In the early spring of 1774, when Jacob is ailing again, this time with indigestion, he brings in from Warsaw the wife of Kazimierz Szymon ?ab?cki, ?ucja, one of the women who nursed him back to health in Cz?stochowa. Now he wishes to repeat the therapy. With no discussion, ?ucja packs up and travels to Brünn with her child and her sister, and there she puts herself at Jacob’s disposition. For half a year she breastfeeds him, and then she’s sent away, and he begins to spend more and more time in Vienna.
In the summer, a host of maidens joins Eva’s retinue. Eight of them come from Warsaw: the two young Wo?owskas, Lanckorońska, Szymanowska, and Paw?owska, as well as Tekla ?ab?cka, Kotlarzówna, and Grabowska. They travel in two carriages, under the escort of their brothers and cousins. After two weeks, the cheerful company arrives. The young ladies are clever, pretty, always atwitter. Jacob watches them from the window as they disembark, straightening their crumpled skirts and tying the ribbons of their hats under their chins. They look like a flock of chickens. They retrieve their baskets and trunks; a few passersby stop to investigate this unexpected density of charm. Jacob appraises them with his eyes. The prettiest ones are always the Wo?owskas, thanks to some impudent Rohatyn appeal that appears to be innate in them—no child of the Wo?owskis has ever been ugly. And yet it seems that all their twittering annoys Jacob—he turns away from the window, almost irate. He tells them to come in their best dresses after the evening meal in the long hall, where he is accompanied by several of the older brothers and sisters. He is sitting in the new armchair he’s had made in the image of the red one he had in Cz?stochowa, though more ornate, while the brothers and sisters sit against the wall in their usual places. The girls stand in the middle, somewhat skittish; they whisper amongst themselves in Polish. Szymanowski, who is standing next to Jacob, holding in his hand something that is neither a tall spear nor a halberd, shushes them severely. He orders them to take turns going up to the Lord and kissing his hand. The girls go obediently; only one of them starts giggling nervously. In silence, Jacob approaches and examines each of them in turn. He spends the longest looking at that giggling one, who is black-haired and black-eyed.
“You look like your mother,” he says.
“How do you know, Lord, who my mother is?”
There is laughter in the room.
“You are Franciszek’s youngest, right?”
“Yes, but not the youngest, I have two brothers after me.”
“What’s your name?”
“Agata. Agata Wo?owska.”
He converses with another, Tekla ?ab?cka; even though the girl can’t be more than twelve years old, her lavish beauty catches the eye.
“Do you speak German?”
“No, French.”
“Then how do you say in French: I’m as foolish as a goose?”
The girl’s lips begin to quiver. She lowers her head.
“Well? You say you speak French.”
Tekla says quietly:
“Je suis, je suis . . .”
It is quiet as a crypt, no one is laughing.
“. . . I cannot say it.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I only tell the truth!”
Lately Jacob has taken to carrying with him everywhere a staff topped with a snake’s head. And now, with this staff, he goes over the girls’ shoulders and chests, prying the hooks of their corsets with it, scratching their necks.
“Please remove your frippery. Halfway.”
The girls don’t understand. Neither does Yeruhim Dembowski, who has turned a bit pale and is communicating with Szymanowski with his eyes.
“My lord . . . ,” starts Szymanowski.
“Undress,” the Lord says mildly, and the girls start to undress. Not one of them protests. Szymanowski nods, as if to calm them down and to confirm that undressing in public and showing their breasts is completely natural. The girls start to unfasten their corset hooks. One of them whimpers. In the end, they all stand half naked in the middle of the hall. The women, mortified, look away. Jacob doesn’t even look at the girls. Tossing aside his staff, he leaves the room.
“Why did you have them debase themselves like that?” Franciszek Szymanowski lays into Jacob now, walking straight out after him. These days he looks like a Pole, with his long black mustache sticking out at the sides. “What did those innocent girls ever do to you? This is how you welcome them?”
Jacob turns to him, pleased with himself, smiling.
“You know I never do anything without a reason. I had them debase themselves in front of everyone for the simple reason that when my time comes, I will elevate them, lift them up above all other girls. Tell them that from me, so they will know it.”
Scraps: How to catch a fish in muddied waters
It is written that there are three things that do not come if you are thinking of them: the Messiah, lost objects, and scorpions. I would also add a fourth: the invitation to depart. It is always this way with Jacob: you need to be ready for anything. I had barely unpacked in Warsaw, and Wajge?e, Sofia, my wife, had just arranged to have the walls of our apartment on D?uga covered in printed canvas, when a letter came from Brünn, and in Jacob’s handwriting at that, saying to take them some money, for they had run out. Gathering the appropriate funds and placing them inside a barrel, as we had done before in Cz?stochowa, making believe that we were beer merchants, I set out with Ludwik Wo?owski and Nathan’s (or Micha?’s) sons, and within the week we were there.
He greeted us as is his wont—boisterously, loudly, no sooner had we gotten out of the carriage than we were welcomed and treated like kings. The distribution of letters, the telling of how things had been for us all, how many children had been born, and who had died—this took all afternoon. And then, as it was Moravian wine that we were offered, it was of good quality, and it immediately clouded our heads, so that it was only in the morning on the following day that I began to be aware of where I was.