The Count’s expedition into the orchard –
A mysterious nymph minding the geese –
How mushroom pickers resemble Elysian shades –
Species of mushrooms – Telimena in the Temple of Reverie –
A discussion about Tadeusz’s future –
The Count as landscape artist –
Tadeusz’s artistic remarks about trees and clouds –
The Count’s thoughts on art – A bell – A note –
Sir, there’s a bear!
On his ride home, the Count kept slowing—pausing—
Turning back to the garden—gazing and gazing.
He thought in an upstairs window he caught sight
Of that mysterious dress—saw something white
Come fluttering down and leave the house, and fly
Across the yard in the twinkling of an eye
Then flit about by the lush cucumber bed
As a sunbeam, creeping from behind a cloud,
Will light a shard of flint in the soil, or glitter
Across the top of some far patch of water.
The Count dismounted, sent his servants home
And tiptoed stealthily back the way he’d come.
Squeezing through a small gap in the fence, he crawled
Into the garden like a wolf into the fold.
By accident he brushed against a whirl
Of old dry gooseberry plants. The gardener girl
Looked up in fright; though nothing seemed amiss
She fled across the garden just in case.
Amid huge dock leaves, on his hands and knees
Or hopping like a frog, by small degrees
The Count crept closer, till, peering from under
A burdock stalk, he saw a thing of wonder.
Here in the garden, under a cherry tree
Or two, were crops that were mingled purposely:
Wheat, corn, beans, barley with its whiskery hair,
Peas, millet—even shrubs and flowers grew there.
This special plot for poultry had been created
By a butler’s wife—a matron celebrated
All over; Klukski was her name (née Henskiewicz).
Her concept brought new thinking then
To household husbandry; of course today
It’s commonly known, but once was a novelty
Adopted in secret by a chosen few,
Till it was published in the Almanac as New
Solutions to Hawks and Kites: An Innovation
In Poultry-Rearing—this place was its foundation.
Picture the rooster: motionless, vigilant,
Beak elevated, combed head held aslant
The better to turn an eye toward the sky.
The second that he spots a hawk on high
He’ll raise the alarum, causing a stampede
Of chickens, and geese, and peafowl—all in need
Of refuge in the garden—doves too, querulous
Now that their rooftop perch is rendered perilous.
Today the heavens were void of enemies—
Of all but the summer sun’s outrageous blaze.
The grain gave several birds a shady roost
While others sat on the grass, or bathed in dust.
Amid the birds’ heads, human heads were there—
Bare to the sun, small, with short flaxen hair,
Uncovered necks and shoulders; and among them
A long-haired girl a whole head taller than them.
Beyond the little ones a peacock stood,
Its tail a colored rainbow splash, outspread
To make a gorgeous background blue and bright
For all the small blond heads; they took on light,
Ringed as they were with peacock eyes that seemed
Like garlands strung with stars, and each head gleamed
Like a magic lantern slide amid the yellow
Of cornstalks, coral-pink mercury, green mallow
And blades of silver-striped canary grass;
The shapes and colors mingled there crisscross
Like gold and silver trelliswork. The breeze
Set it all swaying like the finest gauze.
Above the bright-hued snarl of shoots, stems, sprays,
There hung like a baldachin a close-knit haze
Of dragonflies. Their four wings float in air—
Transparent as glass, weightless as gossamer,
Almost invisible; though they produce
A buzzing sound, you’d swear they’re motionless.
The girl held in her hand a tufted thing
Like a swaying ostrich feather. Brandishing
This object, she dispelled the golden swarm
Of dragonflies from the children’s heads. Held firm
In her other hand was something bright and hard—
Something for feeding children, it appeared,
For she placed it to each little mouth in turn.
It had the shape of Amalthea’s horn.
Thus busy, still she turned her head to where
The gooseberry bush had rustled—unaware
That the intruder had by now drawn close
The other way, slipping snakelike through the grass.
Suddenly: out he popped. She looked—he stood
Four rows away, in the burdock leaves. He bowed.
She turned away, she raised her arms, and—poof!—
Just like a startled jaybird, she flew off,
Her light feet flitting over leaves and gravel.
But the children, panicked by the new arrival
And the girl’s flight, set up an awful wailing.
