Józef Czapski174, Rue de l'UniversitéParis VIIMy Dear Bobek,You have every right to be terribly angry with me for not writing you until now, even though Marynia1 was parading around with your letter, and even though we read your letters to Jerzy Giedroyc in a fervor, though a bit late. I delayed writing partially because I wanted to send a French commission along with my letter. But nothing has come of it yet. Maybe you could send me the names of some of the French higher-ups in Guatemala? That might make things easier. Rochefort2 told me that they never send this type of request and that he'd only do it if he found a way to send it personally to someone he knows, or to a friend of a friend. He promised to keep it in mind. Mr. D. agreed gladly to do it (I contacted him very late), but he didn't send me anything yet. I am eager to hear whether your model planes really bring in enough to support you and if you remain in good spirits. Or if at some point you won't start howling, cursing the things that you currently admire. I ask because here we find ourselves howling often. At times I think your leap was sound and sane, but I am so uncertain of the future that nothing seems clear to me. As far as France is concerned, I don't think I've ever received such contradictory information, such contradictory horoscopes, articulated by the most intelligent and percipient people. You remember our friend Mr. B., who was particularly interested in your anti-communist materials. He proclaims outright that he sees no possibility for reconstructing France, the country that either continues to fall dans un nationalism à la Déroulède3 (see Charles’ last speech, about the Ruhr Valley4) without regard for the imperative of European cooperation, or bows to Moscow. And in terms of those who look to the bottom, he says there is such horrendous moral degradation that one cannot build anything on such a base. Mr. B. exempts Moch5 and Schuman as truly decent people. But when you talk with those closest to Schuman, honest and intelligent enthusiasts, they fervently assert, foaming at the mouth, that the French are slowly but surely lifting their heads, that the most recent strike is c'est le dernier soubresauts de la bête6, that the working class is increasingly distancing itself from de l'emprise communiste7 and that only one man is still dangerous, and that's Charles8. Yet the circle around Charles is growing, and Gaullism seems inevitable in France. What perhaps moves me the most, is that there seems to be a generation of young people of rare sensibility who remind me of the age of Fournier and Rivière9, who know nothing of politics, and are only concerned with art, poetry, or music. But these are the people who will be extinguished and swept away by history just like that other generation in 1914, because surely they won't shape the political future of France—and will they have time to accomplish anything?As for me, I am proofreading my Polish book and have already secured the contract for the French edition, which should come out in February, March at the latest. But with the endless waves of strikes, coupures10 in gas deliveries etc. nothing is certain, so I'll believe it when I have a copy in-hand. The news from Poland is panic-stricken and very troubling. What kind of publications are available there? Do you get London's Dziennik [Daily]11? Any magazines from Poland? Regarding the peasant question, it seems that collectivization is to be partially delayed because it already sparked the killing of communists in the countryside; this year only 1 percent of farms is supposed to be collectivized. But the attack on anything that has to do with private interest is growing. You must have received the same news from your Polish correspondents, how people are terribly worried now, how the economic situation worsens. My brother hems and haws about setting off to Argentina.12 He's quite anxious because the situation there has also worsened. What sort of people do you know in South America outside Guatemala? Are you in touch with anyone in the Brazilian literary circles? I met a poet from there, a great French enthusiast, would that interest you?I send you my heartfelt hugs. Please forgive a letter that's as long as it is vague, but I have a cold and two broken ribs (as if a Packard13 hit me and not a bicycle with a small motor! I didn't know I was so frail). Tell your wife that I send my warmest regards and best wishes, and hope that the window displays of all the most beautiful boutiques have her touch and that her scarves adorn not just the First Lady but also the humblest of the humble.My Dearest, Beloved Auntie and Uncle,Let me take advantage of the holiday break to write you at least a few words and send my warmest embraces at this special time, which draws us so to the loved ones we miss. You both have a quiet corner of my heart all to yourselves. It was such a pleasure, amidst