When they had not seen each other for a long time, they wrote letters. Czapski’s were longer, Wajda’s shorter, often signed jointly with Krystyna Zachwatowicz. Handwritten or typed, in the form of postcards or telegrams. The painter from Maisons-Laffitte, the director from Warsaw, Sailly near Paris, Vienna, or Berlin.
After Wajda and his wife viewed the Soutine exhibition, they sent Czapski a card with a reproduction of the painting Enfant de Choeur, along with the note: ‘Thank you for being here! And that you paint!’ In a later essay, Spacery po Luwrze (Walks Through the Louvre), the director recalls: ‘I once had the good fortune to view a Bacon exhibition with Czapski. I saw how he was able to look at things. Czapski gazed with such intensity that he seemed to blend into the picture, as if he were part of it.’
When Czapski opened the birthday envelope from Madrid, he found not only a birthday card but also a medallion bearing the image of the Virgin Mary. The parcel from Japan, meanwhile, contained sweets wrapped in silver paper, whose rice flavour he could not appreciate (as he wrote quite frankly to his friends), and a magnifying glass, which he could not use, however, as his eyesight was already too poor for it.
When Wajda, while working on Chronicle of Love Affairs, visited the studio of Tadeusz Pruszkowski – a painter who belonged to the Brotherhood of St Luke, which hated the Kapists – he copied out for his friend their little poem about the Paris Committee.
There’s a certain baboon
who worships only Cézanne.
There’s a certain bulldog
who worships only van Gogh.
There’s a gang of rascals
who worship only the French…
When Czapski could no longer write, he dictated letters and apologised to the recipients for his verbosity. Sometimes he would reflect on the past (‘That first time in Paris with the Kapists was probably one of the hardest periods of my life’). More often, he would give an account of everyday life (‘I also had an exhibition in Switzerland, which was a great financial success; thanks to that, but above all thanks to Aeschlimann, my art dealer and friend, I have enough to live on’).
He mourned that he could not distinguish colours and that his vision was inexpressible. Yet he continued to make entries in his diary, even though he could not see the letters. ‘It is not only my eyes that are failing me, but also the flow of words,’ he wrote in an undated letter to his friends – perhaps his last.