They were taught there that coming from a noble lineage is mere happenstance and blind fortune, and that true nobility rests in virtue and is a conduit to virtue, as without virtue, ability, and decency, nobility is empty and vain. First among their studies came Latin, in which they were instructed very thoroughly, so as to be able to understand the other disciplines after. These other disciplines were mathematics, foreign languages, world history, and the history of Poland, as well as geography and modern philosophy. Reading newspapers in other languages was mandatory, too. They also had something there that I could not comprehend—experimental physics with actual experiments, which reminded me somewhat—based on what I was told about it by Joseph—of the alchemy lab.
Later, at the Corps of Cadets, where they went as the ennobled Counts Frank, they grew used to keeping completely silent on the subject of themselves, never saying one word too many, and never getting close to anyone. Roch, small and redheaded, of nervous disposition, worked up his courage with an incredible bravado, and, later, with wine. Joseph, meanwhile, with his delicate complexion, looked more like a girl. Sometimes, when I beheld him, I had the impression that his cadet uniform was holding him in place, and that if you were to take it off him, Joseph Frank would spill out of it like butter. Joseph was taller than Roch and better built, with his sister’s big eyes and full lips, and he always kept his hair very short. Quiet and agreeable, in some ways he reminded me of Franciszek Wo?owski.
Over the holidays, they stayed either with me or with Franciszek, and I would try to pass along my knowledge of the faith of the true believers, though they would often completely refuse it. They would seem to be listening to my lessons, but they were as if absent, as when their father would punish them for even the slightest transgression, since Jacob considered that boys had to be governed absolutely. I often felt pity for them, even back in Cz?stochowa, and especially for Roch, who up until Hana’s death spent his whole childhood in prison, his whole world the officer’s chamber and the small courtyard in front of the tower, his only friends those old warhorses, and every so often novitiate monks. He reminded me of that plant that grows in the cellar, in humidity, and maybe that was why he was so slight and weak, so inconspicuous. How could such a creature ever become Jacob’s successor? Jacob did not like him or respect him, and I believe that even the sight of his sons got on his nerves. That is why I undertook this task. Yet fathering those two lost souls did not turn out as I had hoped.
I was also to play a role, when the time came, similar to the one Reb Mordke and I used to play long ago on our peregrinations—that of matchmaker. At first Jacob planned for them to take high-born, noble wives, for at that time he was steering everyone toward the outside—having them take husbands and wives not of our faith. But this did not last long.
I always felt that we had to stick together, otherwise we would never survive. My son, Antoni, Leah’s only child, had married Marianna Piotrowska, granddaughter of Moszek Kotlarz, and my grandchildren were now growing up in Warsaw, and all of our efforts went toward their education. My eldest daughter was already promised to Henryk Wo?owski’s youngest boy. We did not wish her to marry too young, so we waited for her to grow up a little.
Once I ran into Moliwda on the street in Warsaw. I was shocked, for he had not changed one bit, except perhaps he had gotten skinnier, and as soon as he took off his cap it was revealed that he had gone bald, but his face and his signature gait, and everything else about him, appeared unaltered. It was just that his attire was now completely different—foreign, perhaps elegant once, but now somewhat worn and neglected. He did not recognize me right away. First he passed me, but then he turned around, and I did not know how to behave, and so I stood, giving him the right to say the first word. “Nahman,” he said, shocked. “Is that you?”
“It is I. Except that I am Piotr Jakubowski. Do you not remember?” I said.
“Look at you! I remember you rather differently.”
“I, too, could say I had a different image of you in my mind.”
He patted me on the shoulder like he used to back in Smyrna, and took my hand, and we came off of the street and went into a courtyard, both of us somewhat uncomfortable, yet joyous, too. I was overcome by emotion, and tears came into my eyes. “I thought you were going to pass by me,” I said.
And then, in that courtyard, he did a surprising thing—he wrapped his arms around my neck, buried his face in my collar, and sobbed—so terribly that I, too, wanted to weep, although I had no reason for it.
After that, I met with him a few times, and we would go to a little winery at the back of the market where they served Tokay—the very sort we always used to drink together, too. Each time, Moliwda wound up drunk, and—to tell the truth—so did I.
He was now a well-placed royal scribe, and he enjoyed the finest society, wrote for the newspapers, and would bring me printed pamphlets, and I thought that the reason he dragged me to that winery was that it was in a cellar and was darkish, and even if someone were to come in there, they would not have been able to make out our faces. “Why have you not married?” I would ask him every time, unable to understand that he preferred to live on his own, having strangers do his washing, taking strangers to bed. Even if you don’t care much for women, still it is useful to live with one.
He would then sigh and tell some story, as was his wont, and every time it was a slightly different one, he would get all tangled up in the details, and I would merely nod my head with understanding, for I was familiar with his storytelling style.
“I have no peace of mind, Nahman,” he said, leaning on his glass. “I have no peace in my soul.”
The conversation always turned then to memories of Smyrna and Giurgiu, and on that, our adventures would conclude—there was never any more to them than that. He did not wish to hear of Cz?stochowa, he would start to fidget, and it seemed to me that whatever had happened after Jacob’s imprisonment did not concern him in the least. I wrote down for him, too, the Wo?owskis’ address, and Hayah Lanckoron′ska’s, but so far as I know, he never went. He did once come to my place, when I was about to travel to Brünn, a bit tipsy already, and we went to drink together on Grzybowska Street. He told me of the king, who invited Moliwda for lunches sometimes and rated his poems quite highly, and once, when he was drunk, he sketched out for me on the table a map indicating which loose women would receive him, and where.
Just recently I learned that he recommended Micha? Wo?owski’s son, a young lawyer, for a post in the royal chancellery, and that he watched over him there; the boy was very capable.
That is all about Moliwda. Just after Christmas in 1786, the Lord summoned us to Brünn for those final months; shortly before leaving, I learned Moliwda was deceased.
Last days in Brünn