In America (19 page)

Since you must already know something about the marvels to be seen there, I shall mention only what is amusing and oddly scaled. (You see, I am already becoming an American!) Imagine a cathedral six meters high made of spun cane sugar surrounded by candy historical figures, a solid-chocolate vase weighing a hundred kilos, and a half-size replica of the tomb of George Washington, who at regular intervals—this particularly enchanted Piotr—rises from the dead and is saluted by the toy soldiers standing guard. My favorite was the Georama: huge, uncannily detailed dioramas of Paris and of Jerusalem—that and a Japanese house, which unfortunately had no furniture.

We'd no time for visits to the Bible Pavilion, the New England Log House, the Turkish Coffee Building, the Burial Casket Building (no, Henryk, I am not making this up!), among the smaller edifices, but we did walk quickly through the Photograph Gallery and the Women's Pavilion, where we missed the daily breaking of a chair by a lady weighing two hundred and ninety kilograms, but did gaze in wonderment at the huge statue of a sleeping Iolanthe carved in butter by a woman from Arkansas. Butter? In this heat? Yes, and it is fresh butter, for she sculpts it anew every day! Then at least two hours had to be set aside for the Indian exhibits in the Government Building. Besides examples of their pottery, weapons, and tools, there were wigwams and wax figures of celebrated Indian braves, life-size and in full regalia, bringing Piotr his long-awaited sight of peace pipes and tomahawks. Poor child, he kept asking me for assurance that these were real, meaning that they were not costumes and props for actors. I was struck by the modeling of the faces. The small cruel black eyes, coarse unkempt locks, and large animal mouths were clearly designed to inspire hatred for the Indian as a hideous demon. Here you would not find a trace of that reverence for the Indian race we imbibed in the adventure books of our childhood.

You have heard about the astounding new inventions: a porcupine-like machine for stamping inked letters on blank paper, another that can make many copies of a single page produced by the writing machine, and a small box that sends the human voice over an electric wire. About this instrument for hearing at great distances, the telephone, we were told that its inventor hope's to improve the audibility of what is transmitted: while the occasional sentence comes through with startling distinctness, for the most part only vowels are faithfully reproduced and consonants are unrecognizable. But surely it will be perfected. And what a boon to humanity that will be, when, by means of this device, anyone can have an Italian opera, a play of Shakespeare, a debate in the Congress, a sermon by their favorite preacher laid on like gas in one's own house. The possibilities for public instruction are unlimited. Think of those who cannot afford theatre tickets being able to hear the performance over their telephone. Still, I worry about the consequences of this invention, human laziness being what it is, for nothing can replace the experience of entering a temple of dramatic art, taking one's seat among the other spectators, and
seeing
a great actor perform. Once there is a telephone in every home, will anyone still go to the theatre?

Of the many monuments on the Exposition grounds you would have been especially amused by the Centennial Fountain, which was erected by the Catholic Total Abstinence Union of America. (Consider the prospects of such a league in Poland!) In the middle of a vast basin an immense statue of Moses rises from its rough granite pedestal, and circling the basin are tall marble statues of prominent American Catholics, whose names and deeds are of course unknown to me, with a drinking fountain at the base of each statue. Slake your thirst at this pure source and you will never crave alcohol again? How could I not help thinking of you, dear friend? An attendant told us that, unfortunately, it had proved impossible to complete the fountain before the Exposition opened. It would never have occurred to me that something was lacking. Even more fountains to encourage sobriety?

So ready was I to embrace the American love of eccentric achievement that I failed to identify another monument as obviously unfinished—rather, part of something unfinished. The French government has sent over to the Exposition a gigantic forearm whose invincible hand clasps a torch; it is hollow, and stairs inside lead to a balcony below the torch. I was prepared to envisage this sculpture, made of copper and iron, planted on a pedestal in the center of the city of Philadelphia, and was almost disappointed to learn that there will be a whole figure attached to the heroic arm, Liberty herself, a modern Colossus being fabricated in Paris which one day will be placed (like the one in ancient Rhodes) in the harbor of New York to welcome arriving immigrants. How, I ask myself, does one ever know what is finished in this country, and what is merely under way?

