Читать книгу The History of Sigismund, Prince of Poland - Oscar Mandel - Страница 5

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Little by little, as time will have it, King Casimir grew old—old but yet vigorous (he still led the boarhunt), and, for the rest, remaining an excellent ruler, especially for the nobility. He still mourned his beloved Ludmila, and a groan escaped from his throat when he thought of the child he would have loved to hug. For he had borne no other. No lady of the court (nor none other) had gratified him with a baby—a bastard, to be sure, had such a child been born, yet unquestionably a prince. The only object of his paternal tenderness was his niece Estrella. As for the good Zbigniew, alas, he was no more. The king’s chief astrologer had fallen backward from a ladder in the royal library while trying to grasp, on a high shelf, the eloquent Nobilissimus liber de arte moriendi of Johannes Nide. He lost his balance, and his skull fatally struck the marble floor.

After his death (allow me, said Modrzewski, a short detour not devoid of intellectual interest), a loud quarrel divided his many admirers and his three or four enemies. Zbigniew had prophesied, in November, that he would die the following summer. He fell from his ladder on the ninth of June. His detractors concluded that he had misread the stars (“as usual,” they added under their breath), but his admirers argued, to begin with, that the distance between the ninth and the twenty-first of June was not worth mentioning, and furthermore, that the weather had been abnormally warm in early June. Be that as it may, the astrologer’s prediction had given his wife ample time to prepare, with suitable discretion, widow’s weeds that were judged in the best taste by the court.

I return to Sigismund. A false funeral had been held for the babe. He was kept carefully away in a pavilion not far from Cracow, and the rumor was spread that the child was, perhaps, the fruit of an illegitimate passion between a distant parent of the monarch (who was not named) and her butler. When this affair began to be forgotten (albeit this sort of forgetting is seldom complete, and the guilty make a mistake when they put their trust in it), Sigismund was carried to the foot of a forbidding cliff at the frontiers of the land, and chained to a cave. The gentleman charged with this mission was the baron Szymon Klotalski, lord of Zakopane. The few trusted men whom the baron employed had no reason to doubt the scandalous romance; the like happened so often!

So here is Sigismund, in his twenty-first year, dwelling in the land of wolves and bears, chained to his grotto. The chain was long enough to enable him to take the air, and even to walk about a little. At one end it was thrust deep into the stone wall of the cave, at the other it clasped the young man’s ankle. By means of a sinister key, it was changed once a month from one ankle to the other, but in order to do this, four soldiers were not one too many to compel the prince, for he struggled mightily during the minute or two it took to shackle him once more.

Indeed, the prince had grown into a colossus. Michelangelo would have admired, perhaps loved him. He exercised powerfully every morning. I mentioned bears, because they were abundant in the surrounding mountains. Well, I do believe that Sigismund could have wrestled down the biggest of them. At the same time, this giant was a cultivated man. Casimir had no intention of turning him into a savage. Klotalski had given him the Gospel to read (he knew it by heart by the age of eighteen), together with the most edifying saints’ lives, the best works of history (especially, of course, the glorious history of Poland, without, however, coming too near present times), collections of poetry and romantic tales of adventure, lives of great men, treatises of military and diplomatic strategy, and (needless to say) the finest texts that Athens and Rome have bequeathed to us.

The chain was a long one, as I said, and on sunny days Sigismund read his books, seated on a bench, his elbows resting on a long, rough pinewood table. Nearby a brook of the purest water ran over the stones. Father Radim, like Klotalski a man to be trusted, celebrated mass for him every Sunday, and took his confession twice a year. I said he was a man to be trusted, but he too knew nothing, or wanted to know nothing. He did not care whether Sigismund was the offspring of an illicit passion, or a princely baby-hostage seized from the Swedes. It was enough for him that here was a soul that needed to be groomed for paradise. Hence he had seen to it that on a tree trunk near the cave were nailed a great wooden crucifix, a splendid image of the Virgin, and the portraits of several saints whose regard is worth securing. As for Klotalski, he had caused to be nailed, on the next tree, a superb full-length portrait of the king—in full regalia—recently painted by the Venetian Tomaso Dolabella.

