her stature, her bright hair, Her voice; that form, that little head, he saw Upon the garden wall, and that sweet voice Had woken him unto the hunt to-day. At length the Wojski from this aberration Roused Thaddeus, and seeing him so pale, Unsteady on his feet, he counselled him To go and lie down in his room. Within A corner Thaddeus stood, against the chimney Leaning, nought saying, his wide, wandering eyes Now turning on the aunt, now on the niece. Well Telimena marked what strange effect This first sight of Sophia upon him made. She guessed not all; but yet, howe’er embarrassed, She entertained the guests, while from her glance She lost him not. At last her time observing, She ran towards him; was he well? why sad? She asked, insisted; of Sophia she spoke, Began to jest with him. Still Thaddeus stood Unmoving, leaning on his elbow, nought Replying, with knitted brow and twitching lips, And thus still more to Telimena caused Confusion and surprise. She changed at once Her countenance, and the tone of her discourse. She rose up angrily, with bitter words Began to heap reproach and taunt on him; And Thaddeus started, ev’n as though a sting Had pierced him through; he looked away, and coloured, Unspeaking. Then he kicked his chair away, And rushed from out the room, and slammed the door. But happily to none this scene had meaning, Except to Telimena. Through the gate He fled, and straightway rushed into the field; As when a pike, pierced by a fish-spear through, Splashes and plunges, thinking thus to fly, Though dragging rope and iron along with him, So Thaddeus after him vexation drew, As he o’er ditches and o’er hedges sprang, Without a goal, or settled road. Around, He wandered not a little time; at length He entered in a woodland depth, and came, Either by fixed design, or else by chance, Upon that mount, which yesterday had been The witness of his happiness, and where That billet he received, of love the token; The spot, as well we know, called Sanctuary Of Meditation. As he looked around, He saw—’twas she! Alone there, Telimena! In thought deep buried, changed from yesterday By dress and form; in white, upon a stone, Herself as turned to stone, her face concealed Within her open hands; although no sob Was heard, he saw that she was drowned in tears.

In vain strove Thaddeus against his heart; He pitied her, and felt by sorrow moved. Long time he gazed unspeaking, while concealed Behind a tree. At length he sighed, and spoke In anger to himself: “Fool that I am! Is she to blame because I thus mistook?” So from the tree to her he slowly turned, When sudden from her seat sprang Telimena; She threw herself to right and left, she sprang Across the brook, with arms stretched out, with hair Dishevelled, pale, she dashed into the wood. She skipped about, and half knelt down, then fell. Unable now to rise, she writhed upon The turf; her movements showed that she endured Some torture most exceeding; she clutched fast Her bosom, neck, feet, hands. Then to her side Sprang Thaddeus, believing she was mad, Or seized with some most fearful malady. But from quite other cause these movements came. There was within the neighbouring birchen grove A mighty ant-hill. Black and rapid swarmed Around the industrious insects, through the grass. But whether it were from necessity, Or for their pleasure, they especially To visit Meditation’s Sanctuary Delighted. From their ant-hill capital, As far as to the border of the brook, They had a pathway trodden, by the which Their ranks could march; and to her great mishap In middle of this road sat Telimena. The ants, attracted by her stockings white, Rushed on them, and began to bite and tickle. And Telimena was constrained to fly, To shake them off, at length upon the turf To sit, and try to chase away the ants.

