A vision in curling papers wakes Tadeusz –
A mistake perceived too late – The inn – An emissary –
Deft use of the snuffbox keeps the conversation on track – The lair –
The bear – Tadeusz and the Count in danger – Three shots –
The dispute between Sagałas and Sanguszko guns,
resolved in favor of the Horeszko flintlock – Bigos –
The Warden’s tale of the duel between Dowejko and
Domejko, interrupted by the hunting of a hare –
Conclusion of the tale of Dowejko and Domejko
Great trees of Białowieża, Świteź, full
And proud by Kuszelewo, Ponary Hill!
Your shade once fell on the Grand Dukes of this land:
On warlike Vytenis, famed Mindaugas, and
On Gediminas on the hill one day
As, on a bearskin by a fire, he lay
Listening to songs from wise Lizdejko—lulled
By the Wilia, the Wilejka where it purled.
He dreamed of an iron wolf; and once awake
He knew the gods had ordered him to make
The city of Vilna there—which, wolflike, shares
Its forest home with bison, boars, and bears.
That city, like the Roman she-wolf, bore
Kestutis, Algirdas and his sons, who were
Great knights and mighty hunters—equally so
Whether they chased their quarry, or their foe.
This vision revealed the future’s mysteries:
Our land would always need both iron and trees.
You woods! Among you the last king to wear
King Witold’s kalpak did his hunting here:
Last favored warrior of the Jagiellonians,
Last hunter king to rule the Lithuanians.
My native trees! If heaven should ever deign,
Old friends, to let me visit you again,
Will I still find you? Have you survived at all?
I used to play by you when I was small…
Is Baublis still alive? It was so huge
That in its innards, hollowed out by age,
Twelve people could have dined as if at home.
By the parish church, does Mendog’s Grove still bloom?
And in Ukraine, by the Hołowińskis’ house
On the Roś, does the linden tree still spread its boughs
So broadly that beneath the tent it made
A hundred pairs could dance within the shade?
Our monuments! How many of you each year
Fall to the ax of merchant or of tsar!
No shelter’s left for woodland singers, nor yet
For the bards to whom your shade is just as sweet:
The linden of Czarnolas, that awoke
In Jan so many rhymes! The speaking oak
Which told the Cossack bard such prodigies!
How much I owe to you, my native trees!
A paltry marksman, I would miss my shot
Then, fleeing my comrades’ mockery, head out
And hunt for reveries in your backwoods hush.
Forgetting the chase, I’d sit beside a bush;
Around me was moss with beards in silvery grays
Streaked with the crimson juice of bilberries,
While further off were hills clad in red heather,
And bright with lingonberries strung together
Like coral beads. Dark it was there; each bough
Seemed like a dense green stormcloud hanging low.
The trees were still, but somewhere a gale was howling
High in the heavens—rumbling, crashing, growling.
A strange, bewildering din! It seemed to me
That overhead there was a raging sea.
Down below, though, the forest has the look
Of a devastated city: A toppled oak
Leans like a fallen edifice; atumble
Against it, like broken pillars and walls, a jumble
Of earth, boughs, rotten beams, that grasses enclose.
Fearful it is to see, this dwelling place
Of the forest’s masters: wolves, bears, and wild boars;
The half-chewed bones of reckless visitors
Lie at the gate. At times, through the green grass
Like jets of water a stag’s antlers pass,
And the creature flashes yellowish through the glades
Like a ray of light that enters the woods and fades.
Then all is quiet once more. A woodpecker’s bill
Raps on a fir tree; he flies away, but still,
Unseen, he hammers on another tree
Like a child who hides, then calls: “Come look for me!”
Close by, a squirrel grasps a nut and gnaws,
Its bushy tail draped over head and paws
Like a cuirassier’s crest. And yet despite
This safeguard, still he’s wary. Catching sight
Of some intruder, this woodland dancer hops
From tree to tree at lightning speed, then drops
Into an unseen crevice, as if he were
A dryad returning home. And then once more
All’s quiet.
But now a branch shakes suddenly,
Red rowanberry clusters part, and see:
A face brighter than them. It’s a young maid
Gathering nuts and berries. A multitude
Of lingonberries fresh as her red lips
Lie in her plain bark basket. At her side steps
A young man; he pulls the hazel branches down,
She swiftly plucks the nuts, and they move on.
All at once, dogs and hunting horns are heard;
The two of them realize that the hunt has neared.
Amid the tangled branches, they take fright
And, like two woodland gods, vanish from sight.
There’s a stir in Soplicowo; but none of it—
The yapping dogs, the horses’ neighs, the grate
Of carts, nor the horn that blew to start the hunt—
Could rouse Tadeusz. He lay insentient
Where he’d fallen, fully clothed, upon his bed.
The young folks should have looked for him; instead,
Rushing to do the tasks they’d been assigned,
They managed to leave their slumbering chum behind.
He snored. Through a heart-shaped shutter hole, a stream
Of sunlight entered in a fiery beam,
Traversed the darkened room, and came to play
On the young man’s forehead. Sleepily turning away
From the bright light, he heard a sudden knocking
And woke up fully; it was a happy waking.
He felt as fresh as a daisy; he breathed free
And smiled an inward smile, contentedly
Recalling the happenings of the day before.
He blushed, sighed, and his heart beat more and more.
He looked at the window. Wonders! In the beam,
Inside the heart, were two bright eyes agleam
And opened wide, as well a person might
When peering into darkness from the light.
