Pan Tadeusz: Book VIII: The Foray

Before a storm a still and gloomy hour Comes, while the cloud that soars o’er human heads Stands still, and with a threatening countenance Restrains the breath of winds; silent, it runs Around the earth with eyes of lightning, marking The spots whereon its thunders shall be cast One after the other. Now this hour of stillness Came in the house of Soplicowo; well One might suppose that some presentiment Of strange events forthcoming, sealed all lips, And raised all spirits to the land of dreams. The supper o’er, the Judge and guests went forth Into the court to enjoy the evening air; They sit upon the banks all spread with turf. The company, with still and gloomy cheer, Looked up into the sky, which seemed to lower Itself, and narrower grow, and evermore To approach the earth; till both beneath the veil Of darkness hidden, like a loving pair, Began their secret converse, by their sighs Suppressed their love confessing, by their whispers, By murmurs, and by soft tones half aloud, That formed a wondrous music of the evening.

The owl began it, from the gable-roof Hooting; and with the rustling of their wings The bats did whisper; near the house they flew Where window-panes and human faces gleamed. But nearer moths, the sisters of the bats, Circled in swarms, lured by the garments white Worn by the women; most they teased Sophia, Striking against her face and her bright eyes, Mistaking them for lights. And in the air A mighty ring of insects gathered round, Playing like spheres of an harmonica. Sophia’s ear distinguished, ’mid the thousand Murmurs, the chord of humming of the flies, And a false semitone the gnats created.

The evening’s concert in the fields was scarce Begun, for its musicians even now Their instruments were tuning; now three times The landrail screeched, the mead’s first violin; Now from afar the bittern’s bass again Re-echoed him from out the marsh; and now The woodcocks, rising upwards, circled round, And shrieked once, twice, as beating upon drums, Finale to the murmurs of the flies, And the birds’ cries; a double chorus woke Of two ponds, as among the Caucasus Those lakes enchanted, silent in the day, But musical at evening. One pond, with Bright water and a sandy shore, gave forth A solemn low sigh from its azure breast. The other pond, with muddy depths, and throat More hoarse, replied with passionate grieving cry. In both were singing countless hordes of frogs. Both choirs were tuned unto two great accords; One seemed fortissimo, the other soft And piano; one appeared to cry aloud, The other merely sighed; thus through the fields Each pond held converse with the other pond, Like two Aeolian harps, that in their play Answered each other. Thicker grew the dusk, And only in the grove, and round the osiers Upon the brook, were gleaming wolfish eyes, Like candles. Far along the horizon’s verge, The fires of shepherds’ camps gleamed here and there. At last the moon uplit her silver torch, She issued from the thicket, and illumed Both sky and earth. From twilight now unveiled, They slept beside each other, like to happy Consorts. The heaven in its pure arms embraced The bosom of the earth, by moonlight silvered.

Now opposite the moon one star, and then Another, now a thousand gleamed, a million Now twinkled; at the head of them shone bright Castor, together with his brother Pollux, Among the ancient Slavs called Lel and Polel, Now in the zodiac of the common folk Re-christened; one named Litva, and the other The Crown. The two Scales of the heavenly balance Shine further on; the Lord, upon the day Of the creation, as our old men tell, Weighed all the planets and the earth in turn Upon them, ere into the deeps of space Helaunched their weights. The golden balance then He hung in heaven; therefrom men received The model of their scales and balances.

