Crossing the River

Diary of the Journey to Gruszczyn

Why this fantasy—to write down such simple events? I do not know myself. My heart compels me to do so. I want to recall once more the charm I felt during this little journey.

I set out on Saturday, in the most beautiful weather. It seemed to me that I was leaving Puławy with some sadness. Everything was awash in flowers, and spring was renewing nature. I crossed the Vistula, hearing the sound of the postal horn. The echo of oars mingled with the echoes of both riverbanks. It brought to mind thousands of images—memories of happiness, unhappy epochs, holidays in Puławy, plunders, devastations. All of it unfolded in the same place, which still holds an unchanging charm for me.

The images passed quickly. I recalled the visit of Emperor Alexander, the hopes placed upon him, then the subsequent upheavals, until finally Napoleon appeared in Poland. His promises, his words—awakened a new hope.

I lingered on that image. I adorned it with all the charms my imagination possessed. I forgot the past, I forgot everything we had suffered, and I loved the future—because it would return my homeland to me. I rode, almost intoxicated with hope; approaching Warsaw, I felt as if I were already on the banks of the Pilica. I could easily see the other shore, where the eagles once again flew, and where Poland believed it would be reborn.

I allowed myself to gaze from afar, and my heart beat with joy—from the conviction that I would see my daughter again, and that I would look once more upon the land that had no other masters than its inhabitants.

The boat reached the shore, and I continued my journey, carrying with me my thoughts, my hopes, and my illusions.

The Road

Sometimes it takes very little to upset even the best-planned intentions. I wanted to travel calmly, tend to what preoccupied my mind, and have lunch in Gruszczyn.

I had barely covered three miles when a storm began a chain of misfortunes I was to endure. Suddenly, the wind struck, and sand and hail pelted our faces. We were traveling in an open carriage. By the time we reached the inn where we were received, we were already soaked and chilled. Our journey had to be prolonged—and this cast a shadow over the vision of lunch. My people were in a bad mood, Zosia demanded food, and my maid had a headache.

Grayness covered everything that a moment before had been rosy. By evening, however, I saw a small house in Gruszczyn surrounded by poplars. Joy returned, and I was about to enjoy all that had charmed me in this journey—when suddenly, just at the entrance to the yard, I saw a wide ditch, a flooded road, a broken bridge. We had to turn back, drive through the swamps, make a detour, and be splashed with mud.

Good humor returned briefly, and I even had a holy conviction that I had reason for this. I remained silent, impatient, and the carriage went on. I lifted my eyes—I saw the green courtyard of Gruszczyn, chestnut trees in bloom, and then—old Kozłowski. I no longer thought of swamps or detours.

I saw Loreia walking along the path, and then—there, on the bench—a familiar figure. My heart leapt. One more moment… Yes, five steps further, I saw the door of the house and my daughter, stretching her arms toward me!

Could I have thought of anything else then? No. I saw only my daughter. I embraced her, forgot everything—and felt only one thing: the happiness of being her mother. Here I am in Gruszczyn.

First Evening

We had just arrived, my daughter and I were occupied only with the happiness of reunion and the desire—hers, to show me her works; mine, to see them.

Possessing property gives a special charm to anyone who owns it. Gruszczyn gave my daughter that attachment felt when one sees one’s own creation flourish—and me, the joy of finding in it traces of her taste and labor.

Elsewhere, one might see only water reservoirs and dense clumps of grass newly grown from this land. One might fear dampness; rheumatism was spoken of, and indifferent people highlighted inconveniences. Yet—my daughter spoke, I listened, the present seemed delightful, and the future—almost tangible.

We waded in mud, walked a lot—and because no one was indifferent, everything seemed wonderful.

Was there no one there, you ask? On the contrary—there was the young, lofty sky of my daughter. Pampeliche—good and pretty—was like a perfect intermediary being in her own way. The atmosphere throughout Gruszczyn was pleasant. There was also little Zosia.

Among all these present beings—indifference of heart, coldness of soul, laziness, or vacant stares—never appeared. One never felt boredom or discouragement.

Cécile, raised by my daughter, became thus a pleasant presence. She was grateful without effort and became the beloved occupation of the day. This intermediary being took care of everything with zeal and attachment. Bills, shopping, tidying—everything fell on her shoulders, yet she devoted most of her time to others, leaving no room for boredom or indifference.

My daughter and I… I love her as a beloved child, and she loves me—as a mother who would give her life for her. My daughter is full of reason, subtlety, talents. I am sometimes entirely kind, and my heart belongs wholly to her.

Little Zosia—pampered, beloved, lively, light, young, fresh as a rosebud—I enjoy watching her without concern for tomorrow, without regret for yesterday. She lives only in the present moment, loves running, enjoys everything, and never worries.

Plans were discussed, works admired. We entered the salon—the view from it was delightful. The Vistula flowed—this river never ceases. Boats circled across, a wooded island gave water to cattle—one could see them grazing, then being milked. And then—again, boats with milkmaids, with buckets of milk.

Massive trees by the shore provided shade over the most beautiful lawn. One made use of it—tea was served, conversations began. Europe and the garden were arranged, hopes were fed. One believed in Poland’s revival and hugged the trees they had planted themselves.

Kera was a separate episode. I stroked her, for she had a charm of spirit. Zosia kissed her—because she was a child. A friend gave her sugar—deliberating why. Cécile was asked.

Gradually, the conversation lost sense:

– I wish we could finally end this dispute! – said one.

– Yes, but I hate these negotiations – replied the other.

– I cannot reconcile with this thought… Stop with these stories. I prefer silence to saying something inappropriate.

We parted cheerfully and went to sleep. I slept so well. I felt so happy. Between my daughter and me, there was only one level.

Morning

Joy—true joy—is to see each other again. I feel it even after the shortest separation. I experience it every morning when I meet again those I left the day before.

When I wake—it is my first joy. When I approach—my first hope. And meeting a beloved person—it is the first happiness.

I experienced all this in Gruszczyn.

Perhaps a premonition made me open the door exactly when my daughter laid her hand on the lock to enter me. This surprise made my heart beat faster—it was a perfect sign for all this thought, the memory that was just beginning. And the effects of such a memory are invaluable for a mother who loves her child.

Breakfast was served—it tasted better than anywhere else. Then we got into the carriage.