He saw, too, how a little hand was held
Against the sun to one side, as a shield;
How the slim fingers, raised fanlike and spread,
Were lit with a translucent ruby red.
He saw a slightly parted, curious mouth—
Saw, bright as pearls in coral, a row of teeth—
And a face that, though the pink hand screened it now,
Itself was burning with a roselike glow.
The bed was by the window. Tadeusz lay
In darkness, on his back, gazing away
At the marvelous vision right above his face.
He wondered: was this really taking place
Or was it a dream where a small sweet face appears
Like something dreamt of in our innocent years.
The face bent down—and, trembling with both fear
And joy, he saw—alas, saw clear as clear—
And recognized the short, pale, golden hair
With snow-white curling papers here and there
Resembling silvery peapods in the sun—
Like in the picture of a saint it shone.
He sat up; the apparition fled in shock
At the sound. He waited; it did not come back.
He only heard the triple knock again
And the words: “Sir, please get up; the hunt’s begun,
You overslept.” At once he leapt up, pushing
With both hands at the shutters, which came crashing
With a creak of hinges against the wall outside.
He jumped out, looked around him mystified,
But couldn’t see a thing—no evidence
Of anyone. Close by was the garden fence.
The hop leaves and their drooping flowers were shaking;
Had slender hands brushed them and set them quaking?
Or had it been the wind? With a long stare
Tadeusz leaned on the fence. He didn’t dare
Enter the garden; he merely looked around,
Finger on lips so he’d not make a sound
To break his concentration; finally
He tapped his forehead as if at a memory
Long dormant; bit his fingers till they bled;
Then, loudly: “I got what I deserve!” he said.
The manor, moments earlier filled with sound,
Now was as silent as a burial ground.
Everyone had left; Tadeusz listened intently,
His hands cupped at his ears, till there came faintly
On the wind from the woods the distant noise
Of hunting horns and of the huntsmen’s cries.
His horse was saddled up; he took his gun,
Mounted, and galloped like a crazy man
To the inns standing opposite one another
By the chapel where the hunters were to gather.
The two inns flashed their windows balefully
At one another, as if at an enemy.
The older tavern was the Count’s by right;
Soplica had built the new one out of spite.
The first was ruled (like a fiefdom) by Gerwazy;
The second gave place of honor to Protazy.
The new inn made an uninspired impression;
The old one had been built in ancient fashion
Dreamed up by the carpenters of Tyre, and then
Spread through the world by the Jews—a style unknown
To architects in any other place.
The Jews it was who brought it here to us.
It’s shaped like a ship in front, a temple behind;
The ship part is a Noah’s Ark on land,
Or, as the vulgar say, a barn—a house
For sundry creatures (horses, oxen, cows,
Billy goats); while flocks of poultry dwell upstairs
With crawling insects too, and snakes in pairs.
The oddly formed rear section brings to mind
The Temple of Solomon on the Mount, designed
By Hiram’s carpenters—who for their part
Had been the first to learn the builder’s art.
Synagogues still are built this way; in turn,
Their shape is seen in that of inn and barn.
A roof of thatch and unplaned boards juts high,
Like a ragged Jewish hat, into the sky.
Above are long rows of wooden galleries
On moldering pillars that are mysteries
Of architecture—leaning to one side
Like Pisa’s famous tower, still they abide,
Shunning, in fact, the models of Ancient Greece
For the pillars lack both capital and base.
They’re topped with arches (also made of wood),
Half-rounded, copying the Gothic mode,
Formed not with burin or with chisel, but by
The carpenter’s ax, deployed most artfully.
They curve like the arms of sabbath candlesticks.
At the end are knobs, a little like the box
That Jews strap to their foreheads when they pray,
Called “tzitzit” in their tongue. In summary
The crooked inn resembles from afar
The figure of a Jew swaying in prayer:
The roof a hat, the thatch a straggling beard,
Smoke-blackened walls the gown; in front, secured
Like a tzitzit there, an ornament is carved.
Inside, synagogue-like the inn was halved:
One part, with small cramped rooms, was set aside
For gentlemen and ladies on the road;
The other half was one enormous hall.
Long wooden tables stood along each wall;
By them, but lower, stood chair by little chair
Like children round their father.
Sitting there
Were peasants cheek by jowl with every sort
Of lesser gentry. The overseer sat apart.
Sunday it was; they’d been to Mass, then after,
They’d come to Jankiel’s inn for drink and laughter.
Each had raw vodka in a frothing cup.
A barmaid ran about, topping them up.
In the middle stood Jankiel, keeper of the inn,
With silver clasps on his floor-length gaberdine,
Left hand tucked in his silken belt, the right
Stroking his long gray beard in solemn thought.
He kept a careful eye on everything,
Gave orders, welcomed new folk entering,
Conversed, calmed those too heatedly debating—
Not serving though, but merely circulating.
Everyone knew him for an upright man.
He’d managed the inn for many years; no one,
Peasant or gentry, ever had complained
To the manor. Why would they? He’d every kind
Of top-rate drink; he kept book carefully
But honestly; he welcomed jollity,
Loathed drunkenness. He loved all gatherings
And hosted wedding parties, christenings.
He’d have a village band—with double bass
And bagpipes—play each Sunday at his place.
He was musical, and famous for his flair
On his nation’s instrument, the dulcimer.
He used to tour the manors, amazing all
With music and song—he’d a fine voice as well.
Though Jewish, he spoke the Polish tongue quite clearly,
And Polish songs he loved especially dearly.
