A King Bee

Bees on a honeycomb

Insects are rarely the first thing that comes to mind when thinking about Polish cookery. This is despite the fact that honey bees have played a crucial role in traditional Polish (an not only) cuisine for centuries. Even in the oldest known description of Poland at the dawn of its history, written by the Sephardi traveler Ibrahim ibn Yaqub, we can read that Poland was a land full of grain, meat and honey. This opinion was echoed a century and a half later by an anonymous Gaulish monk who praised the country of the Slavs as abounding in "milky cows", "fishy waters", "wooly sheep" and "honey-flowing forests". Was this a reference to the Biblical "land flowing with milk and honey" or mockery made of the northern savages who, rather then feed on bread, wine and olive oil (like the civilized Mediterranean farmers do), make their living by hunting, gathering and herding? Hard to tell; perhaps it was a little of both. Anyway, my point is that it's difficult to imagine Polish cuisine without honey cakes and honey-flavoured gingerbread, honey-sweetened tea, mead and honey liqueurs, such as krupnik or kramambula.

But the bees' culinary role doesn't stop at their sweet secretion. Poland is one of the world's largest producers of temperate-zone fruits largely thanks to these little fluffy tireless workers in black-and-yellow stripes that pollinate all those Polish apple, pear, cherry, plum, peach and apricot trees, not to mention berries, buckwheat, cucumbers and canola.

Fruits and vegetables pollinated primarily by honey bees

While looking for some information about the importance of these insects for the history of Poland, I once came across the following little story in an "encyclopedia" of sweets:

There is an old legend about a vacancy for a Polish crown prince (apparently, the lines of inheritance for heirs were empty), and someone named Michael Wiscionsky was the chosen candidate to fill the vacancy. Why? Because a swarm of bees settled on him during the selection process (history also suggests he was not an outstanding leader nor was he remembered for much of anything but the bee story). The bees have such significance in Poland that a bee made of diamonds remains in the crown of the kings, its presence officially extolling the virtues of the bees.

— Timothy G. Roufs, Kathleen Smyth Roufs: Sweet Treats around the World: An Encyclopedia of Food and Culture, ABC-CLIO, 2014, p. 272–273

You can see at the first glance that it's one big pile of ribbish. It wasn't the heir to the throne that was (usually) elected in Poland, but a new king after the previous had died or resigned. The process was called an "election", not "selection". And whatever one might say about the actual power of Polish kings, it was still too important an office to leave the job or picking the right candidate to insects. Besides, no one in Poland has ever heard of King "Wiscionsky" or a diamond bee in any of the crowns known to have been kept in the royal treasury. Yet, someone thought the sotyr was credible enough to put in a book with the word "encyclopedia" in its title, so maybe there is a pollen grain of truth to it?

A Drone on the Throne

Prince Vladislav Sigismund Vasa, future king of Poland (r. 1632–1648), as painted in 1624 by Peter Paul Rubens

So what's the deal with the king elected by bees? Did any of the Polish monarchs have anything to do with these critters? Well, Encyclopædia Britannica for example, in its 1911 edition, says that King Vladislav IV, the ruler under whose reign Poland reached the peak of its power (which, if you think about it, means that the realm's decline started under his watch), was known the "king of bees". How did he earn this moniker?

Wladislaus IV, who succeeded his father in 1632, was the most popular monarch who ever sat on the Polish throne. The szlachta, who had had a “King Log” in Sigismund, were determined that Wladislaus should be “a King Bee who will give us nothing but honey” – in other words they hoped to wheedle him out of even more than they had wrested from his predecessor. Wladislaus submitted to everything. He promised never to declare war or levy troops without the consent of the sejm, undertook to fill all vacancies within a certain time, and released the szlachta from the payment of income-tax, their one remaining fiscal obligation.

— William Richard Morfill: Poland, in: Encyclopædia Britannica, vol. 21, University of Cambridge, 1911, p. 913

In fact, the nobles, or szlachta, loved Vladislav so much that his election was probably the calmest and shortest in the history of Polish monarchy – nobody else bother to run against everyone's favourite candidate. But the nobles loved those kings who gave them much and required little in return. The more inactive a king, the better. It turns out that the man who first compared the nobles' darling to a lazy drone was Paweł Piasecki, Bishop of Kamieniec, who criticized his majesty in these words:

The king of Poland is in all his public functions like a king of bees, who only brings his subjects honey. […] He has no sting whatsoever, as the lives, personal freedoms and property of the nobility are are completely outside the scope of his power.

