The first thing Jacob does in Warsaw is hire a carriage with three horses. He drives himself around the capital, the horses harnessed strangely, one in front of the next, which draws attention, so that the whole capital stops and stares at this weird vehicle as it goes by. He also rents a small palace past the ?elazna Brama, with a coach house and a stable, and seven rooms, all furnished, so that everyone who will be coming from Lublin will be able to stay there. The furnishings are nice and clean, upholstered in damask, with several mirrors, chests, and sofas. There are tiled stoves, and upstairs, a large bed, which he immediately orders to be made up in clean sheets, as befits a lord. With Moliwda’s assistance he hires a butler, a cook, and a maid to take care of the stoves and the cleaning.
Mrs. Kossakowska’s contacts are already paying off—the first to invite him over is Prince Branicki, and then everyone wants to have this neophyte and Puritan at their salons. That includes the Jab?onowskis, at whose home Jacob causes quite the stir in his colorful Turkish costume. The guests, dressed in the French fashion, look through their lorgnettes at this strange, pockmarked yet handsome man with curiosity and sympathy. In Poland, foreign is always more appealing than domestic, so they praise the exotic garments this newcomer is modeling for them. The gentlemen marvel over how little he looks like a Jew—more like a Turk or even a Persian—and this is intended as a mark of their gentlemanly goodwill. There is a moment of hilarity when Princess Anna’s little dog lifts its leg and drenches their guest’s lovely yellow shoes in a stream of urine. The princess considers this yet another display of extraordinary sympathy, this time on the part of the dog, and all delight in the good omen. After the Jab?onowskis, the Potockis invite them, and from then on, the big houses pass them from one to the next like a form of entertainment.
Jacob says very little, stays mysterious. When he answers prying questions, Moliwda embellishes what Jacob has said so that he seems like a naturally wise and serious man. When he tells some anecdote or other, Moliwda rounds out the details. He takes care to cover up Jacob’s immodest tone, which doesn’t quite make it over the high thresholds of aristocratic salons, where modesty is fashionable. On the other hand, Jacob’s boastfulness makes him a favorite at the pubs on the city’s outskirts, where they have already ended up a few times after some boring opera.
The next to receive them is Serra, the papal nuncio.
This older, well-manicured man with completely white hair regards them with an inscrutable expression; when they speak, he nods lightly, as if fully agreeing with them. Jacob almost gets taken in by this mildmannered politeness, but Moliwda knows that this man is a fox—you can never know what he really thinks. The nuncios are taught this: to stay calm, to take time, to observe carefully, to weigh all the arguments. Jacob speaks Turkish; Moliwda translates into Latin. A beautiful young cleric writes it all down indifferently at a separate little table.
“Jacob, this man here, Frank,” Moliwda begins to speak after Jacob, “left with his wife and children along with sixty of his co-religionists from the Turkish lands, having lost his meager property and knowing no language other than the Oriental ones, the which all being useless here, thus I must serve as his interpreter . . . so great was their desire for Christianity. Here they do not know the customs, and they have tremendous difficulties in supporting themselves, so that they have been living off the generosity of kind souls . . .” Noticing the nuncio’s somewhat intrigued and ironic look, he adds: “Whatever he has, he has by the kindness of our nobles . . . And on top of all this, these poor people have seen terrible persecution on the part of the Talmudists, as happened just now in Lublin, where there was a fearsome and bloody attack on our peaceful travelers, and the worst part is that they have nowhere now to go, except as guests somewhere, on someone else’s dime.”
Jacob nods as though understanding everything. Maybe he does understand.
“For so many centuries, we have been expelled from every country, for so many centuries, we have suffered unrelenting uncertainty, and we have been unable to put down roots like stable people do. Without roots, you’re no one,” Moliwda adds of his own invention. “Just ephemeral fluff. Only in the Commonwealth have we ever found shelter, supported by the royal edicts and the solicitous attitude of the Church . . .” Here Moliwda glances quickly at Jacob, who seems to be listening attentively to the translation. “What satisfaction would we bring to God if just we few who wish to live in harmony with neighbors could now be permitted to settle on our own territory. It would be as if the circle of history were closing, and everything were returning to the old order. And what great credit would Poland have with God, greater than the rest of the world, so hostile to Jews.”
Moliwda doesn’t even notice that in translating Jacob, he has switched to “we” instead of “they.” He has repeated all this so many times that the sentences have gotten suspiciously resplendent and rotund. It is all almost too obvious, even boring. Won’t anyone ever be able to think in different terms?
“And so we renew our request for you to grant us, near the Turkish border, some separate territory . . .”
“Di formar una intera popolazione, in sito prossimo allo stato Ottomano,” the young clerk repeats automatically in Italian, his extraordinarily beautiful face ablaze when he realizes he’s been heard, and he falls silent.
After a moment of general silence, the nuncio points out that some of the magnates would be happy to invite these “people of God” to stay on their estates, but to this Jacob responds through Moliwda’s words:
“We would worry that we would be forced into the same submission about which the unfortunate village dwellers of Poland all moan and groan.”
“. . . miseri abitatori della campagna . . .” Once again they hear the whispering of the clerk, who evidently uses this as a means to help himself in writing.
This is why Jacob Frank, in the name of his followers, begs (implora) that they be assigned some separate place of their own, preferably a whole locality (un luogo particolare), while also promising that when they do find themselves together (uniti) in said locality, they will be able to engage in their own industry and escape the notice of their persecutors.
Then the nuncio revives a little, politely, and proclaims that he has spoken with the great Chancellor of the Crown, who has shown his willingness to settle the Frankists on royal holdings, whereupon they would become royal subjects, the Church also being ready to accept them into the city, where they would remain under episcopal jurisdiction.
Moliwda lets out a loud sigh of relief, but Jacob doesn’t even blink at this piece of good news.
Then the conversation turns to baptism, that it must be repeated, ceremoniously, and in front of everyone. That it must take place anew, with pomp, and before the king himself. Who knows—it’s true the king’s in Dresden, but perhaps someone of high standing will agree to be godfather.