Mr. Thaddeus (Pan Tadeusz, 1834)
Adam Mickiewicz
Translated by Christopher Adam Zakrzewski
Book Four
You trees! As old as Lithuania's Grand Dukes;
Trees of
Bialoviezha, Svitez, Ponary, Kushelevo!
Your shade fell on the circleted
heads of dread Vitenes
And mighty Mindove; and Gedymin too, when by a
hunter's fire
On the Ponary heights he lay sprawled on a bear hide
And
listened to the strains of wise Lizdeyko's song;
When lulled by the sight of
Viliya's stream and Vileyka's
Purl, he dreamed of the iron wolf; then roused
himself
At the gods' clear behest and built the city of Vilna
That broods
in the forests like a wolf among the bison, boar,
And bear. From that city
sprang, as from Rome's she-wolf,
Keystut and Algirdas, and the entire
Algirdas clan: great
Huntsmen all, vaunted knights no
less--equally
Unswerving in pursuit of foe and wild game. The lure
Of the
hunt afforded us a presentiment of future times:
Always Lithuania would stand
in need of her timber and iron.
You forests! The last to stalk your game was the last to
sport
Vytautas's cap, last blithesome warrior of
Jagellon
Blood--Lithuania's last crowned monarch of the chase.
Ancestral
trees! If Heaven ever grants me the boon
Of returning there, old friends,
shall I find you yet?
Blossom you still? You, among whom I rambled
As a
boy. Mighty Baublis lives?--whose great cavern
The ages hollowed out; so
spacious it could comfortably
House a banquet table and a dozen dinner
guests.
Mendog's grove flourishes still by the parish church?
And
yonder in Ukraine, that linden tree still stands
By the Holovynsky manor on
the banks of the Ros?--
With a crown so wide five score swains and
maids
Could dance with ease in pairs beneath its spreading shade.
You shrines! How many fall each year to the merchant's ax
Or
the Muscovite's felling blade? No nook remains for woodland
Songbird or
minstrel to whom your leafage stands as dear
As to the fowl. Czarnolas's
linden: did it not sough in sympathy
With Jan's lyre-strings, inspiring him
with a multitude of rhymes?
And what marvels crooned that garrulous oak to
the Cossack bard!
Native trees! How much I stand in your debt. As a
trifling
Hunter fleeing my companions' gibes over a poorly-aimed
Shot, how
many thoughts I chased in your silent haunts,
When in the wild morasses I'd
sit me down on a knoll
And put all thoughts of the hunt behind me: around
me
The hoary-bearded moss, crimsoned with crushed blueberry.
Yonder
sprawled the purple-heather'd hills all decked
With coral chaplets--the
grenadine whortleberry. Darkness
All about. Overhead arched the branches
like dense,
Green, low-hanging clouds; while over that motionless
Vault
the wind wailed, moaned, howled and boomed:
A strange, heady din! As if a
tumultuous ocean
Hung aloft.
A ruined city sprawls below:
Here like a massive pile looms
an uprooted oak;
Like shattered walls and pillars the branch-bristling trunks
And decaying beams lean on it--all hedgerow'd with grassy
Ramparts. A
terrible prospect beyond this bulwark! There
Lurk the lords of the forest,
boar, bear and wolf;
Half-gnawed bones of some unwary guest lie
scattered
At the gateway to their haunts. Now and then
something
Resembling two water jets starts up in the foliage:
A hart's
beamed antlers. Then streaks away the golden
Beast like a ray of sun that
penetrates the forest and fades.
Stillness reigns again. A woodpecker bores lightly
Into a
spruce, then flutters off, lost to sight, yet still
That busy bill betrays
his presence: so a child
At hide-and-seek spirits himself away then
beckons
From his covert. Hard by, a squirrel gnaws at a nut
Between his
paws, tail overhanging his brow
Like a cuirassier's helmet plume. Unhampered
darts
His frisky eye, spies a stranger, then quick as a flash
Skips that
prancer of the wood from twig to twig, and slips
Into an unseen niche like a
dryad returning to her native
Tree. Silence.
Stirs a shaken branch. A
face
Prettier than a rowan parts a tangle of rowan-fronds:
A village maid
come to gather nuts and berries;
Freshly picked whortleberries redder than
her lips
She offers from her chip basket. A youth walks along-
Side; he
bends the hazel bough, she clutches randomly
At the cascading filberts. .
.
The sounds of bugle and hunting hounds rend the air:
Evidently
the chase drawing near. Terrified, they hightail it
Into the thicket and
vanish from sight like woodland gods.
Soplitsovo was all astir; yet neither din of hound
Nor
neighing charger, creaking chaise or blaring horn
Could rouse Thaddeus. Sound as a burrow'd marmot he slept
On
the straw where he'd tumbled fully-dressed that night.
None of the youths
gave their slumbering companion a thought:
All were too busy dashing about
and carrying out orders.
On he snored. Through a heart-shaped opening in
the shutter
A shaft of fiery sunlight pierced the gloom and fell
Square
on his brow. Craving more shut-eye, he tossed about,
Avoiding the glare. An
urgent tapping sound awoke him.
A merry awakening! Blithe as a bird he felt.
Light
His breathing. Blissfully he smiled to himself then blushed
At the
recollection of his nocturnal tryst. He heaved a sigh;
Pounded his heart. .
.
He looked through the little opening: marvel of marvels!
A
pair of shining eyes gleamed through that heart--
Wide open, as happens when
peering into the gloom
From the broad daylight. He spied a small hand, like a
fan
Held sideways screening the eyes from daylight's glare:
With dawn-like
translucence glowed those delicate fingers
Turned toward the rosy light. Two
curious lips
He saw--set slightly apart, through which tiny teeth
Sparkled like pearls among the coral; and though screened
By that rosy
hand, the face flamed like a fulgent rose.
Lying on his back right under
the window, concealed
In the gloom, he marveled at the apparition. Almost
touch it
He could; was it real, a dream? One of those sweet,
radiant,
Childish faces we recall from our dreams of innocence?
The
little face peered down: a shudder of terror
And joy racked him as all too
clearly he recognized
The short, golden locks wound in silvery, pod-like
Curl-papers, all a-shimmer like haloes on sainted heads.
He started: instantly the vision fled, spooked
By the noise.
Would it reappear? Alas, it didn't.