Assistance Thaddeus could not her refuse, And making clear her dress, he bent him down Unto her very feet. By chance his lips Approached her forehead, in such friendly posture, Though of their morning quarrel said they nought, Yet ne’ertheless they were agreed again. How long their converse had endured none ever Can know; but suddenly the bell aroused them, From Soplicowo ringing as the signal Of supper; it was time now to return Unto the mansion, all the more that far Was heard a crackling on the ground, may be That they were sought for. It were unbecoming They should return together; Telimena Stole therefore by the garden to the right, And Thaddeus took the highway to the left; And both adopting this manoeuvre felt No little fear. It once to Telimena Appeared that from behind a bush looked forth The pale and hooded face of Robak. Well Saw Thaddeus how at one time and again A shadow long and white appeared to left; He knew not what it was; but yet an inkling He had that ’twas the Count, in long surtout Of English cut. They supped within the castle. The obstinate Protasy, heeding not The Judge’s orders, in the master’s absence Again had stormed the castle; as he said, A credence intromitted thereupon. The guests in order entered, and around In circle stood; the Chamberlain then took The highest place at table; from his years And dignity this precedence was his. In going there he to the ladies bowed, The old men, and the youths; the friar this time Was not at table; in his place to-day, Upon the right hand of her husband, sat The lady of the Chamberlain. The Judge, When he had placed the guests as fitting, spoke A prayer in Latin, blessing on the board. Then wódka was presented to the men. All after that sat down, and speedily The whitened chlodnik ate. The chlodnik done, Came crabs, asparagus, and chicken; in Their company Hungarian wines appeared, And Malaga. They ate, they drank, but all Preserved a gloomy silence. Never since These castle walls were builded, they which had So many brother nobles feasted, heard And given back so many joyous vivats, Did they remember such a gloomy supper; Only with sound of corks and clash of plates The great and empty castle halls resound. Thou wouldst have said indeed some evil sprite Had sealed all lips. The causes of this silence Were many. From the toils the hunters came, Sufficiently loquacious; but when cooled Their ardour, when considering the chase, They soon perceived that they with little glory Had come therefrom. So was it needful that One priestly hood, that came where from Heaven knew, Like Philip from the hemp, should so surpass The hunters of the district? Shame! oh! shame! What would be said concerning this affair In Oszmiano, and in Lida, which So many ages with their district had Contended for precedence in the chase? They thought of this. The Regent and Assessor Had also in their memories the first Ill-will between them, likewise they remembered Their greyhounds’ shame; before their eyes still stood That naughty hare; his long legs stretching out, And from beneath the thicket them defying, Wagging his tail; and with that tail he lashed Their hearts as with a whip. They sat with faces Bent downwards to their plates. The Assessor had Another grievance to lament, as he On Telimena and his rivals gazed. She sat by Thaddeus, but, all confused, Scarce dared to glance at him; the gloomy Count She made endeavour to beguile, to challenge To longer conversation, and to bring him To better humour. For the Count had come Back strangely cross from walking, or the rather, As Thaddeus imagined, from his ambush. Hearing, he raised his forehead boldly, frowned, And looked well-nigh with scorn upon her; He drew as near Sophia as well he might, then And poured out wine for her, and brought her plates, A thousand courtesies performing, bowed And smiled; but sometimes turned away his eyes, And sighed full deeply. But in spite of such Deceit adroitly played, ’twas evident That all these coquetries were merely played From spite to Telimena; for round turning, As though unwittingly, he gazed on her With dreadful glance. She could not understand What this should signify; her shoulders shrugging, She thought unto herself, he must be mad. Then of the Count’s new wooing pretty glad She turned towards her other neighbour. Thaddeus, In deep gloom likewise buried, nothing ate Nor drank, he seemed to listen to discourse, And kept his eyes close fixed upon his plate. As Telimena poured out wine for him, He angry grew at her officiousness; He took it ill—one day had changed him so— That Telimena was so quick to woo. It shocked him that her dress was cut so low, It seemed immodest; when he raised his eyes, As fearing so to do, far sharper now They were, for scarcely on her rosy cheeks They rested, when he quick became aware Of a most terrible and frightful secret; Good heavens! she wore rouge! It might have been The rouge was of a bad sort, or rubbed off The face by accident; it here and there Was thinner, and revealed the coarser skin Below; may be that Thaddeus himself, In Meditation’s Sanctuary, too close Conversing with her, from the white had brushed The carmine, lighter even than the dust From wings of butterflies, and Telimena, Returning in a hurry from the wood, Had found no time her colours to repair. Around her lips especially were freckles. The eyes of Thaddeus now, like cunning spies, Discovering one treason, all around Began a visitation with the rest Of all her beauties, and in every part To track some falsehood out; two teeth were gone From out her mouth, and on her brow appeared Some wrinkles, on her temples, and a thousand Of wrinkles lurked concealed beneath her chin.