He brought back many from each trip he made
To the Duchy: kolomyjkas he’d heard played
In Halicz, mazurkas from Warsaw. I don’t know
If this is true, but all believed it so:
That he’d been first to bring the neighborhood
From overseas, the song now known worldwide
And first heard in Italia, in those regions
Played by the trumpets of the Polish legions.
In Lithuania a good voice is prized;
It makes you rich, and loved, and lionized.
Jankiel did well; his cup of glory full,
He hung his dulcimer upon the wall
At the inn, and he and his family settled down.
He also served the rabbi in the town.
He was a welcome guest and much-sought guide
In every home: he knew grain markets, trade
By river barge—such knowledge is valuable
In the country. And he was deemed a decent Pole.
He mended quarrels, even bloody ones,
Between the two places—for he ran both inns.
Esteemed by every veteran partisan
Of the Horeszkos, and all the Judge’s men,
He kept his cool between fearsome Gerwazy
Of the Horeszkos, and quarrelsome Protazy.
With Jankiel there, both quelled their sense of wrong—
One with a threatening fist, one with his tongue.
Gerwazy was away; he’d joined the hunt—
He didn’t wish to leave the green young Count
Alone on such a tough and crucial trip.
He would provide advice and guardianship.
His spot, the furthest from the entranceway,
Between two benches—the “corner place”—today
Was taken by Father Robak, seated there
By Jankiel, whose deep respect for him was clear—
The moment that he saw the friar’s cup
Was empty, he’d at once come running up
To have it filled with linden-honey mead.
The two had known each other, people said,
Abroad, when they were young. Often the priest
Came by at night; in secret they discussed
Grave matters. Some said Robak smuggled too,
But this was slander, not to be thought true.
Robak was speaking softly as can be.
The gentry bent their ears attentively,
Noses aimed at his snuffbox lying near,
Whose contents made them boom like mortar fire.
“Good Father,” said Skołuba with a sneeze,
“This snuff goes deep inside—it’s made to please.
Since this here nose” (he stroked it) “has been mine,
I’ve never had its like” (he sneezed again).
“From Kowno surely—Bernardine snuff indeed.
The place is world-renowned for snuff—and mead.
I was there, let’s see—.” The priest broke in: “Good cheer,
My worthy fellows, to all those gathered here!
But Mr. Skołuba’s not quite right. This snuff
Has come to us from someplace farther off—
From Jasna Góra in Częstochowa, made
By the Pauline Fathers. There you’ll find displayed
The image whose miracles are legendary,
Of Poland’s Queen, the Holy Virgin Mary.
Princess of Lithuania too she’s called.
She still reigns Poland; faith of a different mold,
However, squats in Lithuania now.”
“Częstochowa?” said Wilbik. “There, thirty years ago
I took confession during a church fair.
Say, is it true that French troops are now there,
And plan to destroy the church and take its riches,
The way it says in the Courier’s dispatches?”
“Far from it!” the monk replied. “His Majesty
Napoleon’s all a Catholic ought to be.
The Pope anointed him—in combination
They’re reaching many souls in the French nation,
Which somewhat went astray. True, silver was sent
From Częstochowa to the treasury, meant
For Poland—such was the Almighty’s choice.
His altars are always the homeland’s treasure house!
One hundred thousand Polish troops are massed
In the Duchy now, or more. Who’ll cover the cost?
Not you Lithuanians, for sure!
All of your money’s given to the Tsar.”
“Given!” cried Wilbik. “Taken by violence!”
“Father!” a farmer said with deference,
Bowing to Robak as he scratched his head,
“The gentry are not treated half so bad.
Us, they bleed dry.” “Peasant!” Skołuba cried.
“Your kind are fools—you take it in your stride.
You’re eels for the skinning! We well-born people, though,
We’ve golden freedoms we’re accustomed to.
My friends: time was, at home a gentleman—”
(“Yes!” all chimed in—“need bow his knee to none!”).
“These days we’re not believed—there have to be
Papers and such to prove our ancestry.”
Juraha cried: “You, you’re from peasant folk
Made gentry just three generations back.
Me, I’m from princes! Where are the parchment rolls
From when I became gentry—God alone recalls!
The Russians should rather ask the woodland ashes
Who gave them papers to outgrow the bushes.”
“Princes?” said Żagiel. “Brag to your heart’s desire,
There’s plenty of folk have princely roots round here.”
“Your arms show a cross!” Podhajski retorted;
“That means an ancestor who once converted.”
“Not so!” said Birbasz.” I’m from a Tartar duke
But my crest shows a cross above a barque.”
“The Poraj crest is princely!” Mickiewicz yelled.
“Stryjkowski says so—a coronet on gold.”
And thus a mighty ruckus filled the inn.
The priest resorted to his snuff; the din
Soon calmed as, for the sake of courtesy,
Each took a pinch and sneezed prolifically.
The monk then seized his moment and went on.
“This snuff’s been used by many a great man.
In fact, Dąbrowski, our famed general,
Took it four times.” They echoed one and all:
“Dąbrowski?” “The general, yes; I was with him
When he took Gdańsk from the Germans. At one time
He’d letters to write; so as to stay awake
He took a pinch, sneezed, clapped me on the back.
“Good Bernardine,” he said, “we’ll meet once more
In Lithuania—maybe within the year.
Tell them to wait with Częstochowa snuff—
For me, no other kind is good enough.”
The friar’s tale produced such joyfulness,
Such wonder, that everybody in the place
Fell quiet awhile; then the odd murmured word—
“From Częstochowa? Polish snuff?”—was heard.