She realized it would be a serious failing
To leave the frightened children all alone,
So—reluctantly—she did what must be done,
Came back to them, like an unwilling ghost
Drawn by a spell. The child crying the most
She took on her lap; she stroked another’s hair
Till they calmed down, their tiny hands secure
Around her knees. Hearing her gentle words,
They pressed their heads to her like little birds
Under their mother’s wing. “Is it nice,” she said,
“To wail so? The gentleman will be afraid.
He doesn’t frighten us—he’s no scarecrow, see?
He’s our fine guest—as handsome as can be.”
She herself looked. He gave a friendly smile,
Visibly grateful that she spoke so well
Of him. She saw, fell silent, lowered her eyes
And went as red as the reddest rose there is.
He was indeed handsome—of imposing height,
With an oval face, his cheeks healthy yet white,
Mild, deep blue eyes, and long flowing fair hair
In which the leaves and grass blades—gathered there
As he’d approached, trying to stay unseen—
Looked like a disheveled wreath of green.
Said he: “Whatever name you should be given—
Be it shade or specter, nymph or thing of heaven—
Speak! Were you brought to earth of your free will,
Or does another’s power keep you here still?
Fair one, I’m sure it’s some rejected suitor,
A wealthy lord, perhaps, or jealous tutor
Who holds you spellbound in this palace yard.
You should have paladins to be your guard!
And be the heroine of sad romances!
Tell me your cruel and secret circumstances!
You’ll have a rescuer—from now, just call.
You rule my heart—then rule my arm as well.”
He showed the arm.
The girl heard him red-faced,
But smiling also, like a child engrossed
As he watches colored pictures, or regards
The shiny counters used when playing cards,
Before he knows their worth—so was her ear
Charmed by fine words whose meaning was unclear.
Finally she asked: “Where did you come from, sir,
Here in the flower beds? What are you looking for?”
The Count, embarrassed and nonplussed, just stared
In silence, then, lowering his tone, declared:
“Pardon me, miss! I spoiled your games—I’m sorry.
You see, I found myself having to hurry
To breakfast at the manor; it was late,
And as you know, the road leads round about.
I thought I’d get there quicker through the garden.”
“You will, sir, but I wish you hadn’t trodden
Through the vegetable patch,” the girl said. “Just go straight,
Across the lawn.” “To the left or to the right?”
Asked the Count. The girl lifted her pale blue eyes
And studied him in curious surprise,
For the manor could be seen as plain as day
Half a mile hence—why would he ask the way?
But he was desperate for any excuse
To talk.
“Is it here you live? Or somewhere close?
In the village? How have I never noticed you
At the manor? You’re new here? Or just passing through?”
The girl shook her head. “Pardon the question, miss,
But is your room where that small window is?”
A heroine of romance she may not be,
He thought—but young and lovely, certainly.
So often some great spirit or mind that grows
In solitude, thrives like a forest rose.
Just bring it out and place it in the light
And it shines with a thousand colors, strong and bright.
Meanwhile the gardener stood in silent calm,
Picked up one child who hung upon her arm,
Took another’s hand and, shooing the rest together
Ahead of her like geese, she moved on further.
Turning, she said: “Sir, would you mind perhaps
Driving my poultry back among the crops?”
“Herd poultry? Me?” the Count exclaimed, dismayed.
By now the girl had vanished in the shade
Of trees; a pair of eyes flashed at an angle
A moment longer, from the Maytime tangle.
The Count stood long in the garden all alone;
His soul, like the earth after the sun’s gone down,
Was slowly cooling, acquiring darker tones.
He dreamed there, and his dreams weren’t pleasant ones.
He stirred, not knowing who he was angry at;
Alas, his expectations were too great!
As he’d been crawling toward the shepherdess
His head had been on fire, his heart no less.
He’d seen in her such sweet obscurities,
Cloaked her in wonders, read such mysteries!
He’d found reality quite different. True,
She was slim, and pretty—but so awkward too!
Round face and ruddy cheeks—such things express
Only a needless, vulgar happiness!
They show that the mind still sleeps, the heart’s unused.
Her speech—rustic and common! “Disabused!”
He cried. “Mistaken! Wonders never cease!
My enigmatic nymph watches the geese!”
With the nymph gone, the whole enchanting sight
Had changed: the ribbons, the lattice gleaming bright
With silver and gold—was all that merely straw?
Wringing his hands, the Count looked down and saw
A sheaf of bentgrass that was tied together,
Which he had taken for an ostrich feather.