Alas! now Thaddeus felt how needless ’tis To scan a lovely thing too closely, and How shameful to be spy upon his love, How wicked even to change one’s taste and heart! But who may rule their hearts? He tried in vain The loss of love by conscience to supply, And with the light-rays of her glance again To warm his spirit’s chillness. For that glance Now like a moonbeam bright, but void of heat, Played o’er the surface of his spirit, frozen Down to the very depths. Lamenting and Himself reproaching, he bowed down his head, Was still, and bit his lips. Meantime an evil Spirit allured him with temptation new, And made him list to what Sophia said Unto the Count. The damsel, vastly glad At the Count’s courtesy, first blushed, and drooped Her eyes; the Count, ’twas seen, was praising her By flattery most delicate, and then They both began to laugh; at length they talked Of some unlooked-for meeting in a garden, Some trampling over garden-beds and burdocks, Which Thaddeus, listening to the utmost, heard. The bitter words he swallowed, in his soul Digested them; he had a dreadful banquet. As when a viper in a garden drains With double tongue herbs venomous, then twists Himself up in a coil, and on the path Lies, threatening the unwary foot that treads Upon him unforeseen, so Thaddeus, With envy’s poison drunken, outwardly Appeared indifferent, with spite yet bursting.

Let but a few in merriest company Be angry, all at once their gloominess Is shed upon the rest. The hunters long Had silent been; and on the other side There too was silence at the table; they Were all infected by contagion Of that ill-humour shown by Thaddeus.

And even the Chamberlain, in this deep gloom So unaccustomed, had no will to talk, On seeing how his daughters, pretty girls, And dowered well, and in the flower of youth, Were silent, by the silent youths neglected. The hospitable Judge was like concerned. The Wojski, noting general silence round, Said this was not a Polish supper, but A wolfish one. Hreczecha did possess An ear to silence very sensitive; Himself was a great talker, and he loved All chattering greatly. ’Twas no wonder; he Had spent his life in banquets, expeditions, And hunts, and diets. He was used to hear Each moment something drumming in his ear, When he kept silence even, or was stealing With fly-scare to smite down a fly, or when He sat him down to dream with closed eyes. By day he sought for conversation; even By night he must be counting o’er his beads, Or telling fables. Therefore was he aye A deadly enemy unto the pipe, Invented by the Germans to convert us To foreigners; he always used to say, “Make Poland dumb, ’tis making Poland German.” The old man, having passed an age in noise, In noise desired to rest. And silence woke him From slumber. Millers thus are lulled to sleep By rattle of their mill-wheels; scarcely stand The axles still, than they awake exclaiming In anguish, “And the Word became”— The Wojski Unto the Chamberlain signed with a bow, And with light movement beckoning from his lips, Towards the Judge, entreated to be heard. At once both gentlemen at this mute sign Did bow, as saying, We entreat you; so The Wojski in this wise began to speak:

“I venture to entreat the young men here, To entertain themselves at supper in The ancient fashion, not keep still and chew. Are we then Capuchins? Who ever keeps ’Mid nobles silence, does the same as does The sportsman who allows a charge to rust Within his gun. I for this reason praise Our forefathers’ loquacity; they went To table after hunting, not alone To eat, but talk out mutually those things Which each had nearest to his own heart; praise And censure, marksmen, beaters, mastiffs, shots, Were called upon the place; a shout arose, Sweet as another hunt to sportsmen’s ears. I know, I know what ails ye! All this cloud Of sable cares has risen from Robak’s hood. You are ashamed of missing. Let not shame Consume you; I have better hunters known Than you are, and they missed. To hit and miss, And still improve, that is the hunter’s course. Myself, although from childhood I have borne A gun, have sometimes missed. That famous hunter Tuloszczyk sometimes missed. The late Pan Rejtan Did not invariably hit. Of Rejtan I’ll tell you later on. But as to what Concerns the bear escaping from the toils, That the young gentlemen did not, as fitting, Engage the beast, although they had a spear, No one will praise this, neither blame. To fly, With charge already loaded, formerly Had shown a man a coward of cowards; and To fire off blindly, as too many do, Not letting come the beast in rifle range, Nor taking aim, were a disgraceful thing. But who well measureth, and lets the beast Approach him as is fitting, though he miss, May without shame retire, or with the spear Engage him, but of free will, not compulsion; Because the spear to hunters is not given To make attack, but for their own defence. And so believe me, and your drawing back Take ye not thus to heart, beloved Thaddeus, And you, most powerful Count. But often as You shall recall this day’s events, remember The ancient Wojski’s warning; let not one Thus place himself upon another’s way, Nor either let the two of you again Together measure at like game.” Soon as The Wojski had this latter word pronounced, The Assessor whispered half aloud, “Like dame.” “Bravo!” exclaimed the young men. Murmurs rose, And laughter; they repeated all around Hreczecha’s warning, chiefly the last words, And others, laughing loud, said, “At one dame.” The Regent whispered, “Woman;” the Assessor “Coquette,” on Telimena fixing eyes Sharp-piercing as stilettos. Never thought The ancient Wojski to upbraid a soul, Nor marked he what they whispered all around; But glad indeed that he had caused to laugh The ladies and the young men, he turned round Towards the hunters, wishing likewise these To gladden. He began, outpouring wine:

“In vain my eyes do seek the Bernardine; I should be glad to tell him a strange chance, Like that occurrence of our hunt to-day. The Klucznik said he only knew one man As true a shot as Robak from so far; But I have known another, just as good— He saved two gentlemen. Myself I saw it, The time when, in the Naliboko woods, Our nuncio, Thaddeus Rejtan, and the Prince Denassau went to hunt. These gentlemen Did envy not the glory of that noble; But rather, they were first to drink his health At table, and bestowed on him great gifts Unnumbered, and the skin of the slain boar. Concerning this wild boar, likewise the shot, I will relate the tale, for I was present As an eye-witness, and it much resembled To-day’s occurrence; but it chanced unto The greatest hunters of my time, our envoy Rejtan, and Prince Denassau.” But just then The Judge, his goblet filling up, began, “I drink the health of Robak; in your hands, Wojski! If we may not make rich a friar By presents, let us try at least to pay him For powder spent. We may be sure the bear, Slain in the forest, will two years at least The convent kitchen furnish forth. But I Will not bestow the skin upon the priest, For either I must take it back by force, Or else the friar must from humility Abandon it, or I must buy it back Even with a tithe of sable. Let us then Bestow this skin according to our will, The servant of the Lord already has The chiefest garland ta’en and highest praise. Let then the Most Illustrious Chamberlain Adjudge the gift to him who has deserved The second prize.” The Chamberlain then smoothed His forehead, and half shut his eyes. The hunters Began to murmur; each one something said, The one how he had first espied the beast, The other how he wounded it; one there Had called the dogs, another had driven back The game into the toils. The Regent quarrelled With the Assessor, one extolling loud The excellence of his Sanguszko gun, The other of his Sagalas. “My neighbour! Judge,” said the Chamberlain at last, “most justly The servant of the Lord has won the first Reward; but ’tis not easy to decide Who next to him in glory stands. For all Appear to me in merit equal; all Alike in skill, experience, courage seem. However, fate distinguished two to-day By danger; two men nearest were unto The creature’s claws; the Count and Thaddeus. The skin is theirs. But Master Thaddeus, I am sure, will waive his right, as of the two The younger, and related to our host. Take then, Sir Count, the spolia opima, And let these spoils your hunting-chamber deck. Be it a memory of this day’s sport, An emblem of the hunter’s fortune, spur To future glory.” Here he ceased, in joy, Believing that the Count was much rejoiced. He knew not how he pierced his breast with grief, For at the mention of the hunting-chamber The Count, despite himself, upraised his eyes; Those heads of stags, those branching horns, a forest Of laurels planted by the fathers’ hands As garlands for their sons; those columned rows Adorned with portraits, and that shining crest, The half-goat on the archèd roof, called loud, On every side, with voices of the past. He roused him from his dreams, remembered where He was, and whose guest. He, the proper heir Of the Horeszkos, in his fathers’ halls, A banquet-sharer of Soplicas, foes Eternal of his race. With bitter laugh He answered thus: “My house is far too small; There’s no place in it worthy of a gift Of such magnificence. Let then the bear Rest here among these hornèd beasts, until The Judge will condescend to give it me Together with the castle.” Quickly guessed The Chamberlain the thing of which he spake. He tapped his golden snuff-box, asking hearing.