Again three taps he heard, and the
words: "Get up, sir,
It's time for the hunt; you've overslept." He sprang up.
With both hands he flung open the hinged shutters
With such force they
crashed against the wall on either
Side. Leaping out of the window, he looked
around,
Bewildered, bemused. Nothing in sight, not a trace
Of anyone. Hard
by the window stood the garden rails
All wreathed with hops leaves and
blossoms. A-tremble
They were: stirred by a feather-light hand, or was
it
The breeze? Long he gazed at them. Unwilling to venture
Into the
garden, he leaned against the rails, shot his eyes
Aloft and fingered his
lips: no rash word would
Break his train of thought. He smote his brow as
if
Rousing the old memories; finally, drawing blood from
His gnawed fingers, he bellowed: "Serves me bloody right!"
Alive with shouts just moments ago, the courtyard
Stood empty
now: still as a burial ground. The entire
Hunting party had departed for the
fields. Thaddeus strained
His ear, cupping his hand trumpet-fashion: from far
off
Yells and bugle flourishes came wafting on the breeze.
Already saddled in the stable stood his horse. Seizing
A
flint-lock, he mounted up and galloped like the deuce
Toward the inns by the
chapel--the huntsmen's appointed
Meeting-place.
Two public houses
tilted
Head to head on either side of the roadway, casements
Glaring at
one another like mortal enemies. The older one
By rights was deeded to the
castle owner; the newer one
To spite the castle was built by the Judge
himself. Over
The one, like a hereditary lord, Gervasius held
sway;
Protasius occupied the seat of honor in the other.
Nothing particularly striking about the newer house.
The older
one was built on an ancient design contrived
By Tyrian craftsmen and then
dispersed abroad by the Jews--
A species of architecture quite unknown to
foreign builders:
We inherit it from the Jews. From the front it resembled a
ship,
From the back, a temple: a veritable coffer like Noah's
Four-faceted
ark which today goes by the vulgar name
Of 'stable'. All manner of beasts
were stalled within:
Oxen, horses, cows, bearded billy goats; throngs
Of
fowl roosted in the loft, reptiles by the pair, and insects
Too. The ship's
stern reared like a marvelous temple
Recalling to mind that great mansion of
Solomon's which Hiram's
Pioneers, skilled in the joiner's craft, raised on
Mount Zion.
The Jewish schools still imitate the design just as
road-house
And stable are modeled on these schools. The upturned, lath
And
straw roof was pointed and askew like a Hebrew's tattered cap.
From under the
peak protruded the gallery's parapet, resting
On a row of close-set wooden
pillars, architectural prodigies
In their solidity since they were
half-decayed and mounted aslant
Like Pisa's tower. Not at all according to
the Greek model:
No hint of plinth or capital. Semi-circular wooden
arches
Surmounted the columns in the Gothic style, hand-crafted
Designs
embellishing the surface. No etching-needle
Or chisel fashioned these: deftly
incised with the hatchet blade!
All curved like the branches of the Sabbath
candelabrum.
From the tips of the arches swung little knobs, reminiscent
Of
the discs dangling from the Hebrew's reverent head
(zizith is their name for
it). All in all, that tottering, lopsided
Hostelry brought to mind the Jew who nods
His head in prayer:
the roof his cap, the unkempt thatch
His beard, the soiled, smoke-smeared
walls his swarthy
Frock; the frontal wood-carvings--zizith at his
brow.
The inn's interior was partitioned like a Hebrew school:
One
part was crammed with longish chambers intended
For the travelling gents and
ladies. The other was a huge
Hall. Stretched like a centipede alongside each
wall
Was a narrow wooden table. Short-legged benches stood by:
Bench to
table like urchin to his father.
Hunched in rows
Thereon sat yokels,
village wenches and the petty gentry-folk;
Only the steward sat alone. After
morning Mass at the chapel--
This being Sunday--they'd all tripped over to
Yankel's
For a tipple and some fellowship. The bar-mistress hovered
Over
the patrons with the vodka bottle; hoary spirits
Foamed in every cup. Amid
the throng stood the publican,
Draped in a long, silver-clasped sarafan; one
hand thrust
Behind a sash of black silk, the other stroking his
solemn
Grizzled beard. With darting eye he'd move about,
Serving none yet
barking orders, greeting the newcomers,
Broaching talk with the seated
guests, settling quarrels.
Yankel was an old Jew, universally respected for his
probity.
In all the years he'd kept the inn no peasant or squire
Had
lodged a complaint at the manor; nor was there cause:
His drinks were good
and choice; he kept a strict account
Yet cheated no one, was not averse to
mirth yet brooked
No drunkenness. A great lover of parties he was,
catering
To christenings and weddings; and every Sunday he invited
Over
the village capella with their bull fiddle and doodlesack.
He knew music; indeed he was renowned for his musicianship.
With his national instrument, the dulcimer, he used to make
The rounds of
the rustic seats, and astonish all with his playing
And trained, mellifluous
voice. Though a Jew, he spoke
Decent Polish and was especially fond of Polish
folk-songs:
Scads of them he brought back from his trips across
The Niemen
river: the Galician kolomiya, the Varsovian mazurka.
It was noised about the
entire countryside--though how reliable
The rumor is uncertain--that it was
he who first brought back
To the district and spread abroad that song now
celebrated
Around the world, the one our legions' trumpets first
pealed
To the Italians on Ausonian fields. The art of singing pays
In
Lithuania. Wealth and glory accrue from it. Yankel made a mint.
Cloyed at
last with celebrity and profit, he hung up
His sweet-stringed dulcimer,
settled down with his youngsters
At the inn and busied himself serving
drinks, while acting
As rabbi's assistant in the neighboring town. He
was
A welcome guest at every household--and everyone's private
Mentor.
He knew the barges and the grain-trade: a useful thing
In the
country. All in all, he was held in high regard
As an honorable Pole.
He was the first to put an end
To the frequent bloody broils that raged
between the two
Road-houses: he leased the pair of them. Respected
Alike
by Horeszko partisans and the Judge's men, he
Alone could keep a rein on the
grim Horeszko Warden
And the scrappy Sergeant-at-Arms. In Yankel's presence
both
Held in check the engines of their ancient grudge:
Gervasius held
back his arm, Protasius, his tongue.
Gervasius was absent today: he'd gone on the hunt.