Then there was Amalthea’s horn, that pure
Gold cup—it was a carrot, nothing more!
He saw the children biting it with glee.
So: no more wonders! No more mystery!
Like when a young boy sees a chicory flower
Whose pale soft blueness has a magnetic power
That makes him want to stroke it. He draws near,
Blows—and the flower bursts and scatters in air,
Leaving the curious youngster flowerless,
And clutching a naked stalk of dark green grass.
The Count pulled down his hat; he turned about
And set off back, though he chose a shorter route—
On vegetables, flowers, and gooseberries he walked
Till he hopped the fence with great relief. He’d talked
Of breakfast—what if all the others knew
Of his accidental garden rendezvous?
Were they looking for him? Had they seen him slinking
Hither and thither? What might they be thinking?
He should go back.
He sidled furtively
By bush and hedgerow, and field boundary,
Till at last he came out on the road that led
To the manor. He sauntered by the fence, his head
Turned from the orchard like a thief whose glance
Avoids a granary, hiding the fact he plans
To plunder it—or did already. Thus,
As if someone was watching—though no one was—
He looked away from the garden, to his right.
There was a birch grove here. Amid the white
Of tree trunks, on a lush green carpet, domed
By a canopy of May-decked boughs, there roamed
A strange-clad throng moving bizarrely, almost
As if they danced. Each truly was a ghost
Wandering the moon. Some wore tight black; some though
Were dressed in flowing robes as white as snow.
One is bare-headed; one wears a hat whose brim
Is broad as a carriage wheel; while others seem
Enwrapped in cloud—they sport a kind of veil
That streams behind them like a comet’s tail.
Each has a different pose; one’s glued to the ground,
His lowered eyes scouring the earth around.
One’s like a sleepy tightrope walker—gaze
Fixed firmly up ahead, he never strays
To left or right. All though are bending low
Every which way, as if in an endless bow.
When they approach each other, at their meeting
They never speak, nor say a word of greeting,
So lost have they become in their own heads.
The Count was minded of Elysian shades
Who, pain and worry left behind, now stray
Peaceful and quiet, yet somber in their way.
Who would have guessed these mute, slow forms to be
Our very own friends? The Judge’s company!
After their sumptuous breakfast, they’d been aching
To join the solemn rite of mushroom-picking.
Worldly they were, and could adapt their stance
And ways of speech to any circumstance
Of time or place. And thus, before they plunged
Into the woods led by the judge, they’d changed
Their clothing, and in general their look:
Each wore a straw hat, and a walking cloak
Of linen to protect their formal wear.
Hence the resemblance that they seemed to bear
To purgatorial souls. The young folks there
(Except for Telimena) had all changed too—
Some dressed à la française.
The Count, who knew
Nothing of these country ways, stood there dumbfounded,
Till suddenly—off toward the grove he bounded.
Mushrooms there were aplenty. The young men sought
The chanterelles Lithuanians sing about—
An emblem of virginity, as no worm
Will eat them, nor (strangely) insect land on them.
The ladies looked for the slim boletus known
In song as the mushrooms’ general. And one
And all were hunting milk caps—less auspicious
In size, less sung of, yet the most delicious,
In fall or winter, fresh or in marinade.
The Warden tracked toxic agarics instead.
Some mushrooms were spurned—they languished in disfavor
For being poisonous or lacking flavor,
Yet had their uses—as animal nourishment,
Or insect nests, or woodland ornament.
They stood like tableware in serried lines
On the meadow floor: here were the round designs
Of russulas in their silvers, yellows, reds,
Like goblets filled with wine of different shades;
Boletes, like upturned bowls amid the grasses,
and funnel mushrooms slim as champagne glasses;
White trumpets round and broad and flat, that seem
Like Meissen teacups filled with pure white cream;
While the round puffball, packed with blackish dust,
Was like a pepperpot. Others, unnamed, exist
Only in the speech of wolves, or hares;
Their number is uncounted. No one cares
To touch these mushrooms; they bend down to them
Then, seeing their mistake, they break the stem
Or crush them underfoot in their distaste.
How wrong to leave the forest so defaced!
But Telimena gathered neither kind.
She was distracted; bored; she looked around,
Her head tipped back. Annoyed, the Notary
Said she was looking for mushrooms up a tree;
The Assessor quipped that she resembled most
A hen seeking a cozy spot to roost.