the crazy whirlwind of work, to receive dispatches from the battleground first from you, Auntie, and then a short but informative [letter] from you, Uncle. I'd be very, very grateful if you could from time to time dictate to Stef.,14 in your own manner, in short sentences: “They say that X claims; Y believes; the facts of the matter are . . . ” I am far off, sitting on the sidelines but not at all indifferent to “all that,” though so many people think so. Giedroyc sends me letters but, as is his wont, he writes like a cigarette case slamming shut—“Snap!” and that's it. But he is patient with me, understands my situation and recently, for example, wrote me a third letter without receiving a word back. I am grateful. I repaid him with six pages of tales and stories.15 He doesn't like to pass my letters to you, although I—lacking money for stamps—often write them with you in mind as well, because he is a true, purebred editor: he's counting on me getting killed flying one of my prototypes and having the material ready on hand. He is a funnyman, a prankster.I'm sitting in the sun, on a terrace, warming the rheumatism in my hand (remember?), which now takes its toll whenever I work, and I can just see Auntie in her tiny room. Has the winter been very cold? That pigeon loft of Auntie's must get very chilly. And what's happening on rue de l'Université?16 That place is a second phalanstery now and it seems that Władek with his passion for planning and order surpassed Fourier.17 One needn't worry. Władek likes cats and, like all such people, he is cat-like by nature. I had a cat, well-behaved, always shat in the box. Suddenly, out of the blue, he started planting them in my bed—under the blankets no less. I have no idea how the rascal actually pulled it off because I could never catch him in the stinking deed itself. I spanked him, stuck his nose in it and carried him to the box—nothing. I was murderous. Then, from one day to the next—a model of good behavior. Furthermore—if the ashes or sand were not fresh enough, he'd meditate over the litter, hold back, and wouldn't poop. Perfect to a fault. Or he'd scratch at it for 15 minutes: from this side and that, until finally he was scratching the bare floor. A pedant, downright annoying. Like Władek.I miss you both terribly, but this hideous Europe, what was she offering us after all? Think of the sum total minutes we could talk about what interested us the most, talk freely about what we thought, about ourselves, about books, which weren't centered on questions of politics, of the West, of the East. If, in the course of these two years, you managed to put together three full hours from these minutes, that would be a lot. I miss you, but I was glad I was no longer “there” when your letter, Auntie, arrived relating the affair caused by Janta's reportage; or when Giedroyc writes me about the coarse attacks on him18 and the insinuations about me as an alleged “demoralizer” and guide down the “slippery slope.” And I am glad that overseeing the publication of Kraj [Country]19 allowed me to shape the opinions closest to the truth shared by all of us. I poured my heart and soul into the work; judge for yourselves whether my intuitive understanding was wrong, was I wrong to tarry adjusting my aim at this hellishly unstable target? I used to tell Władek that I have no knack for political thinking but I make up for it by paying close attention and empathizing with those at the bottom. I cannot stand, and never could, thinking about these things, beginning with: “Down with the Soviet oppressors.” It's a different kettle of fish, and it's necessary, but there are so many other, more important things. That's why I can't stand Wraga.20 People like that ultimately think in the same slogans as those whom they criticize. Anyway, the thinking in all of Western Europe today is poisoned with slogan-making to a higher degree than people are aware.Regarding the Kultura affair, I have just two things to say, 1) the matter should be discussed separately, as the issue is totally independent of Janta's reportage; 2) it should be regarded as a turning point, an outrageous event that shattered the very foundation of our decision to not return to Poland. As a result, one should now approach writing for publications in exile with the same attitude as writing for publications in Poland. You may not, but I have far-reaching experience with this sort of thing and, because I am honest with myself, I can assure you that I'm not exaggerating a bit when I say that this issue—when you think it through—is painful, vicious, and distasteful. I posed these questions in a letter to Jerzy [Giedroyc] and now I ask you, requesting specific information: How is it possible? There were no repercussions whatsoever? Nobody protested? The Union of Polish Writers in Exile21 kept quiet? And yet in June they resolved—on the very same grounds—to not write for