Unwilling to
see the tender, guileless Count venture
Alone on a chase so great and
arduous, he'd chosen to ride
At his side, accompanying him as his bodyguard
and advisor.
Today the Warden's seat was occupied by the friar; between
Two
settles he sat, in the corner farthest from the door
Where the Orthodox place
their holy icons. Yankel had seated
Him there; clearly he held the Bernardine
in high esteem.
No sooner he'd observe the friar's ebbing cup than he'd run
Up and have it topped up with last summer's mead;
Rumor had it they'd
chummed around in their youth abroad.
Father Grubb paid nocturnal visits to
the tavern and held
Secret commerce with the Jew on various pressing
matters;
In contraband, some thought, but this merited no credence.
Hunched over the table sat Grubb, holding forth quietly.
A
throng of gentry-folk encompassed him, straining their ears,
Noses bent over
his snuff-box; each took a pinch,
Then barked our petty squirearchy like a
battery of mortars.
"Reverendissime!" snorted Skoluba, "Now there's
stuff
That goes straight to the tip of your head. Never in all
My born
days has this beezer of mine sniffed the like!"
Here he stroked his long nose
and sneezed again.
"Genuine Bernardine snuff! Of Kovno provenance no
doubt,
World-famous for her snuff and mead. I was in that town
Once; when
was it now?" "Good health!" broke in Grubb,
"Good health to you all, my noble
sirs; as to the snuff, well,
It comes from farther afield than our friend
Skoluba supposes:
From Jasna Gora--is more like it. The Pauline Fathers
grind
This tobacco in Czestochova where stands the wonder-working
Icon of
our Blessed Mother, Queen of the Polish Crown,
Grand Duchess of Lithuania as
she's called even now.
Doesn't the royal crown still repose on her
head?
How come then a schismatic Tsar rules over the Duchy of Litva?"
"Czestochova, you say?" struck up Vilbik, "I went there
To
make my confession, on a pilgrimage, some thirty years ago.
Is it true the
Frenchman lodges there now; is out to raze
The church and rifle its treasury?
The Lithuanian Courier claims
It's so." "Not true!" countered the friar, "His
Majesty
Napoleon's your exemplary Catholic; our Pontiff anointed
him
Himself. They see eye to eye, and together they're restoring
The faith
of France which has admittedly decayed of late. It's true
Czestochova's
friars have handed over a good deal
Of their silver to the nation's treasury,
for the sake our homeland;
The Lord Himself decrees it! His altars have
always served
As Poland's bursary. A hundred thousand
patriots--soon
There'll be more--stand under arms in the Duchy of
Warsaw;
Who's to pay for it, eh? I say it's you, the citizens of
Lithuania!
Why, now you're merely dropping coins into Moscow's
coffers."
"Deuce take it!" roared Vilbik, "Even that they take
By main
and might" "Reverend Father!" spoke up a meek
Little rustic, scratching and
bobbing his head at the priest,
"The gentry folk suffer, ay, but not half as
bad as us; why
They fleece us to the bone." "Silence, you bumpkin!" bawled
Skoluba, "You have it easier; you yokels are used to being
Skinned like
eels, but we born-and-bred gentry-folk,
We esquires, I say, are accustomed to
our golden liberty!
Yes, brothers, in the old days 'the gentlemen on his
croft...'
("We know, came the chorus, 'struts with his cap
undoffed!'")
These days they impugn our pedigree and make us frisk
Through
papers to prove our noble birth." "Easier for you,
Sir!" yelled Yurakha,
"your sires were but ennobled swains.
But I spring from princes! Futile to
search for a patent;
God only knows when we were nobled! Might as
well
Tell the Muscovite to go into the forest and ask the oak
Who granted
it a patent to lord it over the shrubs."
"Preen your feathers as you like, O
Prince," broke in Zagiel,
"But there's more than one house that bears a
coronet."
"Your bearings show a cross," cried Podhayski, "a
veiled
Allusion to the fact that a converted Jew graces your
pedigree."
"Lies!" roared Birbasz, "I'm from a line of Crimean counts
Yet
my noble crest bears crosses over a galleon, full-sailed."
"The White Rose,"
cried Mickiewicz, "crowned, on a field
Of gold: now that's a princely crest!
Consult your Stryjkowski;
You'll find he makes frequent mention of
it."
Whereupon
A great murmuring broke out throughout the tavern.
Grubb turned to his snuff-box. He proffered a pinch to each;
In no time
at all the clamor ceased as out of courtesy
They inhaled a few pungent grains
and fired off a salvo.
Profiting from this interlude, the Bernardine
resumed:
"I tell you, many a great nostril has sniffed from this
box;
General Dombroski's for one. Four snorts I believe
He's had!" "Not the Dombroski?" they queried, wide-eyed.
"The
very one, the general. I was in his camp when he took Gdansk
From the Kraut.
He had something to write. Afraid of dropping off,
He took a pinch and
sneezed; then clapping me on the shoulder
Twice, 'Father Grubb," he said, "if
all goes well, we'll meet
In Lithuania before the year is through. Be sure
her sons
Are there to greet me with this Czestochova snuff, no
other.'"
Such amazement, such joy the friar's words aroused,
That for a
moment the entire boisterous assembly fell silent;
Soon half audible whispers
arose: "Snuff, he says?
From Poland? Czestochova? Dombroski? From
Italian
Lands?" Till at last thought fused with thought,
Word with word,
and all, as though on a cue, struck up
In unison, "Dombroski!" Melded by that
single roar
They fell in a common embrace: Crimean Count clasped
The
rustic; Coronet, the Cross; Rose, the Griffin; Griffin,
The Galleon. All was
consigned to oblivion, even the friar.
One clamorous refrain was all you
could hear: "Holla!
Bring vodka, mead and wine!"
Grubb let them warble on;
Finally, in a bid to cut them off, he took up his
snuff box
In both hands and broke up their anthem with a sneeze.
Before
they could tune up again, he hastened to speak:
"You find my snuff
praiseworthy, eh, noble sirs?"
But take a look at the box and see what goes
on inside."
With a handkerchief he wiped the dust from inside the lid
To
reveal what looked like a cluster of flies: a minuscule painted
Army.
