The History of Sigismund, Prince of Poland. Oscar Mandel

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