She seemed to want to find tranquillity
And solitude; leaving the company,
She went through the woods to a hilltop offering shade
Beneath dense trees. In the middle a gray rock stood,
From under which a little brook came tinkling
Then, as if needing shelter, in a twinkling
It hid among the grasses on the bank
Which, watered by the current, grew rich and rank.
Here the quick, playful creature, cloaked in grass
And strewn with leaves, was calm and motionless,
Unseen and murmuring, like a child that’s crying
So its mother puts it in its cradle, trying
To calm it with curtains hung above the bed
And poppy leaves placed underneath its head.
Telimena came often to this place to sit.
The “Temple of Reverie” was her name for it.
She stopped, took off her flowing shawl that was
Red as carnelian, threw it on the grass,
And—like a swimmer who before she dares
To plunge into the chilly water, nears
The edge—she knelt, leaned to the side, and then,
As if the coral stream had drawn her in,
She dropped and stretched full length there. She lay propped
On elbows, hands holding a head that drooped
Over a book in French which she had brought
And which lay close, its vellum glistening white;
Above the alabaster page were twirls
Of her pink ribbons and of her black curls.
On her red shawl, with lush green grass beneath,
In a long dress that like a coral sheath
Showed up her hair at one end, each black shoe
At the other—to the sides the snow-white glow
Of stockings, kerchief, of face and arms—she looked
From afar like a bright caterpillar cocked
On a maple leaf.
And yet, sad to relate,
No one was present to appreciate
This picture; nobody paid heed to her,
So fixed on mushroom-picking they all were.
Tadeusz, though, saw. With many a sideways glance,
Not daring to go straight, he moved askance.
As a hunter in a wheeled blind makes his way
Toward a flock of bustards—or if his prey
Is plovers, hides behind his horse, his gun
Perched on the saddle or the creature’s mane
As if he were doing farm work, nothing more,
Yet closing in to where the birds all are:
So Tadeusz neared the stream.
But before he knew it
The Judge came scuttling up, and beat him to it.
The white tails of his gown frolicked and chased
In the wind, with the scarf knotted around his waist.
The straw hat tied beneath his chin was flopping
Like a burdock leaf from all the motion—dropping
Onto his back, or over his eyes. Unbowed,
Stout walking cane in hand, onward he strode.
Refreshing his hands in the stream, he sat himself
By Telimena, on a rocky shelf
And, both hands resting on the ivory
Of the cane’s grip, he had these words to say:
“You know, my dear, since young Tadeusz returned
There are some things that have me quite concerned.
I’m old, I have no children. That fine boy
Is all my consolation and my joy.
I’ll leave him what wealth I have. God willing, the lad
Will have a decent slice of country bread.
It’s time to plan his future generally.
But here’s the part that’s specially bothering me!
My brother Jacek, Tadeusz’s father, is,
As you know, a strange one; his goals are hard to guess.
He won’t come home; he’s hiding, Lord knows where.
He won’t even let his son know he’s still there,
Alive; yet he runs the boy’s life. At first he planned
That he’d join the legions—which worried me no end.
Then he agreed Tadeusz should stay here,
Get married. I even found a match, my dear:
Here in these parts, there’s not one citizen
Can rival the lineage of the Chamberlain.
His older daughter, Anna, is free, she’s pretty,
And she brings a handsome dowry. I was ready
To start proceedings.”
Here Telimena turned white;
She closed her book; she stood; resumed her seat.
“Honestly, brother,” she said, “Does that make sense?
Is God in your heart? Where’s the benevolence
In making him a rustic? All you’ll do
Is close up his world; he’ll end up cursing you,
Trust me, for burying his abilities
Out here among the wheat fields and the trees!
Because from what I’ve seen he’s a bright child.
He should acquire some polish, see the world.
Send him to some big city, that’s what you ought
To do. Warsaw perhaps? Or—here’s a thought—
What about Petersburg? This winter, no doubt
Business will take me there; we’ll figure out,
You and I, how best to fix things for him there.
I’ve many friends. I’ll pull some strings—make sure
He’s welcomed in every influential home.
Once he has connections, soon there’ll come
A civil service post, awards. In the end,
If he likes he can retire, come back to the land,
As a man of weight, who knows a thing or two.