— Paweł Piasecki, cyt. w: Karol Szajnocha: Dzieła, vol. IX (Dwa lata dziejów naszych: 1646–1648, dalszy ciąg), Warszawa: Józef Ungier, 1877, p. 36–37, own translation Original text: Jest więc król polski w swoich funkcjach publicznych całkowicie jakoby królem pszczół, który tylko miody przynosi swoim poddanym. […] Żądła nie ma żadnego, gdyż życie, wolność osobista i mienie szlachty są jak najzupełniej wyjęte spod jego władzy.

It's true that drones, or male bees, have no stings; but they don't produce honey either, so I'm not sure about the accuracy of this simile. But are we sure that Vladislav IV is the same as the king in the election-by-bees story? Not really; neither the first name nor the surname check out. And even though Poland has never had a king by the name "Wiscionsky", it did have one whose name was Michael.

Polling Pollinators

I've found the same amusing anecdote about a swarm of bees which picked the right candidate for the Polish throne, in another English-language book. This one is about bees in folklore and religious beliefs, and it's better than the one cited before in that at least it cites the source. And the source turns out to be a German-language History of Beekeeping from the late 19th century. Here's what it says on the topic:

Michael Wyscionsky [sic] received the Polish royal crown from the people, because during the royal election a swarm of bees sat on him.

— Johann Georg Bessler: Geschichte der Bienenzucht: Ein Beitrag zur Kulturgeschichte, Ludwigsburg: nakładem autora, 1885, p. 63, own translation Original text: Michael Wiscionsky erhielt vom Volke die polnische Königskrone, weil sich während der Königswahl ein Bienenschwarm auf ihn setzte.

The mysterious Mr. Wisionsky appears here again! But elsewhere in the same book, you can find a more detailed version of the legend. Here, the surname of the king allegedly elected by bees is no longer butchered to the point of being unrecognizable.

When Prince Michael Korybut Wisniowiecki […] rode to the royal election field at Wola outside Warsaw, he was accompanied not only by a numerous retinue, but also by a mighty swarm of bees, all the way to the place where the Primate of Poland proclaimed him king. It was seen as a propitious portent, which would later come true.

— Ibid., s. 218, own translation Original text: Als der Fürst Michael Korybut Wisniowiecki […] auf die Königswahlstätte Wola bei Warschau ritt, begleitete ihn außer seinem zahlreichen Gefolge ein mächtiger Bienenschwarm bis zum Platze, auf welchem ihn der Primas von Polen zum Könige ausrief. Es ward dies als eine glückliche Vorbedeutung angesehen, welche sich in der Folge auch bewahrheitet hat.

Michael Korybut Wiśniowiecki, King of Poland (r. 1669–1673)

So, as you may have guessed by now, "Michael Wiscionsky's" actual name was Michael Korybut Wiśniowiecki (pronounced kaw-RIH-boot veesh-nyaw-VYET-skee). His election to the Polish throne 350 years ago was quite a surprise to pretty much everyone – not least to Prince Michael himself. His father, Jeremi Wiśniowiecki, Palatine of Ruthenia, owned vast swaths of land in Ukraine and became a national hero by ruthlessly quelling a Cossack rebellion, but Michael had neither his father's leadership skills nor his wealth. He wasn't even considered a candidate right up to the point when he got elected.

Let's go back 20 years, to the time after King Vladislav IV's death. Both his throne and his wife went to his half-brother (and maternal cousin), John Casimir Vasa. John Casimir never had enough patience to keep any job for long (his CV included stints as a commander of cuirassiers, a viceroy of Portugal, a Jesuit and a cardinal), but hung on relatively long on the Polish throne and under his former sister-in-law's thumb. Until finally, grieved by Marie-Louise's death and disenchanted by the nobility's opposition to his policies, he quit and moved to France, where he holed up in a Benedictine monastery until his death.