Striding a charger in the left big as a beetle,
Sat a man, evidently the
commander; one hand
Tugging at the reins, as though rearing the steed
skyward,
The other hand raised to his nose. "Now, he said,
Look well at
that awesome figure; guess whose?
All peered at it, intrigued. "I'll give
you a clue: a great man,
An Emperor, but not of the Muscovites; you'll never
see
Their tsars snorting snuff." "A great man in a capote?
Bellowed
Cydzik, "Great people strut about in gold;
Take your Russkies, reverend,
their plainest general glitters
Gold like a saffroned pike." "Nay," broke in
Rymsza,
"As a lad I saw Kosciuszko, our nation's commander-in-chief;
A
great man he was, yet he went about in a peasant's caftan,
A czamara, that
is." "Czamara my eye, sir!" snorted
Vilbik, "it's called a taratatka." "A
czamara comes with braids
And fringes," yelled Mickiewicz, "your taratatka's
all plain
And smooth." Right away quarrels broke out on the various
Cuts
of frock and coat. . .
Seeing the talk so disperse, the artful Grubb coaxed
The
throng back to the campfire--to his snuff box.
Once more he handed round his snuff. They sneezed,
Wished each
other health, and the friar resumed his theme:
"When Emperor Napoleon takes
his snuff, pinch by pinch,
It's a sure sign the battle's progressing well.
Take Austerlitz,
For instance: the French stand unflinching by their field
cannons.
A swarm of Muscovites presses in on them. The Emperor
Watches in
silence. Each salvo of the Frenchmen's canons
Cuts a broad swath through
Ivan's regiments. Regiment
After regiment gallops up and tumbles from its
saddles.
As each one falls, the Emperor takes a snort. Finally,
Alexander,
his brother Constantine and the German Emperor
Franz hightail it from the
field; and Bonaparte, seeing the battle
In his pocket, laughs out and flicks
the snuff from his fingers.
So if any of you fellows present here gets to
serve in the Emperor's
Grande Armee, be sure to bear this peculiarity in
mind."
"Alas, dear Father," called out Skoluba, "when will this
be!?
All those feast days in the year, and each time they promise
The
French will come. We strain our eyes and stare until
We blink, and still the
Muscovite grips us firmly by the neck;
Before the sun rises, as the saw goes,
the dew will dim our eyes."
"Come, sir," replied the Bernardine, "grousing's for
grannies;
Let the Jew stand around, arms folded, till somebody
Arrives and
knocks at his tavern door. For Bonaparte
It's no trick to trounce old Ivan
Ivanych, why he's tanned
The Swabian's hide three times already; hasn't
he
Drubbed the Prussian and flung the English back across
The sea? Oh
he'll attend to Ivan all right. But what'll
Come of it, my good sir? That's
what I want to know:
So Lithuania's squires mount up and take up the
sword
When there's no one left to fight. Having done it all
himself,
Napoleon's sure to say: 'I got along without you, sirs,
So who
are you?' Not enough, sirs, to expect the guest and send
Out invitations;
you have to summon your servants and carry
Out the tables. Before the feast
you have to clean the house,
Clean the house; I say it again, my hearts,
clean the house!"
There was silence. Then murmurs arose: "Clean the house?
How's
that? What does he mean by that? they said,
We'll do anything, reverend
father, we're prepared for anything,
Only be so good as to make your meaning
clear."
Just then Grubb looked out of the window and signaled
For
silence. Something curious seized his attention: he stuck
His head out of the
window then rose to his feet, saying:
"No time now, we'll have more to say on
this later.
Tomorrow I've business in town, sirs; I'll be dropping in on
each
Of you on the way, counting on your largesse for alms."
"Be sure to spend the night at Niehrymov, Father,
called
The steward, the Esquire Ensign will be delighted; why it's an old
Saw in Lithuania, 'Niehrymov will skim off its cream for its
clerics!'"
"And drop in on us, if you will," said Zubkoski, "you can
count
On a roll of linen, a firkin of butter, a fatted calf
Or sheep:
remember the saying, 'Zubkovo's your depot!'"
"And don't forget us!" roared
Skoluba. "Or us," cried
Terayevich,'No Bernardine but greased his gills at
Putsevich.'"
With such pleas and pledges the gentry plied the
begging
Friar as he made his steady way to the tavern door.
It was Thaddeus he'd seen from the window: riding
full-tilt
Down the high-road; hatless, head bent low, pale
And
sullen-faced. Spur and crop he applied mercilessly.
Alarmed by this sight,
Grubb gathered up his cassock
And made smartly for the forest brooding on
the horizon.
Who has searched the soundless depths of Litva's forests
To
their innermost recesses, their very vitals? The fisherman
From his shore
never plumbs the bowels of the deep; the hunter
Skirting Litva's wilderness
knows but its outward form
And face. Unknown to him the inner secrets of its
heart;
What happens there is known to fairy-tale alone.
Plunge into those forests and close-knit thickets, you strike
Up against a massive palisade of boles, stumps and roots.
Fortifications
abound: quaking bogs, a thousand streams,
Dense undergrowth, ant-heaps,
wasps' and hornets' nests,
And writhing snakes. Those who by superhuman
efforts
Brave this barrage and penetrate deeper, run into still
greater
Peril: small pools lurk underfoot like wolves' lairs
Half
overgrown with grass, unfathomably deep (they say
Devils lurk there). Their
rusty, blood-stained waters
Gleam with a lurid sheen as fetid vapors billow
up
From their depths: a pestilence stripping the compassing tress
Of leaf
and bark. So, with their bare, stunted, wormy,
Moss-matted branches, and
bearded trunks hunchbacked
By grotesque fungi, stand these trees about the
pools--
A huddling coven of witches boiling a corpse in a caldron.
Futile--for foot and eye alike--to venture further:
A
perpetual, all-enveloping mist rises out
Of the quaking bogs. Beyond these
vapors, they say, lie
Fair, fertile regions: the veritable capital city
Of
the plant and animal kingdom. Seeds of all the trees
And herbs are laid up in
store there; from these seeds
Sprout all the species of the world. Like
Noah's ark the city
Holds at least a brood-pair of every race of beast.
In
the very heart (the fable goes) stand the palaces of
The ancient Auroch, Bison and Bear, emperors of the
forest;
Like watchful ministers-of-state, the Fleet-eyed Lynx
And glutton
Wolverine roost in the neighboring trees;
Boar, Wolf, horned Elk, the feudal
vassals,
Dwell in the outlying fiefdoms, while overhead soar
The courtly
talebearers, the wild Eagle and Falcon,
Living off the banquet tables of
their liege lords.
