Jerzy Marcin Lubomirski is the commander of a garrison in Kamieniec Podolski, quite a tiresome little town, far removed from the rest of the world—this is his first command post. He is twenty, tall, handsome, and—even apart from any of these happy physical traits—he has yet another advantage: he is heir to an enormous fortune. This lends him great distinction—everyone recognizes him right away, and then can’t take their eyes off him. Kamieniec is situated within his vast landholdings. Ever since such extraordinary things have started happening here, ever since this crowd has come out onto the previously empty streets, the prince has felt excited and satisfied at last. He is in constant need of new impressions, just as he needs refreshment. To the farewell dinner for Miko?aj Dembowski, on his advancement to archbishop, he brings half a dozen crates of the finest Rhine wine.
Once the first of these has been consumed, they begin to talk about the latest happenings, and Prince Lubomirski’s attention turns to the inconspicuous Father Pikulski, the archbishop’s right hand, whose task is to enlighten the nobility on Jewish questions, which are by nature murky and convoluted. Everyone wants to understand what this Jewish fuss is all about.
“There is some consolation in the Jew,” Bishop Kajetan So?tyk pipes up, after barely managing to swallow a big bite of black pudding. He has gained weight recently. Everything about him seems exaggerated. The color of his vestments is too garish, his cuffs too starched, the chain on his chest too shiny. Pleased to have redirected everyone’s attention to himself, he continues: “The Jew looks after money and puts in his own as necessary. He is clever and eager to make his own gains, which makes him greedy on behalf of his master, as well. When I want to buy or sell something, I always summon a Jew. He’ll have his arrangements with all the merchants in this country. A Jew always knows how to do business. It’s in his interest for me to be his client, and that means he will always treat me in such a way that I feel quite sure he’s not cheating me and will render me the best service possible. There’s no serious lord and landholder around here without Israelites in his service. Is it not so, Castellan Kossakowski?”
Mrs. Kossakowska responds on behalf of her husband:
“Everyone knows Your Excellency was not created to handle matters of agriculture or business. This is precisely why we have administrators. The risk is that when they aren’t honest, they may steal. It is simply staggering to think of it.”
The topic of theft so moves everyone—and the wine really is quite excellent—that the discussion now fragments into many smaller ones, and everyone begins to converse with everyone else, across the table; the peasants serving them refill their wine, and at a discreet sign from Archbishop Dembowski, they imperceptibly switch the cases and begin to pour a wine of lesser quality, though no one seems to notice.
“What is this Kabbalah everyone is talking about?” Katarzyna Kossakowska inquires of Father Pikulski. “Even my husband has taken some interest.”
“They believe the world was created from the word,” responds the priest, swallowing loudly and setting down on his plate the sizable forkful of beef that had just been traveling to his mouth.
“Well, yes, everyone believes that: In the beginning was the Word. We believe that, too. So where’s the heresy?”
“Yes, Your Ladyship, but we leave it at that sentence, whereas they apply it to even the smallest thing.”
The priest responds with evident reluctance. It isn’t clear why—he, too, is surprised by it. Could it simply be that in his opinion it is not worthwhile to discuss with a woman such complex matters, which she will no doubt be unable to understand, even being relatively educated? Or perhaps because such questions tend to require he simplify things, regardless of his interlocutors. The bishop is a bishop, but even he requires slow and careful teaching, for he is hardly the cleverest of men. He is undoubtedly a holy man and it is not for me to judge, Pikulski mentally upbraids himself—but sometimes it is hard to talk with him.
He asks for a piece of paper and a pen so he can explain it to them visually, and then he lays it all out between the plates. The bishop encourages him by pushing away the platter with the roast goose and sliding his chair back, turning things over to Pikulski, and giving a significant glance to Kossakowska, for he knows that this unremarkable little priest has hidden strengths, reserves into which he’s now reaching, but as though with a little teaspoon, not wishing to betray himself by revealing the huge vats he has at his disposal.
“Every letter has its numerical equivalent. Aleph is one, bet two, gimel three, and so on. That means that every word made up of letters also renders a number.” He looks at them inquiringly, to check whether they are following. “Words with the same numerical values are tied to one another by some deep meaning, even if on the surface it seems there is no connection between them. You can count with words, perform arithmetic with them, and all kinds of interesting things can happen.”
Father Pikulski does not know if he should end on this, if this might be sufficient, but he can’t help himself: “Let us take the following example,” he says. “‘Father’ in Hebrew is ‘av.’ We write that this way: alef, bet, from right to left. ‘Mother’ is ‘em,’ or alef, mem. But the word ‘mother’—‘em’—can also be read as ‘im.’ ‘Av,’ ‘father,’ has a numerical value of three, because alef is one, and bet is two. ‘Mother’ has a value of forty-one, because alef is one, and mem is forty. Now: if we add the two words up, ‘mother’ and ‘father,’ then we get forty-four—the same value as ‘yeled,’ which means ‘child’!”
Kossakowska, who has been leaning over the priest’s hands, jumps back in her chair, clapping.
“How wonderful!” she declares.
Yod, lamed, dalet, writes Father Pikulski on the bishop’s paper, and gazes down at it in triumph.
Bishop So?tyk doesn’t really follow, and these numbers are already confusing him. He is wheezing. He needs to lose weight. Archbishop Dembowski, meanwhile, raises his eyebrows, a sign that this might be of interest to him in the future.
“According to the Kabbalah, when a man has carnal relations with a woman, their alphabets meet, and it is these alphabets, in intermingling, that occasion the conception of a child.”
Archbishop Dembowski coughs delicately once, twice, and then goes back to eating.