The History of Sigismund, Prince of Poland. Oscar Mandel

      This time, I shall tell you the strange history of Sigismund, son of Casimir V, king of Poland, such—more or less—as I had it from the mouth of Jan Modrzewski, antiquary in the town of Rzeszow, whose father had been the great childhood friend of mine. Jan told me the story over three evenings we spent in a modest restaurant not far from his shop. Now and then he would add a few observations of his own concerning this story. I have faithfully transcribed the ones I happened to remember.

      The land, in those times of long ago, was the prey of infinite woes. Wherever you looked, the peasants were abandoning their fields to battle their lords with rakes and pitchforks, and to massacre them before being themselves slaughtered. From the south, the Turks, masters of Hungary, where they were busy compelling the Christians to convert to Islam, threatened to invade Poland. In the north, another threat came from Livonia, occupied by the Swedes, whose ambition was to impose their abominable heresy on all of Europe.

      More than once, if truth be told, the king had thought of becoming a Muslim himself and allying himself with the Turks in order to chase the Swedes, or else to turn into a son of Luther in order to fight the Turks alongside the Swedes. He did neither (the Lord be thanked), but the great man felt capable of selling his soul to the devil, so mighty in him was the love of his country.

      And yet, these disasters were but a foretaste of those that fell on Poland at the birth of Sigismund. After twenty-two years of efforts and goodwill, Queen Ludmila succeeded in giving birth to a big and pretty baby, but she died in childbirth despite the help of physicians, surgeons, midwives, astrologers, and the prayers of the archbishop of Gniezno, friend and confessor to the queen.

      No sooner had the newborn uttered his first cry on earth than frightful prodigies were seen throughout the kingdom. A man was changed into an ass, blades of wheat sprung from the ears of a farmgirl, the waters of the river Warta leaped into the air, the earth shook from one end of the realm to the other, several roofs of churches fell on the parishioners, crows were seen carrying live coal in their beaks and setting fire to many a house, and fish began to walk in the streets.

      The king thought he would go mad. But little by little his reason reasserted itself, and he summoned the dean of his astrologers, the celebrated Zbigniew of Grodno. “What do the stars say, Zbigniew, “what have you seen? Don’t spare me. I am a soldier.”

      “Your Highness,” replied the astrologer, “wise protector of Poland and the true faith, the steeple of the cathedral of Tarnow has collapsed, killing a crowd of the faithful who were praying for those killed by the collapse of the belltower of the cathedral of Lwow. Furthermore, little Sigismund, may God bless him, tore off with his teeth one of the two nipples of the countess Mathilda, who has the honor of breastfeeding the dear baby.”

      “And only twelve days old! I sense new disasters for our land,” cried the king. “What do the stars tell us? Why don’t you speak?”

      Indeed, the astrologer seemed to be avoiding the mysteries of which he was the undisputed master. But in the end he was obliged to reveal what he knew. “Alas, alas!” he moaned.

      “What does that mean?”

      “Misery!”

      “They’re dethroning me.”

      “Curses!”

      “They’re murdering me.”

      “Horror!” cried Zbigniew, “bloody meteors crisscross in the sky, the most cruel conjunction is at hand, that of Saturn and Mars in Capricorn in their most fatal exaltation, while in the Crab, a constellation in the image of a dragon has appeared out of the void—”

      “Enough allegories” shouted the king. “Tell me what you saw, and speak to me in plain Polish if you wish to keep that head of yours on your shoulders.”

      Offended, Zbigniew rose to his full height and spoke in the gloomy voice of a prophet: “Rising Sigismund shall torment Poland with justified plunder, virtuous rapine, and noble massacre. Moles shall grow wings. Eagles shall hide in ditches. And the prince shall thrust the king into the dust.”

      Having said this much, the astrologer resumed his normal voice and manner. “Pardon me, my Sovereign, pardon me, because those were the words of the planets, the comets, the stars, and of my sacred books!”

      He thought that his last hour had struck. But the king looked blank. He seemed not to understand. He demanded that the astrologer repeat the message word for word, which the poor man did, trembling in all his limbs. “Pardon me, your Majesty—”

      “Silence, rascal!” cried the king. “This flummery of virtuous rapine concerns some Sigismund past or future; it has nothing to do with me, no, not with me.”

      Hurt in the pride of his science, Zbigniew grew bolder. “And the earthquakes? And the fallen belltowers and steeples? And the fish walking in the streets? No, all-powerful Majesty, shy away from illusions, I beg you.”

      “So be it,” retorted the king. “I’ll rebaptize the brat. It was Ludmila who gave him his name. Didn’t I tell her, just before she drew her last breath, ‘Good heaven, my best, nowadays every second prince in Europe is called Sigismund!’ It must have been a premonition. If necessary, I’ll call him Jesus, and we’ll baptize him a second time.”

      These blasphemous words could not appease the astrologer. “Beware of illusions, your Highness, beware of illusions! The stars don’t like quibbles. Unlike the Sybil, they speak clearly. Sigismund or Je—or Charles—the baby they designate is ours whether we like it or not.”

      “In that case I’ll kill him. Let him try to thrust me into the dust when he’s dead! Go. Have captain Teczinsky come to me.”

      Terrified, Zbigniew threw himself at his lord’s feet. “Do not blacken your soul with yet another crime, my king! Do not heed advice sent to you