Concealed within the wilderness, unseen by the world,
These
archetypal pairs of beasts disperse their offspring
As settlers abroad, while
they live out their lives in peace
And contentment. No side- or firearm
smites them down;
The old meet a natural death. They even have their
own
Burial ground where, nearing death, the fowl reposes
His feathers, the
four-legged beast, his fur. So, Bruin,
Whose molars lack strength to grind
his sustaining victuals,
The grizzled roebuck scarcely able to stir his legs,
The greybeard hare, his blood congealing in his veins,
The raven, now
hoary of quill, the falcon now failing
Of eye, the eagle, his ancient beak
bent like a trigger-
Guard, closed forever, unable to gorge his
throat--
All of them head for the cemetery. Even the lesser beasts,
Sick
or maimed, return to sleep in their grandsires' haunts;
That is why no trace
of dead beasts' bones is ever
Found in the places frequented by men.
It's
noised about
That the animals in this metropolis enjoy self-government;
Thence spring their genial customs. Unspoiled as yet
They are by human
civilization--ignorant of the laws
Of property which embroil our world. No
dueling,
No art of war they know. As lived the sires in paradise,
So live
today their scions: tame and wild--all
Thrive in peace and harmony. No fang,
no horn wreaks
Mutual harm. And even were an unarmed man,
To stumble on
those parts, scatheless he'd pass through
Their midst: the wild beasts would
gaze on him with the same
Look of awe as when, on that final, sixth day of
creation,
Their grandsires in the Garden gazed on Adam--before the Fall
Set them at strife. Happily, men never stray
Into those haunts: Toil,
Care and Death bar the way.
Yet it is known to happen that hounds, hot on the trace,
Rashly
blunder through the pitfalls, bogs and moss.
Stricken by the sight of these
dread regions, they flee, mad-
Eyed, yelping, from that place; and long
afterwards, under
The master's gentle hand, tremble, bristling at his
feet.
In the sportsman's tongue, this inner sanctum of the
forest,
Uncharted by men, goes by the name of heartland.
Foolish bear! Had you but remained in the heartland,
never
Would Grechekha Woyski have learned of your whereabouts;
The scent
of the apiaries lured you?-- a yen for ripe oats?
Who knows! You strayed out
to the forest's edge
Where the trees grow sparser, and there the forester
discovered
Your presence. Right away he dispatched his cunning spies,
The
beaters, to reconnoitre your sleeping and grazing grounds.
Grechekha has
marshaled his ranks, cut off your retreat.
Just now Thaddeus had learned that but a brief while ago
The
bloodhounds had plunged into the fathomless forest.
Silence.--To no avail the hunters strain their ears;
In vain
each listens to the reigning silence as though
Spellbound by the most
eloquent speech. Long they stand,
Stock-still, expectant: the music of the
wilderness is all
They hear. The hounds plunge like divers through the
bush;
The marksmen watch Grechekha, their twin-barrels trained
On the
forest. He stoops, puts his ear to the ground: as friends
Of an ailing loved
one strive to read the verdict of life
Or death in the physician's face, so
the shooters, trusting
In the Woyski's skill, fix on him their anxious
gaze.
"He's here! He's here!" he whispers softly, leaping to his
feet,
"He's coming this way!" The others strain their ears--
Now all's
within earshot: a hound bawls out, then two,
Then twenty; all at once the
entire scattered pack
Takes up the scent, gives tongue, and is hot on the
trace.
A chorus of howls and bayings! Not the long, drawn-out
Clamor of
hounds on the trace of a hare or hind or fox
But a frequent, furious,
staccato yelping. No longer
On the scent of distant quarry, the hounds hunt
by sight.
The tumult stops--they have him! The din picks up
afresh:
Howls!--the beast fights back, and evidently wreaks harm;
Amid
that canine clamor, more and more whines
And whimpers of a mortally-clawed
hound reach the ear.
Our Nimrods stand their ground, each with his gun at the
ready:
Torso tensed like a bow, head bent toward to the forest.
But they
cannot resist the urge: one after another deserts
His post and darts into the
bush; all eager to be the first
To stand down the quarry. Futile Grechekha's
admonitions!
In vain on horseback he circles the positions with
threats
That the next to leave his post, squire or simple peasant,
Will
feel the lash on his shoulders--all to no avail.
Despite his order, more
shooters break ranks for the woods;
Three guns boom out at once, then an
entire cannonade,
Till over the din of the shooting, filling the entire
forest,
The roar of the bear resounds. An awesome roar!--of pain,
Of fury
and despair--followed by a caterwaul of baying hounds,
Hunters' shouts and
beaters' horns. More shooters dash
Into the forest, others cock their pieces, all of them in
transports
Of delight. All, that is, except for a head-shaking Grechekha--
"Bloody idiots!" he shouts, "They've let 'im slip the sweep."
One way
run the beaters and stalkers to head off the beast
From wooded ground; while
Bruin, frightened by the throng
Of men and dogs, doublebacks to terrain less
sedulously
Guarded--toward the fields now deserted by the marksmen;
Apart
from a clutch of beaters stationed there, only
Three shooters remain:
Grechekha, Thaddeus and the Count.
Sparser here the trees; from deep within they hear
A roar and
the sound of cracking timber; then out
Of the brushwood, like a bolt from the
clouds, bursts the bear.
All around him race the hounds, harassing him,
tearing
At his heels. He rears up on his hind legs and gazes
about,
Terrifying his foe with his roars. Tree-roots he rips up
With his
forepaws; scorched stumps, sunken boulders
He grasps and hurls at man and
beast. Finally he smites
Down a tree, and brandishing it left and right like
a bludgeon,
Makes straight for the beaters' remnant guard-- Thaddeus and the
Count.
Unflinching they stand their ground, train their flint-locks
On the
advancing beast . So a brace of lightning rods
Points toward the bosom of a
rumbling cloud. Then--
O guileless youth!--simultaneously they drop their
cocks;
Both pieces smoke at once. They miss. The bear springs up;
Two
pairs of hands seize a single pike-staff speared
To the ground. They wrestle
for it, look up, see the monstrous
Red snout with its double tier of flashing
fangs.
