These words of the last song still await translation. They are of seminal importance. They appeal to the Belarusian conscience here nad now. They challenge us to change the fixed structures left after the retreating Soviet administration. The warm wind of change, blowing a new life into so many enslaved nations, cannot be limited by any boundaries, just like freedom cannot. I do believe it will bring change into the „rodny kut”, the Belarusian mother country.

This is how Kolas’s „New Land” speaks to me – the specialist in the Belarusian language and culture. This is how I understand its message, translating it for my fellow Poles. This is how I understand its gravity here, in this room, among us, who take part in clearing space for the Belarusian culture in the world and opening the world for the reception of spiritual treasures of Belarus.

My life adventure with „The New Land” overpowers me with sudden changes of moods, colours, tastes. I try my best to transfer it into Polish with all the piety it deserves. This is the celebration of honey harvest from Song 13, titled in the original „Padhlad pczol”:

І стол тым часам накрываюць,
Гасцей шумлівых запрашаюць,
Садзяцца госці, ды не зразу,
Бо так шляхетнасць вымагае.
Ідзе тут спрэчка немалая,
Калі пачнуць тут адмаўляцца:
– Сядай, Язэп! – Няхай сядзяцца,
А я прыткнуся потым з краю.
– Ах, вось дзіўны!.. – Ну, ну, сядаю!
– Пан Фабіян, і ты, Кандраце,
Яхім і Ян, і Юрка, – браце!
Ну, проша ж, проша! – Пасадзілі,
Такім жа чынам упрасілі
Жанок прысесці тут на ўслоне.
Антось у ход пусціў далоні
І коркі спрытна выбівае –
Так, што здзіўленне выклікае.

The table was laid in the meantime,
the guests invited to sit down.
They take their seats, but not at once,
Especially not under the icons:
This is what good breeding requires.
But this also brings much confusion,
When this and that one seeks excuse.
„Jazep! Sit down!” „Let others sit, I’ll stay at the edge.”
„You freak just do sit down!” – „I’ll sit then.”
Master Fabian, and you, Kandrat, do sit down!
Sit down, Jurka, brother! / Please do!”
Men at last were seated. Women urged
to sit on the benches. Antoni
takes bottles into his hands and
uncorks them skillfully, Admired by all.

And what serenity and joy of life in the feast songs!

Ой, ляцеў авадзень
А насустрач мушка.
Прыхіліся, кума:
Пашапчу на вушка!


„There’s a bumble-bee buzzing from the greens,
And from the hut a fly,
Come and bow your head, my dear,
I’ll whisper now into your ear.
And Hania’s coming to him, singing to the rhythm of clapping:
„Play some music for me
to hop and dance.
My father bought me shoes
for me to use!”
The men take up the challenge
Fabian is their sole hope
Pushed to the front by his friends
this is how he sings and dances:
„Hapka, just look at me, at my shaking hat!”
This is not the hat, but the hair, scattered like spikes in the wind.
He spins in the dance not feeling bones.
The others follow.
Jan Palczyk takes a comb,
Wraps it in a thin piece of paper
and starts to play so lively
that feet cannot help dancing:
„With no music and no bagpipe
The dog dances at his kennel.
Play my bagpipe, play!
On two feet dance I may!”

The reader can be deeply moved by descriptions of the Niemen nature around Michal’s farm, all excelling in beauty and simplicity:

Лес наступаў і расступаўся,
Лужком зялёным разрываўся;
А дзе прыгожыя загібы
Так міла йшлі каля сядзібы,
Што проста імі б любаваўся.
А знізу гэты лес кашлаты
Меў зеленюсенькія шаты
Лазы, чаромхі ці крушыны,
Алешын ліпкіх, верабіны.
Глядзіш, бывала, і здаецца,
Што скрозь сцяну галін жывую,
Скрозь гэту тканку маладую
Ні мыш, і пташка не праб’ецца.
Цякла тут з лесу невялічка
Травой заросшая крынічка,
Абодва берагі каторай
Лазняк, ракітнік абступалі;
Бруіліся ў цяньку іх хвалі
І ў луг чуць значнаю разорай
Ішлі спакойна між чаротаў,
Рабілі многа заваротаў,
Аж покі ў Нёман не ўцякалі.

