Pan Tadeusz

This very moment, in a two-horse chaise, A youthful gentleman approached the gate, And traversing the courtyard came before The gallery. He lighted from the chaise. The horses, left there, ’gan to nip the grass Before the door, at leisure. Empty seemed The house; the doors were locked and fastened close With bolts and padlock. But the traveller Ran not unto the farm to call for servants; But oped the door, and ran into the house. He longed to welcome it, since he for long Had not beheld his home. For in the city Far off for education he had stayed; The end long waited for had come at last. He ran within, and eagerly he gazed, And tenderly, upon those ancient walls As old acquaintances. He viewed again The self-same furniture, same tapestry, With which he loved to play from swaddling-bands. But less of size it seemed, less beautiful Than formerly. And those same portraits hung Around the walls. There Kosciuszko, clad In the Cracovian czamara, raised His eyes to heaven, and grasped a two-hand sword; Such as when, on the altar-steps, he swore He with this sword would drive the despots three From Poland, or himself upon it fall. And further Rejtan sat, in Polish dress Grieving for freedom lost; he grasped a knife, The blade towards his breast; before him lay Phaedo and Cato’s life. Jasinski there A beautiful and sadly-looking youth; Beside him Korsak, his unsevered friend. They stand on Praga’s ramparts, over piles Of Muscovites, the foemen cutting down; But Praga burned already round them. Even The ancient clock with chimes the traveller knew In wooden case, at the entrance of the alcove.

Beneath the hedge long, narrow, convex hillocks, Without or trees, or flowers, or bushes, made A garden there for cucumbers; they grew Luxuriantly, with their large, wide leaves, Covering the beds, like carpet with deep folds. Among them walked a damsel, clothed in white, Plunging in green luxuriance to her knees. Down-bending in the furrows from the beds, It seemed she walked not, but she swam through leaves, While bathing in their colour. She had veiled Her head with a straw hat, and from her brow Two rosy ribbons waved, and some bright curls Of loose dishevelled tresses. In her hand She held a basket; she cast down her eyes, And lifted her right hand, as though to seize; Like to a child who bathing chases fishes That play around her feet; so she each moment With hand and basket bent down for the fruit, Struck by her foot, or by her eye perceived.

The Count, enchanted by such wondrous sight, Stood silent. Hearing trampling from afar, Of his companions, with his hand he signed To them to stay their horses; and they stayed. He gazed with stretched neck, like a long-beaked crane, Far from the flock, as sentry on one leg Standing, with watchful eyes, and not to sleep, Holding a stone within his other claw.

Simple he was, but strongly could he feel The charms of nature; on his native forest Looking, he spoke with inspiration full: “I have seen those celebrated trees at Wilna, In the botanic garden, those that grow In the east, and south, and in that beautiful Italian land. But which of them can be Compared with our trees? Can the aloe, with Long rods, like a conductor? or the citron, A dwarf with golden balls, with lacquered leaves, A short and dumpy thing, like a short woman, Ugly, but rich? or can that much-praised cypress, Long, thin, and lean? It does not seem the tree Of sadness, but of weariness. They say That it looks very sad upon a grave. ’Tis like a German lackey in court mourning, Who dares not lift his hands, or turn his head, Lest he should sin against court etiquette.

“Is not our honest birch-tree fairer far, Like peasant-woman weeping for her son, Or widow for her husband; wringing hands, While the long streams of her dishevelled hair Fall o’er her shoulders down unto the ground? Mute with her sorrow, yet how speakingly Her form seems sobbing. Wherefore then, Sir Count, If you love painting, paint you not our trees, Among which you are sitting? In plain truth, The neighbours will make jest of you, that while You live upon the fertile Litvin plain, You only paint some sort of rocks and deserts.”

The Count and Telimena looked on high, And Thaddeus pointed with one hand the cloud, The other pressing Telimena’s hand. Some moments passed by in this silent scene. The Count spread out his paper on his hat, And drew his pencil forth. Then to their ears Tormenting, loud the bell resounded, and The stilly wood at once was full of shouts And noise. The Count said in a solemn voice, Nodding his head, “Thus fate is used to end All things on earth by ringing of a bell. The calculations of great minds, and all Imagination’s plans, and innocent Pastimes, and friendship’s pleasures; the outpouring Of tender hearts. When far off roars the bronze, All is confused, and broken off, and troubled, And vanishes!” And here on Telimena Casting a tender glance, “What shall remain?” And she replied to him, “Remembrance stays.” And wishing somewhat to alleviate The sadness of the Count, she plucked, and gave To him a blossom of forget-me-not. This the Count kissed, and pinned unto his breast. And Thaddeus on his side, now open bent A green bush, seeing through it something white Winding towards him; ’twas a little hand, White as a lily; this he seized, and kissed, And silently his lips upon it dwelt, As a bee plunges in a lily’s cup. Upon his lips he felt a something cold. He found a key, and a white paper folded In trumpet-shape; it was a little note. He seized and hid them in his pocket; what The key should mean he knew not, but that white Paper would unto him explain the whole.

in another’s Mansion; a Klucznik is no screech-owl; he Who creeps by night to strangers’ garrets is A screech-owl, and I’ll frighten him away.”

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

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