THE NOBLEMAN'S PARADISE 193
'After munching their birdseed porridge, our Mazovians
Have salty beards, which they dunk in their beer.. .';
and he repeated the ditty several times over until at last I lost patience. As Zelecki was
not very big, I was able to pick him up in my arms like a child, and, everyone thought I
was doing it out of affection. But just when Kardowski was breaking once more into
song, I suddenly pushed past him and butted him hard in the chest with Zelecki: Though
apparently as strong as an oak, he was felled at one blow, and, falling backwards, hit his
head on a bench and passed out. Zelecki, too, was unable to stand, as I had knocked him
against Kardowski with all my might.
And so to sword! Turning to Szembek, I put my blade to his fat belly. 'Stop,' he yells,
'what are you blaming me for?' And the other two are still out cold. 'You need your
throats cut,' I say. 'You came here to drink a toast, and have been tickling my nose with
that drunkard all day, and I won't stand any more.' Then the ladies jumped up, shouting
'Stop it! Stop it!' And we left each other alone. We picked up Zelecki from the floor, and
tried to sober up Kardowski by pouring vodka into his nose and between his teeth. They
ran to get the barber-surgeon, since he had cut his head open. Szembek and Zelecki went
to bed. After that, I fortified myself with spirit for a laugh, and ordered a round for my
servants. My men played some merry pranks on the drunken retainers of our guests, who
were lying around the rooms like so much dead wood. They smeared their whiskers with
various foul materials, and stuffed lighted matches up their noses. Next morning, we all
apologized to each other; and ever since, as often as they have visited me, they have
always conducted themselves seriously, and modestly... and have treated me with
greater respect.^40
In spite of such minor interruptions, one of the szlachta's favourite proverbs
remained: lGosc w dom, Bog w dom' (When a guest enters the house, God
enters also).
The earthiness of social life was perfectly compatible with a noticeable taste
for bawdy, of which Polish literature could boast a wide repertoire. Among oth-
ers, Mikolaj Rej, the moralist, the publicist of true nobility, did not omit to com-
pose a collection of rude rhymes for the amusement of his noble readers and as
an exercise in the vernacular for himself. His Figliki (Little Frolics) of 1562 was
written with Chaucerian relish:
There once was a rector, preparing to baptize
A child and to anoint the infant's eyes,
Who asked an old woman, as he mixed the balm,
If she would add some dust to the spittle in his palm.
But as she stooped to gather up the dust,
She let fly a fart propelled with cruel thrust.
Said the priest, 'O Holy Grace!
See what praiseworthy power it doth impart!
A devil has leapt from that lowly place,
Where he tarried so long. I knew it from the start.'
The lady replied, 'Don't look at me,
Dear Prelate; it was the babe.' Said he,
'Yes, I know - it doesn't matter a bit;
You can go in a minute and have a holy shit.'^41