Clad in skins, kept in good health and well nourished, the young man’s body naturally began to feel other needs. To satisfy these, Klotalski, as soon as he became conscious that the boy had become a man, brought in a woman—the only woman, presumably, he would ever see in the flesh (many girls and ladies stared at him from the engravings of his books). Her name was Layla. She was a chubby Turkish slave, cheerful, not too young, not too fine looking, who undertook to play all the needed roles. She was mother, mistress, nurse, cook, barber, chambermaid, and, in Sigismund’s eyes, something of a sorceress. For, although the herbs, roots, leaves, flowers, and stalks that she gathered in the forest and mountain did wonders for his meals, his fevers, and his scratches, he couldn’t help being a little afraid of her. “Medea!” he would throw at her head when a bizarre flavor tickled his palate—though without hurting the poor woman’s feelings by explaining who that wicked creature had been. Also, it was obvious to him that she avoided Father Radim as if he (saintly man!) had been a sorcerer.

To be sure, she couldn’t have answered him, because she was mute. Oh no! It was not the Christians who had perpetrated this cruelty. I am sure it was not. It is simply not believable. Fortunately, being dumb didn’t prevent Layla from making herself understood. Together with her grimaces and her gestures, her hm, hm, hm translated quite effectively her wishes and her moods. “I’ll baptize her and marry her,” Sigismund often reflected, “as soon as I’ve shaken off this damnable chain.” Of course, he knew from his books as well as you and I that there lived in the world women more beautiful than Layla. But so it was. He liked roundness, and he had read, in I don’t know what philosophical text, that the sphere is the perfect form. I believe that Layla would have laughed at the notion of marrying Sigismund, but she wouldn’t have refused him, because the virile young man knew how to please her. For the time being, however, she counted rather on Klotalski’s promises, which included a mound of ducats and a gilded coach to take her home to Turkey as a lady.

It goes without saying that Sigismund had learned how to use a sword. His master was Klotalski himself, an old hand, whose age no longer allowed him to spit Cossacks and Tatars, but who brought to his pupil the experience of a lifetime.

At some distance from Sigismund’s cave (and the narrower one in which Layla lodged), a royal patrol saw to it that no one would ever come near the mysterious prisoner, on pain of death if he tried. The distant sound of a trumpet regularly announced the arrival of Klotalski and his escort (with or without Father Radim) and the welcome new supplies for the two hermits. That was the only music known to Sigismund, except for the Turkish ballads Layla hummed on many an evening, accompanying herself on an old half-broken lute or a cracked tambourine.

One fine summer day, when nothing in the air hinted that destiny (if you’ll permit me the use of this pompous word) was preparing tremendous changes in Sigismund’s life, that same trumpet brought him out of his cave, rattling his chain. “Layla,” he shouted, “where are you hiding, you heathen trollop? Nosing about the forest to pick more poisonous plants? Come back and prepare a snack for Klotalski, his ruffians, and myself.”

Presently the master of Zakopane made his appearance through the trees at the head of a squad of soldiers and flanked by a grim-looking personage, holding a whip, whose title was Master of Peasant Discipline. The men, though well armed, were carrying a load of supplies which they took to Layla’s cave, as they had done many times before. Afterward, they and the Master of Peasant Discipline sat down at a table nearby.

“Greetings, my son,” said Klotalski when he arrived, hugging Sigismund, “let’s sit down.”

The truth is that the compliments that passed between the two men were not of the same nature. For Klotalski, Sigismund was a precious charge, a symbol of the crown’s trust in the provincial nobleman he was, and almost a son. Instead, Sigismund felt a mixture in his soul of filial attachment to and hatred of his jailer, a feeling of respect and a feeling of contempt, in a complex of emotions hard to disentangle.

“And how are we today?” asked Klotalski cheerfully.

“Ask me what are we today,” was the gruff reply. “We are a prisoner. Worse than a wretched caged lion.”

“You don’t look wretched to me, my boy. You look as vigorous as a lion with a goat in his belly. Enough banter. Have you read your Hecataeus?”

“I have. And I have a high regard for ancient history; but I prefer the current one. Did the crown assessor stop at Zakopane to see you? What did he say? What’s new at court?”

“Gently! Yes, he did me the honor of sleeping in my house, and he did pass on a bit of gossip. It appears that the tsarevich Astolof, who left Moscow two weeks ago, has arrived at Lwow perfumed from bonnet to boots in order to please our Princess Estrella.”

“A toyshop prince,” said the young giant disdainfully. “Besides, everybody knows she has been Bogdan Opalinski’s mistress.”

Klotalski pretended not to have heard these last words. Sigismund knew too much about that traitor against his own class, that noble rebel, lover of the mob, whom as a child the king had dandled on his knees. “Perfumed or muddy, better that the Russians marry us instead of joining with the Turks against us.”

