KRAKOW
“Charnetski, Christian, wife and son,” said Pan Andrew to a custodian
who wore light armor and carried a halberd.
He gave them a quick glance and motioned for them to pass. Another man
in black peered into the cart to see what was inside and, finding
nothing, concluded that these were farm folk come up to the city to buy,
and accordingly demanded but a few pieces of iron coin as tax. This
paid, they took the road which ran from Mikolayska Gate to the
Sukiennice, the old Cloth Hall, which stood then, as it does to-day, in
the very center of the city.
Krakow was flooded with a golden sunlight. Joseph, who saw for the first
time a large city, gaped in very astonishment as he glanced left and
right about him.
Front and rear, their cart formed part of the long, straight train of
carts coming to the city loaded with products of the farms. Through this
line were breaking from time to time splendid horsemen wearing
breastplates of steel that shone like precious metal and carrying long
swords dangling from the saddles. One of these men who pushed through
the crowd just in front of their horses was so splendidly arrayed that
the boy took him for a very high noble, or perhaps the King himself, the
peace-loving King, Kazimir Jagiello, the fourth of the name of Kazimir,
and he exclaimed:
[Illustration: _Guild Towers in the Old City Wall, and City Gate._]
“That must be the King, father. See the shining armor and the jewels
upon his saddle. And the sword must be of gold, for it shines like fire.
And look,” he pointed eagerly, “see the Polish eagle worked in silver
upon the saddlecloth. There beyond it is the white knight of Lithuania.
Is he not indeed the King?”
“No, son, no. That is but one of the guard that waits on the nobles at
the royal castle.”
All about them rose in the bright sunlight palaces, churches, towers,
battlement walls, and Gothic buildings, as yet for the most part
unadorned by the rich sculpture that was to come in a few years under
the influence of the Italian Renaissance. In the distance rose against
the turquoise-blue sky the cathedral on the Wawel Hill, its Romanesque
tower showing high above the city. Close at hand were the two towers of
the Church of Our Lady Mary, not as they appear to-day since the hand of
the master architect and of the renowned sculptor, Wit Stwosz, altered
them, but rising unbelfried and uncrowned above the cemetery, where
white gravestones clustered at the base of the church.
In the very middle of the market, surrounded by smaller wooden
buildings, was the great Cloth Hall, used for the sale and exchange of
cloth goods, already swarming with merchants who had been traveling all
night, and for many nights perhaps, in order to close bargains early on
market day before the money of purchasers had been, spent elsewhere.
Camped in the square outside the Cloth Hall were a number of Tartars who
had come from the distant East to sell fine swords and cloths and jewels
plundered from Muscovites, or Bulgarians, or Greeks, or other travelers
in the steppes. Facing the east as the rising sun had crept over Wawel
Hill, they had chanted their morning prayer of praise to the great
Allah. Their singing could have been heard mingling with the clashing of
the great bell on the Church of Our Lady Mary and the chanted service of
the Armenian merchants who had come in from Trebizond and the lands
beyond the Black Sea with carpets and spices and fine rugs.
Here for the moment in this great international capital of East and West
was worshiped every god that man knows; it might even be said that God
himself was worshiped under many names and in many languages and
dialects. Here were Turks, Cossacks, Ruthenians, Germans, Flemings,
Czechs, and Slovaks, with their wares to sell, and Hungarians with their
wines from the mellow plains of Transylvania.
As for money, there might be found zloty and guilder and groschen,
silver in bars and precious stones, also plenty of token “in kind”; that
is to say, certain varieties of merchandise such as amber, dates bound
in packages, or even vegetables in containers, each of which had a
recognized value over all the trade routes of the Hanseatic League. For
the League merchants were represented here as well—prosperous Germans
or Dutchmen in long robes with fur collars—and they did business in
every language known to man.
While the boy drank in these unusual sights on all sides, there suddenly
floated down from above the sweet notes of a trumpet. Looking directly
upward he could see the golden bell of a trumpet protruding from one of
the tower windows of the Church of Our Lady Mary, and as he looked the
full dignity of the church burst upon him, its quiet strength which
appealed to the eye being strangely mingled in his senses with the
trumpet song which fell upon his ears.
