The glass ¬clinked loud as he held it;
Looking down, he screams: “The hell,
Tell me, friend, why art thou there?”
‘Twas a devil at the bottom,
Like a German: stiff and little.
To the guests around he bowed low,
Took his hat off for a giggle,
And jumped gently from the table.
He starts growing: higher, taller…
His nose hooked, and birdlike talon,
And he has legs like a cockerel.
"Hail, Twardowski; my old fellow!”
And his heels clicked whilst he said this:
"Shalt thou not come and say hello
To thy friend Mephistopheles?
Why, we met on the Bald Mountain,
Thou sold thy soul to the devils;
Made a pact there, by a fountain,
Tell me, whose signature is this?
All the devils had to guard thee,
And in two years’ time thou promised
To meet us in Rome. Then, gladly,
I’d take thee to hell. That’s honest.
Now, we’ve waited seven years
And thou art still here, unscathed.
The hell wants what it deserves!
Do you think thou shalt be saved?
That’s enough! Revenge is come,
This time thou shalt not escape me,
For this tavern is called ‘Rome’.
Sir, thou goest with me. Get ready.”
English translation: Joanna Gierlicka