Pan Tadeusz

This very moment, in a two-horse chaise,
A youthful gentleman approached the gate,
And traversing the courtyard came before
The gallery. He lighted from the chaise.
The horses, left there, ’gan to nip the grass
Before the door, at leisure. Empty seemed
The house; the doors were locked and fastened close
With bolts and padlock. But the traveller
Ran not unto the farm to call for servants;
But oped the door, and ran into the house.
He longed to welcome it, since he for long
Had not beheld his home. For in the city
Far off for education he had stayed;
The end long waited for had come at last.
He ran within, and eagerly he gazed,
And tenderly, upon those ancient walls
As old acquaintances. He viewed again
The self-same furniture, same tapestry,
With which he loved to play from swaddling-bands.
But less of size it seemed, less beautiful
Than formerly. And those same portraits hung
Around the walls. There Kosciuszko, clad
In the Cracovian czamara,56 raised
His eyes to heaven, and grasped a two-hand sword;
Such as when, on the altar-steps, he swore
He with this sword would drive the despots three
From Poland, or himself upon it fall.
And further Rejtan7 sat, in Polish dress
Grieving for freedom lost; he grasped a knife,
The blade towards his breast; before him lay
Phaedo and Cato’s life. Jasinski8 there
A beautiful and sadly-looking youth;
Beside him Korsak, his unsevered friend.
They stand on Praga’s ramparts, over piles
Of Muscovites, the foemen cutting down;
But Praga burned already round them.9 Even
The ancient clock with chimes the traveller knew
In wooden case, at the entrance of the alcove.
And with a childish joy he pulled the string
To hear again Dombrowski’s old mazurka.

He ran through all the house, and sought that room,
Where as a child he dwelt, long years ago;
Entered—retired; his wondering glances flew
Around the walls; a woman’s dwelling here!
Whose was it? His old uncle was unmarried.
In Petersburg for years had dwelt his aunt.
’Twas not the housekeeper’s. A piano here:
Upon it books and music: strewn about
Without or heed or care—a sweet disorder.
They were not ancient hands that strewed them so.
A white frock here, late taken from a peg
To indue, unfolded on a chair arm lay.
And in the window pots of perfumed flowers,
Geraniums, asters, wallflowers, violets.
And in one window stood the traveller.
New wonder! on a border once o’ergrown
With nettles, in the orchard, he beheld
A little garden crossed by garden walks;
All filled with flowers, with English grass and mint;
A wooden paling, with initials wreathed,
Gleamed with a hundredfold of ribbons gay.
The beds, ’twas seen, were freshly watered; near
There stood tin vessels full of water. Still
The pretty gardener nowhere might be seen,
Though she had passed but lately. Still the bushes
Were rocking to and fro, as lately stirred,
And near the trees a little foot’s light print
Upon the sand, shoeless and stockingless,
Upon the light dry sand, as white as snow,
An imprint plainly marked, but light; no doubt
Left in swift running by the tiny foot
Of one, who hardly even touched the earth.
Long in the window stood the traveller
Looking and dreaming: drinking in sweet breath
Of flowers, he bent his visage downward to
The violet plants; with curious eyes pursued
The tiny footprints on the path, and there
Once more he fixed them, thought of them and whose
They were;—he had guessed. By chance he raised his eyes,
And on the garden wall, behold there stood
A young girl. Her white garment only hid
Her slender figure o’er the bosom, leaving
Unveiled her shoulders and her swan-like neck.
Such dress a Lithuanian woman wears
In the morning, and in such is never seen
By men. So though she had none there to see,
She laid her hands upon her bosom, thus
A veil supplying to the little frock.
Not loose in curls her locks, but twisted round
In little knots, and hidden from the sight
In white and tiny husks, that wondrously
Adorned the head; for in the sun’s bright rays,
They shone as shines the glory on a saint.
Her face was seen not. Turned unto the plain
She looked for some one, far below. She saw,
And laughed, and clapped her hands; then from the wall
She flew like a white bird, and glided o’er
The garden, over beds and over flowers,
And on a plank against the chamber-wall,
Before the traveller marked it, through the window
She darted, shining, sudden, silent, light,
Like to a moonbeam. Singing, she caught up
The frock, and ran towards the mirror. Then
She first perceived the youth, and from her hands
The garment fell, and pale she grew with fright
And wonder. And the traveller’s countenance
Glowed with a rosy colour, like a cloud
Which meets the morning dawn. The modest youth
Half shut his eyes and screened them. He endeavoured
To speak, entreat her pardon; but he only
Could bow and then retire. The maiden shrieked
Unmeaningly, like children scared in sleep;
The traveller looked alarmed, but she was gone.
He left the room confused, and felt his heart
Loud-beating; and himself he scarcely knew
If this fantastic meeting should amuse,
Or shame him, or rejoice him. But meanwhile
It ’scaped not heed upon the farm, that now
Some new guest to the gallery had driven.
The horses to their stable had been led,
And fed with plenty, as there was abundance
In this well-ordered house of hay and fodder;
For never would the Judge10 by following
New fashions, send the horses of his guests
Unto the Jews who kept the inn. The servants
Had come not forth to welcome, but think not
That in the Judge’s house was careless service;
The servants wait till the Pan Wojski11 come,
Who ordered supper now behind the house.
The master’s place he holds, and in his absence
Himself receives and welcometh all guests,
A distant kinsman being, and household friend.
On seeing a guest, he hastened to the farm,
Unseen, because he would not come to meet him
In cloth undress; so quickly as he might
He put his Sunday dress on; ready since
The morning, for he from the morning knew
He should with many guests sit down to supper.