“Dąbrowski? Out of Italy?” In the end
As if thought to thought, and word to word had joined,
On cue it seemed, they shouted in one voice:
“Dąbrowski!” as each man present raised his glass.
Then there came great commotion and embraces:
Peasants with coronets, dukes with barques and crosses.
All was forgotten, even the monk; instead
They sang, and called for drink: “Wine! Vodka! Mead!”
For a long time the Father listened; at last
He wished to go on. The little box held fast
In both hands, he sneezed so loud they lost the tune;
Before they could recover he jumped in:
“Good gentlemen, you praise the snuff you’ve tried
Out of my snuffbox—now see what’s inside.”
With a cloth he wiped the bottom to reveal
A tiny painted army, minuscule
As flies; there, too, was one man on a horse
The size of a bug—their general of course.
Seemingly heavenbound, on his steed he rose,
One hand upon the reins, one by his nose.
“Note the brave stance,” said Robak, “if you will.
You know who this is?” They peered closer still.
“It’s a great man, an emperor, although
It isn’t the Tsar—no tsar took snuff, you know.”
“A great man in a plain cloak?” Cydzik called.
“I thought all great men went about in gold.
The Russian generals gleam with it—it’s like
The saffron garnish on a well-cooked pike.”
“Well, in my youth,” said Rymsza, “I got to see
Kościuszko, our chief commander, certainly
A great man—yet he wore a Kraków coat,
The kind that’s called czarmarka.” “No it’s not,”
Snapped Wilbik. “It’s taratatka.” “No, that kind
Includes a fringe,” Mickiewicz then opined.
And thus began rambunctious disagreements
About the cut of various overgarments.
The artful Robak, seeing how the talk
Had dissipated, sought to bring it back
To his small box; he passed it round again,
They sneezed and said God bless, and he went on:
“When Emperor Napoleon was at war,
If he took snuff, a victory was secure.
Take Austerlitz—here stood the men of France
With cannon, seeing the Russian hordes advance.
Napoleon quietly watched. Like hay being mown,
Each volley brought whole Russian units down.
Squadron by squadron charged, was finished off;
As each one fell, the Emperor took some snuff.
The Tsar, his brother Constantine as well,
And German Kaiser Francis—all turned tail
And fled; Napoleon, sure now of his win,
Watched them and laughed, and brushed his fingers clean.
If any here should find themselves a part
Of his great army, take my tale to heart!”
Skołuba cried: “But Father, when will that be?
The calendar’s full of saints’ days; with each day
They promise the French will come. We watch and wait
Until it hurts, yet still the Muscovite
Clutches our throat. Before the sun shall rise,
It seems, the dew will eat away our eyes.”
“Sir,” said the monk, “complaints are a woman’s way,
While the Jews will wait, arms folded, till the day
Someone comes knocking at the tavern door.
Russia will crumble before the Emperor.
Three times his heel has crushed the Prussian vermin;
The Englishman, no luckier than the German,
Was pushed from the seas. The Russians are bound to fall.
But do you see the meaning of it all?
That there’ll be no one left to fight, and when
The Lithuanians finally arm—why then
Napoleon, having triumphed alone, will say:
“I don’t need you—who are you anyway?”
Inviting your guest, then waiting—that won’t do.
You need to take out your chairs and tables too,
And clear your house of trash before the feast.
You must clear out your house, I say—you must!”
A silence fell; then somebody called out:
“Clear out the house? What do you mean by that?
We’re ready to do anything, for sure—
But tell us in a way that’s less obscure.”
The priest broke off; through the window he had spied
Something of note. He stuck his head outside
Then, as he stood, he said: “Time’s short today,
Tomorrow we’ll speak of this more thoroughly.
I’ve business in the town; I’ll visit you
Along the way to talk, and ask alms too.”
“You should sleep at Niehrymowo, Father,” said
The overseer. “The Cornet will be glad.
Remember, the Lithuanians have a phrase:
‘Happy as a friar in Niehrymowo!’ “Please,”
Zubkowski said, “Visit us also, Father.
You’ll get some fabric, butter, something or other,
A sheep or cow—and don’t forget the saying:
‘Lucky the priest who’s at Zubkowo praying.’”
“Visit us too!” Skołuba said. “And us!”
Cried Terajewicz; “no monk left our house
In Pucewicze hungry.” Thus, among
Pledges and pleas, the Father quit the throng.
He’d seen Tadeusz passing at a gallop
Along the highway, hatless—seen him wallop
And lash his horse once and again, head down,
His pallid countenance marked with a frown.
This sight concerned the monk so much, he ran
As fast as possible after the young man,
To the dark woods that grew horizon-wide
Far as the eye could see, on every side.
The Lithuanian forests—who could chart
Those boundless regions to their tangled heart?
Fishermen know the ocean’s rim, no more;
The hunter circling round a forest lair
Sees only what it looks like from outside:
Its enigmatic depths remain untried.
Rumor and legend only tell what’s there
Beyond the trees and underwood. If you were
To enter, deep within you’d find a tangle
Of trunks, logs, roots, amid a swamp—a jungle
Guarded by myriad streams, whose rampant brakes
Hide ants, wasps, hornets, writhing nests of snakes.
If by prodigious courage you make it through,
A greater peril still would challenge you:
Further lie ponds, each one a lurking trap
Half-overgrown with grass. They are so deep
No human even plumbed them (so beware—
It’s more than likely demons live down there).