Ground plan of the royal election field. The Senate, made up of bishops, ministers, palatines and castellans, convened in a special shed (szopa), while representatives of the nobility congregated inside a rectangular ditch known as the "Circle of Knights" (koło rycerskie). Other nobles remained outside, grouped by palatinates (provinces).

The Polish political scene at the time was divided into two main factions, with different ideas for Poland's foreign policy and its relations with Europe's two major powers – the Habsburg Monarchy and France. The pro-French party initially supported two candidates for the throne vacated by John Casimir's abdication – Prince Louis Bourbon, better known as the Grand Condé, and Prince Philip William Wittelsbach, Count Palatine of Neuburg. The pro-Habsburg faction, on the other hand, endorsed Duke Charles Leopold of Lorraine. The Grand Condé, famous as an accomplished military commander, was perhaps best suited for the job; which is probably why he was also the first to drop out of the race. As always in Polish politics, negative selection prevailed. It was now down to two contenders, neither of whom spared the expenses needed to bribe the senators (promises to the nobility could be made for free).

Where two are fighting, the third wins, as a Polish proverb goes. Eventually, the nobility got tired of endless bickering among the senators and decided to take up the idea advocated by Crown Underchancellor Andrzej Olszowski to elect a so-called "Piast". House Piast was Poland's first royal dynasty, but the idea was not to elect someone with actual Piast roots in his family tree (if this had been the case, then Charles Leopold would have stood a better chance, thanks to Cymburgis of Masovia, a Piast duchess who was his great⁸-grandmother in two different lines; besides, the last Piast duke, George William of Brieg, was actually still alive). The idea was simply to elect a native Pole rather than any of the foreign princes. The only question was who specifically was to become this "Piast" king?

And this is when, according to the legend, a swarm of honey bees arrived in the election field and sat on the Polish-born Prince Michael and the nobles concluded that if the bees had already made their pick, then then rest was just formality. All the senators could do was to agree with the choice made by the insects and the nobility, and thus a completely astonished Michael was proclaimed king.

It wasn't just Michael, though, who was totally taken by surprise. The senators and many of the nobles were shocked as well. No wonder his unexpected election was soon being explained away with divine intervention by means of insects and birds (other legends talk of a dove perched atop the Senatorial Shed and an eagle soaring above the Circle of Knights). Interestingly, I've been able to find two eyewitness accounts which actually confirm the presence of a bee swarm in the election field. In details, though, not only do they contradict the legend; they also contradict each other. Let's start with the point of view of Wespazjan Kochowski:

There was one more event, which was taken to foretell a propitious future; during the vote, a swarm of spring bees arrived from the east and settled among the nobles of Łęczyca Palatinate. And they were so gentle that when they dispersed, they bit no one and they soon flew out of sight. It was something to congratulate the king for, an incitement to hope for a felicitous fate.

— Wespazjan Kochowski: Roczników Polski klimakter IV obejmujący dzieje Polski pod panowaniem króla Michała, tłum. August Mosbach, red. Jan Nepomucen Bobrowicz, Lipsk: Księgarnia Zagraniczna, 1853, p. 30, own translation Original text: Było jeszcze inne zdarzenie, które wzięto za przepowiednię szczęśliwej przyszłości: oto podczas wotowania rój pszczół wiosennych, nadciągnąwszy od wschodu, usiadł był w zakresie województwa łęczyckiego, tak zaś był łagodny, że gdy pszczoły rozproszyły się, żadna nikogo nie ukąsiła i, wkrótce odlatując, znikły z oczu wszystkie razem; nie od rzeczy materia do powinszowań królowi, podnieta nadziei pomyślnego losu.

But that would mean that the bees did not pick any specific candidate; they just flew into the field, sat down to rest for a while and then flew away. And it was already after Michael had been elected, so all the bees could do was, at best, to approve the choice made by the nobility. You can see exactly this interpretation of the event in an anonymous poem cited by Kochowski:

The election field in 1669, with the Senatorial Shed (A) in the front right and the Circle of Knights (B) extending behind it

This swarm confirms our verdict by auspicious omen, Of good fortune foretelling a new golden era; For when bees, so hard-working, around your name cluster, Your King Michael, o Poland, brings honey aplenty.