A great clawed paw sweeps down on their heads: they pale,
Jump
back, and bolt for the sparse bush, the beast on their tail.
Up he rears, he
lunges--swipes wide, then bounds up
And rears again: his swarthy paw takes
aim at the Count's
Blond scalp. He would have dashed the brains from his
skull,
Like hat from head--right there on the spot--had not Bolesta
And
the Assessor then sprung up from the flanks. Gervasius
Was ahead of them,
five score paces away; the Bernadine friar
Close by, weaponless--all three
fired in the same instant
As though on command. The bear vaulted up like a
hare
Before a pack of hounds, and crashed headlong to the ground,
His
bloody carcass cartwheeling right by the Count, bowling him
Off his feet.
Still he roared, strove to rise, when horrid-hackled
Constable and
implacable Mouthpiece pounced on him.
Then Grechekha grasped his
leather-strapped buffalo horn:
Long it was, all coiled and patterned like a
boa constrictor;
With both hands he pressed it to his lips, swelled his
cheeks
Balloon-like--eyes bloodshot, half-closed--he drew in
His belly to
half its size; then filling his lungs with its full
Reserves of wind, winded
the horn: on a gale's irresistible
Gust it carried the music echoing into the wilderness.
The huntsmen fell silent. Marveled the stalkers at the
strength,
The purity, the peculiar harmony of the song. Once again
The old
man regaled the hunt with all the art for which
He'd earned celebrity in the
forests of bygone days.
In a trice he filled, quickened the stands of beech
and oak:
As if the kennel gate he'd flung open and commenced
The hunt.
His horn concert embraced the history of the chase:
First a sprightly
flourish: reveille and the call to sport;
Then a series of whining sounds:
the bay of hounds--
Followed by staccato booming notes: the crack of
carbines.
He stopped--yet the horn remained at his lips; it seemed to
all
He was winding still; not so, it was the echoes responding.
He blew again. You'd swear the horn were changing
shapes,
Growing thinner and thicker, mimicking the call of the beasts;
Now
craning like the wolf's neck, howling fiendishly,
Now swelling and roaring
like the brown bear's gorge;
Then rending the air with the bison's
bawl...
He stopped--yet the horn remained at his lips; it seemed to
all
He was winding still; not so, it was the echoes responding.
The oak picks up that masterpiece of horn-blowing, bole
To
bole repeats it, beech to beech...
Grechekha winds again: you'd swear the horn contained
A hundred
horns. You hear the tumult of the chase, cries
Of wrath and alarm, huntsman,
pack and quarry; till finally
He lofts the horn: the triumphant paean smites
the clouds.
He stopped--yet the horn remained at his lips; it seemed to
all
He was winding still; not so, it was the echoes responding.
As many trees that stand, so many horns fill
The forest; as
choir to choir, so tree to tree relays
The hymn: ever broader, ever higher
soars that music;
Ever softer, ever purer, ever more perfect, until at
last
It melts in the regions of the air at the very gates of
paradise!
Grechekha withdrew both hands from the horn; it dropped
And
swung by its leather thong. All radiant, his face swollen,
He stood like one
inspired, striving still to catch the final
Fading tones. Then rang out a
thunderous applause,
A thousand vivats and felicitations from as many
throats.
Gradually the tumult subsided. Turned the eyes of the hunt
To
the bear's enormous fresh carcass. There it lay,
Blood-bespattered and pierced with shot; the matted torso
Sunk
and entangled in the dense herbage. Spread-eagled
He lay there, still
breathing, blood streaming from his nostrils;
Stirred his eyelids still, but
the head no longer moved;
The Chamberlain's English bulldogs clung to his
throat,
Constable at his left, and looming on his right, Mouthpiece,
Sucking at his jugular, her gorge choking on the black
gore.
Seneschal Grechekha commanded an iron bar be inserted
Between
their teeth, and the vicious jaws prized open.
With their rifle-butts they
rolled the carcass over
And once again a triple "vivat!" smote the
clouds.
"Y'see?" cried the Assessor, twirling his fire-arm
By the barrel,
"Y'see, my little piece? Bully for us!
There, my bonny piece, songbird that
you are. Deuce,
Didn't we show 'em! Nothing new of course: she's
never
Been known to let fly a stray--a gift from Prince
Sanguszko
Himself!" He showed them his gun: small indeed but of
exquisite
Workmanship. He was listing its virtues when Bolesta, wiping
The
sweat from his brow, broke in: "Hold on a sec,
Here's my account: right on
the bear's tail I was
When Grechekha yells out: 'Stand where you are!' Now I
ask you,
How could I stand there? The bear was making for the open
field
At a rare bat. You'd swear he was a rabbit. Steadily forging
Ahead
he was, while I was running out of steam
And falling behind. Not a hope of
catching up. Then I glance
To my right: blowed if he isn't pelting back
through the thinning
Bush. I draw a bead on him, 'Freeze, Bruin!' I say
To myself, and basta!--dead as a doornail he lies. Noble
Piece! A genuine
Sagalasovka my gun is; take a look
At this here inscription: 'Sagalas London
à Balabanovka'.
(A famous Polish gunsmith made his home there: he fashioned
Polish guns but chose to embellish them in the English style.)"
"Bears, shmers!" snorted the Assessor, "Dammit all, man,
You'd
have us believe you killed him? Enough of your ravings."
"Listen, you,"
retorted Bolesta, "this ain't your police inquiry,
It's a hunt: and every
sportsman here I take for a witness."
A fierce quarrel erupts, with part of the throng taking
The
Assessor's side, another faction siding with Bolesta.
None gave a thought to
Gervasius; all were running up
From the flanks--too busy to notice what was
taking place
In front. Grechekha struck up: "Now here at least
Is grounds
for an affair of honor: no mere jack-rabbit this;
A bear's worth seeking
satisfaction over: sabre, pistol--
Take your pick. Your quarrel's hard to
settle, so according
To our ancient custom and usage we'll let you to fight a
duel.
"I recall in my day there were two neighbors, both
upstanding
Men, gentryfolk since time out of mind. On opposite banks
Of
the Vileyka they lived: one called Domeyko, the other, Doveyko.