“You are of praise deserving, neighbour Count,” He said, “in that to business you attend At dinner even; not like men of fashion Of your age, who without a reckoning live. I’ll pledge myself, and do desire to end By compromise my verdict. Heretofore The only difficulty doth consist In the court foundation. But I have a plan Of making an exchange, and compensating With land for the foundation, in this wise;”— And here in order he began to unfold In order, as he aye was wont to do, The plan of this exchange. Already half The subject he had ended, when began A sudden movement at the table’s end. Some there observed an object strange; they pointed Towards it; others ran there with their eyes. And all the heads at last, like ears of corn Bent backwards by the wind, turned towards the side Opposing, to a corner. From that corner, Where hung the portrait of the dead man, last Of the Horeszkos, of the Pantler, from A little door, among the columns hidden, Glided a silent figure, like a phantom; Gervasy by his face and height they knew, And by the silver half-goats on his vest Of yellow. Like a pillar stepped he forth, Upright, severe, and mute, nor doffed his cap, Nor bowed his head; he bore a gleaming key Like to a dagger; straightway did he ope A cabinet, and straight began to wind A something in it. In two corners of The hall there stood, against the pillars leaning, Two ancient clocks with chimes, in cabinets Enclosed. The old and crazy things had been Long in discordance with the sun; they oft Would point out noon at sunset. No idea Gervasy had of mending the machines; But would not leave the clocks unwound, so long Each even he tortured with the key the clocks. And now the time of winding had arrived, And while the Chamberlain kept speaking still Concerning the affairs of both the parties, He lifted up the weight; the rusty wheels Did gnash their broken teeth; the Chamberlain Did shudder, and break off. “My brother,” cried he, “Postpone thy busy labour.” Then he ended His project of exchange. But in despite The Klucznik pulled this time with greater force The second weight; the bullfinch then that sat Upon the summit of the clock began, Fluttering its wings, to chirp the chime-notes out. The bird with art was fashioned; pity ’twas That it was spoiled; it groaned and squeaked, the more The worse. The guests laughed loud. The Chamberlain Must break off once again. “Sir Klucznik,” cried he, “Or rather screech-owl, if you prize your beak, I have had enough of shrieking.” But Gervasy Betrayed no terror at this threat; he laid With dignity his right hand on the clock, And on his side his left. Supported thus With both hands, he exclaimed: “Sir Chamberlain! You are free to jest; a sparrow smaller is Than is a screech-owl; but ’mid his own chips He is bolder than a screech-owl in another’s Mansion; a Klucznik is no screech-owl; he Who creeps by night to strangers’ garrets is A screech-owl, and I’ll frighten him away.”

“To the door with him!” cried the Chamberlain.

“Sir Count!” exclaimed the Klucznik, “do you see What things are doing? Is your honour not Already stained enough, in that you eat And drink with these Soplicas? and was this Needed, that I, the castle’s governor, Gervas Rembajlo, Klucznik of Horeszko, Should in my masters’ house insulted be, And you endure it?” Then Protasy cried Three times, “Be silent! Stand aside! For I, Protasy Balthasar Brzechalski, of Two names, once General of Tribunal, vulgo Wozny, perform a Wozny’s summoning, Formal revision, summoning all here, These well-born persons present, witnesses, And summoning the Assessor to inquiry, On the behalf of the Most Powerful Judge Soplica; for incursion, that is, trespass, Across the boundary; for violence done Unto the castle, which the Judge by right Rules over, whereof here is open proof, In that he eats therein!”—“Brzechaczu,” cried The Klucznik, “I will teach thee!”—and he drew The iron keys from out his girdle, whirled The keys about his head; with all his force He flung them. Like a stone hurled from a sling The bunch of keys flew forth, and doubtlessly Protasy’s head had shivered; by good luck The Wozny bent aside, and thus ’scaped death.

All started from their seats; deep silence reigned A moment; then the Judge exclaimed: “In handcuffs This insolent fellow! Hallo! lads!” the servants Rushed by the narrow way between the walls And benches. But the Count then barricaded Their passage with a chair, and this weak rampart Supported with his foot; “Ware! ware!” he cried. “Judge; none shall be allowed to wrong my servant In my house. He who has complaint to make Against this old man, let him bring’t to me.”