publications in Poland.22 Janta, and every one of us, must have the right to say what we want. If we cannot write freely, our drudgery makes no sense. All or nothing. I do not prescribe to calculations of liberty in a “higher percent.” If I start using percentages, nothing prevents entering negotiations with Borejsza23 and possibly even reaching an agreement. Because that's how it is with percentages; it's their nature. The entire communist rationale with respect to this area relies on percentages, on reducing those concepts, emotions and feelings that are beyond calculation to values defined in percentages.I think of exile as 100 percent, and Poland 0 percent. This is, by the way, the official émigré position. Writing in the sphere of 0 percent, I am aware that a lucky turn might raise this “0” a few percentage points, occasionally even to a relatively high number. I know it. Writing here, I must have total liberty. If I am not totally free, the moment of comparison enters into the game, the moment that the communists try to impose by all possible means, the moment of calculations. This opens up the possibility of discussion. And there is no possibility of discussion. This too is part of the émigré canon. In doing so, something breaks—something that, despite its foggy quality, might be called a doctrine of exile, the doctrine of our freedom of choice. I forbid myself, under the present conditions, to think in terms other than 0 percent–100 percent. Because the moment I begin writing 99 percent or nine tenths on the right side, I lose the 0 percent on the left side. I have to assign at least 1 percent, at least 1/10 percent. Do you see what this means? It's like battering the gates to the fortress's tower. That's exactly what they want. Doesn't any one of those thickheaded soldiers and their militarized milieu understand that? But you certainly understand. I also ask Giedroyc and you: on my end, would it make sense to send around identical letters in which I “condemn” this, announce that I'm stepping away from the NiD24 and declare that I am voluntarily leaving the émigré community to become an individual apart from any government and political affiliation? Afterwards, I'd stop writing for publications in Poland and here—I don't mind this. What I do mind is that—in my opinion—a horrible thing has happened, something that—when you wrote me about it—shook me and everything I hold dearest. Let me tell you in plain words that I escaped from Europe because I felt threatened to my very core. I can't help it—I can't do it any other way; I must be free, independent. In our times I consider it my duty; I'd suffer terribly if I couldn't meet it. Today I suffer terribly in the physical sense, but how peacefully I feel within—in harmony with my surroundings, in covenant with God, the sun, the clouds, and the azure of the sky. That's what matters most to me and to Basia. And in Europe, this has become impossible. The human being there has turned into a car horn that any moron sitting at the steering wheel can press just as they wish, with certainty that we'll respond this way and not any other. Just try to say something different . . . In fact, that's exactly it: Europeans do not want to say anything controversial, people in Europe are completely—and what's worse, subconsciously—“ensclavisated.”25 Today. The European intellect? After the death of Bernanos26 I really don't know how many intellectuals are willing to get their boots dirty, be persistent, and slam their fist on the table, who have courage. For example, have courage to campaign against the Marshall Plan, to call out: “Let's do it by ourselves. We don't want Europe to become one huge DP27 camp under the IRO.28 We don't want our mentality to become the DP mentality—hideous and useless.”From the psychological point of view, I've begun to see the Marshall Plan as Western Europe's grave. I think Switzerland saw things similarly when it refused the Plan, as well as England, which at least pretended to slip out and reframe it. You ask me, dear Uncle, if I don't feel like “howling.” I do—out of despair that I didn't leave Europe earlier. I'm not sure whether you know me well enough to recognize that for me the inner feeling is of utmost importance; compromising what I consider the most valuable in me, compromising my principles which I try—today, in this world—to uphold, is always extremely painful, nearly tragic. Here I can be true to myself, free, spiritually and mentally independent, and dependent only on material conditions, which I am building up slowly but surely on my own. That's a lot. It's an immense liberty in this day to worry only about food, without having to link the problem of food with spiritual concessions of larger or smaller proportions, and depending on compromises within your milieu, with rotten Europe, with the State—a bandit—with funds etc. I am internally free once again—free as I