In the same
instant they'd fired on a she-bear. Who felled her
Was hard to fathom. What
an awful broil ensued! They vowed
To face off across the bear-skin: now
there's gentryfolk
For you--all but barrel to barrel! The duel set the
neighborhood
Astir; songs were sung on it in my day. I was their
second.
How it transpired, I'll tell all from beginning to end."
But before Grechekha could begin, Gervasius settled the
matter.
On carefully circling the bear, he drew out his hunting-knife
And
cut the snout in two. At the rear of the skull he sliced
Open the lobes,
found and extracted a bullet; then wiping it
On his frock, measured the gauge
and applied the ball to his flint-
Lock. On the flat of his palm he held out
the projectile: "Gentlemen,
He said, "This was fired by neither one of you:
out of this
Single-barreled Horeszko piece it sped--here he raised
His
ancient firearm all wound in cord--yet it was not I
That fired it! Oh, that
needed courage! I shudder to recall it:
My eyes grew dim at the sight of the
two young gentlemen
Racing towards me--the bear right on their tail, just
inches from
Milordling's head; the very thought of it: the last of the
Horeszkos!--
Albeit on the distaff side. Jesus, Mary!--I yelled; and the
angels
Sent the Bernadine to my aid. The good friar has put us all
To
shame. Brave priest! As I trembled there, not daring to pull
The trigger, he
grabbed the piece from my hand, aimed and fired.
Imagine shooting between two
heads--at a hundred paces!--
Unerringly! Into his very jaws. Ay, there's
dentistry for you!
Gentlemen! Long I've lived and only one man seen
That could
pull off such a stunt: a man once famous among us
For the number of his
duels, one capable of sniping the heel
Off a lady's slipper, that lout of
louts, infamous in an age
Of fame--Jack, vulgo, the Whisker!--surname
better
Left unsaid. No more bear-chasing for him: I'll bet
My bottom
thaler that knave now roasts in Hell--right up
To his whiskers. Thank heavens
for the priest! Two men's
Lives he saved, maybe three: I am not given to
bragging,
But had the last scion of Horeszko blood fallen to those
jaws,
Gervasius late-lamented would be, the bear gnawing
On his brittle
bones. Come, Friar, we'll drink to your health!"
In vain they sought out the priest. All they learned was
this:
That after felling the bear, he'd lingered for a while, run
Up to
Thaddeus and the Count, then seeing them both safe
And sound, raised his eyes
heavenward, muttered a prayer,
And darted off like a hunted hind into the
open fields.
Meanwhile bracken, dry twigs and stumps were piled up
In a heap
at the Seneschal's bidding: a blaze erupts, a greyish
Pine of smoke sprouts
up, spreading out like a baldachin;
Now stands a trestlework of pike-staves
over the fire, broad-
Bellied copper kettles hang from the shafts;
horsecarts
Disgorge their store of flour, bread, roasts and joints.
The Judge unlocked a cavernous coffer containing rows
Of
upright white-headed flasks. The largest crystalline bottle
He selected (a
present from the friar himself)--Gdansk vodka!
The cherished spirits of
Poles: "Long live Gdansk!" he cried,
Raising the vessel, "The city was ours
once; soon may she be
Ours again!" And he decanted the silvery liquor by
turns
Until its gold-leaf dregs dripped and sparkled in the sun.
Bigos was on the boil; hard to express in words the
wondrous
Taste, the hue and gusty aroma of the huntsman's stew.
Words are
clanging cymbals, rhymes but serried sounds;
Their substance the townsman's
belly will never plumb.
To savor Litva's songs and victuals one needs robust
Health, country life and the stimulation of the hunt.
Yet even without such seasonings bigos is no ordinary dish:
Of
the finest vegetables it's skillfully prepared. Choucroute's
The base of it,
fine and tart à la polonaise, so toothy
As the saying goes, it makes its own
way to your lips;
Locked within a boiler, it simmers and broods over the
choicest
Morsels of game meat until every ounce of living essence
Is
coaxed out; till the steam spouts from the vessel's rim,
And the ambient air
becomes steeped with its exquisite odors.
The bigos is ready! Armed with spoons the hunters peal
A triple
vivat, then make for the kettles with lunges and prods:
The boom of copper,
the billowing steam, the bigos evaporates
Like camphor and leaves no trace;
only vapors belch
Up from the kettles which yawn like extinct volcano
craters.
Having eaten and drunk their fill, they hoisted the bear
On
the cart and mounted up. Mirthful and boisterous they were:
All save Bolesta
and the Assessor, now madder than ever.
They quarreled over their firearms'
merits, the one extolling
His Sanguszko, the other his Sagalasovka. Just as
disgruntled
Were young Thaddeus and the Count: they burned with shame
over
Their bungled shots and hasty retreat: in Litva, the disgraced
Jaeger
must work overtime to wipe the blot off his escutcheon.
The Count
insisted he was first to reach the spear; Thaddeus
Had prevented him from
facing the bear. The other claimed
He was stronger and more skilled at
wielding the heavy pike--
To relieve him of the task had been his aim. Such were the
nettling
Gibes they exchanged amid the chatter and yelling of the
cavalcade.
Grechekha the Seneschal rode in their midst. More jubilant
Than
ever was our worthy gaffer--and talked a blue streak.
Seeking to divert them
and heal the breach, he resumed his tale
Of Domeyko & Doveyko: "Mr.
Assessor, if I urged you to a duel
With Bolesta here, don't think I'm set on
seeing spilt blood;
God forbid! Diversion was my purpose. A species of
comedy
I had in mind: to revive a contrivance of mine of forty
Years
ago--O what a beauty! You're still young
And wouldn't remember it, but in my
day it caused quite a stir--
From our forests here--clear to Polesie's
wilderness.
"All Doveyko's and Domeyko's strife stemmed, strangely
Enough,
from the rather awkward similarity of their surnames.
When canvassing for
Domeyko during the local councils his backers
Whispered, 'Vote for Doveyko!'
The squire, not hearing right,
Would cast his ballot for Domeyko. When
Marshal Rupeyko
Raised his banquet toast, "Vivat Doveyko!' some would
Chorus, 'Domeyko!' while those in the middle could never
Make it out;
the more so as table-talk is less than articulate.
"It got still worse: in Vilna once, some squire--soûl comme
Un Polonais, as they say --received
two slashes in a brawl
With Domeyko. Quite by chance, on returning home from
Vilna,
This here squire runs into Doveyko on the ferry-boat; so there
They
are, sailing on the same craft down the Vileyka.