Towards the north the starry circle shines Of that famed Sieve, through which the Lord, they say, The rye-grains sifted, which from heaven he threw To father Adam, banished from the garden Of pleasure for his sin. A little higher Stands David’s chariot, ready for career, Its long beam pointing to the polar star. The ancient Litvins of this chariot knew That common people wrongly call it David’s; It is an angel’s car. In it, ere time, Rode Lucifer, when he defied the Lord, And drove on headlong by the Milky Way To heaven’s threshold, until Michael hurled him Down from his car, and cast it from the road. Now broken, doth it roll among the stars; The Archangel Michael suffers not repair. And this too know we from the old Litvini, But they no doubt first learned it from the Rabbins, That Dragon of the zodiac, long and great, Who winds his starry folds across the sky, Whom sages wrongly have the Serpent called, No snake is, but a fish, Leviathan. Ere time he dwelt within the seas, but after The deluge from the lack of water died. So angels hung him on the vault of heaven, Partly for his strange figure, and in part As a remembrance; they suspended there His lifeless remnants, as the priest of Mir Once hung up in his church the fossil ribs And vertebrae of giants. Such old stories About the stars which he had learned from books, Or from tradition knew, the Wojski told. Although the ancient Wojski’s sight was weak At evening, and he could through spectacles See nought in heaven, he knew by heart the names And figures of each constellation there; And so he pointed out their every place, And orbit of their motion. Few to-day Listened to him, or heeded not at all The Sieve, the Dragon, or the Scales. To-day A new guest, hitherto unseen in heaven, Had drawn all eyes and thoughts unto itself. This was a comet of first magnitude And power, that in the west appeared, and flew Towards the north, and with a blood-red eye Looked askance on the chariot, as it would Assume the empty place of Lucifer. It threw long tresses backward, and therein Enwrapped the third part of the heavens, and gathered As in a net a thousand stars, and drew Them after it, and measured ever higher To northward with its head, and pointed straight Up to the Polar star. With unexpressed Foreboding, the Litvanian folk each night Gazed on this heavenly wonder, and therefrom Deduced ill-omen, as from other signs. For they too often heard the cries of birds Ill-omened, who in flocks on desert plains Gather, and whet their beaks, as they expect Corpses. Too often marked they how the dogs Tore up the earth, and as though scenting death, Howled fearfully, portending war or famine. The guardians of the forest had beheld The maiden of the pestilence pass through The cemetery, she whose brow is high Above the highest trees, and whose left hand Waveth a bloodstained cloth. Hence various Conclusions drew, while standing by the hedge, The barn-keeper, who came to give account Of farm work, and the district writer, with The bailiff whispering. But on the seats Of turf before the house, the Chamberlain Sat; he broke in upon the guests’ discourse. It might be known he gathered voice to speak. And his great snuff-box in the moonlight shone, Entirely of pure gold, with brilliants set, The portrait of King Stanislas in midst Behind a glass. He tapped thereon, took snuff, And spoke thus: “Master Thaddeus, your talk About the stars is but an echo of I much prefer The things you heard at school. To talk of wonders with the ignorant. I too attended lectures on the stars Two years in Wilna, where the Puzynina, A rich and learnèd lady, gave the rent A hamlet of two hundred peasants yielded, To purchase various telescopes and glasses. Priest Poczobut, a most illustrious man, Was then observer, and of the Academy At that time rector. He, however, left At last his chair and telescope, returning Unto his convent, to his peaceful cell, And there he made most exemplary end. I likewise am acquainted with Sniadecki, Who is extremely learnèd, though a layman. But your astronomers consider planets Only as citizens may view a carriage; They know if to the capital it go Before the king, or from the suburbs goes Beyond the frontier; but who rides therein? For what? whereof he with the king discoursed? Or if the king has sent his envoy forth With war, or as a messenger of peace? They know not. In my time I recollect How when Branicki drove his chariot To Jassow, and behind this wicked car A train of Targowica traitors drew, The train resembling of that comet there. The simple people then, although they ne’er In public councils mixed, at once could guess That train the omen of some treason was. ’Twas said the people to this comet gave The name of Broom, and said ’twould sweep away A million.” With a bow the Wojski answered, “True, Most Illustrious, Powerful Chamberlain, I recollect now what was told to me Once as a little boy. I recollect, Though at that time I was not ten years old, When in our house I saw the late Sapieha, Commander in the army, and who later Became Court Marshal of the Crown, and died At last Grand Chancellor of Litva, aged A hundred and ten years. He, in the time Of John the Third, was at Vienna under The standard of the Hetman Jablonowski. Well then, the Chancellor related how When John the Third on horseback mounted, when The Papal legate blessed him on the way, And when the Austrian ambassador Did kiss his feet, and held the stirrup ready— Count Wilczek the ambassador was named— The king exclaimed, ‘See what is doing in heaven!’ They looked: behold, a comet sailed o’erhead, By that same way whereby Muhammad’s armies Marched on, from east to west. And later on Priest Bartochowski wrote a panegyric Upon the triumph of Krakow, by the title Of Orientis Fulmen, saying much About this comet. I have likewise read About it in the work Janina titled, Where is related the whole enterprise Of the late King John, and where there is engraved The standard of Muhammad, and besides That comet, as we see this one to-day.”