There were two towers rising high above the traffic of the street;
rising unequally, he now noticed, for the nearer tower seemed a bit
squat beside the farther one. It was from the higher tower that the
trumpeter was playing.
The tune was a little morning hymn, the Heynal, brought into Poland,
some said, in the earliest days of Christianity by missionaries who came
from the south. It was a simple little air, intensely sweet and
appealing, but at a certain place the trumpeter broke the tune off
abruptly, leaving but the echo of an unfinished strain to float down
from above. It was as if some one at that moment had taken the trumpet
from his lips.
Joseph turned to his father in astonishment. “Isn’t he going to finish
the song?”
The father smiled. “It is a long story, my son, and one that I will tell
you at a later time.”
The trumpet sounded again from another window, then from the farther
side, and finally at the north side toward the Florian Gate. Four times
the trumpeter had sounded the Heynal, ending always with the broken
note.
“He plays rather poorly,” added Pan Charnetski.
Now though Pan Charnetski was a country gentleman, he was accomplished
in many crafts. After having graduated from the University of Krakow, he
decided not to remain in one of the professions but rather to live on
his father’s estate and manage it as had been the custom for the men in
his family. He had retained a love of music which he had studied in the
University and played well upon brass instruments, the straight trumpet,
the curved trumpet, and the trumpet with keys. Therefore when he said
that the trumpeter in the tower had not played well he knew of what he
was talking.
The cart was now passing close to the Cloth Hall, and Joseph ceased to
question his father any further concerning the song with the broken note
because of the strange scenes which claimed his attention.
Here stood a group of merchants in bright gowns. Wealthy they must have
been because their long coats were of fine cloth, some lined with fur
and trimmed with many silks. Beneath the coats were costumes of
tight-fitting cloth. Joseph saw one man with the color of the cloth in
the trouser of the right leg different from the color of the cloth of
the left trouser, which to the boy had a ludicrous look. But when he
noticed that many other men wore the same kind of garment, tight-fitting
to leg and thigh, and of different color upon each leg, he ceased to
smile and began to wonder. The wonder did not leave off for a while,
either, for other curiosities in dress caught his eye. The hats and head
coverings were in their way as remarkable as the tight garments. Turbans
were worn uniformly; some with pointed peaks, others simply masses of
gayly colored cloth heaped up high on the head in twists and folds;
grotesque ornaments, too, were worn on the head—one man even had a
stuffed or an imitation rooster, with legs and comb and all, perched on
the crown of his high hat. The merchants wore curious leather footgear,
most of the sandals being of soft leather with long twisted points. One
man had sticks thrust into the leather at the toes, making his sandals
appear at least two feet long.
At the stalls around the Cloth Hall were all manner of wares which the
sellers were advertising with loud cries. Here was a grain counter with
different colored grains in open sacks. A woman in a blue gown which
hung from a yoke at the shoulder, and with, a piece of cloth of the same
color wound deftly around her head for a hat, was selling a few grains
of corn to a traveling musician. He wore a long yellow garment all of a
piece, including head covering like a cowl, and falling to the knees,
below which the legs and feet were bare. This garment, was caught at the
waist by a bright yellow belt. He carried under one arm a bagpipe with
three protruding tubes, two for music, if it might be called such, and
one for his mouth. In one hand he held a pouch of leather into which the
woman was slipping grains of corn.
The Charnetskis drove by the stalls and shops of the glove makers where
there were women working and buying, all dressed in bright-colored
gowns; past the needle makers in leather aprons who sprawled over
benches; past the sword makers with their neat forges and rows of
shining steel blades; past the tub makers who were assembling wooden
staves into tub bodies; past the smiths in their long black aprons
leading horses into position where they could be shod. Here and there
the red signs of the barber and bloodletter, here and there the huge
flasks of green and blue denoting the stores of the apothecaries. True
Catholics had upon the walls of their shops an ikon or a picture of the
Holy Mother of God from the sacred shrine of Chenstohova; almost every
merchant had some distinctive figure above the door of his shop to
distinguish it from his neighbor’s; for example there was a hatter with
the sign “Under the White Elephant,” and there was a shoemaker who had a
stone head of Kazimir the Great for the satisfaction of himself and his
customers. The numbering of public buildings was not known in that age,
and buildings were distinguished by some such emblem which usually stood
above the outer gate or door.