— Ibid., own translation Original text: Rój ten szczęśliwą wróżbą potwierdza nasz wybór, Wróży dobrego szczęścia oraz złote czasy; Bo gdy lgną skrzętne pszczoły do twego imienia, Twój król Michał, Lechijo, miód tobie przynosi.

The other account belongs to Count de Chavagnac, who in the name of the Habsburg court promoted the Duke of Lorraine as a candidate. In his version, the bees didn't join Prince Michael's retinue, but pestered the Palatine of Podolia on his way to the election field. His report is particularly fascinating, as it reveals large-scale corruption and shady arrangements made behind the scenes – in which Michael's would-be successor, John Sobieski, and his wife, Marie-Casimire Sobieska née d'Arquien, played a crucial role. As it turns out, the Sobieskis, who belonged to the pro-French faction, struck a deal with de Chavagnac that, in return for allowing Charles Leopold to take the Polish throne, Lorraine would ally itself to France against the Habsburgs, Lord Sobieski would receive tracts of land in Ruthenia and 100 thousand francs in cash, Lady Sobieska would get a large diamond and the count would become a marshal of France…

I spent the entire following day, the eve of the election, meeting with senators. I talked with the chaplain to Grand Crown Marshal John Sobieski, who told me that his master hadn't written down the treaty yet, but he would trust my word. The real reason for the delay was that Lady Sobieska had forgotten to include her brother, Lord d'Arquien, in the treaty, and as the election would fall on the feast of Corpus Christi, she wanted to postpone it by one day, so that she would have more time to haggle something out for her brother. The Palatine of Podolia [Aleksander Stanisław Bełżecki], whom she had enlisted into her service, could think of no other way to delay the election than to propose a Piast, that is, a native-born king. He imagined that the Crowners would never agree to a king from Lithuania, nor would the Lithuanians vote for a Crowner king [the Crown and Lithuania were the two constituent nations of the Polish Commonwealth]; that it would cause mayhem and put off the election, giving Sobieski's wife the time to make me accept her conditions. Confident of this scheme, he left her and went to [meet the nobles of] his palatinate, whom he told that on his way he had been harassed by swarms of bees, which led him here, and that it surely meant that a Piast should be elected king, as these were the bees from Piast's own apiary.

— Wyjątek z pamiętników hrabiego de Chavagnac, in: Julian Ursyn Niemcewicz: Zbiór pamiętników historycznych o dawnej Polszcze, red. Jan Nepomucen Bobrowicz, vol. IV, Lipsk: Breitkopf i Haertel, 1839, p. 228–229, own translation Original text: Nazajutrz, w wigilię elekcji, cały dzień jeździłem po senatorach; widziałem się ze spowiednikiem M[arszałka] W[ielkiego] K[oronnego, Jana Sobieskiego], który mi powiedział, iż pan jego nie miał czasu przepisać traktatu, lecz że się spuszczał na słowo moje; prawdziwa spóźnienia przyczyna była, że pani S[obieska] zapomniała była umieścić w traktacie brata swego, P. d'Arq[u]ien, a że dzień elekcji przypadał w Boże Ciało, chciała ją odłożyć na dzień jeden, by mieć czas wytargować co dla brata. Wojewoda podolski [Aleksander Stanisław Bełżecki], którego sobie pozyskała, nie znalazł innego sposobu odłożenia tej elekcji, jak mianując Piasta, to jest króla rodaka. Wnosił on sobie, że gdy nigdy Polacy nie pozwolą na króla z Litwy, Litwini zaś na króla z Korony, że to sprawi zamieszanie, przynagli do odłożenia elekcji i da czas żonie S[obieskiego] wymuszenia na mnie żądanych kondycji. W tym zaufaniu w[ojewo]da, wychodząc od niej i przyjechawszy do [szlachty z] województwa swego, powiedział szlachcie, iż po drodze napadały go roje pszczół i prowadziły aż do nich, co nic innego nie znaczyło, tylko to, że trzeba wybrać Piasta za króla, pszczoły te bowiem są z pasieki Piasta.