“Amen,” the Judge said, “I accept your omen; May John the Third be with the star revealed! Now in the west there is a mighty warrior; May be the comet brings him here to us, Which Heaven grant!” Thereto the Wojski said, Bending his head down sadly, “Comets sometimes Mean war, and sometimes quarrels. ’Tis not good, It shows itself right over Soplicowo; May be it threatens us some home misfortune. We yesterday had strife and jar sufficient; The Regent had a quarrel with the Assessor That morning, in the evening Master Thaddeus Called out the Count. This quarrel also came About the bear’s hide; if the good Judge had not Prevented me, I had made both disputants Agree at table. For I wished to tell A singular adventure, very like The events of yesterday’s excursion; it Chanced to the foremost hunters of my time, The envoy Rejtan and to Prince Denassau. The accident was this: “The General Of the Podolian lands went from Volhynia, To his estates in Poland, or indeed, If rightly I remember, to the Diet In Warsaw; on his way he visited The nobles, partly for amusement, partly For popularity, and so he came To Thaddeus Rejtan, now of holy memory, Who later was our Nowogrodek envoy, And in whose house I grew up from a child. Now Rejtan, on the General’s arrival, Invited guests. There gathered many nobles. There was a theatre, for the Prince loved theatres Kaszyc, who dwelt in Jatrze, fireworks gave; Pan Tyzenhaus sent dancers, and musicians Oginski and Pan Soltan, who then lived In Zdzienciele. In a word, they gave An entertainment in the house past wonder, And in the forest was a grand hunt made. ’Tis known to you that nearly all, so far As I remember, of the Czartoryskis, Although proceeding from Jagellon blood, Are little apt at hunting, not indeed From idleness, but from their foreign tastes. And the Prince-General more often looked On books than on the kennel, and more often On ladies’ balconies than on the woods.

“But in the Prince’s suite there came the German Prince Denassau, of whom ’twas said that when He sojourned in the Libyan land, he went A-hunting, and he there a tiger slew With spear in single combat, and of this A mighty boasting Prince Denassau made. We hunted at this season the wild boar. Rejtan a monstrous sow killed with a rifle, At great risk, since he fired from very near. Each of us marvelled at the shot, and praised. The German Denassau alone did hear These praises with indifference, and muttered, ‘A clever shot needs only a bold eye, But steel a bold hand,’ and began to brag At length about his Libya and his spear, About his negro kings, and of his tiger. And Rejtan took this very ill; he was A man of temper quick; he struck his sabre, And said, ‘Sir Prince! whoever looketh bold, Should boldly fight; a wild boar’s worth a tiger, A sabre worth a spear;’ and they began A conversation over-warm. But then The General happily broke in on them, And, speaking French, he made them to agree. What there he said I know not, but it was Only as ashes laid upon hot coals, For Rejtan took this much to heart; he waited Only an opportunity, and promised To make the German pay for this. Well-nigh He paid with his own life for this offence, And did it on the morrow, as I’ll tell.” Here ceased the Wojski, and his right hand raised, And for his snuff-box asked the Chamberlain. He long time used it, and deigned not to end His story, as he thought thereby to sharpen The listeners’ curiosity. At last This curious story he resumed; they listened With fixed attention; but again the tale Was broken off. For some one to the Judge Had sent a messenger, to say that he Was waiting with some business very urgent, Which might not be deferred. Good-night then giving To all the assembly, took the Judge his leave. They parted and went divers; some to sleep Inside the house; the others in the barn Among the hay. Then went the Judge to give An audience to the traveller. The rest Already slept. But Thaddeus crept along The passages, and like a sentry paced All up and down before his uncle’s door, For he in weighty matters must request His counsel ere he sleep. He dared not knock; The Judge had locked the door, and secretly Conversed with some one. Thaddeus waited till The end should come, and listened at the door.

He heard within a sobbing. Stirring not The latch, he gazed, with careful heeding, through The keyhole. There he saw a wondrous thing, The Judge and Robak kneeling on the ground, Embracing, while they wept with bitter tears. Robak the hands was kissing of the Judge, The Judge embraced the priest upon the neck, And wept. At last, a quarter of an hour Being past while they kept silence, Robak spoke These words in a low voice: “The Lord knows, brother, I hitherto have kept those secret vows, Which I in sorrow made, beneath the seal Of absolution; that all consecrate To God and to my country, serving not Pride, neither seeking earthly glory, I Have lived till now, and I have willed to die A Bernardine, discovering not my name; Not hiding from the vulgar only, but From thee and mine own son. Yet from the Father Provincial I had leave, in case of death, To make full revelation of my name. Who knows if I return alive? Who knows What may occur? In Dobrzyn, brother, is Great, great confusion. Still the French are far; The winter must pass by; we still must wait, But nothing can withhold the nobles. I Perhaps was far too busy with this rising; Perhaps they understood me ill. The Klucznik Has spoilt it all. That madman Count, I hear, Hastened to Dobrzyn. I could not forestall him, There is a weighty reason why I could not, For old Matthias has recognised me; if He lets the secret out, I then must give My neck unto the Penknife. Nothing will Restrain the Klucznik. ’Tis but a small matter About my head, but such discovery Would break the whole web of conspiracy. But yet I must be there to-day, to see What they are doing, even though I die. Without me all the nobles will go mad. Farewell to thee, farewell, my dearest brother! I must make haste. If I should perish, thou Alone must breathe a sigh forth for my soul In case of war, the secret unto thee Is known, do thou complete what I began. Remember ever, thou art a Soplica!”