The water has a bloody, rust-red sheen
While wisps of noxious smoke rise from within,
Stripping the nearby trees of leaves and bark.
Those trees stand shrunken, maggot-ridden, stark,
Limbs moss-enmeshed and dropping out of true,
Trunks fringed with hideous fungi, all askew
Like a witches’ coven huddling in a ring
Round a pot in which a corpse is simmering.
What lies beyond cannot be visited
On foot, nor even by the eye, it’s said,
For all is hidden in a hazy cloud
Rising forever from the swampy mire.
Beyond those mists, they say, farther than far,
Is a fair and fertile land—the capital
Of the domain of plant and animal.
Stored here are seeds of every herb and tree
So they can send the world their progeny.
So they can breed, one pair is kept at least
(Like Noah’s Ark) of every kind of beast.
At the very heart are the royal courts of Bears,
Aurochs, and Bison—the forest’s emperors.
Like watchful ministers, nesting nearby
In the trees, swift Lynx and hungry Wolverine lie;
Further, like noble liegemen, there reside
Wild Boars, Wolves, Moose with antlers spreading wide.
Above, Falcons and Eagles—confidantes
Of their great lords, and kept at their expense.
These patriarchal ruling pairs, concealed
Far from the eyes of all the outside world,
Send off their children to settle in the land
Beyond the woods, while they remain behind.
They never die from firearm or from knife,
Only old age—the natural end to life.
They’ve a graveyard also where, when death comes in,
The birds lay down their feathers, the beasts their skin.
The bear with worn-down teeth who cannot eat,
The feeble stag unsteady on his feet,
The aging hare whose once-quick blood’s congealing,
The gray-haired raven, the hawk whose eyes are failing,
The eagle no longer able to take food,
His ancient beak grown crooked and closed for good—
All come here. Small beasts too, injured or ill,
Return to die where once they used to dwell.
This is the reason that on human ground
Bones of dead animals are never found.
It’s said that in this realm, since the animals
Govern themselves, great decorousness prevails,
Unspoiled as yet by human civilization.
Ownership, which for us stirs such aggression,
Is foreign to them; they have no duels, no war.
The children live in paradise, as before
Their parents did: savage and tame together
In love and peace, not hurting one another.
If ever a man came by, even unarmed,
He’d walk among the creatures here unharmed.
They’d stare at him in wonderment, the way
That on creation’s sixth and final day
Their forebears, Eden’s earliest dwellers, gazed
At Adam, when man and beast still harmonized.
Luckily, humans never come—the path
Is barred for them by Toil, and Fear, and Death.
Though sometimes the bloodhounds, giving furious chase
Will stray among the mossy pits. The place
Fills them with horror; they flee with yelping cries.
For long hours, madness lingers in their eyes,
And though their master’s soothing hand is on them,
They tremble at his feet, dread still upon them.
These secret spots, where man does not belong,
Are called the “breedwoods” in the hunters’ slang.
You foolish bear! If only you’d stayed on
Back there, the Warden never would have known.
But—whether you let the scent of beehives woo you,
Or if the thought of ripening oat plants drew you—
You reached the woodland’s edge, where it’s less dense,
And there the foresters spotted you at once
And quickly sent their lookouts to locate
The places where you sleep and where you eat.
The Warden’s party was now placed behind you
To cut off your retreat whenever they find you.
Tadeusz learned that, quite some time before,
The hounds had raced into the forest’s core.
It’s quiet…in vain the hunters stand in place,
And listen to the silence of that space
Like an enthralling story. All they hear
Is the forest music playing from afar.
The dogs plunge in like divers in the sea;
The hunters, muskets raised, watch heedfully.
The Warden kneels to hear the earth; and as
People will scrutinize a doctor’s face
To know if their loved one is to live or die,
The hunters—trusting the Warden’s skill—stand by,
Their eyes on him in hope and anxious fear.
He murmurs, jumping up: “It’s here! It’s here!”
He’d heard it! Straining their ears, they also could.
One dog barked; a second; twenty did;
Suddenly all the seething mass was howling,
Snapping; they’d smelled the scent, which set them yowling
And yapping. This was not the steady sound
Of dogs pursuing a hare or fox or hind,
But short sharp barking—quick, terse, furious.
And what they smelled was not some far-off trace—
They’d seen their prey. The noisy abruptly fell:
They’d caught it. More barks and yelps; the animal
Was fighting powerfully back. Amid the baying
Came ever more frequent cries of bloodhounds dying.
The shooters stood, their weapons at the ready,
Straining toward the wood with head and body.
Waiting was hard, though! Leaving where they stood,
One by one they slipped into the wood,
Wanting to be the first to see the bear.
And—though the Warden galloped here and there,
Saying, peasant or master, all must keep their stations
Or feel his whip on them!—his protestations
Were useless. All the hunters disappeared.
Right at the start three musket cracks were heard,
Then a barrage of shots and, rising over these,
A roar from the bear resounded through the trees.
A fearful roar! Of pain, rage, and despair.
Then: the hounds’ jabber, the hunters’ cries, the blare
Of hunting horns, all sounded; some shooters ran
Into the woods, while others cocked their gun.
All felt the thrill; the Warden alone was mad,
Saying they’d missed. Hunters and beaters sped
To cut off the creature from its backwoods lair.
Fleeing the mass of dogs and men, the bear
Turned back toward less closely guarded spaces—
The fields where the shooters had been at their places.
Now, with some beaters, three men of the hunt
Were left: Tadeusz, the Warden, and the Count.