As you can see, this was a very clever plot, but it didn't quite work out. All because of possibly the biggest miracle in Polish history – the Poles immediately agreed to elect a single common candidate, no other that Michael Wiśniowiecki. It's quite telling that, apart from this one incredible miracle, there is nothing supernatural in either of these accounts. A swarm of bees had come and gone, and it was up to the politicians to assign a symbolic meaning of their choice to a simple natural occurrence. Kochowski is quite straightforward about it:

Election of King Michael according to a German leaflet from 1669. A swarm of bees and a dove are visible above the seated senators, surrounded by armed noblemen.

Wasn't it due to blind fate rather than a miracle that the bees appeared on a beautiful spring day? Whether their numbers had grown and could no longer fit inside their hives, so that entire swarms went looking for new settlements, or they simply left the nest to gather honey in nearby fields, one can presume that only chance led them within the Circle, where they relaxed before flying on.

— Kochowski, op. cit., p. 30, own translation Original text: Jeżeli bardziej ślepy traf aniżeli cud można było dać za przyczynę nadciągnieniu pszczół wylatujących w piękny dzień wiosenny – wtedy, kiedy pomnożona ich gromada nie może już w ulach się pomieścić, całe więc roje upatrują nowe dla siebie siedliska, albo, wypadłszy tylko z gniazda, zbierają miód na przyległych polach, nie bez zasady przypuszczenie, że jakiś przypadek mógł je zagnać w zakres koła elekcyjnego i że po wypoczynku spokojnie sobie odleciały…

After all, it was June, the height of swarming season for honey bees, so the election field may have been swarming with swarms.

Piast the Honey Hunter

It's curious that the Palatine of Podolia purportedly made the association between the bees and "Piast's own apiary", expecting his listeners to recognize the reference. Today, most Poles would be more likely to identify Piast, the legendary progenitor of Poland's native royal dynasty, as a wheelwright, rather than an apiarist. But let's see what old chronicles have to say about Piast's actual profession.

A honey hunter according to a 1900 Old Polish Encyclopedia

In the oldest version of the legend of Piast, known from the work of the aforementioned anonymous Gaul, Piast kept no bees and made no wheels; he was just a simple ploughman, who treated his unexpected guests to pork and beer, a meal he had prepared for his son's hair-cutting and name-giving ceremony. The story would evolve over the centuries until, in the 16th-century chronicle by Marcin Bielski, Piast eventually became a honey hunter (that is, someone who steals honey from wild bees nesting in tree hollows, rather than keeping bees in hives) and served his guest not beer, but mead.

There lived at that time in Krushvitsa a townsman named Piast, son of Koshichko, a honey hunter (or a wheelwright, according to some), a good, simple and just man. His wife, Repicha, had just given him a son, so he killed a hog and fermented a barrel of mead for a pagan name-giving ceremony. […] There was at that time a great crowd in Krushvitsa and there was a shortage of food, so they went to Piast to buy some, but he would give away for free the pork and the mead he had prepared for the name-giving to anyone who came; and he had so much that they were all unable to drink all of the mead and eat all of the meat.

— Marcin Bielski: Kronika polska, Kraków: Jakub Sibeneycher, 1597, p. 44, own translation Original text: Był na ten czas w Kruszwicy mieszczanin rzeczony Piast, syn Koszyczków, bartnik (drudzy piszą, iż kołodziej), człowiek dobry, prosty i sprawiedliwy; żonę jego zwano Rzepicha; któremu się na ten czas syn urodził. A tak zabił wieprza i beczkę miodu nasycił na mianowanie syna onego według pogańskiego obyczaju. […] Lud wielki na ten czas był w Kruszwicy i nie mogli dostawać żywności kupić, tak że do tego Piasta chodzili w obyczaj kupowania żywności, ale on darmo dawał każdemu, kto do niego przyszedł, onego wieprzowego mięsa i miodu, co był na mianowanie narządził – tak mu sporo było, iż wszyscy nie mogli przepić onego miodu, ani mięsa przejeść.

"Piast the Wheelwright" would eventually prevail over "Piast the Honey Hunter", but during the royal election on 1669, the reference to Piast's apiary wouldn't have risen an eyebrow (even though an apiary is not the same thing as a wild bee nest). A misconception that is still quite alive, though, is that ancient Slavs drank mead, or honey wine, on an everyday basis. In fact, mead has always been a luxury beverage, available only to the affluent and reserved for special occasion. It was beer, as in the original Piast story, that was the everyday thirst-quencher of the common folk.

