Jacob stammers through this text for a long time, getting stuck on the Latin interpolations, which he copies out to the side, no doubt for further study.
“And I am polani,” the student says to Brother Grzegorz, and raises his eyes from the book.
Of Jan Wo?owski and Mateusz Matuszewski, who are the next to come to Cz?stochowa, in November of 1760
They both look like nobles. Especially Jan Wo?owski, who of the Wo?owski brothers has grown out his mustache the most—that’s what lends him much of his gravitas now. Both of them are dressed in winter kontusze lined with fur and warm fur hats, and they both seem sure of themselves and rich. The veterans view them with respect. They rented rooms in town down below, not far from the monastery. From their windows they can see the steep fortification wall. After two days of waiting, negotiations, and bribes, they are finally let inside to see Jacob. At the sight of them, Jacob bursts out laughing.
They stand there in astonishment. They certainly weren’t expecting this.
Jacob stops laughing and turns his back to them. They run up to him and kneel down at his feet. Wo?owski has prepared a whole speech, but now he can’t quite get the words out. Jan, meanwhile, says simply:
“Jacob.”
At last Jacob turns toward them and gives them his hand. They kiss it, and he raises them to their feet. And then they cry, all three men, a pure weeping that is a kind of celebration, better than any words of greeting could ever be. Jacob holds them to him, like boys who have gotten into all sorts of trouble, he hugs them, holding their heads, patting the napes of their necks, until their fur hats with the decorative feathers fall off, and these envoys are transformed into sweaty children, happy to have found their way back home.
The visit lasts three days. They leave the tower only to attend to bodily necessities and to return to town at night. They have brought trunks and bags. In them are wine, sweetmeats, all manner of delicacies. The officer himself looked through them carefully and, well disposed after the bribe he got, did not forbid the presents—after all, Christmas is a time of mercy, even toward prisoners. In a large bag filled with things for Jacob, there is an eiderdown and some woolen scarves, leather slippers for the chilly stone floor, and even a small rug. Several pairs of socks, underwear with the monogram J.F. (all embroidered by the Wo?owski women), writing paper and books . . . They lay it all out on the table first, and then, when they run out of space, they put it on the floor. Jacob is most interested in what he finds in the pots—butter, goose lard, and honey. In smaller linen bags there are also cakes and poppyseed rolls.
The candles burn late into the night, which unsettles Roch—he can’t stop checking in on them, under any pretext. He pokes his head in the door and asks if they don’t need hot water or a lit stove—hasn’t the other one gone out by now? Yes, they want water. But when he brings them full water jugs, they forget about them, and the water cools down again. On their last night they remain in the tower, and well into the morning their raised voices can be heard, and some long songs, and then everything falls quiet. In the morning all three of them go to mass.
Wo?owski and Matuszewski leave Cz?stochowa on November 16. It is a lovely warm sunny day. They take with them a trunkful of letters and order lists. They leave the old soldiers a barrel of beer bought in town, and for the officers, Turkish pipes and the finest tobacco. What with the gold they gave them at the start, all in all they have made a pretty good impression.
That same month, Wo?owski, Matuszewski, and Krysa go to Lublin to take a look at Wojs?awice, where Kossakowska is preparing a place for them to live. But before they head there, the whole company is to transfer to Zamo??, which is close to Wojs?awice, and to wait there, under the care and protection of the ordynat.
El?bieta Dru?backa to Father Benedykt Chmielowski, Vicar Forane of Rohatyn, Tarnów, Christmas, 1760
Because I find my hand suddenly willing to hold a pen, as it has not been for some time, I wish to congratulate you on your title of Canon, and on the 1,760th anniversary of the Lord’s birth, I wish you the greatest of His blessings, may you daily experience His grace.
I report to you as briefly as possible, dear friend, so as not to dwell o’ermuch on such a painful matter, and not to strain my agonizing heart, that last month my daughter Marianna died of the plague that came here from the east. That plague had already taken from this world six of my granddaughters, one after the other. Thus I have found myself in the most terrible situation, in which parents are condemned to outlive their children and grandchildren, despite the fact—or at least the appearance of fact—that this is contradictory to the whole natural order and to any sort of logic. My death, which until now has lurked somewhere in the distance, offstage, dressed up and made up, has now cast off its ball gown, and I see it before me in its true form. I am not frightened, and my death brings me no pain. It only seems to me that the months and years are now moving contrarywise. For how can an old person be permitted to go on, while the lives of the young are cut short? I fear to complain of it or to cry, for a creature like myself has not the boldness to debate with the Creator where he sets his limits, and I stand like a tree stripped of its bark—without feeling. I ought to depart, and no one would suffer or despair over it. I can’t find the words, and my thoughts break away from me . . .
El?bieta Dru?backa’s heavy golden heart offered to the Black Madonna