Distant sounds came: branch snapping, roar and shout—
Till, like a thunderbolt, the bear burst out
From the denser trees, the dogs in fury following.
The creature rose on hind legs, watchful, bellowing
To scare its assailants, fight off their attacks.
It snatched up bark, burnt logs, half-buried rocks
And hurled them at the dogs and hunters. Then
It tore up a tree and, wielding it clublike, ran
Straight at the last two hunters who remained:
Tadeusz and the Count.
They stood their ground,
Their guns trained on the creature where it trod,
Like lightning rods aimed at a stormy cloud.
Then, at the same time (from inexperience!)
They pulled the trigger: both guns fired at once.
They’d missed! The bear charged on at them; the pair
With all four hands snatched up one hunting spear.
They fought for it; then, looking up they saw
Two rows of glistening fangs in a red jaw
And massive claws just inches from their face.
Blanching, they turned and ran for open space.
The creature followed; it swung its paws, just missed,
Kept coming. Its great black arm again was hoist
By the Count’s blond head; a moment after that
It would have torn his skull off like a hat.
But Notary and Assessor came from the wood;
From a hundred yards away Gerwazy strode
With Robak unarmed beside him. Then, as if
Upon command, together three guns went off.
The bear jumped like a dog-encircled cat.
Its head pitched forward; four paws wheeled about
And its heavy, blood-bespattered body fell
Right by the Count, knocking him down as well.
It roared, still trying to stand; but in their fury
Inquisitor and Sheriff mauled their quarry.
The Warden now took his bison horn, which hung—
Mottled, curled like a snake and just as long—
From a leather strap. With both his hands he then
Lifted it to his lips, and—stomach pulled in,
Cheeks bulging, eyes half closed and turning red—
He filled the horn with all the spirit he had.
It sounded; with unbroken breath he played.
The echoing music filled the forest. Awed
By the purity, the curious harmony,
The power, the hunters listened silently.
For one more time, they witnessed the old man
Sharing the gift for which he’d once been known.
He filled the woods with life; his instrument
Seemed to send in the hounds to start the hunt.
His song recapped the day’s brief history—
First came the buglers’ urgent reveille,
Then whines and yelps—the noises of the hounds,
With gunshots here and there—harsh, thunderous sounds.
He paused, the horn still in his hands; it sounded
As if still played, though echoes alone rebounded.
He blew again; the horn changed shape, you’d think,
Between his lips; it seemed to swell and shrink,
Copying the sounds of different beasts—now lengthening
Into a wolf’s neck with its howl, now strengthening
Into a bear’s broad roaring throat, while here
A bison’s bellow rent the forest air.
He paused, the horn still in his hands; it sounded
As if still played, though echoes alone rebounded.
Hearing the marvelous song, the tall trees each
Repeated it, oak to oak and beech to beech.
Again he blew; as if one horn contained
A hundred more, from hunter, beast, and hound
Fear and rage crashed; then, raising the horn up high,
He played a triumphal anthem to the sky.
He paused, the horn still in his hands; it sounded
As if still played, though echoes alone rebounded.
There were as many horns as there were trees—
Relayed as if by endless choruses,
The sounds went on and on, growing quieter,
Ever more consummate, ever more pure
Until they faded where the sky began!
The Warden removed his hands, letting the horn
Swing on its strap. He spread his arms out wide
And stood there, eyes aglow, preoccupied,
Face raised as if inspired, listening intently
To where the final notes were fading gently.
Meanwhile, on every side there were ovations,
Resounding cheers, shouted congratulations.
Things slowly quieted; all eyes turned at last
To where the bear’s huge body had come to rest—
Bloody and bullet-riddled, its hulking mass
Lying face downward in the trodden grass.
Flung out in front, its forepaws lay outspread.
It was still breathing; its nose was streaming blood;
Its eyes were open but its head lay still.
The Chamberlain’s mastiffs gripped its ears; meanwhile
Inquisitor on the left, and on the right
Sheriff, were lapping blood from its dark throat.
The Warden had them place an iron bar
In the dogs’ teeth to keep their jaws ajar.
They turned the bear over with their musket stocks
And three more cheers rang out amid the oaks.
“Well?” cried Assessor, fingering his gun,
“How about this weapon? To ours I say, Well done!
How about it? A wee fowling piece like this,
And yet it did the job. Expect no less!
It’s never been known to waste a single shot.
A gift from Prince Sanguszko.” He held it out.
Small it was, but of great artistry.
He started explaining its high quality.
“I was running,” broke in Notary, wiping his brow,
“Behind the bear. ‘Keep to your stations now!’
The Warden had said. How could I, though? The bear
Was racing forward, fast as the fastest hare.
My spirits dropped, for I was losing ground.
Then I glanced right, to where the forest thinned;
I aimed my weapon. ‘Bruno, stop right there!’
(I said to myself)—and now, here lies the bear.
It’s a fine gun—a genuine Sagałasówka.
See, it says: ‘Sagalas London à Bałabanówka.’
(Home of a famous gunsmith—though a Pole,
His guns were finished in the English style.)”
“What?!” the Assessor huffed. “You killed it, sir?
By a thousand bears, what nonsense!” “Listen here,”
The Notary snapped, “This isn’t a courtroom—this,
Good sir, is a hunt—we’ve countless witnesses.”
A fierce dispute began. Some were allied
With the Notary, some took the Assessor’s side.
None mentioned Gerwazy; for they’d all come in
From the sides—what happened up front no one had seen.
The Warden spoke: “Now this is worth contention.
