nesting dolls, watercolors of the Charles Bridge, replica swords, Golem keychains, hand-carved wooden chess sets, plastic replica handguns, more puppets, more Kafka, more garnet, and more amber. Arched doorways proffered glimpses of courtyard beer gardens and outdoor cafés; ATMs and international currency exchange kiosks were everywhere. Prague was so thoroughly in the business of Prague it made you almost feel sorry for the old Communists. If history was a sport, capitalism would have drawn a penalty for excessive celebration.
I found the Astronomical Clock housed in a large stone tower whose spires echoed the Týn Church opposite, a site where, Prague Unbound noted, âto this day a small bell rings in a tower in memory of a local servant girl killed by a wicked noblewoman for spending too much time in prayer.â The main clock face stood maybe sixteen feet off the ground, surrounded by a gothic canopy, stone arches, columns. A gold-breasted rooster perched above the clock; wooden statues depicting death, an angel, and some dude in a turban looked on while upon the clock face, discs turned within discs, Roman numerals and Arabic numbers shared space with esoteric mathematical symbols, and three or four hands of differing lengths pointed this direction or that. I had no idea what any of it meant.
I took a place at the perimeter of the crowd and scanned for Vera. Tour guides stood before the gathering, holding aloft brightly colored umbrellas. The guide nearest me was speaking English through a miniature bullhorn. More people were arriving every second.
âWork on the Astronomical Clock began in the year 1410,â the guide announced, âbut the clock wasnât perfected until the great Master HanuÅ¡ arrived at the end of the fifteenth century.â Adjacent guides were broadcasting the same narrative in German, Japanese, something that sounded like Russian.
The clock soon became the envy of all Europe, the guide said, and its growing fame alarmed the town authorities. Worried that clockmaker Hanuš might be lured to another city and by large commission be spurred to even greater clock-building feats, the town councilors held a secret meeting. A few nights later, three men wearing black hoods paid a visit to Hanuš. Two of them bound the clockmaker while a third grabbed an iron poker from the fireplace and gouged out his eyes. Master Hanuš never built another clock, in Prague or anywhere else.
The assembled tourists reacted with nervous chuckles, those near the German guide laughing hardest. Maybe it was funnier in German. Theyâd coined the term schadenfreude , after all.
But the story didnât end there. HanuÅ¡ learned of the councilâs betrayal, but he did nothing. Years passed. Now a sickly old man and near death, he approached the councilors and was given permission to visit the clock house one final time, a chance to say goodbye to his lifeâs finest achievement. The Japanese and German tour guides stopped speaking and turned to gaze expectantly at the clock. The English guide glanced over her shoulder, and realizing time was running out, finished in a breathless rush, trumpeting through the bullhorn about how the blind Master HanuÅ¡ went inside the clock house and listened to the great gears clicking and meshing and waited for some tell-tale auditory sign, some precise moment of maximum mechanical vulnerability known only to its designer, and then threw himself bodily upon the clock and grabbed at the gears and wheels, ripping and tearing with the last of his strength. By the time the guards wrestled him from the clock, it was too late. The hands of the Astrological Clock had stopped turning. They were to remain idle for two hundred years.
A murmur swept over the crowd as the new hour arrived. Cell phones and cameras were hoisted as a mechanical rooster cocka-doodledooed. Flashes went off as Death yanked a rope, the bell tolled above, and a procession of wooden
I found the Astronomical Clock housed in a large stone tower whose spires echoed the Týn Church opposite, a site where, Prague Unbound noted, âto this day a small bell rings in a tower in memory of a local servant girl killed by a wicked noblewoman for spending too much time in prayer.â The main clock face stood maybe sixteen feet off the ground, surrounded by a gothic canopy, stone arches, columns. A gold-breasted rooster perched above the clock; wooden statues depicting death, an angel, and some dude in a turban looked on while upon the clock face, discs turned within discs, Roman numerals and Arabic numbers shared space with esoteric mathematical symbols, and three or four hands of differing lengths pointed this direction or that. I had no idea what any of it meant.
I took a place at the perimeter of the crowd and scanned for Vera. Tour guides stood before the gathering, holding aloft brightly colored umbrellas. The guide nearest me was speaking English through a miniature bullhorn. More people were arriving every second.
âWork on the Astronomical Clock began in the year 1410,â the guide announced, âbut the clock wasnât perfected until the great Master HanuÅ¡ arrived at the end of the fifteenth century.â Adjacent guides were broadcasting the same narrative in German, Japanese, something that sounded like Russian.
The clock soon became the envy of all Europe, the guide said, and its growing fame alarmed the town authorities. Worried that clockmaker Hanuš might be lured to another city and by large commission be spurred to even greater clock-building feats, the town councilors held a secret meeting. A few nights later, three men wearing black hoods paid a visit to Hanuš. Two of them bound the clockmaker while a third grabbed an iron poker from the fireplace and gouged out his eyes. Master Hanuš never built another clock, in Prague or anywhere else.
The assembled tourists reacted with nervous chuckles, those near the German guide laughing hardest. Maybe it was funnier in German. Theyâd coined the term schadenfreude , after all.
But the story didnât end there. HanuÅ¡ learned of the councilâs betrayal, but he did nothing. Years passed. Now a sickly old man and near death, he approached the councilors and was given permission to visit the clock house one final time, a chance to say goodbye to his lifeâs finest achievement. The Japanese and German tour guides stopped speaking and turned to gaze expectantly at the clock. The English guide glanced over her shoulder, and realizing time was running out, finished in a breathless rush, trumpeting through the bullhorn about how the blind Master HanuÅ¡ went inside the clock house and listened to the great gears clicking and meshing and waited for some tell-tale auditory sign, some precise moment of maximum mechanical vulnerability known only to its designer, and then threw himself bodily upon the clock and grabbed at the gears and wheels, ripping and tearing with the last of his strength. By the time the guards wrestled him from the clock, it was too late. The hands of the Astrological Clock had stopped turning. They were to remain idle for two hundred years.
A murmur swept over the crowd as the new hour arrived. Cell phones and cameras were hoisted as a mechanical rooster cocka-doodledooed. Flashes went off as Death yanked a rope, the bell tolled above, and a procession of wooden
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