To which Sigismund replied: “Poland would be better off if, instead of hiring a mincing prince, it launched me, Sigismund, to crush the Turks.”

A mere bystander would have felt that a prince of the blood, unaware of himself, was saying these words. So at any rate, thought Klotalski, not without a grain of secret pleasure which I will be explaining to you in a while. “That’s all very well,” he said, “now recite Hecataeus.”

“One moment. First tell me: is Opalinski approaching Cracow at the head of his bands?”

This time Klotalski became angry. However, Sigismund gleefully noted in the baron’s face not only anger but also fear and helplessness.

“Don’t meddle with what doesn’t concern you!” Klotalski thundered.

But Sigismund stood up from his bench and shouted: “Long live Bogdan Opalinski! Death to the oppressors! Oppressors like yourself! No more chains!”

And he rattled his chain like a bell that sounds the coming of freedom.

“It’s been two months,” said Klotalski, “since you felt the whip,” while, from the other table, the Master of Peasant Discipline made as if to take that instrument from his belt, and the brawny soldiers of the escort got ready to turn their hands into fists. Fortunately Layla arrived in time with a mighty tray of soups and wine for everybody, and the Master and soldiers sat down for their refreshment.

“Greetings beautiful lady and thanks!” said the baron with a chuckle. He patted her backside and slipped three zlotys into her hand.

“Hm, hm, hm,” said Layla, who had a happy disposition with or without zlotys, before returning to her grotto.

The two men began to eat and drink. “And now,” said Klotalski, “recite.”

Sigismund was in no hurry. He lifted his spoon. “Who am I, Klotalski?”

“Always the same question!”

Sigismund held his eyes on the baron’s. “Son of a king? That one’s bastard son?” And he pointed his spoon at Casimir’s portrait, which stared at them from his tree. “Kidnapped by gypsies from my cradle? Or by yourself, traitor I’ll strangle the day I discover your crimes!”

“Blusterer! The whip is too mild for you. I don’t know who you are.” (Klotalski didn’t mind lying.) “I know only that my orders are to keep you alive and far from the world—and we both know the reason for that. I obey my superiors without asking questions. Did you or did you not study your Hecataeus?”

“Book fourteen. I have it by heart. ‘The night when Palakus, king of Scythia, received the Abyssinian ambassadors, he offered a banquet of a splendor unknown outside of Egypt. A hundred dancers—’ ”

He was interrupted by Layla’s return with a dessert of blueberries and cream, which pleased the baron. He asked Layla to sing. The Turk went to fetch her lute, on which she tinkled as best she could an ancient Ottoman lament, humming all the while almost melodiously, while Sigismund recited. “ ‘The ambassadors were dazzled by a hundred dancers of both sexes, an orchestra of innumerable harps, trumpets, oboes, and drums, and a feast that lasted till dawn. At sunrise, as they were leaving the table, with their dignity intact—for they had eaten and drunk prudently, fearing that their reason might founder—’ ”

“I interrupt you, my boy,” said the noble tutor, “in order to urge you to admire that coolness of mind of the ambassadors, which no man who serves the State should ever lose.”

“Do you believe everything Sir Greek tells us?”

“Perhaps not, but what counts is the moral idea behind his tale, whether quite truthful or not. Go on. You are the owner of a prodigious memory. I wish I had a fifth of yours.”

“Tell me, tyrant, when will it be my turn to hear the trumpets and the drums and the harps? I who hear nothing but the howling of the wolves in the mountain, and this music, this?”

And he furiously rattled his chain. The escort and the Master looked and listened.

Klotalski’s only reply was: “Are you raving or do you continue?”

“So be it. ‘Leaving the table’ and so forth, ‘the king of Scythia spoke as follows: the luxury of which you have been partakers, gentlemen, this pomp, this magnificence, all this is but vanity. When you return to the emperor of Abyssinia, tell him above all that in our Scythia all men are equal—’ ”

“What?” Klotalski interrupted again.

“What do you mean, ‘What’?”

“What you’ve just recited, are you pretending it’s in Hecataeus?”

“Where else, damn you? Do I have it from Layla?”

She had stopped singing and plucking her lute and was listening. Klotalski turned sharply to her. “Get out of here,” he shouted, “go back to work!”

“Don’t bark at Layla,” Sigismund cried out, “and listen closely to what the Greek has to say.”

