The History of Sigismund, Prince of Poland. Oscar Mandel

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      Let me go, ruffians, beasts, take your hands off me, leave me to going on my way!”

      Such were the outcries of Agafya, a young woman I haven’t the time to describe to you just now because of the hubbub of her arrival. In unison with her, two of the king’s soldiers, who were holding her in their clutches, were yelling, “Shut your mouth, woman, you’re standing before the chief!” While behind them, another soldier was leading by its bridle a large horse, the kind one imagines more readily hauling a barge along a canal than prancing in the Viennese ring of the Habsburg. The poor horse was adding to the confusion by neighing his distress with all the might of his humble lungs. The young woman, on her side, who is more easily imagined at the tiller of that same barge, pipe beween her lips, than sipping a chocolate at a Habsburg afternoon, kept screaming, struggling, and babbling in broken Polish. Sigismund and all the others looked properly amazed, as did Layla, who came running, a kitchen towel in her hand.

      In a few seconds, Klotalski took hold of himself. “Silence, woman, peace,” he shouted, “and you, soldiers, give me a full report.”

      “My lord,” said one of the men, “this here prisoner was comin’ down the mountain like somebody what wishes to see us. We pulled her off her nag—specially Kristof here who is the strongest, because the woman’s a fighter, no joke! and so we brung her to you, and here’s the knife that was tucked in her belt.”

      While the soldier was telling his story, Agafya twisted and wriggled and yelled, while now and then turning around to blow a reassuring kiss toward her horse. But how can I describe all this aloud, one event after the other, when five or six things were happening at the same time? I would draw a picture if I knew how!

      I may as well interrupt this turmoil to tell you that the first thought in Sigismund’s head had been: “How skinny she is!” followed by an appreciative glance toward his Layla. But in fact, Agafya was a handsome, robust girl, with blue eyes, a sturdy bosom, strong-muscled legs, and a merry round face, surrounded by a mane of blond hair covered now with dust. Her ruddy cheeks suggested a state of unassailable health, her rugged hands that of hard work in the fields since childhood, and her coarse, restitched garments that of modest means at home. Her only jewel was an ivory cross she wore around her neck. Why was this foreign young woman riding a horse alone across the most remote Polish mountains? Might she not be a spy disguised as a peasant?

      “Who are you?” asked Klotalski in his best voice of judge of the peace of his province. “What are you looking for in these parts? Where do you come from? Know that you are about to be put to death.”

      Indeed, the two soldiers who held her fast were now training their pistols at her head with their free hands. She wasn’t flinching, however. But she couldn’t hear the Master of Peasant Discipline whisper into the baron’s ear: “Right. She must be shot without speeches. You know our strict orders, my lord.”

      Sigismund did hear. “You hurt that girl, scoundrel, and you’ll weep the rest of your life.”

      “Keep your tempers, all of you,” said Klotalski, and he repeated his questions.

      “It’s easy,” said the young woman. “My name is Agafya Matveyevna Kulkova, and I come from my dad’s big farm near Pochinok. My mare, she’s called Bialik, at your service, and don’t nobody be daring at hurting her.”

      “What is this Pochinok of yours?” Klotalski inquired.

      “She’s a town in our holy Russia, may God bless her,” proudly replied the girl.

      “How is it you speak such good Polish?”

      “Because I had a Polish grandmother what teached me before dying at seven years old.”

      “And whither were you riding when we caught you? Speak the truth.”

      “That’s easy too. I was on my way to Cracow.”

      “To do what, peasant-girl?”

      “Yes, peasant-girl, my lord, but with my honor which was besmirched and which I’m to Cracow traveling to avenge.”

      Sigismund became agitated. “You’re a victim! Like me! Look!” And he made loud the dismal music of his chain.

      “I seed it, and I’m all goose-pimpled to see what I see. It ain’t natural. Where am I anyway?”

      The Master of Peasant Discipline was growing impatient, but Klotalski’s curiosity prevailed. “You’re in your grave, girl, if you lie to us. Speak. Tell us your story.”

      “Damnation,” shouted Sigismund, striking the table, “how can the girl tell her story with two pistols aimed at her an inch away from her head?”

      “All right, all right,” said Klotalski, who had already understood that the girl was no spy. “Let her go, men, and let her breathe.”

      The moment she was freed, Agafya made a little curtsy, thanked Klotalski and Sigismund, kissed her cross (proof that she was not a bad girl), rubbed her sore arms, and went to stroke Bialik’s muzzle before returning to her interrogator. At that moment, Layla appeared with a bowl full of milk. Agafya drank it thirstily and hugged the Turk. “You’re a kind one, you are!” This sent to Sigismund’s heart another wave of sympathy for the intruder.

      While this was happening, Agafya, no fool she, reflected that talking about her grievance and grief might make helpful friends of these people.

      “We’re listening,” said Klotalski.

      “Somebody besmirched my honor, sir. Sure I’m not the first girl that ever done the wrong thing, but like my papa said, I had to saddle Bialik and go find justice in Cracow.”

      “From your farm all the way to Cracow! Not bad! So then, a handsome visiting Pole betrayed you?”

      “No, sir, one of our own, a true Muscovite, one that’s visiting Cracow; and I can tell you he ain’t awaiting for me!”

      She enjoyed all these men hanging from her lips, as they say, including the soldiers. Only the Master of Peasant Discipline looked grim, for he saw that the most absolute royal command, namely to kill any intruder on the spot, was being more largely ignored by the minute.

      “I gather,” said Klotalski, “that one of the tsarevich Astolof’s followers is the guilty party.”

      Agafya burst out laughing. “Followers, ha, ha, ha! The one that’s doing the following is me what’s standing here!”

      Nobody understood.

      “Perhaps,” ventured Sigismund, “the lass doesn’t know what a follower is.”

      “Yes СКАЧАТЬ