The priest here dried his eyes, composed his frock, Drew down his cowl, in silence opened wide The window at the back, and from the window He sprang into the garden; left alone, The Judge sat in an arm-chair, and he wept.

A moment waited Thaddeus, ere he stirred; The latch; the door was opened, and he entered In silence, and low bending, said, “Good uncle, A few days scarcely have I tarried here. These days passed like a minute. I have not Had time sufficient to enjoy thy house And presence; yet I now must ride away, And hasten, even to-day, my uncle, and Be far away to-morrow. You indeed Remember we the Count have challenged. ’Tis My business to fight with him; I have sent The challenge. Duelling in Litva is Forbidden; I will go unto the frontier Of Warsaw’s Duchy. Though the Count indeed A coxcomb is, he has no lack of courage, He’ll surely come unto the place assigned. We will arrange our meeting, and as fitting I’ll punish him, if Heaven prosper me. Then from the shores of the Lososna I Will swim the stream, upon whose farther shore Our brothers’ ranks await me. I have heard My father’s testament commanded me To serve in the army, and I know not who This testament has cancelled.” Said the uncle: “My Thaddeus, are you in boiling water, That thus you twist round like a hunted fox, Who wags his tail one way, but runs another? We sent a challenge truly, and ’tis fitting To fight; but why such haste? why go to-day? The usual custom is, before a duel, To send a friend, and make conditions. Then The Count may beg our pardon, deprecate. You wait a little; there is time enough, Unless some other demon drives you hence. Tell me sincerely, why so roundabout? I am your uncle, and though old, I know What young hearts are; I have been to thee a father”— This saying, he stroked him underneath the chin— “My little finger has already whispered Something of this to me, that you have some Affairs among the ladies-hang it! now Young men take quickly to the ladies! Well, Thaddeus, confess it all to me, and truly.”

“True,” stammered Thaddeus; “true; some other reasons There are, dear uncle; ’tis my fault perhaps. An error a misfortune! hard to mend. Dear uncle, no, I dare no longer stay. A fault of youth! My uncle, ask no more! I must from Soplicowo part in haste.”

“Ho!” said the uncle, “love disputes no doubt! I marked how yesterday you bit your lips, While looking on a certain little girl Askance. She also had, as I perceived, A little pouting mien. I know these fooleries! How when a pair of children are in love, ’Tis sorrow measureless; they now rejoice, Now are cross and sad. Heaven knoweth why, they quarrel Both tooth and nail; now, sulking in their corners, They will not speak to one another, even Sometimes they run away into the fields. If this has chanced to you, I’ll take on me To reconcile you soon. I know these fooleries; I once was young. So tell me all, and I May also in my turn discover something. We both will make confession.” “Uncle,” then Said Thaddeus, as he kissed his hand, and blushed, “I’ll tell the truth entirely. This young lady, Your ward, Sophia, pleased me very much, Although I have but seen her twice. They say You mean the daughter of the Chamberlain To be my wife; she is beautiful, and is The daughter of a rich man, but I cannot Marry Miss Rosa when I love Sophia. It’s hard to change one’s heart, nor would it be An honourable act, to marry one And love another. Time may be will cure me, I’ll ride away from here for a long time.”

“Thaddeus,” broke in the uncle, “this to me Seems a strange way of loving, from the loved To fly. ’Tis well for thee thou art sincere; Thou seest thou wouldst have done a foolish thing If thou hadst ridden off. What shouldst thou say If I myself betrothed Sophia to thee? What! dost not jump for joy?” Said Thaddeus, After a while had passed: “Your goodness, sir, Astonishes me. But how can it be? Your favour is of no avail to me, For all my hopes, alas! are but in vain, For Madam Telimena will not give Sophia to me.” “We will entreat her,” said The Judge. “No, no one can prevail with her,” Did Thaddeus answer; “no, I may not tarry. Dear uncle, I must quickly ride away, To-morrow, uncle; give me but thy blessing. I have prepared all things; I’ll ride at once Unto the Duchy.” Twirling his moustache, The Judge with anger looked upon the boy. “So this is thy sincerity? ’tis thus Thou openest thy heart to me? At first This duel, then ’tis love, and this departure! Fie on it! In this is some complication. They have talked to me, and I have tracked your steps. You are a libertine and a deceiver! You have told me lies! Where went you yesterday? Why like a weasel crept you near the house? O Thaddeus, if you could deceive Sophia, And now will fly, young man, you shan’t succeed. Love or not love, I tell in truth to you, That you shall wed Sophia, and to-morrow You stand upon the carpet. And if not, Stripes! Talk to me of feelings, changeless heart! Thou art a liar! I will find out all About you, Master Thaddeus; fie upon you! I’ll give you a good scolding even yet. I have had enough of trouble in the day, Until my head does ache; and still this fellow Will not allow me yet to go to sleep. Go you to bed!” This saying, he opened wide The door, and called the Wozny to undress him.