What do you say?”
“When a fellow’s still young, it’s true,”
Said the Judge, “that it’s good to visit different places,
Get used to other sights and other faces.
Myself, I went all over in my youth—
To Piotrków, Dubno, Warsaw even—both
As a lawyer working in the circuit court
Or with regard to cases that I brought.
It did me good, I must say! Now in turn
I’d like to send my nephew off to learn
About the world, as a regular traveler—
A species of apprentice, as it were.
Though not for ranks or medals! No offense,
But all those Russian honors make no sense.
I mean, among the better-off gentry here
In the past—now too—whoever had a care
For things like that? Yet each boasts recognition
For birth, good name—and if for their position,
It’s one they won in local, fair elections,
Not something given by powerful connections.”
Telimena broke in: “Then send him traveling
If that’s what you want.” “Well, sister, here’s the thing:
Much as I’d like to, I’ve another bother,”
The Judge said with a rueful look. “My brother
Insists on minding Tadeusz. To this end,
From over the Vistula he’s sent a friend
To plague me—Robak, the Bernardine monk. This man
Knows Jacek’s mind. They already have a plan
For the boy’s future. They intend for him
To marry Zosia, your ward. The two of them
Will inherit my estate; plus, courtesy
Of Jacek, she’ll have a dowry that will be
In stock (he has stocks and shares, as you’re aware).
Thanks to his generosity, I’m almost there.
So it’s his right to make decisions here.
Think how best to bring it about, my dear.
They should get to know each other. I admit
They’re young, especially Zosia—but so be it.
The sheltered life she’s led can’t be maintained—
Her time of childhood’s coming to an end.”
Telimena was stunned, scared almost. Gradually
She rose to her knees. She’d listened attentively
At first, but then rejected what she heard,
Waving a hand to send back every word
Into the speaker’s mouth, as if they’d been
Troublesome flies.
“Here’s something new again!
She responded angrily. “What’s right or wrong
For Tadeusz, you can all decide among
Yourselves—he’s not my job. Make him a clerk,
Innkeeper, gamekeeper—whatever line of work
You think is best for him. But Zosia, brother—
Zosia’s another story altogether.
She’s not your business. Who she marries, I say,
Nobody else! Yes, Jacek chose to pay
For her upbringing, gave a small annuity;
And yes, he’s promised more, most generously—
But that doesn’t mean he owns her. And by the bye,
No one’s forgotten the reasons that underlie
All of the bounty the Soplicas show
The Horeszkos—you’re aware of what you owe.”
(The Judge was listening to her sorrowfully,
With great embarrassment, reluctantly;
As if fearing what would follow, he bent his head
And, assenting with a gesture, turned bright red.)
Telimena concluded: “Her dry nurse I was,
Her kin I still am—the only guardian she has.
No one but me will see she’s happily wed.”
The Judge looked up. “What if she’s happy,” he said,
“In such a match? What if she likes the boy?”
“Like him? The very idea! But either way,
To me it’s wholly immaterial.
Her dowry may be modest; but after all
She’s not some petty gentry from who-knows-where:
She’s of good birth. Her father was governor,
Her mother a Horeszko—she’ll find someone!
The upbringing she had was second to none!
Out here she’d run to seed.”
The Judge gazed at her,
Listening closely; he seemed to feel much better,
For he said quite cheerfully: “Oh well, too bad!
I meant to clinch the deal, I swear to God.
You have a perfect right not to say yes;
It’s sad, of course, but anger’s out of place.
I mentioned it since Jacek told me to,
But no one’s being forced; your answer’s no,
So I’ll write him that—through no fault of my own—
There’ll be no match between Zosia and his son.
I’ll handle it myself somehow—no doubt
The Chamberlain and I will work things out.”
Telimena meanwhile had cooled down. “Hold on,”
She said, “I’m not saying no to anyone.
You said yourself—they’re young, we can’t yet know.
It’s fine to wait—observe how it’ll go.
We’ll introduce them, see if things advance.
One mustn’t leave others’ happiness to chance.
But listen to me: don’t try and sway his course,
Or make him fall in love with her by force.
The heart’s no servant—it can’t be constrained
By any master; nor will it be enchained.”
The Judge stood up and left, preoccupied;
Tadeusz now approached from the other side.
Still feigning to look for where the mushrooms grew
The Count was moving slowly that way too.
