The army! live the people! all the states!”
With thousand voices rang alternate healths,
Alone deigned Buchman not to share this joy;
He praised the project, but would gladly see it
Quite otherwise, and first appoint a legal
Commission which should— Shortness of the time
Prevented justice doing to Buchman’s counsel;
For in the castle courtyard stood already
Couples for dancing; officers with ladies,
The common soldiers with the peasant women.
“A Polonaise!” all cried out with one voice.
The officers had brought the army music,
But the Judge whispered to the General:
“Give orders, sir, the band shall yet stay back.
This day is the betrothal of my nephew,
And ’tis an ancient custom of our house
To be betrothed and wed to village music.
Look, here the cymbalist, the fiddler stand,
And piper;—honest folks! the fiddler now.
Stands eager, and the piper bows, entreating
With glance of eyes. Should I them send away,
They’d weep, poor fellows. And the people cannot
Spring to another music. Let them now
Begin, and let the people all rejoice,
And later on we’ll hear your chosen band.”
He gave the sign. The fiddler of his coat
Tucked up the sleeves, he tightly grasped the neck,
Upon the fiddle-head he leaned his chin,
And like a horse in full career set off
Upon the fiddle; at this sign the pipers,
Who stood beside, as though they flapped with wings,
With frequent motion of their shoulders blow
Into the bags, and fill their cheeks with breath.
Thou might’st have thought the pair would fly away
Upon the air, like Boreas’ wingèd children.
Cymbals were wanting. Cymbalists were many;
But none dared play while Jankiel was near.
Where Jankiel tarried all the winter through
None knew; now all at once he had appeared
With the chief army staff. All knew that none
Were equal to him on this instrument
In taste and talent. They entreated he
Would play, presented cymbals, but the Jew
Refused, and said his hands were coarsened, he
Was out of practice, dared not, was ashamed
To play before the gentlemen; he bowed,
And went away. When this Sophia saw,
She ran up to him, and in her white hand
The bars wherewith the master sounds the strings
She offered; with the other hand she stroked
The old man’s hoary beard, and curtsying,
“Do, Jankiel,” says she, “if you please, to-day
Is my betrothal, Jankiel, do play;
You have promised oft to play upon my wedding.”
As Jankiel loved Sophia exceedingly,
He nodded with his chin, in sign he did not
Refuse, and so they led him to their midst.
They gave to him a chair, they bring the cymbals,
And place them on his knees. He looks with joy
And pride on them, like veteran called to arms,
Whose grandsons from the wall his heavy sword
Drag down; the old man laughs, although so long
No sword was in his hand, yet has he felt
The hand is yet no stranger to the sword.
Meanwhile two scholars by the cymbals kneel,
Attune the strings once more, and tuning strike.
Jankiel is silent yet, with half-shut eyes,
And still his fingers grasp the unmoving bars.276
He let them go. At first they beat the time
Of a triumphal march; more frequent, then
They smote along the strings like stormy rain.
All marvelled. But this only was as proof;
For soon he broke off, and aloft he raised
Both bars. He played again. The bars vibrate
With such light motion, as a fly’s wing might
Upon the chords, emitting a low hum,
Scarce heard. The master ever looked towards heaven,
Awaiting inspiration. From above
He looked, the instrument with proud glance scanned.
He raised his hands together, dropped, and smote
With those two bars. The hearers marvelled much.
From many strings together burst a sound,
As a whole band of Janissary music
Awoke with bells, with zel,277 and beating drums;
The Polonaise of May the third. The lively
Maidens breathe hard with joy, the lads may scarce
Stay in their places. But the old men’s thoughts
Were with the sound transported to the past,
Into those happy years when deputies
And senators upon the third of May,
In the town-hall did feast the king, made one
Now with the nation, when in dance they sung:
“Long live the King, the Diet live, the Estates, the Nation long!”
The master hurries evermore the time,
Intensifies the tones; but at that instant
Threw in a false chord like a serpent’s hiss,
Or scratch of iron on glass; all horror seized,
And all their joy an evil-boding fear
Confounded, saddened, frightened all the hearers.
They doubted: was the instrument mistuned?
In error the musician? Such a master
Could not mistake. He purposely has stirred
Again that traitorous string, the melody
Is troubled; ever louder, breaketh in
That chord unbridled, all confederate
Against the concord of the other tones.
At last the Klucznik understood the master;
He covered with his face his hands, and cried:
“I know, I know that sound, ’tis Targowica!”
And presently that string ill-boding burst
With hissing. The musician to the treble
Rushes, he breaks the time, confuses it.
He leaves the treble, rushes to the bass;
And evermore and louder still are heard
A thousand uproars; beating of a march,
Of war, assault, and storm; then shots were heard,
The groans of children, and their mothers weeping.
The perfect master so the horrors gave
Of storming, that the village women trembled;
Recalling to themselves, with tears of pain,
The Praga carnage, which they knew from songs
And stories. Glad they were that suddenly
The master thundered loud with all the strings,
And strangled all the voices, as though he
Had beat them to the ground. The hearers scarce
Had time to issue from astonishment;
Again another music; once again
At first a humming light and low, there sigh
Some slender strings, like flies, who strive to loose
Themselves from nets of spiders. But the chords
Increase aye more and more. The scattered tones
Unite, and legions gather of accords;
And now, with sounds accordant, move in time,
The tune creating of that famous song,
Of how the soldier over hills and forests
Goeth, at times well-nigh with hunger dying,
Falling at last before his charger’s feet,
Who with his foot shall dig for him a grave,
The ancient song to Poland’s army dear.278
The soldiers knew it; all the faithful ranks
Gathered around the master, listening.
They to themselves recall that fearful time,
When o’er their country’s grave they sang that song,
And went into the country of the world.279
In thought they