was in Paris during the occupation. Internally the occupation (crazy though it may seem) offered something marvelous, a special “lack of pretense”—we should be thankful the Germans at least left us that much. Here, I can live once again “without pretense.” I know how far the State's domain extends, I know where “I” start, and that's it. And if I don't like it, fine—the world is open, the continent grand, one can always find a bite to eat. There I was suffocating. Here I regained my sensitivity to colors. In Europe the most colorful things turned grey, ashen, stifled—by what? I don't know. I think by the repulsive totalitarianism. That's how it felt.What a beautiful day. Warm like a Polish September. Misty volcanoes. Basia29 and I concluded that the volcano might be the most difficult element in the landscape for a painter to render properly. Impossibly regular, sharp but likewise maddeningly fluid, ethereal. The volcanos here are magnificent. In general, the scenery is of immense diversity, but not at all gaudy, not vulgar as it is occasionally on the Côte d'Azur.30 Muted. I often think of how you, dear Uncle, should leave your self-annihilation, pack your paints, and set off across this country—to explore it, to discover what's buried under the bright hues of the colorful postcards and kitsch-artists’ brushes. I am glad you'll “appear”—in two languages, no less.31I always start with your and Auntie's pieces when I read the Kultura. Auntie's account of the literature written in the war camps was excellent, though I could feel some restraint in the sections pertaining to Poles.32 You, dear Uncle, saved Bernanos.33 Who is this Ursyn?34 I mean, it reads like a stump speech at a funeral. And that Wit Tarnawski?35 I don't get it. The only way I can rationalize it is to recognize that Jerzy, as any purebred, has his “schönheitsfehlers.”36The History of the Nałęcki Family—running in two issues—two robust issues, that's outright criminal. It almost wouldn't surprise me if Kultura got confiscated for publishing it. “Proust in Griazowiec”—words fail me.37 Straightforward, a speech really, and warmhearted, yours in every detail. I eagerly await the book38.I have little to relay in terms of gossip. I wrote about some to Jerzy, so he'll tell you. Very few people write to me. Mother,39 my aunt40 (a medical doctor) wrote that she was ordered to take her plaque off the door. They caught up with her. Another aunt, Wanda,41 whom Marynia knows, died after a surgery a few weeks ago. Iwaszkiewicz used to write from Buenos Aires, from Rio, but lately I haven't heard a word. He wrote that he met with you: “It was a grand Parisian event, meeting Józef and Marynia at the Krancs’42 place; we met and talked through the evening, like old friends, freely, at ease, with mutual understanding. I have to admit I was moved to tears when I saw this man; he has a powerful personality, enveloped by an aura of such bad luck (I don't understand and suspect you won't either—my comment), I felt very drawn to him. Finally as we bid farewell, I received full absolution, even a blessing, and for penance I was enjoined to “try to understand those in exile.”43 He admitted that they do not understand us, but that our cultural work is necessary and imperative in Poland—in a word, in keeping with the holiday spirit, what year was it?—in Paris, when Adam and Juliusz were improvising.44 Let there not be another quarrel between us, instigated by others. It was especially nice to get the letter just after that atrocious article by Nowakowski was published in Wiadomości45 in London, worse than anything they even wrote about Stalin. For years now I've had little regard for Nowakowski, but that Gryc46 publishes such atrocities . . . —so you see, how can one possibly believe in friendship? I think that if I'd met my Gestapo friend, I would still try to understand, not condemn him. And so, you got some gossip—Paris and Buenos Aires, Guatemala, Paris. It's a small world.I don't get any publications besides the Kultura and the Tygodnik Powszechny [Catholic weekly],47 which lately comes quite irregularly. Sometimes, on Saturday, I buy American newspapers and try to sniff something out. If you find something interesting, please send press-clippings as “printed matter,” it's a cheap rate. Jerzy wrote that he had sent me some “materials”—but nothing ever arrived. Dear ones—as usual, I had no intention of writing a long letter, and here we are, a real whopper. Although your life runs at the American pace, please do write to me, whose life unfolds in the style of the old-fashioned, kindly Europe. As you see, I do respond. I send to you, my dearests, lots of hugs, to both of you, very, very, very lovingly, and through you also to Władek, pass him please some news about me. Dear Aunt, I kiss your hand, and you, dear Uncle, I thank once again for all the help you offered me and for being so good to me.Yours, Bobek