Father Chmielowski is sitting in a strange position; Saba, Firlejka’s sister, has just fallen asleep on his lap. He must keep his legs stiff, resting his feet on the crossbar under the table so that the dog doesn’t slide off onto the floor. In order to reach the inkwell, he must make an arch over the table, which he manages to do. It is harder with the pens he has on the shelf behind him—he twists around now and tries to reach the box. The quills fall to the floor; the priest sighs. He supposes he will have to wait until Saba wakes up. But since such inactivity is not in his nature, he starts to write with a blunt pen, and it doesn’t really look that bad. It’s good enough, he thinks.
I send You the very warmest Greetings and Wishes, My Lady, for I myself caught a Cold at the Funeral of Bishop Dembowski, may he rest in Peace, and now, coughing and expectorating, I sit shut in my House and warm my Bones. And I feel old Age coming on at full Speed. The Truth is that the Archbishop’s Death has strained my Health, for he was very dear to me, and I had a Kind of Intimacy with him that can only be shared by two Servants of the Church. I think that slowly my own Time is coming, and without having finished my Work, I feel some Anxiety, and the Fear overcomes me that I might never see the Za?uski Brothers’ Library before I die. I made an Agreement with Bishop Za?uski that as soon as Winter abates, I shall travel to Warsaw, which made him very glad, and he has promised me every Hospitality.
Forgive me for conversing with You at such modest length today, but I am being burned up, I can feel, by Fever, and the sleeping Dog does not permit me to change my Pen. I gave away all of my Saba’s Puppies, and now the House is empty and forlorn.
I found Something for You, my dear Friend, and I note it here, hoping to occupy You with something more interesting than overseeing the Estate, et cetera:
How may a Person sitting in his Room see what is happening outside?
Whosoever might wish to see all the Activities occurring in the Courtyard, not looking with his own Eyes, but lying down, let him make the Room a dark one, shutting out every Shred of Light that might make its way in from the outdoors through the Windows. Then let him bore a round Hole, small, directly onto the Courtyard, and in it let him place the Lens from a Perspective or from Spectacles that would represent Things as greater than they are; having done this, have him hang a thin, white, sturdy Canvas or a large piece of white Paper in that dark Room, opposite that little Opening. On this Canvas or Screen You will see, kind Friend, Everything that occurs in the Courtyard—who goes there, rides there, fights there, gambols, who removes something from the Pantry or the Cellar.
I tried this today and must tell You that it did work, tho’ the Image itself was not particularly clear, and I could recognize little from it.
I am also sending You an Item of great Value—the Calendars of Stanis?aw Duńczewski. One of them is from last Year and contains the Suite of Polish Kings to Sigismund Augustus. The second Calendar, the new one, goes from Sigismund Augustus to Augustus II. So You will be able to tell Your Granddaughters of it without having to rely upon Your Memory o’ermuch, since Memory is always riddled with Holes, and incomplete . . .
Of the unexpected guest who comes in the night to Father Chmielowski
The priest stops with his pen poised over the letter in the middle of a word, for although it is completely dark now, a carriage is approaching the presbytery of Firlejów. The priest hears the horse hooves in the courtyard, and then impatient nickering. Saba, suddenly awakened, leaps off his lap and races to the door with a quiet whimper. Sounds spatter in the damp fog like streams of water poured from a jug. Who could this be at this hour? He goes up to the window, but he can barely see, in the darkness, what’s going on out there, and he can hear Roshko’s voice, but it’s sleepy somehow, reluctant, and a moment later there are other voices that belong to strangers. Fog off the river has enveloped the courtyard once again, and voices barely carry in it, quieting halfway through a word. He waits for Roshko to go to the door, but does not go himself. Where has his housekeeper gone off to? She seems to have dozed off over the big bowl where she was washing her feet before going to bed—in the light of a dying candle, the priest sees her bowed head. He takes the candle and goes to the door himself. He sees some figures standing by the carriage, shrouded from head to toe like specters. Now Roshko comes up, too, with hay in his hair, still half asleep.
“Who goes there?” boldly says the priest. “Who wanders through the night and disturbs the peace of Christian souls?”
Then one of the specters comes closer, the smaller one, and instantly Father Chmielowski recognizes Old Shorr, though he can’t yet see his face. He is so surprised it takes his breath away. For a moment, he loses the power of speech. But what are they doing here in the night, these cursed Jews? He does at least have the presence of mind to tell Roshko to go home and get to bed.
The priest also recognizes Hry?ko—how he’s grown, how manly he’s become. Silently, Shorr leads the priest to the cart and then flings the cover off it. Now Father Chmielowski sees an extraordinary thing. The cart is almost completely packed with books. They lie in stacks of three and four, tied up with leather strings.
“Holy Mother of God,” says the priest, and with that last syllable, that awestruck “God,” he extinguishes the candle flame. Then the three of them silently carry the books into the presbytery, into the chamber where the priest keeps the honey and the wax, and bits of rotten wood used to fumigate bees come summer.
He asks no questions; he simply wants to offer them a glass of mulled wine, which he keeps on the stove, for they seem frozen almost to the bone. Then Shorr throws back his hood, and the priest sees his battered purple face. At this, Father Chmielowski’s hands start to tremble as he pours the wine, which has unfortunately already cooled down.
Then they disappear.
Of the cave in the shape of the alef