In silence Thaddeus went, with drooping head, This painful conversation with his uncle In thought discussing. ’Twas the first time he Had been so harshly chidden; yet he felt The justice of this sharp reproach. He blushed Before his very self. What should he do? What if Sophia should hear of this? Entreat Her hand? And what would Telimena say? No, he must stay no more in Soplicowo.

Thus deep in thought he scarce had gone two steps, When something crossed his path; he stopped, he saw A phantom all in white, long, slender, thin. She glided towards him with her outstretched hand, From whence the trembling moonlight back was thrown, And coming near, low sighed she, “Thankless man! Once thou didst seek my glance, thou shun’st it now. Thou didst my conversation seek, but now Dost close thine ears, as though within my words, And in my looks, a deadly poison lurked. ’Tis well, I know thee what thou art—a man! Unknowing coquetry, I had no wish To torture thee. I made thee happy; thus Wouldst thou repay me? O’er a heart too soft This victory has made thy heart too hard. Because thou hast too easy conquest made, Thou dost despise my heart too soon! ’Tis well! But, taught by such experience, credit me, Far more than thou canst do, I scorn myself.”

Said Thaddeus, “Telimena, Heaven forbid My heart were hard, or that I should avoid thee From scorn; but thou thyself consider this, They spy upon us, track our steps. Can we Thus openly? What will be said? It were Unsuitable. By Heaven, it were a sin.” “A sin?” she answered, with a bitter smile. “Thou innocent! thou lamb! I, though a woman, Care not about a love-affair, although I were discovered, though I were dishonoured. And thou, thou art a man! What injury To one of you, although he should confess To having with ten women all at once Love passages? Speak thou the truth, dost thou Wish to abandon me?” She burst out weeping. “But, Telimena, what would the world say,” Spoke Thaddeus, “of the man, who at my age, In these days, being sound, in the country lived And loved, when now so many youths, so many Ev’n married men from wives and children part, To go beyond the frontier, and to gather Beneath the nation’s standard? Though I should Desire to stay, does that depend on me? My father in his testament ordained That I should in the Polish army serve, And now my uncle this command repeats. I go to-morrow, my resolve is fixed, And Heaven forbid that I should change it now.” “I,” Telimena said, “would not obstruct Thy path to glory, nor thy fortunes mar. Thou art a man, thou’lt find a love more worthy Thy heart; one richer, fairer, thou wilt find. But let me only for my comfort know, Before our parting, that thine inclination Towards me was true love. That ’twas not only A jest, no vain debauch, but love indeed. Let me but know my Thaddeus loves me still! Let me the words, ‘I love,’ hear from thy lips, Let me engrave them on my heart, and write them Within my thought. More easily will I Forgive thee, even if thou cease to love, Remembering how thou once didst bear me love.” Here she began to sob. Thaddeus was moved To pity, seeing how she wept, and prayed So tenderly, and asked so small a thing. The purest grief and pity him possessed; And had he searched his spirit’s inmost depths, He had not known for certain, if or no He loved her. So he spoke with earnestness. “May I be struck by lightning, Telimena, If ’tis not true I liked thee very much, Or loved, by Heaven! Short the moments were That we together spent, but they for me So sweetly passed, so dear they are, that long They will be ever present to my thought, And Heaven forbid that I forget thee aye.”

