Among the pleasant summertime evening,
A temper of his imagination,
smelling of all kinds of flowers and herbs,
He intended the feathers of Master Kraszewski,
Write a fresh about the spell of Master Twardowski,
To comfort the hearts of readers under the partitions,
Charmed by old legends,
The truths in them for centuries,
By excavating the most crucial of their content,
Bend over yellow pages,
By stimulating the dormant powers of imagination,
In spirit, he spoke to the protagonist of his novel:
"Forgotten, legendary Master Twardowski,
In an old soul novelist,
Your legend has planted a grain of curiosity,
To fill his card novel,
In the stormy darkness of Polish history,
There were besides mysterious sorcerers,
Behind the veil of human memory hidden,
In our beautiful wonderful story,
Sowing a secret seed,
After years in legends, to awaken curiosity,
It happened to the kings themselves,
You have served faithfully with your magic counsel,
To influence the Republic with a trick.
Assigned to you were the turning of the unfruitful,
Dead from the afterlife summoning spirits,
To comfort the mighty monarchs in despair...
While King Sigismund Augustus was devouring sorrows,
You paint him the ghost of Barbara Radziwillovny,
So I have forgotten your fate,
I'll paint it on my novel,
So your very birth,
I will describe in the aura of supernatural mystery,
Marked with a devil's mark,
To make readers curious,
From the front to the reading encourage,
To awaken in each of them the emotions unknown to him,
So I will describe my Master how bravely,
When you were a young man, you went to hell,
To turn your destiny away,
To get the old father's Cyrilograph back,
By Beelzebub's own deception,
New ways of your life...
You've lived in a mystery for centuries,
As a conjectured royal sorcerer,
By immortalizing his name in Polish history,
As a large mystery an invisible monument,
When on covens on Lysa Góra,
They flew on their witches' brooms,
To do all night's work,
You mysterious Master in the late evenings,
You sat inactive consumed with your many books,
To research all the mysteries of the universe...
You wanted all the knowledge,
hidden from man of reason,
To the troubled humanity to serve,
And to gain secret knowledge,
You didn't hesitate to sale your soul to the devil,
To multiply the treasures of reason...
You've given people valuable advice,
You've always treated illness with anything.
You've always been a tireless helper,
Where your mediocre brother was in need,
Until you were yet captured by the witches,
In a cunning name called Rome inn,
By resorting to bold deception,
To complete his terrible work,
I will take your soul with deceit,
And offer it immediately to the fiery hell,
When the hell took you from the inn,
They have lifted advanced above the earth's dead,
You have entrusted the ancient God with the legendary Master,
And with the service you sang hours,
Which led the witches to drop you,
And you landed on the moon a brazen noble...”
And wrote the unparalleled Master Kraszewski,
A beautiful fresh about the legendary Master Twardowski,
Insighting in all, without exception, readers of delight,
Stimulating the sleep of gray-haired imagination.
And he made Kraszewski Twardowski the Polish nobleman a model,
Sarmatian pride unparalleled by a timeless example,
An ancient past with a mystical silent whisper,
For subsequent generations of novelists with inspiration.
And inactive successive generations of Polish youth,
They read in a fresh about the celebrated Master Twardowski,
Dreaming secretly to last his adventure,
Turning over the last page novels.
And inactive many readers of young people,
To awaken your emotions,
Reaches for the legendary Master of hard Adventure,
By admiring their author with a writer's genius...
– A poem inspired by the fresh “Master Twardowski” by J.I. Kraszewski.