Everywhere could be heard the cries of vendors shouting or singing their
wares or professions, the flower-girls, the knife sharpener, the baker’s
boy, and the butcher’s apprentice.
“_Co brakuje, co brakuje_,” they all shouted in a chorus. “What do you
lack? What do you lack?”
Occasionally to Joseph’s delight, a monkey could be seen, brought here
by traders from the east or south, one playing around a booth, another
carried, much bedecked with ribbons, in the arms of some merchant’s or
perhaps burgomaster’s lady.
Once or twice amid the clamor of the market rang the clanking of chains
as poor wretches about to be fastened to the church walls by iron
collars, or stuck in the pillory, or perhaps even to suffer a worse
fate, were marched to the church for a last prayer before the sentence
of the law was passed upon them. Life was a precarious thing in many
ways in those days, and men and women for very slight offenses were
beheaded or banished or thrown into terrible prisons.
Now they passed a procession of pilgrims on the way to some shrine, men
and women from the villages dressed in their good clothes with the
parish priest marching ahead of them and leading the chant which they
were singing. The cross bearer was a young man with stalwart shoulders
and bright eyes; he had need of his strength, too, for he had sworn to
carry the holy image of Our Lord from his native village to Chenstohova,
which was many miles distant. This company had already been on the road
about ten days. There were boys and girls, too, in the procession, and
some had their minds upon serious things, but others were looking for
the first time upon the glory of medieval Krakow, and would no doubt in
their prayers ask forgiveness for too much attention to worldly things.
The cart turned into Grodzka or Castle Street after leaving the market
place and went directly toward the Wawel. Near the Wawel Pan Andrew
swung the horses to the right and passed through a city gate and into a
meadowy lane. In front of a large rambling palace that stood there, he
drew up by the side of the road and leaped to the ground not far from a
pair of iron gates that marked the entrance. At these gates he was
accosted by an armed guard who, with a rather hostile air, blocked the
entrance completely with his spear.
[Illustration: _The Church of Our Lady Mary and the Cloth Hall. The High
Tower of the Church Is the Tower of the Trumpeter._]
“What do you want?” he asked sharply.
“I seek Pan Andrew Tenczynski.”
The guard shouted something, whereat five men in armor came running from
a little house near the gate.
“Surround him,” said the guard. This was done, much to the astonishment
of Pan Andrew. “One of you run to the house and call the captain,” next
ordered the guard. “Tell him that a countryman is here demanding to see
Pan Andrew Tenczynski.”
Pan Charnetski, trying to force his way out of the circle, was pushed
back into the center by one of the armed men. At that he raised his
voice in anger:
“Who are you that dare detain me here? I am Pan Andrew Charnetski, first
cousin to the Tenczynskis and proprietor of an estate in the Ukraine. I
demand that you confront me with an officer in authority and not treat
me like one come here as an enemy.”
The men of the guard looked at each other in astonishment. Was it
possible that this man did not know the truth—the report of which had
already spread over the greater portion of Poland?
The captain came in a moment with the returning soldier. He broke
through the ring and walked straight up to Pan Charnetski.
“What is your business here?” There was a certain pleasantness and
courtesy in his voice that made Pan Andrew forget his anger for the
moment.
“You have a civil tongue, young man,” he answered. “I take it that you
are in command here?”
“I am.”
“Then I will tell you, as I have told your soldiers, that I am Pan
Andrew Charnetski come this day from the Ukraine to see my cousin Pan
Andrew Tenczynski on important business.”
“You come too late,” answered the captain. “It is strange that you have
not heard, for this news is now all about the country. Pan Andrew
Tenczynski lives no longer. His kin have departed from the city for a
time, and may return, I know not when. I am here for the observance of
order, for the protection of the estate against enemies of the family.”
Pan Andrew started. “My cousin is dead—and how?”
