Holy Virgin, who guard Częstochowa's shining mount, who shed your beams from Wilno's Pointed Gate; you, who watch over Nowogródek's castle and pious citizens[2]: as once in my boyhood you wrought a wondrous sign and made me well again (entrusted to your care by my sobbing mother, I raised my lifeless eyelids and soon felt strong enough to walk to the threshold of your shrine there to thank the Lord for the life restored to me) — even so, by a sign, shall you restore us to the bosom of our land. Meanwhile, bear my grieving heart to those richly wooded hills, those verdant meadows stretched along blue Niemen’s banks. Bear it hence to that patchwork of cornfields stippled with golden wheat and silver rye, where the rape glows amber yellow, the buckwheat shimmers like driven snow, the clover mantles like a maiden’s cheek, and all this compassed by a green boundary strip where, here and there, a quiet pear-tree stands.

    Years ago, amidst those fields, in a grove of birches overlooking a small brook, there stood on solid stone foundations a gentleman’s manor house of all-timber construction[3]. From a distance the lime-daubed walls shone the clearer against the dark-green lombardies that sheltered them against the autumn winds. While none too large, the house was spruce and trim. There was a mighty barn, thatched and bursting with grain; three heaping ricks stood beside it — clearly, the region grew grain in superabundance. Everything about the domain, from the galaxy of shining shocks that ran the length and breadth of the fields to the host of seasonable plows working the vast tracts of black loam left in fallow (all neatly tilled like garden plots) — all this was proof that order and plenty made their dwelling here. The gate stood open wide, a clear sign to passersby that all were welcome, all received with open arms.

    Just now a young man in a two-horse bryczka[4] drove in, made a turn about the courtyard and, backing up to the veranda door, jumped out. Left unattended, the horses fell to grazing on the grass and drew slowly away in the direction of the gate. Not a soul in the house. The door to the veranda stood fastened shut, the hasp fitted over the staple with a peg slipped through. Loath to seek out the servants in the annex, the traveler undid the door himself and ran inside. He hadn't seen the place for an age, not since leaving for the distant city to finish his schooling there. Now his studies were done, no more counting the days.

    Running fond and eager eyes over the ancient walls, he was greeted by the same old furnishings, the same rich tapestries that had delighted him ever since he could remember; true, they were smaller now, not quite as lovely as they once seemed. The same oils adorned the walls. Here stood Kościuszko[5] in his Cracow coat, his sword raised in both hands, eyes tilted heavenward. Such was the attitude he struck when on the altar steps he swore an oath to drive the three powers from Polish soil or fall upon the sword himself. There, dagger turned inward upon his breast, the robed Reytan[6] sat brooding over liberty's loss; before him lie Phaedo and Cato's Life. Next: Jasiński, a somber, comely youth with his stalwart companion Korsak[7] beside him. Knee-deep in slain Muscovites they stand, hewing the foe on Praga's ramparts while Praga burns on every side. The traveler even recognized the old grandfather’s clock in the alcove. With childish delight he pulled on the cord to hear the chimes strike up the old Dąbrowski mazurka[8].

    O    n through the house he ran, seeking out the room he had occupied as a child ten years before. He entered, swept the walls with round amazed eyes, and instantly drew back. A woman’s chamber! But whose? His uncle was an old bachelor, and his aunt had been living in Saint Petersburg for years. The housekeeper's? Couldn't be. With a pianoforte? Books and scores lying in a careless heap on top? Sweet disorder!

    Only tender hands could have wrought it; and this white frock here, fresh off the peg, draped, ready for wearing, over the chair arm; and then these pots of scented flowers arranged on the sills, aster, geranium, violet, and stock!