 

17 August

 

It is late afternoon and I am continuing this letter in the shade of an elm tree behind our inn in Hoboken, after an exhilarating day in the city. We went directly from the ferry to the main post office and found, as we had hoped, more letters from Julian and Ryszard. After two weeks in the southern part of the state, they have found a parcel of land, complete with house and barns, near a small vineyard colony. Ryszard proposes to stay on for a month in the neighborhood of our new home; he wishes to isolate himself to write some stories and also to enjoy the outdoor life in the company of Indians and Mexicans; he will go north again just before our arrival. Julian prefers to wait for us in San Francisco, where there is a lively Polish community. Bogdan and I spent the rest of the morning making our travel arrangements. Tomorrow he will take Piotr back to Philadelphia; the child has been clamoring for another visit to the Exposition. The day after, we leave on the
Colón,
bound for Panama. There we will cross the isthmus by train and board another ship, which will take us to San Francisco, where I don't expect to tarry (unless, as seems possible, Edwin Booth is performing there) but, with all our group reunited, immediately take the train south.

Since these ships are not modern iron steamships but paddle steamers, the trip will take more than a month. Why not take the transcontinental train and arrive in one week, you will ask. Well, I am deferring to the wishes of my dear husband and son. Piotr begged me not to deprive him of the chance to live on a wooden boat, Bogdan has fallen in love with sea travel, as I told you, and I—I rather liked the idea of savoring the contours of the continent. Don't let what I have told you of my romance with water make you apprehensive, dear friend. Your Rusałka—did I ever tell you Rusałka was my favorite story as a very young child?—is looking forward to having a very long life on land.

 

Aspinwall, Panama

9 September

 

In haste. The start of our trip was a fiasco. The
Colón
was very small—we would have been more comfortable sleeping in tents on the deck than in its fetid tiny cabins below—and maintained with shameless negligence. After two days at sea, the main steampipe exploded: it took us twice as long to crawl back to the Hoboken docks! You can imagine the dismay of our party, and the reproaches of Danuta and Cyprian, who long to arrive as quickly as possible. It seems that some of the others also wanted to take the train, but no one had the courage to oppose me. I should feel a little guilty. Perhaps I do. No, I think not. You know how I hate to change my mind, to give up something once I have decided to do it. We were pledged to going by sea.

Each day I commit to memory at least twenty new English words. Seaworthy—isn't that a lovely word?

After a brief wait in Hoboken we departed again on another paddle steamer, larger and better fitted, the
Crescent City.
The trip passed without incident. At sunset the passengers would gather on the deck for the unison singing of folk songs such as “Darling, I Am Growing Old” and “In the Sweet Bye and Bye”; it was soothing to the nerves to join them. Until the last days, when the ship veered eastward to pass between Cuba and Haiti, we were never out of sight of one of the American states.

This morning we disembarked at the port on the Caribbean side of the isthmus, which is on a little sand-covered island about a kilometer long and connected to the mainland by the railway embankment. I expected a town. It is a village with only one street, or rather one long row of houses mostly occupied by stores whose thuggish-looking proprietors all wear flat straw hats and white pajama suits—and is unspeakably ugly. As for the heat, forget my earlier complaints; this is beyond anything we endured before.
N'en parlons plus!
—one must simply surrender oneself to it. For a while it was raining and we were obliged to take shelter in a sinister grogshop, where we learned from an inebriated old Negress that the rainy season here, which begins in April, lasts nine months! The rain has stopped for now, and we have come outside to dispose ourselves on wet chairs in what passes for a café. Everything is wet. The air is wet. The beetles—there are beetles everywhere—are wet. It is so humid that I could wring out my blouse and deepen the puddles at my feet. Plump dusky women, beautiful in purple and red garments, promenade up and down before our shy gaze. And vultures too, strolling and flopping about with impunity: because they eat the dead rats and the refuse everyone throws into the street, it is forbidden to shoot them. I don't know where the other passengers have put themselves. Bogdan and Cyprian have gone to fetch water and tropical fruits for our two-hour train ride through swamp and jungle to the other side of the isthmus.