Then Telimena sprang upon his neck. “I hoped for this,” she said; “thou lovest me, Therefore I live. For I to-day did purpose To end my life with mine own hand. If thou, My dear one, lov’st me, canst thou cast me off? I have given my heart to thee; my property I’ll also give thee; I will follow thee To every place; each corner of the earth Were sweet to me with thee; the wildest desert, Believe me, love will change into a garden Of pleasures.” Thaddeus released himself By force from her embrace. “What!” answered he, “Art thou in thy right mind? where? and for what? To follow me? I, but a private soldier, To take thee with me, as a cantinière?” “We will be married,” answered Telimena. “No, never! never!” answered Thaddeus. “I have no intent at all to marry now, Or love. That was but nonsense, let it be. I pray thee, love, consider, be at peace! I am grateful to thee, but I cannot wed thee. Let us each other love—but thus—apart. I may no longer tarry; no, no, I Must go. Farewell now, Telimena mine, To-morrow I shall go.” He spoke, and pressed The hat upon his brows, and turned aside, Wishing to go, but Telimena stayed him With glance and visage of Medusa. He Must tarry ’spite himself, and looked in fear Upon her form; she stood, unbreathing, still, And lifeless, till she stretched her hand forth like A sword for piercing, with the finger aimed Straight at the eyes of Thaddeus. “I desired This man!” she cried; “ha! tongue of dragon! ha! Thou heart of lizard! Was it nothing, then, That I, infatuate with thee, have scorned The Assessor and the Regent, and the Count? Thou didst deceive me, and now leav’st forlorn! That’s nothing, for thou art a man! I know Your wickedness! I knew that, like the rest, Thou couldst break plighted faith; I did not know Thou couldst so basely lie! I listened at Thine uncle’s door. And so this child, Sophia, Has pleased thine eyes, and treacherously thou Pursuest her? Thou scarcely hast deceived One hapless woman, ’neath her very eyes, Thou seekest a new victim! Fly, but yet My curse shall overtake thee; or remain! Thy wickedness I’ll publish to the world! Thine arts no others shall deceive, as they Did me deceive! Away! I scorn thee, thou A liar art, a vile man!” At this outrage, Deadly to noble’s ears, which no Soplica Had ever heard with patience, Thaddeus shook; Pale as a corpse his visage, on the ground Stamping, and pressing close his lips, he said, “Thou foolish woman!” He departed; still This term of “vile” re-echoed in his heart, And the youth shuddered; well he felt that he Deserved it, felt that he had done great wrong To Telimena, that she had with justice Chastised him. Thus to him his conscience spake, Yet more he loathed her for these accusations. And oh, Sophia! he dared not think of her, It caused him shame! Yet this Sophia, so fair, So sweet, his uncle had to him betrothed her; She should have been his wife, if Satan still, Entangling him from sin in fresher sin, In falsehood after falsehood, had at last Left him with laughter, chidden, scorned by all. He had wasted all his future in two days! Alas! this was the just reward of crime!

In this wild storm of feelings, suddenly That duel gleamed before him like an anchor Of rest. “I’ll slay that villain Count!” he cried In anger; “I will have revenge or die!” But wherefore slay? Himself he could not tell; This rage exceeding, as it had possessed him, So in a twinkling did it blow away. Again deep grief possessed him, and he thought, “If true be my surmises that the Count May have some understanding with Sophia— What then? Perhaps the Count loves Sophy truly. May be she loves him, will for husband choose him. What right have I to break such marriage off, Myself unhappy, others’ bliss destroy?”

He fell into despair, and saw no help But rapid flight, and where? but to the grave.

So pressing hard his fist upon his brow, He rushed into the meadows where the ponds Gleamed far below, and o’er the muddy pool He stood. He plunged his greedy glance into The green gulf, and inhaled its muddy odour With pleasure, and he opened wide his lips Towards the pond. For suicide is aye In choice as delicate as all debauch; And he in the mad whirling of his brain, Felt unexpressed attraction to the mud, To drown himself therein. But Telimena, Who from the youth’s wild looks had guessed the depth Of his despair, beholding him thus rush Towards the ponds, though she with anger glowed Against him, and this justly, she was frightened For him, she was in truth kind-hearted. Though She deeply grieved that Thaddeus should dare To love another, she would punish him, But not destroy. So rushed she after him, Exclaiming, “Stay! most foolish! Love or not! Marry, or ride away; but only stop!” But he in rapid flight outran her far, And stood now on the border of the pond.

By strange decree of fate, on this same shore The Count now rode, with all his jockey troop, And by the beauty of so fair a night, And by the wondrous harmony of that Sub-aqueous orchestra, charmed; those choirs That sounded like Eolian harps—no frogs Can make such music as the Polish frogs— He stayed his horse, and his emprize forgot. Turned to the pond, he listened curiously. His eyes roved o’er the fields, and heaven’s wide plain, In thought composing landscapes of the night. The neighbourhood indeed was picturesque, The two ponds with their visage near approached, Like two fond lovers; waters smooth and clear The right-hand pond presents, like maiden’s cheeks. The left-hand pond seemed something darker, like The swarthy visage of a youth, bedecked Already with the down of manhood. Glittered with golden sand, like shining locks; The forehead of the second pond with osiers Seemed bristling, and a tuft of willows bore. Both ponds were garmented in robes of green.

From them two streams, like hands together clasped, Gushed forth. The stream of these united fell Down to the vale; it fell, but was not lost, For in the darkness of the trench it bore Upon its waves the gilding of the moon. The water fell by stages, and on each Shone handfuls of the moonlight. In the trench The light was shivered into tiny fragments; The fleeting current caught them, and them bore Away into the depths, and from above Again the moonlight still in handfuls fell. Thou wouldst have said a Switezianka sat Beside the pond, and with one hand did pour The water from a vessel bottomless, While with her other hand she flung, in sport, Handfuls of gold enchanted, from her lap Into the water. Further, from the trench The stream escaped meandered o’er the plain, Silent, but one might see its current flow; For on its moving, trembling surface, bright The shimmering moonlight sparkled all its length, Like the fair Samogitian serpent, called Givoitos; which, although it seems to sleep, Lying among the heather, crawleth on, As it by turns with gold and silver gleams, Till sudden from the eye it vanishes, In moss and fern. The stream, meandering thus, Lay hid among the alders, shadowy black Upon the horizon’s verge, their forms upraising Light, scarcely to the eye expressed, like spirits Half on the earth, half in the clouds beheld.

