And does thy Rod yet flourish as ere time?
I heard that thou didst discipline the Russians
Not long ago. But where are now thy brothers?
I should exceedingly rejoice to see
Those Penknives, and your Razors, last examples
Of ancient Lithuania.” “General,”
Replied the Judge, “after that victory,
Nearly the whole of the Dobrzynskis took
Refuge within the Duchy, probably
They went into some legion.”—“Ay, indeed,”
Said a young officer of squadron, “I
Have in the second company a whiskered
Scarecrow, Dobrzynski, who doth call himself
The Sprinkler, but the Polish soldiers call him
The Lithuanian Bear. But if the General
Commands it, we will fetch him here.”—“There are,”
Said a lieutenant, “others by their race
Of Litva, one a soldier, called by name
The Razor, and one more who with a trombone
Rides on the flank; and also in a regiment
Of shooters, two Dobrzynskis, grenadiers.”
“But, but—about their chief,” the General
Replied; “I wish to know about this Penknife,
Of which the Wojski told me such great wonders,
As of some giant of the elder time.”
“The Penknife,” said the Wojski, “though he went
Not into exile, yet as fearing inquest,
Concealed himself from search of Muscovites.
The poor man wandered all the winter long
Among the forests, lately he came forth.
He might be useful in these warlike times,
For ’tis a valiant man, ’tis only pity
He’s somewhat pressed by age. But there he is.”
The Wojski pointed in the hall, where stood
Servants and village folk together crowded.
But over all the heads gleamed suddenly
A shining bald pate, like to a full moon.
Three times it issued forth, and three times vanished
Amid the cloud of heads. The Klucznik, passing,
Bowed, till he loosed him from the crush, and said:
“Illustrious, Most Powerful Hetman of
The Crown, or General—the title is
A trifling matter—I Rembajlo am.
I stand at your command with this my Penknife,
That not from workmanship, nor from inscriptions,
Nor from the temper of its blade such glory,
Earned, that even you, Illustrious Powerful Sir,
Knew of it. If it could but speak, maybe
It might say something tending to the praise
Ev’n of this ancient hand it served so long;
Faithful, may Heaven be thanked, to Fatherland,
And to the lords of the Horeszko race,
Whose memory still is famous among men.
Mopanku seldom any district Writer
So deftly trims his pen, as this does heads.
’Twere long to reckon up. And ears and noses
Countless! And on this Penknife is no notch,
And never any murderous deed has stained it.
Once only!-give him, Lord, eternal rest!—
An unarmed man, alas! it once despatched.
But even that, God be my witness, was
Pro bono publico.” “Well, show it here,”
Said General Dombrowski, laughing. “But
It is a handsome Penknife, truly ’tis
A headsman’s sword!” With great astonishment
He looked upon the rapier, and in turn
Showed it to all the other officers.
They proved it all, but scarcely one of them
Could lift this rapier. It is said Dembinski,264
Renowned for strength of arm, might have upraised
This sabre, but he was not there. Of those
Then present, only might Dwernicki, chief
Of squadron, and Rosycki, of platoon
Lieutenant, turn this iron pole around;
And thus the rapier went from hand to hand,
In turn, on proof. But General Kniaziewicz,
The most illustrious in stature, showed
That he was likewise strongest in the arm.
Holding the rapier lightly, as a sabre,
He raised it, and above all heads he made
Its lightnings gleam, remembering all the arts
Of Polish fencing, cross-stroke, mill, and curved
Stroke, stolen cut, and thrusts of contrapunt,
Of tercets, which he likewise understood,
For he was of the School of Cadets. As
He fenced thus, laughing, did Rembajlo kneel,
Embrace him round the knees, and cry with tears,
At every turn the sword made: “Beautiful;
Say, General, wert thou a Confederate?
Most beautiful, most perfectly! That is
Pulawski’s thrust, thus Dzierzanowski stood.
That is the thrust of Sawa!265 who thus formed
Your hand, except Matthias Dobrzynski? But
That, General, is my invention. Heaven
Forbid! I do not praise myself! That stroke
Is only in the zascianek known
Of the Rembajlos, from my name ’tis called
Mopanku’s stroke. Who taught it to you, sir?
That is my own stroke, mine!” He rose, the General
Seizing in his embrace. “Now shall I die
In peace. There’s yet upon the earth a man
Who will my dear child cherish! For indeed
Both day and night I long have sorely grieved,
Lest this my rapier rust when I am dead.
Behold, it shall not rust! My most Illustrious,
Most Powerful General, pardon me, throw off
Those spits, those German swords; to a noble child
’Twere shame to wear those sticks. Take here a sword
That suits a noble! This my Penknife I
Here lay before your feet, the dearest thing
That in the world I own. I never had
A wife, I have no child; it was to me
Both wife and child; it never left my arms.
From morn till twilight have I cherished it;
By night it slept beside me, and when I
Grew old, it on the wall hung o’er my couch,
As o’er a Jew the Lord’s commandments. I
Have thought it should be buried in my grave,
Together with my hand. But I have found An heir.
Thee let it serve.” The General,
Half-laughing, with emotion half o’ercome,
“Comrade,” he said, “if thou dost yield thy wife
And child to me, through thy remaining years
Thou wilt be very lonely, old and widower,
And childless. Tell me, by what gift shall I
Repay thee, and by what thy childless state
And widowhood assuage?”—“Am I Cybulski?”266
The Klucznik said in grief, “who lost his wife,
At cards unto a Muscovite, the tale
The song relates? It is enough for me,
That yet my Penknife shines before the world,
In such a hand. But, General, remember
The sword-belt must be long, extended well,
For it is long, and aye from the left ear
Strike with both edges, so shalt thou cut through
From head to belly.” Then the General
The Penknife took, but since it was so long,
He could not wear it; so the servants laid it
Safe in the baggage wagon. What of it
Became, concerning that were differing tales,
But none for certain knew, nor then, nor after.
Dombrowski said to Matthew, “How now, comrade!
’Twould seem my coming does not much rejoice thee,
Silent and sour! Why
