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.