The Chamberlain then gazed askance into The Count’s eyes. “I am able, sir, to punish, Without your help, an insolent petty noble. And you, Sir Count, too quickly do usurp This castle, ere is given the decree. Sit still as you have sat; if you respect not Grey hairs, at least respect the highest office Within the district.” “As for me,” the Count Grumbled, “I’ve had enough of idle talk! Make others weary with respect and office! Sufficient fool I have already been, In joining with you all in drinking-bouts, That end in rudeness! Give me satisfaction For wounding of my honour! Now good-bye Till you are sober. Come with me, Gervasy.”

The Chamberlain such answer never had Expected. He was filling up his glass, When, smitten by the County’s insolence As by a thunderbolt, his glass he rested Against a steadfast bottle; to one side He bent his head, and lent his ear; his eyes Stared wildly, and his lips half opened. Silent He yet remained, but in his hand the goblet So strongly grasped he, that the glass was shivered, Loud-ringing, in his eyes the liquid spirted; And one had said that with the wine a fire Was poured into his spirit, even so flamed His visage, and his eyes glowed. He addressed Himself to speak, but inarticulate, The first words were ground down upon his lips; At last they flew forth from between his teeth. “Fool! miserable Count! I’ll—Thomas! bring My sabre!—I will teach thee manners here! Fool! damn him! offices and reverence weary A delicate ear! I’ll cut thee round about Those precious ears! Fora! out at the door! Thomas! my sabre!” To his side at once Sprang friends. The Judge now grasped him by the hand. “Stop, friend, ’tis our affair! I first was challenged. Protasy, bring my sabre! Such a dance I’ll lead him, as a bear with sticks.” But Thaddeus Restrained the Judge: “Sir uncle, is this fitting? And you, Most Powerful Chamberlain, is’t worthy Of you with such a coxcomb to engage? Are there no young men here? Leave it to me. I’ll punish him as suits.—And you, bold sir, Who challenge old men, we will see if you Are such a valiant knight; we’ll talk of this To-morrow; we will choose the place and weapons. To-day depart while you are safe.” The counsel Was good. The Klucznik and the Count now fell Into no trifling trouble. At the upper End of the table a loud shrieking rose. But from the lower end flew bottles round The County’s head. The frightened women all Were praying, weeping. Telimena cried “Alas!” With lifted eyes she rose, and fell Down in a swoon, upon the Count’s arm drooped, And on his breast her swan-like bosom laid. The Count, though angry, checked his furious zeal, And strove to rouse her, and to dry her tears.

Meanwhile exposed to stool and bottle strokes Gervasy tottered; now with tucked-up sleeves The servant throng rushed on him from all sides; When happily Sophia, as she saw The assault, with pity moved, to the old man Sprang forward, with her little hands wide spread She shielded him. The assailants ceased; Gervasy Drew slowly backward, vanished from their eyes. They looked to see if he were hid beneath The table, when he suddenly came forth Upon the other side, as though emerged From under ground, and in his powerful arms A bench high-raising, like a windmill’s sails He whirled it round, and half the hall made clear; Then took with him the Count, and both thus screened With the defending bench, retired towards The little door, and reached the threshold; yet Gervasy stood, and looked upon his foes. He stood awhile in thought, uncertain whether To draw back under arms, or once again With newer arms his fortune try in war. He chose the second course. He lifted high The bench like battering ram behind to strike. He bent his head, with breast thrust out in front, With lifted foot, he for attack prepared, When he perceived the Wojski, and he felt In spirit terror. Sitting still, the Wojski Appeared as deep in meditation plunged. At the beginning, when the Count began The quarrel with the Chamberlain, and when He spoke those threatening words unto the Judge, The Wojski turned away; he twice took snuff, And rubbed his eyes; though but a distant kinsman Unto the Judge, he dwelt within his house, And heedful of his good friend’s safety aye Was he; and so with deep concern he gazed Upon the fight. He lightly stretched his hand Across the table, palm and fingers, laid Upon one hand a knife, the handle placed Upon the index finger-nail; but turned Towards his elbow was the steely blade. Then balancing the hand turned somewhat back, It seemed like sport—but on the Count he gazed.