During this conversation, the Count had been
Behind a tree, much taken with the scene.
Producing the pencil he always had with him
And leaning some paper on a handy limb
He said to himself as he began his sketching:
“Him on the rock, her on the grass—how fetching!
It’s like I’d specially posed them in their places.
A character study in contrasting faces!”
He wiped his lorgnette, kept pausing as he neared,
Fanned himself with his handkerchief, and stared.
“Will this delightful vision dissolve, or change,
If I should come within too close a range?
Will the velvet grass be merely beet and dock?
Will this nymph too turn out to be some cook?”
The Count had come across Telimena before
At the Judge’s house, but scarcely noticed her
During those times; when first he realized
She was his model, he was most surprised.
Her graceful pose, the elegance of her dress,
The lovely spot—he couldn’t have known her less.
Her recent anger still gleamed in her eyes;
Her face—given a freshness by the breeze,
Her quarrel with the Judge, and seeing the Count
So suddenly now—flushed more than it was wont.
“Ma’am,” said the Count, “Forgive my brazen attitude.
I’m here to apologize, and express my gratitude.
I’m sorry that I trailed you secretly
And thankful for witnessing your reverie.
I’ve so offended you! I owe you so!
I broke your chain of thought! And what I owe
Is blessed inspiration. Condemn the man
But please, forgive the artist if you can!
In fact, I sense this boldness in me growing.
What do you think?” He knelt and showed his drawing.
Telimena studied his efforts with much grace,
Though clearly she was a connoisseur. Her praise
Was sparing, but she encouraged him generously.
“Bravo!” she said. “You’ve great ability.
Though never forget: an artist has a duty
To seek out nature’s loveliness. Oh, the beauty
Of Italy’s skies! Of Rome’s imperial
Rose gardens! Tibur’s ancient waterfall,
Pausilippo’s fearsome tunnel! Now that’s a land
For art! This place is pitiful, my friend!
A child of the muses, sent to be raised out here
In Soplicowo, would die—that much is clear.
I’ll frame this, Count, or put it in my drawer—
I have an album there with many more.”
The talk then turns to azure skies, sea spume,
Sweet-smelling winds, and crags that tower and loom;
At times, as travelers tend to, they revile
Their homeland. Yet around them all the while
The Lithuanian woods stretch limitless—
North, south, east, west—solemn and beauteous!
Hackberries that garlands of wild hop enlace;
The rowan, ruddy as a shepherdess;
Hazels like maenads with green rods, a wreath
Of pearly nuts like grapes round each; beneath,
The woodland children—guelder rose embraced
By hawthorn, blackberry’s lips to raspberry pressed.
The trees and bushes hold leaves like hands, their stance
Like bridesmaids and their groomsmen set to dance
Around a wedding couple. From among
The rest, one pair is marked off from the throng
By charming hue and slender silhouette:
The hornbeam and the loving birch, his mate.
Next, gazing silently at all these riches
As if at their progeny, stand hoary beeches,
Matronly poplars, and one moss-whiskered oak
Who’s borne five centuries on his crooked back,
And rests, as on shattered tombstones, on a floor
Of the fossil forms of oaks that went before.
The talk, from which Tadeusz was excluded,
Bored him to tears. He paced about and brooded.
Then, when they came to foreign trees—heaped praise
On all they named: the walnuts, cypresses,
Orange and olive trees—said how very good
Were cactus and aloe, mahonia, sandalwood,
Lemon-trees, almond, ivy—each of them,
Even the fig—praised form, and flower, and stem—
Tadeusz harrumphed and snorted; in the end
His irritation could not be contained.
A simple fellow, he still felt nature’s draw
And said, moved by the native woods he saw:
“In Vilna once I toured the botanical garden
And saw those famous trees. But, begging the pardon
Of all your Orients and Italies,
Which of those kinds can match our local trees?
Not the aloe, with stalks like lightning rods. And not
The lemon tree, unnaturally short and squat,
With lacquered leaves and gold knobs, like a witch
Who’s short and ugly—yet happens to be rich.
Nor the vaunted cypress, tall and skinny—in brief,
More a tree of tedium than of grief.
It’s said to look sad at gravesides; but it’s like
Some German footman, stiff in mourning black,
Who doesn’t dare to raise his hands, or bend
His head, so that decorum be maintained.