The forest tightened and receded,
Opening like a horse-shoe.
The green swamp poured in
Up to the trees on shore.
The forest, though bearded and old,
Was still from below clad in green clothes
of bird-cherry, osier, lilac, buckthorn,
the sticky hazel grove and rowan.
It seemed that not even a mouse, nor snake would slither
through the thicket woven into the green net.
A lively brook leaked from the thicket
overgrown with grass.
Its banks were wrapped in furry tufts of sea-buckthorn
making its way into the meadow, on both sides along the brook,
inseparable in two-row running,
as if they chased each other,
twisting in loops amidst the grass
Until they ran into the Niemen.

During busy and sweltering summer the Niemen meadows jingled with the scythes of harvesters:

Але паслухай, мілы дружа.
Эх, што за хваля і як дужа,
Разгонна, смела і агромна
Плыве на струнах тых з-пад Нёмна!
Ідуць касцы, звіняць іх косы,
Вітаюць іх буйныя росы,
А краскі ніжай гнуць галовы,
Счуўшы косак звон сталёвы.
Касцы ідуць то грамадою,
То шнурам цягнуць, чарадою,
То паасобку, то па пары;
Ідуць касцы, ідуць, як хмары,
І льецца смех іх разудалы,
Як веснавыя перавалы.

But listen, oh my dear brother
to the sound of magic power,
Sonorous, bright and pleasant
Reaching us from the Niemen!
These are the haymakers! Jingling with scythes!
Welcome by morning dews,
And flowers humbly bow their heads
At awe with steel sound of scythes.
Some go alone, and some with neighbours
in groups, in rows,
They draw closer, just like clouds,
Onto their meadows,
Their rustling spreads far, like waters in the spring brooks.

And when the summer storm frightens away the haymakers from the meadow:

Жанкі, дзяўчаты і мужчыны
Бягуць пад копы, пад драбіны,
Каб менш быць змочаным дажджом;
А хто, накрыўшысь халатом
Ці так накінуўшы дзяругу,
Сядзіць квахтухаю срэдзь лугу.
– Давай, давай, дожджык, накропу.
Сюды, дзяўчаткі, лезьце ў копу:
Дасць бог на нашым гэтым грудзе
На другі год касцоў прыбудзе! –
Пад гэты гром, пад дождж упарты
То там, то тут пачуеш жарты
І смех вясёлы, піск дзявочы,
Бо хто ж крануць іх неахвочы?
Але й дзяўчаты язык маюць
І востра хлопцаў падсякаюць,
Не робяць жартам перашкоды.

In haste: women, maids and lads
Hide from the rain in sheafs
And bury themselves in fresh hay.
Others, wrapped in a blanket or in plaid
cower on the meadow, just like hens
With backs or sides just barely seen.
„Rain, keep pouring down!
Girls! Come to us into the hay!
When there is will, then with God’s blessing,
Next year there will be more haymakers”.
In roaring thunder, persistent rain,
Teasing and jokes come out of hay
Outbursts of laugh and the girls’ chirping . . .
As lads seek chance to touch
feminine soft curves.
But maids with bites of spite
bring their efforts to a halt.

Kolas tells us with great taste what was served on the Mickiewiczes’ table at the Christmas Eve supper:

І вось вячэра зачалася!
Спыніцца мушу я на квасе:
Ён колер меў чырванаваты;
Тут быў таран, мянёк пузаты,
Шчупак, лінок, акунь, карась,
Кляўбок і ялец, плотка, язь,
Яшчэ засушаныя з лета.
Але не ўсё яшчэ і гэта:
Аздоблен квас быў і грыбамі,
Выключна ўсё баравічкамі;
Цыбуля, перчык, ліст бабковы –
Ну, не ўясісь, каб я здаровы!
Пільнуй – цішком скажу між намі, –
Каб і язык не ўцёк часамі.

And this is supper in all abundance!
But first I need to mention borshcht:
It gains its reddish colour
from beetroot pickle,
Inside it were: tench with a large belly,
the summer’s dried catch – pike, perch, roach, and ide,
Gudgeon, dace, and crucian carp, plus burbot, as a treat.
But this is not all. Borshcht wil not be borscht
if not spiced with dried mushrooms - miraculous boletus!
Plus pepper, bay leaf,
Onions, and salt . . . In other words,
watch out, or you swallow your tongue!