The art of throwing knives, most terrible In single fight, already at that time In Litva was disused, and only known To old men; but the Klucznik sometimes had Proved it in tavern combats, and the Wojski Excelled therein; it well might be perceived, From action of his hand, he aimed towards The Count, the last of the Horeszkos, though By spindle-side. The younger men, less heedful, Knew not what signified the old man’s movements. Gervasy turned pale; with the bench he covered The Count’s retreat, and to the doors retired. “Catch him!” the throng cried. As a wolf, surprised On sudden at his feast of carrion, Will cast him blindly on the throng that break Upon his feast, pursue them, and proceed To tear them into pieces; all at once, Amid the canine shriek, a trigger’s click Doth sound; the wolf doth know it, searches round, Perceives the huntsman there behind the dogs, On one knee bending, who the barrel turns Towards him, and the trigger stirreth now. The wolf drops down his ears, and hies away With tail between his legs; the pack, with cry Of triumph, rush upon him, tear the tufts Of hair upon him. Round the beast at times Will turn, he looks, and grindeth with his jaw; And by the gnashing of his white tusks, scarce The pack doth threaten, when with whining cry They all disperse. Even thus Gervasy held With threatening mien assailants all at bay, With eyes and bench; until he with the Count Did enter in a dark and deep recess. “Catch ’em!” the cry once more arose. Not long That triumph, for above the heads of all The crowd, the Klucznik showed him in the choir, Beside the ancient organ, and began To tear off with loud crash the leaden pipes, And smiting from above, he surely had Inflicted great disaster. But the guests In tumult left the hall; the frightened servants Dared not approach; and quickly gathering up The table-vessels, rapidly they fled In footsteps of their masters; left behind The covers, with their spoons and forks in part.

Who latest did retire, not heeding blows Or threatenings, from the battle-field? It was Protasius Brzechalski. He, unmoved, Stood by the Judge’s chair, and with the voice Of summoner his declaration made, Until he ended it, and backward drew Leaving the empty battle-field, where lay The dead and wounded, and a mighty ruin.

No loss was there in men. But every bench Had legs put out of joint; the table, too, Was lame, and naked of its table-cloth. It lay upon the plates, wine-deluged o’er, As ’twere a knight on bloody shields, among The many bodies of the chickens and The turkeys, in whose breasts forks lately planted Remained. A little while, and everything Within the lonely castle of Horeszko Had to its rest accustomed come again. The twilight thickened; the remainder of That lordly, stately banquet lay there, as In that nocturnal festival, wherein, At the solemnity of ancestors, The dead are gathered. Now three times had shrieked The screech-owls in the garret, like the wizards. The rising of the moon they seemed to hail, Whose beam fell through the window, quivering Upon the table, as it were a soul In purgatory; from the under-ground Sprang rats, like damnèd souls; they gnaw, they drink. At times, forgotten in the corner, burst A bottle of champagne, as if to toast The spirits. But upon the upper floor, Within that chamber called the mirrored room, Though there were now no mirrors, stood the Count Upon the balcony against the door. He cooled him in the wind, upon one arm He wore a surtout, but the other sleeve And skirts were folded round his neck, and draped The surtout like a mantle o’er his breast. Gervasy strode with wide steps through the hall; And both, in deep thought, talked unto themselves. “Pistols,” the Count said; “sabres if they will.” “The castle,” said the Klucznik, “and the village Are both our own.”—“The uncle, nephew,” cried The Count, “I’ll challenge the whole race together!” “The castle,” cried the Klucznik, “village, land, Seize them, sir!” Saying this he turned towards The Count: “If you, my lord, do peace desire, Seize everything. Why go to law, Mopanku? The cause is clear as day; the castle was In the Horeszkos’ hands four hundred years. Part of the revenues were wrested in The time of Targowica, and, as well You know, were given to Soplica’s rule. Not this part only we must get from them; The whole, for costs of lawsuits, punishment Of robbery. I always told you, sir, Abandon lawsuits; always told you, sir, Invade them, harry them! yes, thus it was In former days; who once had held the land Was owner; win in field, thou also wilt In law-courts win. And as for former quarrels With the Soplicas, better is the Penknife For them than lawsuits. But if Matthew will Lend me his Rod to help me, we will soon Chop both of these Soplicas up to chaff.”