It’s not some hare, barely deserving mention,
It’s a bear! For satisfaction to be sought
By pistol, or sword, is quite appropriate.
Your disagreement’s hard to reconcile;
As per tradition, I’ll permit a duel.
“I recall once two neighbors—both of them
Good men, each from an age-old gentry home
On the Wilejka’s facing banks. Domejko
The first was called; the other was Dowejko.
Both simultaneously shot a bear, so that
No one could say who killed it. How they fought!
They swore to pistol it out across the skin,
At arm’s length almost—like true gentlemen.
Back then the duel was famous, don’t you doubt it—
Many a ballad was composed about it.
I served as second—yes, I played my part.
But let me tell the story from the start.”
At this point, though, Gerwazy joined them there
And solved the conflict. Having eyed the bear,
He’d used his cleaver to split the creature’s head,
Sliced deep into its brain and found the lead.
He cleaned it on his coat, compared its size
To his own weapon and his cartridges,
Then, holding up the ball, said: “Gentlemen,
This bullet didn’t come from either gun.
It’s from this old Horeszko arm.” (He showed
His single-barreled flintlock, bound in cord.)
“It wasn’t me who fired, though. Truthfully,
Where nerves were needed, I was all at sea.
The two young masters running out in front,
The bear behind, about to strike the Count—
The last Horeszko! (Though on the distaff side.)
‘Dear Lord!’ I cried; God’s angels to my aid
Sent Father Robak—good, brave monk!—who came
To save the day, and put us all to shame.
While I, dazed, stood and trembled and perspired,
He snatched the weapon from me, aimed, and fired.
To shoot between two heads! At a hundred yards!
And not to miss! To smash its teeth to shards!
Good gentlemen, my life’s been long, and yet
I’ve only seen one man who shot like that.
The man once known for shooting off the heels
Of women’s shoes, and fighting endless duels—
Scoundrel of scoundrels, Jacek of ill fame,
Called ‘Whiskers’—no need to say his family name.
But these days he’s no time for hunting bears;
He and his whiskers must be in hell’s fires.
All praise to the monk! He saved two lives! Or three—
For, not to praise myself, but if maybe
The very last Horeszko had been seen
Seized in the creature’s jaws, it might have been
My aging bones the bear would have to chew.
Come, Father, and we’ll drink a toast to you!”
The monk was gone, though; all they knew was that,
For a brief moment following his shot,
He’d rushed to the Count and to Tadeusz, and,
Assuring himself that both were safe and sound,
He had glanced heavenward, mouthed a prayer, and run,
Fleeing as if he were the hunted one.
Meanwhile, the Warden had handfuls of heather,
Kindling, and large dry logs piled up together.
The fire was lit, a column of smoke rose high
And spread like a canopy across the sky.
Their spears were interlocked above the flame
And large pot-bellied cauldrons hung from them.
Flour, bread, meats, vegetables and the rest
Were brought from the carts.
The Judge unlocked a chest
Where rows of white-topped bottles were kept safe.
He chose the largest one—a glass carafe
(A gift from Father Robak), which contained
Gdańsk vodka—a drink of which all Poles are fond.
“Here’s to the City of Gdańsk!” the Judge declared,
Raising the flask, “Once ours, and—by my word—
Ours to be again!” He served each man
The silvery drink, till gold dripped in the sun.
In the cauldrons, bigos was warmed. How hard to tell
Its color, curious taste, and wondrous smell
In words—however much they rhyme and sound
No townsman’s belly will ever understand.
To grasp Lithuania’s songs and food, you want
Health, country life—and a just-ended hunt.
Though even without such seasonings, bigos still
Is first-rate fare. To make it requires great skill
And prime ingredients. Chop sour cabbage, that,
As they say, melts in the mouth. Shut in the pot,
Its bosom’s luscious juices must enfold
Choice cuts of finest meat; the whole’s then boiled
Till all its succulence is elicited
By the heat, steam bursting from beneath the lid
While the aroma saturates the air.
The bigos was ready. With a triple cheer
The hunters jabbed the pots with spoons; steam jetted;
The copper clanged; the bigos evaporated.
The cauldrons sent up puffs of vapor, seeming
Like craters of extinct volcanoes steaming.
When everybody there had had their fill
They harnessed the carts and mounted, voluble
And happy—all except for the Assessor
And the Notary. These two were even crosser
Than the day before, debating furiously
Their respective guns’ superiority.
The Count and Tadeusz too had heavy hearts,
Ashamed they’d missed, and run; for in these parts
A hunter who has failed to stop the game
Must labor long to win back his good name.
The Count first grabbed the spear—such was his claim.
Tadeusz, he said, had merely hindered him.
Tadeusz maintained that—stronger, better trained
With the spear—he’d just been trying to lend a hand.
They bickered in this way sporadically
Amid the hubbub of the company.
The Warden rode amid the party, gracious
And, now, uncommonly cheerful and loquacious.
Seeking to entertain and reconcile
The quarrelers, he resumed his earlier tale.
“Assessor, though I said that you should duel
With the Notary, you mustn’t think me cruel,
Or out for blood. Lord, no! My goal, you see,
Was to amuse with a kind of comedy,
To share a strange idea I hit upon
Forty years back. You’re young, those times are gone.
In my day, though, the concept was renowned
From these woods to Polesie’s and beyond.
“Domejko and Dowejko’s conflicts came
From the unfortunate likeness of their name.
For instance, at the regional legislature
Dowejko’s friends, seeking his candidature,
Would whisper to their neighbor: ‘Vote Domejko!’