The poem abounds in, as we would say today, sociological observations. This is what Antos thinks about human relations on his way to Vilnius:

І думаў дзядзька, каб танней як,
Хоць бы за трыццаць пяць капеек –
А чым танней, тым лепш, вядома –
Далей ад’ехацца ад дому.
У дзядзькі ў Стоўбцах быў дружака,
Вакзальны стораж, Доніс Драка;
Ён машыністаў знаў каротка,
Кандуктарчыха – яго цётка,
А з качагарам жыў, як з братам;
І быў канторшчык яго сватам;
З тэлеграфістамі ён знаўся,
А з дзядзькам летась сябраваўся,
Падумаць толькі – чуць не шышка!
І з аднаго яны кілішка
У цёткі Гені выпівалі
І разам восі яны кралі.

The uncle thought how to manage
his journey with thirty kopiejki,
As far as it goes
Or just for free.
Once the uncle met in Stolpce a smart aleck:
His name was Danis Draka, a railway station watchman.
He knew lots of engine-drivers,
And his aunt was a ticket collector.
He and the stoker were like brothers,
And station cash-clerk was his in-law.
He knew all the telegraphists,
And they became pals with the uncle,
(although he was a big fish for the uncle!)
When they drank from one glass
At Auntie Gienia,
And stole together axles.

Already in Vilnius, at the bank, the uncle pits himself against the powerful czarist beaurocracy:

Чыноўнік злосны не стрымаўся:
– Табе чаго тут? – запытаўся,
Сярдзіты, поўны нецярпення.
– Наконт зямлі: вось і прашэнне, –
Гаворыць дзядзька так салодка,
Як толькі можна, ды каротка
Яго чыноўнік злы спыняе:
– Не важна справа – пачакае;
Прыйдзі сюды праз тры гадзіны! –
Ўздыхнуў Антось ад той навіны.
„Ось дзе выжыга! ось бізун,
Бадай цябе забіў пярун!
Чакай дабра ты ад хамулы,
Няхай табе дасць бог тры скулы!
Няхай цябе водзяць сляпога,
Як водзіш ты за нос другога!”
І як не кляў ён гэту п’яўку,
Ды мусіў даць рубля за спраўку.

At last the scribe, the learned rogue,
Annoyed by stubborn uncle,
Could not bear peasant insolence.
„What do you need?” he asks with spite.
„I come with an application concerning land.”
Antos explains his business humbly.
The clerk dismisses the stubborn man curtly:
„The case’s not urgent. It must wait. Come once again after three hours!”
The uncle lost his speech to that:
„This is my business dealt with fairly!
May you be struck with sudden thunder!
May you be lead like helpless blind, just like you lead us astray!
May you be covered all in ulcers, you greedy leech, you lordish dandy!”
But though he could go on with swearing,
still he could not avoid paying
for the stamp . . .
Michal, in the meantime, thinks intensely:
How can I find a way out, a rescue
From this poverty and serfdom?
There is only one way:
my own soil and my own bread of my own crops.
This is foundation of
one’s own lot, of one’s own home.
The land cannot deceive, cannot betray,
The land will help you and convey
good advice.
The land can give you will and strength,
It will be yours until your death,
The land will change your children’s fate,
And root them in the motherland.

The Germans have a saying: „Wer den Dichter will verstehen, muss in Dichters Lände gehen”. If one wants to understand a poet, one has to know his mother country first.

I was lucky to have been born and bred in the mother country of both Mickiewiczes – Adam and Konstanty. Konstanty lived and wrote when I, at the age of fourteen, bid farewell to the Niemen. Whenever I reach for „The New Land”, thanks to him and his great epic poem I have an opportunity to return to the banks of „my home river” – as Adam called it for posterity.

I would like to see the day when the translation of the whole piece will make its way to Polish readers, just as „Pan Tadeusz” by Mickiewicz found its way to Belarusians, thanks to the three translations published already: by Bronisław Taraszkiewicz, Piotr Bitel and Jazep Siemiažon. My desire increases, considering the fact that it is quite possible to complete the translation and publish it in the 120th anniversary of Jakub Kolas’s birth in 2002. All we need is a reliable publication contract. If this eventually comes true, it will be the greatest „consolation” of my life.

I would like to thank for this chance I have pursued since 1991 to the creator of the greatest gemstones of the Belarusian prose, who inspired me to undertake this task. Thank you, dear Janka Bryl!

Trans. Dorota Kolodziejczyk.