Between the two ponds sat within the trench A mill half-hidden, like an ancient guardian Spying upon the lovers, listening Their conversation; seized with anger, he Spreads wide his arms, and shaking head and hands, Doth stammer threats. Thus suddenly the mill Now shook his moss-grown brow, and whirled around His many-fingered fist, loud-clattering, And stirred his toothèd wheels; thereby he drowned The loving conversation of the ponds, And roused the Count from out his reverie.

The Count, perceiving Thaddeus had approached So near his warlike station, cried, “To arms! Seize him!” At once the jockeys sprang to earth. Ere Thaddeus might be well aware what chanced, They captured him. Towards the house they rush, They entered in the courtyard, woke the household; Loud barked the dogs, and sentries shouted loud. The Judge half-dressed came forth; he saw a crowd Of men well armed, and thought them robbers, till He recognised the Count. “What means all this?” He asked. The Count his sabre brandished o’er him, But seeing him disarmed his rage grew cool. “Soplica,” said he, “thou eternal foe Unto my family, I will chastise thee To-day for recent and for ancient crimes. So do me justice for my fortune’s plunder, Ere I revenge me for my honour’s wrong.”

But making sign of cross, the Judge replied, “In the name of Father and the Son! Sir Count, Fie, fie! are you a robber? Heaven forbid! Is this becoming to your noble birth And breeding, and your high rank in the world? I will not let myself be wronged!” Just then Up rushed the servants of the Judge, some armed With sticks, with rifles others. Standing far The Wojski gazed with curiosity In the Count’s eyes, but in his sleeve concealed A knife. Now had begun a fight; the Judge Prevented this, however. ’Twere in vain To make defence; for newer enemies Arrived upon the scene; among the alders They saw a gleam, the light of rifle shots. The bridge across the stream resounded loud With horses’ hoofs, and “Hey! upon Soplica!” A thousand voices cried. The Judge did shudder: He knew Gervasy’s signal. “This is nothing,” The Count said; “more of us will soon be here! Surrender, Judge, for these are my allies.”

Then rushed the Assessor, crying, “I arrest you In name of his Imperial Majesty. Yield up your sword, Sir Count, or I will call For military help; and know you, sir, That whoso ventures an assault by night, By the twelfth hundred ukase is apprised, That like an evil”—Here, upon his face The Count with sword-flat struck him, and the Assessor Fell stupefied, and in the nettles lay. All thought he had been wounded, or were dead.

“I see,” the Judge said, “your intent is murder.” All cried aloud. Sophia’s shrieks o’erpowered The others; clasping close the Judge, she screamed, Like child transfixed with needles by the Jews.

Meanwhile, among the horses Telimena Proceeded, and towards the Count outstretched Her clasped hands. “Upon thine honour,” cried she With piercing voice, with head thrown back, with hair Streaming, “By all things holy, we implore thee Upon our knees! Count, darest thou refuse? The ladies pray thee! Cruel one, thou first Must murder us!” She fell down in a swoon. The Count sprang forth to help her, much surprised, And somewhat troubled by this scene. “Miss Sophy,” He said, “and Madam Telimena, ne’er This sword shall be defiled by guiltless blood. Soplicas! ye are all my prisoners! Thus Did I in Italy, when underneath That rock the Sicils call Birbante-Rocca, I captured the intrenchments of the robbers; Those armed I slew, commanded to be bound The unarmed; they behind our horses went, And decked my glorious triumph; after that We hanged them at the base of Etna’s mount.”

This was a happy chance for the Soplicas, The Count, possessing better horses than Those of the noblemen, and wishing first To engage the enemy, had left them far Behind, and by a mile at least outran Their cavalry, and with his jockey train, Obedient and used to discipline, He had some sort of army regular, While all those nobles, as insurgents wont, Were stormy, and most prompt to hang their foes. The Count had time to cool from his first rage, And thought how fitliest he might end the war Without the need of shedding blood. So then He gave commandment to imprison all The household of Soplica in their house, As prisoners of war, and at their doors He posted sentries. Then “Down with Soplica!” Arose. The nobles in tumultuous crowd Rushed in; besieged the mansion, and by storm Took it; the easier because the leader Was captive, and the garrison dispersed. But yet the victors longed to fight; they sought For foes, and not admitted to the house, They ran to the farm buildings, to the kitchen. When they the kitchen entered, there the sight Of pots, the fire extinguished scarce, the fresh Odour of food, the crunching of the dogs Gnawing the remnants of the supper, took All hearts, and quickly changed the thoughts of all; It cooled their rage, and kindled need of food. Tired by their march and council all day long, Three times they cried in concert, “Eat, eat, eat!” “Drink! drink!” arose the answer. Thus there were Two choruses, some calling out for food, For drink the others. Loud the uproar still Re-echoed; where it only reached it caused All mouths to water, and with hunger moved Each one; at signal given from the kitchen, The army all dispersed for foraging.

