The History of Sigismund, Prince of Poland. Oscar Mandel

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