“It was like to nothing the city has seen these many years. For a long
time there had been hot blood between the tradesmen and nobles. The
issue came to a head through the dissatisfaction of Pan Tenczynski over
some piece of armor that he had bidden a smith to make. He not only took
the tradesman to task but refused to pay for the work he had done,
whereat the whole guild rose against him. They pursued him through the
streets and killed him in the Church of the Franciscans where he had
sought shelter. It was a sad and grievous thing, and his family for fear
of the mob fled the city. The gentle Elizabeth, our Queen—and may the
blessing of Heaven be upon her!—hates all strife that may result in the
shedding of blood, and she it was who persuaded our King to make peace
between the townsfolk and nobles. He sent us here to protect this house,
to be a guarantee against the shedding of any blood, for there are many
who would willingly pillage this dwelling and kill the servants that are
still here. We are but acting upon orders when we detain all persons who
seek entrance here, and for the execution of these orders you must give
us your pardon, since we seek but to avert further bloodshed.”
[Illustration: _Joseph caught at the dog’s collar._]
It seemed to Pan Andrew at that moment as if heaven had fallen about his
ears.
“Let me give to Pan one piece of advice,” continued the captain.
“Most willingly will I receive it,” said Pan Andrew thoughtfully.
“Get yourself from the city as quickly as possible if you be of any
blood ties with the Tenczynskis, or else if you stay change your name
and manner of speech lest some assassin make a mark of you for the
benefit of his party. . . . I greet you then with a hail, as is
befitting between equal Pans, and request that, for your own safety, you
depart quickly.”
“But—I must remain here. A band of pillagers, I know not whom exactly,
though I think them the paid robbers of some one in high authority, have
burned my house in the Ukraine and left not one stone upon another. My
fields are ruined as well, and I am here to take refuge with my kinsmen,
to bring them word of something very secret which must go at once to the
ears of the King himself.”
“Alas,” answered the captain, “I can give you but little help. The King
is at this moment in Torun where there are said to be plans against the
military order of the Knights of the Cross—for he seeks there in the
north peace at all odds. When he will return I know not, perhaps in a
month, perhaps in a year. If you would await him here, I would, if I
were you, settle in this town and take another name. Later there will
come a retribution for these dark deeds against the Tenczynski family,
and there will be more crows about the gallows.”
Saying which he turned away and called the guard again to its post.
Pan Andrew, however, stood motionless for a few seconds. The thoughts
fairly burned in his brain. His friends, protectors, gone! The King
away, he himself a fugitive here no less than in the Ukraine. From every
side enemies pressed upon him, and what had he done to deserve such a
fate? He was in a predicament even without this complication, for here
he was in a great city where he had not a single friend. He had but
little money, for what he had gathered had been invested year by year in
his house and lands in the Ukraine. There were his wife and his son to
be put in a place of shelter, and not only were the means lacking but
there was even peril at every hand. Behind him at the gates of the city
had appeared one foe—here in the city there were apparently many
others. What to do? . . . Well. . . . Let God give. . . . There would be
something.
Aimlessly he got into the wagon, turned it about, and made for the
market again. There at least they might spend the day, procure water for
the horses, and buy a little of something to eat. He found a place near
one of the springs, unloosed the horses with the help of his son, and
let them crop the short grass that grew near one edge of the market
place, watering them with buckets that he filled at the spring.
Not until then did he seek comfort and counsel from his wife, who had
always been his solace at such times; throwing himself down beside her
on the wagon seat he told her the story of his late discoveries, the
absence of the King, the death of his kinsman. For a second the woman’s
heart quailed before the fresh difficulties, but she forgot self at the
look in her husband’s face. Her quiet reply, “We will wait, for God is
in the waiting,” filled him with courage again.
Joseph, however, was at that age when no sky remains long clouded. His
heart had been beating fast with excitement ever since the sight of the
city’s towers had loomed before them in the early morning, and his legs
had been itching to get out of the wagon and explore the place. He began
by taking a short excursion over to a little building near by, which at
first glance had seemed to be a market building, but, when he approached
it, proved to be a church with a low dome and round side windows.