Gervasy, from the Judge’s rooms repulsed, Respecting the Count’s sentinels, must yield Perforce. So as he might not there take vengeance Upon his enemy, he thought upon The expedition’s second great intent. Like an experienced man and versed in law, He would install the Count all legally In his new heritage, and formally. The Wozny he pursued, and after long Searching, he spied him hid behind the oven. He collared him, and to the courtyard dragged And to his breast the Penknife holding, said: “The Count, Sir Wozny, ventures to entreat That you will deign proclaim forthwith, before. The brother nobles, this his intromission Upon the castle, and Soplica’s mansion, The village, seedlands, fallows; in a word, Cum grovis, woodis, et boundariebus, Peasantis, atque rebus omnibus, Et quibusdam aliis. As thou Knowest, so bark thou, leave thou nothing out.”

“Sir Klucznik, wait awhile,” Protasy said Boldly, his hands upon his girdle laid; “I am ready from all parties to fulfil Commands, but I must warn you that such act, By violence extorted, will possess No force in law, proclaimed too in the night.” “What violence is there?” said the Klucznik; “here Is no assault. I rather courteously Entreat you. If it seems unto you dark, I with my Penknife will a fire upraise, That speedily shall glimmer in your eyes, As though in seven churches.”—“Old Gervasy,” The Wozny said, “why makest thou such haste? I am a Wozny; it is not my business To sift the action. It is known to you, A party will bespeak a Wozny, and Dictate to him the thing they will, and he Proclaims it. He is herald of the law, And none may chastise heralds. Therefore I Know not why thus you hold me under guard. I presently will write an act; let some one Bring me a lantern here. But I meanwhile Proclaim: Be silent, brothers!” And to speak With greater clearness, mounted he upon A mighty pile of beams, that underneath The orchard hedge were heaped to dry. He climbed Upon the pile, and all at once, as though The wind had blown him off, he from their eyes Had vanished. ’Mid the cabbages they heard him; They saw among the dark hemp his white cap Flit like a pigeon by. The Bucket fired Thereat, but missed his aim. The hop-poles now Began to crackle; now Protasy walked Among the hops. “I do protest,” he cried, Certain of his escape, for him behind The bed and marshes of the streamlet lay.

After this protestation, which had sounded As the last cannon shot o’er conquered ramparts, Ceased all resistance in Soplica’s house. The hungry nobles plundering went around, And gathered what they might. The Baptist made His quarters in the cattle-shed, and sprinkled One ox and two calves on the head. And Razor Had in their throats his sabre buried deep. The Awl had used with equal diligence His little sword, and pierced some sucking pigs Beneath the shoulder-blades. Now carnage threatened The birds. The watchful geese, who one time saved Rome from the treachery of Gauls, now cackled In vain for help. Instead of Manlius, The Bucket enters in their roost, he strangles Some of the birds, and to his girdle binds The others living; vainly, with hoarse throats, The geese cry out; in vain the hissing ganders Nip the invader with their beaks; he forth Rushes, with down all covered, that in flakes Falls, thick as sparks. By motion of their wings Borne on, as though by wheels, he seemeth Chochlik, The winged evil sprite. But fiercer carnage, Although less noisy, ’mid the poultry raged. Young Bustard entered in the henhouse; there, Mounting by ladders, caught with ropes, and drew Down from above the cockerels, crested hens, And tufted; strangled each one after each, And threw them in a heap. Most lovely birds, Nourished on pearly groats! O heedless Bustard! What impulse thus did urge thee? Nevermore Will prayers of thine appease Sophia’s wrath.

Gervasy now remembered former times. He ordered kontusz girdles to be brought, And thereby from Soplica’s cellar drew Casks of old spirits, liquors, and of beer. He drew the bungs from some, the others seize The noblemen; with ready will, as thick As ants, they roll them to the castle; there The whole crowd gather for the night; the Count Has there made his headquarters. They now lay A hundred fires, they boil, they roast, they fry; The tables bend beneath the load of meat, Drink flows in rivers. All the noblemen Would eat, and drink, and sing this whole night through; But gradually they began to sleep, And yawn; eye is extinguished after eye, And all the assembly nods; each where he sat Falls down; the one falls with a dish, the other Over a kettle, one by a beef quarter. Thus sleep, death’s brother, has the victors vanquished.