A What-if Side Note

Two years after losing the Polish royal election, the Grand Condé suffered an even greater loss – his court chef, the famous François Vatel, committed suicide. It was on the third day of a great banquet, which Condé was giving, with Vatel's hands, to King Louis XIV at the castle of Chantilly. It was a Friday, a lean day, and the transport of fish was running late; for Vatel it was a dishonour which only falling on his sword (three times!) could wash away.

The famous Russian actor Zherar Depardyo played the title role in Roland Joffé's biopic Vatel (2000).

Who knows, maybe if Condé had become king of Poland, then Vatel would have lived longer? Maybe he would have made his career at the Polish royal court and the invention he is traditionally credited for – sweetened whipped cream – would have been known as crème Varsovie rather than crème Chantilly? Perhaps he would have met Stanisław Czerniecki (pronounced stah-NEE-swahf churn-YET-skee), whom historian Karol Estreicher has dubbed "the Polish Vatel"? Czerniecki, author of the first cookbook printed in Polish, had served Prince Michael Wiśniowiecki for some time, before getting a job as the head chef to the Princes Lubomirski. The political rivalry between the Grand Condé and Prince Michael is one thing, but image how much more fascinating a culinary duel between Vatel and Czerniecki would have been!

History took a different course, though. It was Michael who got the job as king of Poland, but not for long. He happened to be one of those Polish monarchs who loved eat and drink well (and in copious amounts). Kochowski wrote that Michael was "unrestrained in his consumption, […] he drunk much more beer than wine, with salt, sugar and ginger." It was even said that when he got one thousand "Chinese apples" (oranges) as a gift from the city of Danzig (Gdańsk), he sampled one, he liked it, so he had another one, then another, because why not, and suddenly it turned out that he had devoured the whole thousand by himself. No wonder the king died at the age of 33 from peptic ulcers.

After Michael's death, the Grand Condé tried his luck at a Polish royal election once more – and again with no luck. This time, Louis XIV preferred to endorse the loyal advocate of French interests in Poland and yet another great gourmet – John Sobieski.

A Bee-jeweled Crown

A modern replica of the crown (the original has been destroyed) used for coronations of most Polish kings, from Vladislaus the Ell to Stanislaus Augustus. It's nice, but can you see a bee here?

We've still got the diamond-bee puzzle to figure out. You know, the diamond bee said to have decorated the crown of Polish kings "to remind them that all virtues are to be found in the bee-state." Somehow, this peculiar ornament isn't mentioned by any expert on Polish crown jewels. Of course, they only wrote about those Polish crowns that have survived to our times (not many) or that were listed in official inventories of the royal treasure vault. So could it be that one of the Polish monarchs had a private crown, not listed in the inventories, that was adorned with a diamond bee?

Wzmiankę o owej owadziej ozdobie w koronie polskich królów można znaleźć w cytowanej już Historii pszczelarstwa autorstwa Besslera:

In the crown which graced the heads of Polish kings there is a diamond bee. It is supposed to remind the rulers that all virtues are to be found in a healthy and vigorous bee state.

— Bessler, op. cit., s. 218, own translation Original text: In der Krone Polens, welche die Häupter de Polenkönige zierte, befindet sich oben eine Biene von Diamant. Dieselbe sollte die Herrscher an alle Tugenden erinnern, welche man in einem gesunden und tatkräftigen Bienenstaat trifft.

Ale czy mówią o niej jakiekolwiek polskie źródła? Niewiele, ale coś da się znaleźć. Oto fragment artykułu nadesłanego przez anonimowego „pasiecznika z Kresów” do przedwojennego czasopisma Pszczelarz polski. Jest tu mowa zarówno o Piaście kołodzieju-bartniku, jak i o pszczole diamentowej:

Nasi polscy dziejopisarze wspominają o Piaście kołodzieju, jego pasiece i gościnności, a zaś historyk J. Lelewel w książce swej „Pszczoła i bartnictwo polskie” podaje, że w Koronie Polskiej widniała pszczoła diamentowa jako pozostałość po pierwszym królu pszczelarzu i jako symbol narodu polskiego.