So, imagine me sipping a glass of tea laced with rum at my rusty table, looking with impatience and amusement at my charges. Wanda sitting across from me, sighing loudly. Barbara and Aleksander, their heads down on their table, too weary even to complain. Danuta off somewhere with the little girls, who have diarrhea. Jakub and Piotr at another table, both drawing. Jakub says this is a painter's paradise—now he will wish to linger in Panama! Piotr's drawing is a map: he has just announced that when he grows up he will dig a shipping canal across the isthmus. He seems already grown up to me, Henryk. You would be astonished to see how changed he is by this trip, less babyish, indeed quite the little man. Now it is he who takes Aniela by the hand and tries to comfort her. The poor girl is terrified. Our friends are more stoical, but I know they are shocked by how exotic everything is. Barbara has just inquired in a tremulous voice if there are many Africans in California! I shall transcribe for you what is being said right now.

Piotr (jumping up): “No, Indians!”

Barbara: “But aren't they black?”

Piotr: “No, red!”

Barbara: “Red?”

Aleksander: “Don't be silly, Barbara.”

Wanda: “I'm covered with mosquito bites!”

Jakub: “And don't forget the yellow people.”

Barbara: “Yellow people!!”

Jakub: “Yes, Chinese. And the men have a long black braid down their backs.”

Aniela (wailing): “Oh, Madame, are we going to China? You didn't tell me we were going to China!”

Now I shall have everything to do to calm her.

 

Later

 

Bought a parasol and a pair of sandals. Blister. See Bogdan and Cyprian far away, arms laden, coming toward us. Starting to rain again. Danuta's girls are crying. A hideous giant brown cockroach ambling across the table; Wanda shrieking. Owner of the café laughing at Wanda.
Cucaracha!
he shouts, hurling himself at the table, brandishing a towel. My first word of Spanish. Henryk, it's just flown away. Flying cockroaches, Henryk.

Train about to leave.

 

11 September

aboard the
Constitution

 

Henryk, I have written you a letter of truly American proportions.

And now I can't think of anything to say. The coast of Mexico is— No, you don't want guidebook descriptions from me.

But is it I, your Maryna, who is writing to you? I boasted to you of my desire to change, but I was not prepared for the change the trip itself has already wrought on me. I swim in vacancy. The rigors and distractions of traveling are my only theme. I see why neurasthenics are advised to travel. I scarcely think about myself at all anymore. There are only practical questions. My inner life is quite evaporated. Poland, the stage, seem very far away.

The next time I write will be from California. Henryk, can you imagine that?

Your

M.

Five

CALIFORNIA.
Santa Ana, the river;
Heim,
home. Anaheim. Germans. Poor German immigrants from San Francisco who came south twenty years ago to colonize, to farm, to prosper. Stolid, frugal German neighbors. Surprised to see we are so many, and not all related to one another, to share one small house on the outskirts of their town. They ask how many guns we have. They ask if we are a religious sect. They ask if our men can help with the digging of a new irrigation ditch. They ask if Piotr will be attending the school, or will we be keeping him at home to help with the farmwork. Of course he'll go to school! The house, of banal sycamore boards instead of adobe bricks,
is
too small—what could Julian and Ryszard have been thinking!—with every floor except the kitchen completely carpeted, apparently an American custom. Yes, we are here to make this new life together, yes. But with all this adjacent emptiness—America is nothing if not spacious—it's absurd that we should be so crowded …

They have a rousing view of the Santa Ana range to the east and the San Bernardino Mountains farther north and east. To the back and sides of the house are tamaracks, pepperwood, fig trees, and a live oak. Beyond is a field of tall grass where shocks of hay and maize are drying in the sun, and a vineyard that stretches on and on—everything that looks away from the house is splendid. Closer views are more deflating. The fenced-in front yard with its cypresses, shaggy grass, and scatter of roses looked, Maryna said, like a poorly kept small graveyard.