“Our honest birch is surely lovelier—drooping
Like a countrywoman wringing her hands and weeping
For a dead son, or husband, hair unbound
And spilling from her shoulders to the ground!
Her grief is silent, yet so eloquent!
Since you’re so fond of art, Count, why not paint
These trees of ours that are growing all about you?
Believe me, the neighbors will end up laughing at you
That, living here on the lush Lithuanian plain,
You only draw cliffs and deserts, again and again.”
“Friend!” said the Count. “What natural beauty supplies
Is background, raw matter. The soul of the enterprise—
Shaped by both rules, and taste—is inspiration,
Which soars on the wings of the imagination.
For the artist, nature’s not enough, nor zeal;
He must ascend to realms of the ideal!
Not all that’s beautiful can be portrayed—
You’ll learn that in due course from what you read.
Now as for painting—a picture’s harmonies
Come from perspective, composition—and skies,
Italian skies! So it shall ever be
That the home of landscape art is Italy.
Aside from Breughel—the landscapist, that is,
Not Hellish Breughel as he was called (because
There were two of them), and Ruisdael, in the north
There wasn’t a single landscapist of worth.
Skies, skies are needed!”
Telimena broke in:
“The Polish painter Orłowski was akin.
(The Soplicas, you should know, have a disease—
For them, what isn’t Polish cannot please.)
He lived in Petersburg, close to the Tsar,
At court (I have his pictures in my drawer);
Spent his whole life in comfort, celebrated—
Yet his homesickness never once abated.
He’d always talk about his childhood, praise
All that was Polish—earth and sky and trees.”
“He was right!” exclaimed Tadeusz fervently.
“From what I’ve heard, those skies of Italy
All clear and blue—they look like stagnant water!
Wind and rain are surely so much better.
Look up right now: there’s ever so much to see.
The scenes in the clouds alone change constantly.
And each cloud’s different. In autumn time they crawl
At a snail’s pace, water-heavy; when the rains fall,
They plummet from sky to ground on every side
In slanting streaks, like braids of hair untied.
Hail clouds race by like wind-whipped balloons; they’re round,
Dark blue, with an inner yellow glow; the sound
Of roaring follows them. Regular clouds as well—
Like those small white ones—are so changeable.
At first, like wild geese or like swans they throng,
The wind like a falcon driving them along.
They join, swell—and there come new marvels soon!
Their necks bend, and grow manes; long legs drop down
And they race across the heavens at a sweep
Like a herd of galloping horses on the steppe,
All silvery white. They mingle—suddenly
Masts spring from necks, broad sails from manes, and see:
The herd is a ship adrift in brilliance,
Silent and slow against the sky’s expanse!”
The Count and Telimena had raised their eyes.
With one hand Tadeusz pointed to the skies,
While the other squeezed Telimena’s hand discreetly.
They stood in such a way for some time mutely.
The Count rested his notepad on his hat,
Took out his pencil—then to the regret
Of all, the manor bell rang; the woodland stillness
At once became a din of shouts and shrillness.
Nodding, the Count said gravely: “Very well,
As always fate ends everything with a bell.
Schemes of great minds and great imaginations,
Innocent pastimes, friendship’s delectations,
Effusions of tender hearts! The distant toll
Disrupts, confounds, and brings an end to all.”
Then, gazing at Telimena tenderly:
“What then remains?” She answered: “Memory.”
And, seeking to ease the Count’s distress somewhat
She picked and gave him a forget-me-not.
Kissing the flower, he pinned it to his breast.
On her other side, Tadeusz’s hand was thrust
Into a bush where something white had come
In his direction—it was a lily-white palm.
He seized it and kissed it, letting his lips bask freely
Within, like a bee plunged deep inside that lily.
His mouth felt something cold—it was a key,
And a white slip of paper that proved to be
A rolled-up letter. He hid it in his coat,
Thinking he’d learn the secret from the note.
The bell kept up; from deep in the woods there rose
In echoing cry a thousand hey’s and ho’s
As people searched and called. This was to show
That the mushroom-picking was all over now.
Yet the Count was wrong—it wasn’t funereal
Or sad, this sound: it was the dinner bell.
It rang each noontime from the manor’s gables
Calling both guests and farmhands to their tables.
This custom, widely known in bygone days,
Was still maintained at the Judge’s.