Although the church was of much interest to those who favored historical
lore as being one of the oldest churches in Poland, it did not interest
the boy greatly. He scrutinized the beggars at the door, a young boy
with but one leg, a woman with a back bent to a curve, an old man with
sightless eyes, praying continually, and many other wretched alms
seekers. Crossing himself and muttering a prayer for God’s helpless
creatures, Joseph turned and marched down Grodzka Street in the
direction of the Wawel.
He had just come to a cross lane which led on the left to the Church of
the Dominicans, and on the right to the Church of All Saints, when he
noticed a Tartar boy in the street leading and constantly beating a
large Ukrainian wolf dog. The wolf dog was on a leash—he had a strong
hand-wrought collar about the neck—and he was turning now and then to
glance back at his tormentor who was plying a short Cossack whip. Joseph
watched the boy in amazement, wondering why he had the dog and why he
was beating him—as a matter of fact the boy was acting out of pure
viciousness—but neither of these questions found satisfactory solution
in Joseph’s mind. In a very few minutes, however, another question rose
with the suddenness of lightning, a question which required action for a
solution, and this action Joseph was able to supply.
For at the moment that the boy and dog were crossing the church lane,
there emerged from the farther footwalk a man dressed all in black like
a priest, but wearing a collar which was not clerical since it opened in
the front. He did not, however, for the moment attract Joseph’s
attention; it was his companion that caught and held the boy’s gaze. For
the companion was a girl of perhaps the same age as Joseph—she was
walking by the side of the man in black and now and then grasping at his
hand.
Joseph saw the dog no longer. His eyes were riveted on the girl. She
seemed to him like an angel taken out of a Christmas play, or a spirit
from a Festival of the Three Kings—in truth she might have been one of
those beautiful figures come to life out of the wondrous stained glass
windows in the church. Her hair was light—Joseph’s was dark. Her skin
was as white as the finest linen, her eyes as blue as the skies above
the Vistula; she wore a cloaklike garment of red that fell from her
shoulders to her ankles and was girdled at the waist. It was embroidered
in blue, with lace at neck and wrists; in front it did not meet
completely but showed the second garment that she wore beneath, a mantle
of blue that fell in folds even below the outer coat. And as she looked
up, the country boy thought that he had never seen anything prettier on
earth—so daintily she tripped along that she seemed to walk on clouds.
Then for a moment he looked down at his hands, dirty, hard, and grimy;
he looked at his clothes and found them dusty and worn after the long
journey.
But if he had been in heaven at the sight of the girl, he came back to
earth quickly. For the Tartar boy with the dog and the man in black with
the girl were close together at the crossing of the roads when suddenly
the maddened dog turned desperately at bay upon his tormentor and
crouched for a powerful spring. Joseph shouted and rushed forward just
as the dog leaped. The Tartar boy dropped the leather thong in a flash
and darted down the walk out of reach of the dog’s jaws, but leaving
directly in his path the man in black and the girl Blind with fury the
dog sprang again, and in an instant he would have come down upon the
girl who happened to be on the outside, had not Joseph at the same
moment leaped and caught at the dog’s heavy collar.
He had dealt with dogs many times in the Ukraine, and he knew that no
dog is vicious if healthy and well treated; therefore there had been no
fear in this effort that he made, save for the peril, perhaps, that the
dog might mistake him for the boy who had been beating him, and sink his
teeth into his flesh.
His fingers caught the collar squarely. The grip held, and he went
hurtling through the air like the tail of a skyrocket, as the dog’s
leap, weighted by this unexpected load, fell short, and the girl drew
back with a cry. But Joseph and the infuriated animal went rolling to
and fro in a wild embrace on the hard surface of the road, he striving
to make the beast pay attention to his words, the dog only becoming more
and more frightened. But the boy knew, after the first second when all
depended upon whether his grip held or not, that everything was safe and
he could successfully avoid the paws and teeth of the dog. Thus at a
favorable moment he released his hold quickly upon the animal’s collar,
and scrambled to his feet, while a very dusty and possibly ashamed wolf
dog tore off like a streak of lightning in the direction of the
Franciscans’ church.