In times long past, when the stone streets of Prague whispered stories as old as time itself, and when the shadows of death danced in every corner, one of the most terrible scourges befell our beloved city. It was a time when the plague, that black rider with a scythe, rode through the alleys, instilling fear in the hearts of all inhabitants. It was then the year when the Loreto carillon, that marvel of clockmaking and bell-founding art, first rang its thirty bells over Hradčany, bringing with it melodies of both hope and sorrow.

In Hradčany, in a small, damp house where the sun rarely penetrated through the high roofs, lived a poor widow. She had a heart full of love, but empty hands, for her husband, an honest but poor craftsman, had long since rested in the earth. She was left alone with thirty children, as many children as there were bells swinging in the Loreto tower. Each of them was her sun, each her happiness, even though poverty pressed their lives into hardship. The widow toiled from dawn till dusk to secure at least a piece of bread and a roof over their heads for her little ones. Her days were filled with work, care, and silent prayer to Our Lady of Loreto, whose sanctuary overlooked the entire city from a nearby hill.

And then the plague came. News of it spread through the streets like poisonous smoke, and soon it touched their humble dwelling too. First there was a cough, then a fever, and finally cold, motionless little bodies. One by one, her children, her beloved children, succumbed to the insidious disease. With each departure, the widow’s heart crumbled to dust. In despair, she decided to give her children a dignified farewell. She knew that the bells of Loreto, those new, magnificent bells, could play the sweetest melody to accompany a soul on its last journey. And so, with each child who died, with the last gasp of breath, she took her last coin in her hand and set out on her way.

The journey from her Hradčany home to Loreto was short, but to the widow, it seemed endless. Each step was heavier than the last. She passed Loreto Square, where there was usually a bustling activity, but now it was silent, shrouded in the shadow of fear. The air was heavy, permeated with the scent of sulfur torches and disinfectant herbs, which were meant to ward off the disease, but in vain. With a deep lament that she tried to keep within herself so as not to scare away the spirits of the night, she arrived at Loreto. She handed her coin to the sacristan with a plea for the bells to be rung. And the bells rang out. Their clear, silver voice carried over Prague, sounding like a prayer, like a cry, like a final farewell.

Once, twice, thrice… Thirty times the widow returned to Loreto, thirty times she handed over her coin, thirty times she heard the sweet, yet painful melody of the bells. Her face was sunken with grief, her eyes empty, but deep in her soul, she still held a spark of hope that the souls of her children had found peace. At home, in the silent, empty house where laughter and children’s cries once reigned, now only silence prevailed, interrupted only by her quiet sobbing. The last coin, the last child. The widow stood over his bed, her heart bleeding. She knew she had nothing left, not even the last farthing for the ringing of the bells.

When the last of her thirty children also breathed its last, the widow fell to her knees. Her strength, her will to live, everything abandoned her. She knew she too was infected, she felt the fever burning her insides. She wanted to go to Loreto one last time, but her legs would not carry her. Tears streamed down her face, no longer for her children, but for herself, for her loneliness, and for the fact that she could not even afford the ringing of the bells for the last of them.

Then suddenly, in that darkest moment, in the silence that preceded her own end, something miraculous happened. From a distance, from the Loreto tower, a melody rang out. It was no ordinary ringing. It was the bells, playing by themselves, without human hand. Their tones were pure, clear, and full of love, as if angels had rung them. They played a beautiful Marian melody, so sweet and comforting that the widow recognized it as the song “Maria, Maria, brighter than the sun”. And in that sound, in every note, she heard the voices of her children. She heard their laughter, their whispers, their tender calls of “mommy”.

A smile, which had long vanished from her face, reappeared on her lips. Her heart, full of sorrow, was suddenly filled with heavenly peace. She knew her children were safe, and that she too would soon find peace. With her last breath, her eyes fixed on the window from which the miraculous music emanated, she died. She died reconciled, embraced by an invisible sound that brought her comfort and hope.

Since then, it is said that the bells of Loreto do not ring, but sing. Anyone who listens to their melodies, especially that sweet Marian song, can hear in it the echoes of children’s voices and feel the quiet presence of a mother’s love. And so the Loreto carillon forever commemorates the touching story of the poor widow and her thirty children, whose souls float in every sound that carries over old Prague.