From the trees
Came a multitude with baskets of all sizes
And tied-up handkerchiefs, filled with their prizes:
Each young lady carried in one hand—
Like a folded fan—a large boletus, and,
In the other, russulas in reds, whites, grays,
With honey fungus tied like wildflower sprays.
The Warden had an agaric; empty-handed, though,
Was Telimena, like the pair she had in tow.
Entering in order, each guest stood to wait.
The Chamberlain had the place of honor—his right
By age and rank. He bowed as he came past
To the older men, the ladies, the youngsters last.
By him stood Robak; then came the Judge. The monk
Said a short prayer in Latin. Vodka was drunk;
Then, taking their places all, the company
Ate their chilled soup with gusto, wordlessly.
Dinner was quieter than usually occurred;
Though the Judge coaxed them, no one said a word.
Both parties to the hunting-dog dispute
Dwelled on the next day’s wager, and were mute.
Such lofty thoughts often make mouths fall still.
Telimena spoke with Tadeusz through the meal
But sometimes had to turn to the Count, and once
Or twice, shoot the Assessor a quick glance
The way a bird catcher eyes a goldfinch snare
Where a stray sparrow has been caught. This pair—
The Count and Tadeusz—were both content today,
And filled with hope—so neither had much to say.
The Count gazed proudly at his forget-me-not;
Tadeusz stole looks at the pocket of his coat
To check the key was there, and patted it,
And felt the letter, which he’d not opened yet.
The Judge served the Chamberlain attentively—
Topped up his wine and champagne, and squeezed his knee—
But seemed unwilling to talk; it was quite clear
That he was troubled by some secret care.
In silence, plates and courses came and went.
At last, the monotony of the event
Was broken by an unexpected guest—
A gamekeeper. Ignoring all the rest,
He ran to the Judge; his body, his expression,
All showed he was the bringer of sensation.
The eyes of all the company turned to stare.
Catching his breath, he said: “Sir, there’s a bear!”
Everyone guessed the rest: that, leaving its den,
The beast was in the woods. And everyone
Knew that it must be hunted, though nobody
Conferred, no one reflected consciously.
This one thought showed in looks unwavering,
Vigorous gestures, instructions issuing
From many voices, all at once, yet all
Directed at a single urgent goal.
“A horseback hunt!” the Judge said with a cheer.
“Battue at dawn—but beaters to volunteer.
Each man who comes will be released by me
From five days’ socage work, two days’ corvée.”
“Quick! Saddle my gray mare,” said the Chamberlain;
“Gallop to my house, and quick as you can
Bring my two mastiffs—they’re famous near and far.
The dog’s called Sheriff, the bitch Inquisitor.
For speed’s sake muzzle them, tie them in a sack,
Then hang them from the saddle, and bring them back.”
“Vanka!” in Russian the Assessor called his boy.
“Sharpen my dussack—you know, the one that I
Was given by Prince Sanguszko. And, you hear,
Make sure that you load up my bandolier.”
“Get the guns ready!” every raised voice said.
While the Assessor cried: “Lead! Lots of lead!
I’ll take my mold.” “Ask the priest,” the Judge went on,
“To be at the woodland chapel before the dawn
And say a nice short service there for us—
The regular St. Hubert Huntsman’s Mass.”
After the orders were given, silence came;
All sank in thought, their eyes seeming to roam
In search of someone; gradually every glance
Converged on the Warden’s worthy countenance.
A captain of the chase must be elected;
The Warden was the leader they’d selected.
Grasping what they desired, he rose to stand.
He rapped on the table solemnly with his hand,
Then reached inside his pocket, and took from there
A golden chain with a watch shaped like a pear.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “At half past four we’ll gather
At the chapel, hunters and beaters all together.”
Thus saying, he left; the gamekeeper also went.
Their task it was to plan the coming hunt.
It felt like the eve of battle, when soldiers wait
In camp; they sleep on saddles and cloaks, or eat,
Or check their weapons, blithe and nonchalant,
While the generals muse in the quiet of their tent.
Dinner broke off; in the time that still remained
Horses were shoed, dogs fed, muskets were cleaned.
Few were at supper; even the sides involved
In Bobtail v. Falcon, differences resolved
For now, were searching for lead in common quest—
Assessor and Notary, arm in arm. The rest,
Tired from their labors, were by now in bed,
Knowing they had an early start ahead.