“Bravo!” the Count exclaimed; “this plan of thine, Gothic Sarmatian, better pleases me Than wrangling of the advocates. We’ll make A noise throughout all Litva with this thing, Unheard of since the ancient times, and we Shall also reap amusement. These two years That I have dwelt here, what battles have I seen? Among the peasants for a boundary ridge. This enterprise of ours doth promise bloodshed. During my travels I have been in one. In Sicily a certain prince’s guest We Was I, when brigands carried to the mountains His son-in-law, and from his relatives The daring wretches asked a ransom. We In haste collected all the serving-men And vassals, and upon the robbers fell. Myself two brigands slew with mine own hand, And first was in their fortress, setting free The prisoner. Ah! Gervasy mine! what triumph ’Twas then! Our coming back, how beautiful! So knightly-feudal! All the people met us With flowers; the prince’s daughter in my arms Fell, grateful to the brave deliverer. When in Palermo I arrived, the whole Was known already from gazettes. The women Would point me out; there even had been printed A novel on the whole affair, wherein I mentioned am by name. The title of The novel is as followeth: ‘The Pole, Or Mysteries of the Castle of Birbante— Rocca!’ Are there within this castle dungeons?” “There are enormous cellars,” said the Klucznik, “But they are empty; the Soplicas have Drunk all the wine up.”—“We must arm the jockeys,” The Count said, “in the house; the vassalage Must summon from our own domains.”—“What! lackeys! Forbid it, Heaven!” Gervasy cried; “is then A foray but a deed of villainy? Whoever knew a foray made with peasants And lackeys? You, my lord, know nought at all Of raids. But nobles, that is something other Than vassals; they are found not on estates, But in the nobles’ farmsteads there in Dobrzyn, In Rzesikow, in Cietycz, in Rabanki; And nobles are they from eternity, In whom flows knightly blood, all friends unto Horeszko’s family, and deadly foes Unto Soplica. I will gather from them A hundred whiskered nobles. That I’ll do. You, sir, return unto your palace, sleep Your fill; to-morrow there will be great work. You love to sleep; ’tis late; the second cock Has crowed already. I will stay to guard The castle until dawn; but with the sun I stand within the farmsteads of Dobrzynski.”

The Count at these words left the balcony, But ere he went he through a shot-hole gazed, And as he viewed a multitude of lights Within Soplica’s house: “Light up!” he cried. “To-morrow at this hour it will be bright Within this castle, in your mansion dark.”

Gervasy sat upon the ground, and leaned Against the wall, while sank upon his breast His thoughtful brow. The moonlight fell upon The summit of his bald head; with his finger Gervasy traced upon it many strokes. He dreamed of warlike plans in coming raids; But more and more his heavy eyelids weighed Upon him, and he bowed his powerless neck. He felt that sleep was overtaking him, And as his custom was, he did begin His evening prayers. But ’tween the Paternoster And Ave Mary wondrous phantoms rose, Who crowded round the Klucznik, and who whirled About him. He beholdeth the Horeszkos, His former lords; some bearing sabres, others With truncheons; each one looks with threatening glance, His whiskers twirls, and flourishes his sword, Or shakes his truncheon; after them there came One silent, gloomy shade, a bloody spot Upon his breast. Gervasy shuddered, for He recognised the Pantler; he began To sign the cross around him, and more surely To drive off fearful dreams, he said aloud The litany for souls in purgatory. Again his sight was shut; within his ears There was a sound. He saw a crowd of nobles On horseback, and the sabres gleamed. “A foray! A foray!” Korelicz and Rymsza lead them. And he beheld himself on charger grey, His dreadful rapier lifted o’er his head; He flies, his mantle with wide-streaming folds Rustling, the cap from his left ear falls back. He flies, o’erthrowing horse and foot upon The road; at last Soplica in his barn He burneth up. Then sank upon his breast His brow, with heavy dreaming weighted down. Thus the last Klucznik of Horeszko slept.