— Pasiecznik z Kresów: Nieco z dziejów bartnictwa w Polsce, in: Pszczelarz polski, sad i pasieka: niezależny ilustrowany miesięcznik, vol. 1, Warszawa: Józef Przyłuski, 1930, p. 45 i n.

No to mamy konkretny trop! Lelewel faktycznie napisał dzieło pt. Pszczoły i bartnictwo. Zobaczmy więc, co tam napisał o diamentowej pszczole:

Nic

— Joachim Lelewel: Pszczoły i bartnictwo, in: Polska: Dzieje i rzeczy jej, vol. IV, Poznań: J.K. Żupański, 1856, p. 517

Pszczoła z sukienki diamentowej Matki Bożej Częstochowskiej

Lelewel skupił się na daninach i karach sądowych opłacanych w miodzie i wosku oraz na historii polskiego prawodawstwa dotyczącego hodowli pszczół. Materii niewątpliwie istotnej, skoro do dzisiaj w ustawie tej rangi co kodeks cywilny mamy osobny artykuł dotyczący pościgu za uciekającym rojem. Ale o pszczelich klejnotach – ani słowa. Dlaczego zatem kresowy pasiecznik, pisząc o diamentowej pszczole powołał się na Lelewela? Wydaje mi się, że po odpowiedź musimy wrócić do dzieła Besslera, który po opisie m.in. elekcji polskiego króla przez pszczoły i pszczelego klejnotu w koronie podaje spis polskiej literatury poświęconej pszczelarstwu. I na pierwszym miejscu w tejże bibliografii jest właśnie dziełko Lelewela! Podejrzewam więc, że pasiecznik z Kresów informację o diamentowej pszczole znalazł u Besslera, a za źródło tej wzmianki uznał pierwszą pozycję z bibliografii. Ale to znaczy, że zatoczyliśmy kółko i nadal nie wiemy, skąd Bessler tę diamentową pszczołę wytrzasnął.

Sukienka diamentowa Matki Bożej Częstochowskiej z zaznaczoną pszczołą

Szukając czegokolwiek o diamentowej pszczole znalazłem coś innego: pszczołę na diamentowej sukience Matki Bożej Częstochowskiej. Zwyczaj ozdabiania najbardziej znanej katolickiej ikony w Polsce tzw. sukienkami, czyli odpowiednio wyciętymi blaszanymi ekranami, obitymi materiałem i obwieszonych klejnotami, trwa już od wieków. Dwie najstarsze, które zachowały się do dziś, to sukienki rubinowa i właśnie diamentowa. Klejnoty przyszywane do sukienek to dary wotywne od wiernych, które przez lata gromadzono w klasztorze paulinów na Jasnej Górze. Wśród wielu motywów religijnych można tam znaleźć też zupełnie świeckie ozdoby, które darczyńcy nosili na sobie, zanim oddali je w prezencie „pannie świętej, co jasnej broni Częstochowy”. Na sukience, zwanej diamentową, oprócz ozdób w kształcie motyli, można też znaleźć jedną pszczołę.

Choć na całej sukience dominują diamenty, to sama pszczoła jest aukrat z innych materiałów. Na ile byłem w stanie stwierdzić na oko, to tułów zrobiony jest z oszlifowanego na kwadrat szmaragdu, a odwłok to perła z wyżłobioną w niej segmentacją. Jest to zapewne zapinka lub sztuczka (coś jak broszka, tylko przyszywana, a nie przypinana) wykonana w Polsce w XVII lub XVIII w. Czy zanim podarowano ją klasztorowi, mogła zdobić królewską koronę? Raczej nie. A jakąś inną część królewskiego stroju? To już prędzej. Wśród wielu ozdób na jasnogórskich sukienkach są i takie, o których wiadomo, że pochodzą z darów królewskich. Może i szmaragdowo-perłową pszczołę podarował któryś z polskich królów bądź królowych?

Gdyby ktoś chciał tej pszczole przyjrzeć się z bliska, to do 4 sierpnia ma niepowtarzalną okazję. Diamentowa sukienka po raz pierwszy opuściła mury klasztoru i można ją podziwiać (ale, niestety, nie fotografować) na wystawie „Rządzić i olśniewać” na zamku warszawskim.

References

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