And he’d mishear them, and endorse Dowejko.
Or when, at a council feast, Marshal Rupejko
Would toast: ‘Dowejko!,’ others would cry: ‘Domejko!’
Those present couldn’t tell whose name they’d heard,
Especially since the diners’ words were slurred.
“Worse—once, a drunk nobleman in Vilna
Crossed swords with Domejko, and was wounded twice.
Going home, this noble took a ferry which,
Strangely, Dowejko also chanced to catch.
Crossing, the nobleman asked his neighbor: ‘Sir,
Your name?’ ‘Dowejko,’ said that passenger.
The man whipped out his blade and trimmed Dowejko’s
Mustache, although it should have been Domejko’s.
“To cap it all, both of the like-named men
Happened to be on a hunting party when,
Standing together close as close can be,
Both shot a she-bear simultaneously.
Admittedly, the creature then dropped dead,
But in it already were ten balls of lead,
And many had guns of the same caliber.
Who’d killed the bear? How could they know for sure?
“The two men cried: ‘Enough! This has to end.
God or the devil joined us; let’s be unjoined.
The world needs two of us like it needs two suns!’
A duel with sabers was arranged at once.
Both men were honorable; when others sought
To mollify them, all the more they fought.
Switching from swords to guns, they faced each other.
We cried: ‘You’re standing much too close together!’
From spite, they swore that each would take his post
Across the bear’s skin—barrel to barrel almost.
Both were good shots—death beckoned. ‘Second, rule!’
‘Fine,’ I declared. ‘Have the sexton dig a hole:
This quarrel won’t end well, that much is plain.
But fight like nobles, not like slaughtermen.
By coming here you’ve proved your courage, truly.
But placing your barrels on each other’s belly?
I won’t allow it. To pistols I’ll say yes.
The distance, though, must be no more nor less
Than a bearskin’s length. In my capacity
As second, I’ll lay the skin down personally
And tell you where to stand: you at the head,
Sir; you, sir, at the tail. ‘Agreed!’ they said.
‘The time?’ ‘Tomorrow.’ ‘The place?’ ‘The Usza Inn.’
They left; I took my Virgil up again.”
A cry of “tally-ho!” broke off the tale.
A hare had been flushed, and bounding on its trail
Were Bobtail and Falcon, brought along in case—
On the way back—there might be hares to chase.
Trotting beside the horses, neither one leashed,
Soon as the beast was spotted, off they’d rushed
Of their own will. Their masters would have ridden
After them, but the Warden said: “Forbidden!
I order you to stay and watch from here—
The hare’s on open ground, the view is clear.”
Indeed the hare, ears cocked like horns, had smelled
The hunt behind it, and had crossed a field,
Its body long and gray against the soil,
Its feet like rods that seemed bizarrely still
And merely touched the surface of the land
As a swallow’s wings will kiss against a pond.
Behind it was dust; behind that, dogs; the men
Who watched saw hare and dust and dogs as one,
As if a snake were slithering by: the hare
Its head, the dust its neck dark blue and bare,
The dogs a twin tail flicking here and there.
Assessor and Notary looked on enthralled,
Breathless, their mouths agape. Then one man paled,
The other too. The matter was ill-starred:
The snake was growing in length with every yard.
It split in two; its neck of dust was dragging,
Its head was near the woods, its tail was lagging!
The head gave one last shake, then glanced behind
And vanished in the wood; the tail remained.
The poor dogs, baffled, ran up to the trees,
Seemed to confer, swap animosities.
They finally returned by the same track,
Ears drooping, tails between their legs; once back
They couldn’t raise their eyes from shame, and stayed
Apart, instead of at their masters’ side.
The Notary’s eyes dropped glumly to the ground,
While the Assessor looked ahead and frowned.
Both started explaining: how the dogs, it’s true,
Weren’t used to being off the leash; how too
The hare had sprung from nowhere; how hard it was
To run on fields—they would have needed shoes,
There were so many rocks and jagged shards.
These seasoned hunters spoke sagacious words;
The others could have learned a great deal, clearly.
They only half-listened though; some whistled merely,
Some laughed out loud; while others still, reminded
Of the bear, spoke of the hunt that had just ended.
The Warden had barely given the hare a glance;
After it fled, he turned away at once
And picked up his tale:
“Where was I now? That’s right:
I took the two men at their word: They’d fight
Across a bearskin. The other nobles wailed:
‘It’s certain death at such close range!’ I smiled—
I’d learned from my friend Maro to my pleasure
That a beast’s skin is not a normal measure.
Queen Dido, as you know, good gentlemen,
Sailed to the Libyans, from whom she won
The hard-earned right to own a piece of land
That could be covered by an oxhide. And
Upon that land rose Carthage in its glory!
I spent the night reflecting on this story.
“As dawn broke, in a carriage came Dowejko
From one side; from the other rode Domejko.
They found the bearskin cut in strips and tied
To make a shaggy bridge extending wide
Across the river. I made Dowejko stand
At the tail, Domejko at the other end.
‘Shoot all you want to now,’ I said, ‘but I’ll
Not let you go until you reconcile.’
They fumed; but the others laughed until they cried.
The priest and I read solemn words aloud
From the Gospel and the law books; finally
They laughed as well, and came to harmony.
“Later, the two of them were friends for life:
One took the other’s sister for his wife,
The second wed the first one’s sister too.
They split their wealth in two without ado,
And where the strange event had happened, there
They built a tavern, naming it ‘The Bear.’”