'Who's that?' he asks a
neighbor--'Doveyko' he's told;
Whereupon he whips his rapier from under his
fur-lined mantle:
Slash! slash!-- and Domeyko's whisker drops to the
deck--by proxy.
"Finally, adding insult to injury, a similar
confusing
Incident took place on the hunt. Standing side by side,
Our two
namesakes fired simultaneously on a she-bear.
True, she dropped dead on the
spot; but her belly had already
Been riddled with a dozen rounds, and since
several carried
Arms of similar gauge, well, you try and figure it
out!
"'Enough!' they cried, 'It's time to settle the matter once
And
for all. The Good Lord or Beelzebub joined us, what boot's it?
Time to put us
asunder: two suns--one sun too
Many for this world!' They take to their
sabers and places.
Both worthy gents they were. Try as the others might
To
lay the dust, all the fiercer flare up their mutual
Menacings. They change
their choice of arms: from swords
To pistols now. 'Too close!'--we yell. To
spite us all
They vow to stand off across the outstretched bear-skin.
Can
you believe it? Why that's all but point-blank--
Certain death!--and bloody good shots they were too!
'Grechekha, be our second!' they shout. 'Agreed,' I says,
'Bid
the sexton dig up a mound; an encounter of this kind
Can have only one
outcome. But fight like gentry-folk,
I say, not butchers; enough of this
close quarters dare-
Devilry. That you're brave lads I can see, but any
closer
And it'll be barrel to belly. I won't allow it; I agree to
pistols
But the stand-off may not take place any closer or farther
than
The span of the hide. As your chosen second, with my own two
Hands
I'll spread the bear-hide on the field of honor,
And I'll position you
myself: you, sir, will stand at one end--
At the tip of the snout; and you,
sir, at the tip of the tail'.
'Agreed! they yell, 'time?' 'Tomorrow.'
'Place?' 'Usha
Tavern!' They rode off; while I turn to my Virgil..."
Just then a cry cut him off--"Yoiks!"--A hare sprang up
From
right under the horses' hooves. Quick as a flash
Falcon and Bobtail tear off
in pursuit. Their masters
Had brought them along, on the good chance they'd
flush out
A hare on their way home across the field; leashless
They'd
loped alongside the horses. Now spying the beast,
Urged on by the huntsmen,
they bolted after him. The Assessor
And Bolesta would have followed suit, had
not Grechekha stayed
Them with a shout: "Stay your ground! Stop and watch! No
one's
To budge an inch. From here we can see it all; see?--
Our frisker's
heading for the grain." True, seeing the hunters
And hounds, the hare had
veered for the field, ears pricked up
Like a young buck's horns. Streaked
across the clod
That long, grey, resilient body; legs flung out
Like two
pairs of prongs. You'd swear they weren't
Stirring, barely grazing the
ground's surface; so swallows'
Beaks buss the water's face. A dust-cloud
behind him;
In its wake--the two dogs; hare, dust, hound
Seem to coalesce
into a single body sliding snake-wise
Across the plough: the hare its head;
the dust , its bluish
Coiling neck, the trailing hounds, its two-pronged
tail.
Mouths agape, Bolesta and the Assessor watch with bated
Breath.
Suddenly the Notary turns white as a sheet;
The blood drains from the
Assessor's face as well, as all
Begins to go horribly wrong: the further
slides that snake,
The longer it stretches, till it breaks in half. That
neck of dust
Dissolved. By now the head's in spitting distance of the forest;
The tail, way behind. The head vanishes: something tassel-like
Flickers
at the forest's edge, then fades; and snap!--the tail
Breaks off.
Poor
hounds! Stupefied they sniff
The forest's hem: as if conferring with one
another,
Imputing mutual blame. Finally they turn back, ears
Drooping, tails cleaving to their bellies. With lifeless
bounds
They re-cross the furrows. Loath to lift their sheepish
Eyes, up
they run, and stop short of their masters.
Bolesta drooped a sullen head, the Assessor, a dismal
Eye. Then
both begin to plead their case: their hounds
Were not used to hunting without
a leash. The flushing
Of the hare was too sudden; too rough the chase across
The plough. With all those jagged stones and boulders about,
You'd almost
need to put boots on those delicate pads.
Wisely the expert stalkers presented their case: the
others
Might have picked up a good number of useful pointers,
But no one
lent much of an ear. Some started to whistle,
Others chuckled out aloud. The
rest with the bear-hunt fresh
On their mind talked about precious little
else.
Grechekha scarcely deigned the hare a glance: seeing
It give
them the slip, he turned his head nonchalantly
And resumed his anecdote: "Now
where was I? Ah, yes.
I secured our gentlemen's word that they'd shoot
across
The span of the bear-hide. The gentry were up in arms:
'It's
certain death! Practically spout to spout!" As for me,
I smile to myself: my
old friend, Vergilius Maro, had
Given me food for thought: an animal hide's
no ordinary
Yardstick. Gentlemen, you must know the story of Queen
Dido;
how she arrived on the coast of Libya and there
After a good deal of haggling
secured for herself all the land
An ox's hide could compass. On that little
chunk of land
Carthage would stand! So that night I mulled the matter
over.
"At the crack of dawn, Doveyko's gig drives up from one
side
Domeyko on horseback from the other; and what do they see?
A shaggy
bridge spanning both banks of the river--
A belt fashioned of cut-up strips
of bear-skin. Domeyko
I stand at one end, and Doveyko at the other, at the
tip of the tail.
'Now pop away to your hearts' content" I say, "but
until
You bury the hatchet, you stay put, right here.
Oh, they fumed all
right; meanwhile the gentry hold their sides
With laughter, and the curate
and I hold forth aloud,
Drawing object lessons from the Gospels and Book of
Statutes.
No way out of it: they crack a smile, roar, and make their
peace.
"Their quarrel then led to a lifelong friendship:
Doveyko wed
Domeyko's sister, while Domeyko paired
Off with the sister of his
brother-in-law, Miss Doveyko.
They divvied up their estate into two equal
parts,
And on the spot where this bizarre incident took place,
They built
a tavern where swings the sign of 'The Little Bear'."
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the April 2000 issue
The
Sarmatian Review
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Last updated
7/15/00