Sigismund stood up from the bench, and leaning on the table with his two hands, his head close to that of Klotalski, he continued from memory: “‘No unjust taxes are extorted here from the people, the farmers own their land and eat when they are hungry, our artisans are honored and well paid, our kings are elected by the entire population, and those are the reasons we sing and dance; and I myself, king that I am, on the day our good Scythians name my successor, I shall mount my horse and become again the simple scout I was before they chose me for the throne.’ ”

During this speech, Klotalski had remained at first as though stunned; then he grew red with rage; his cheeks seemed to swell. At the last word, he struck the table with his fist so hard the bottles, glasses, and dishes danced, and he too stood up, nose to nose with Sigismund. “Damn God and Christ if you’re not lying!” he yelled, though at the same time he crossed himself because of his blasphemy.

Sigismund’s voice rose as high as the baron’s. “Nobody dares accuse me of lying,” he cried, and he would have tried to throttle Klotalski had not the Master of Peasant Discipline come running from the other table (followed by the soldiers) and struck Sigismund in the back with his whip.

Looking around, Sigismund saw that he must yield. He sat down again and brought his voice down to a growl. “Long live Hecataeus,” he brought out. “He will be my tutor when I become king. No more chains! As for you,” he said, turning around to face the Master, “I will have you cut into small pieces.”

The Master smirked and went back to the other table.

The altercation between the older and the younger man had not been the first one in their lives, far from it. But both calmed down as quickly as they flared up.

“Show me the book.”

Sigismund and his chain dragged back to the cave, whence he returned with the offending work.

“Open it where I placed the bone from the chicken I shared with Father Radim.”

Klotalski skimmed the famous fourteenth book. He shook his head. “This translation was made by a traitor. It is false. Don’t ever forget that a king is a king and a peasant is a peasant. The Holy Ghost was not elected by kings, and peasants will never elect kings. Enough.”

Sigismund’s voice became soft. “Klotalski.”

“Yes, my boy.”

“You must be somebody in the capital. A governor. A minister. Perhaps you are my father.”

“Alas, I have never been married,” said the tutor naively. “It’s one of my lifelong regrets.”

“So...who am I? Tell me this at any rate: do you know who I am?”

Telling the truth is commendable. Obeying the king is more so. Klotalski had to lie once more. His voice was now as soft as Sigismund’s. “I swear to you that I don’t know. And I’m not somebody, my lad. I’m only a minor provincial nobleman. I was chosen to guard and nurture you because they knew, up there in the capital, that I was covered in debts. Because of you, I’ve been able to repair my roof. So there you have your tyrant’s portrait.”

Part of this speech was no lie. Thanks to the king’s great obligation to the baron, the rain no longer penetrated Klotalski’s ancient castle. It penetrated, at any rate, much less.

An immense sadness took hold of Sigismund. “Birds, wolves, butterflies, fish, the river itself are free. Why am I, a being made in the likeness of God, highest in creation, why am I held by a chain? What have I done? What is my crime, other than that of having been born? But that’s a crime I share with all of you, and yet you are free!” And he gestured toward the other table, though he spoke too softly to be heard by the soldiers.

Tears came to Klotalski’s eyes. “Need I remind you, my poor child, that at the moment of your birth, a voice coming from Heaven, and countless prodigies on Earth, declared that, whoever you might be—the king’s son, a peasant’s baby, the offspring of a Jewish peddler, what do I know?—you were destined to inflict the most frightful calamities on Poland? I tremble when I remember that the king’s astrologers foretold, looking at the firmament, that you would make our monarch himself crawl at your feet. A clamor rose that you must instantly be killed. But Christian charity prevailed. The child was brought to these mountains. And that is all.”

“That is all,” repeated Sigismund softy, his cheeks in his two hands, weeping.

How often had he not heard this story! But he didn’t believe it. He, son of a peasant, a peddler! He who felt capable of defeating Alexander!

He dried his tears, but his voice continued soft—the voice that moved Klotalski more than what he heard when the young man bawled and menaced. “You were afraid to beget a monster, yet in chaining me to that cave you created that very monster. For that is what I am. Resentment and hatred fill my soul; they frighten me. The voice the king heard, Klotalski, was not divine. It was the voice of Hell. It tempted the king and he succumbed to it. Had that child been treated with love from the day of his birth, his virtues as a man would have driven the Devil to despair.”

I believe that Klotalski was about to reply that a good Christian has no business troubling himself with theological speculations, when, suddenly, the shrill blast of a trumpet put an end to the conversation. Neither man could guess that, from that moment, everything was going to change for Sigismund, everything was about to end, and was about to begin.