Pan Szlachta

The Polish nobleman was a curious fur-bearing and saber-wielding creature of history and mythology. I ran into one today on the market square, unusual at this time of the millennium. The race pretty much died out in the 16^th and 17^th  century, at the latest. His image, though, will live indefinitely, if not forever, because the man had some style. But his figure and reputation are mixed, both the soul of the Golden Age and the Noble Democracy—patriotic, martial, and reasonably well-cultured—as well as an almost perfect parody of that soul—a boorish, self-interested, nay-sayer—for the century prior to Poland’s, and his, extinction. Mine proved an agreeable fellow on the whole, abundant of life and brotherhood and information, and snappily well-dressed, though I did briefly feel his steel at my throat. I attribute it to jealousy of my superior moustache. They could be touchy about such things.