Grocholska née Brzozowska Franciszka Ksawera (1807 – 1872)

GROCHOLSKA née Brzozowska Franciszka Ksawera (1807-1872) – patriotic activist, memoirist writer. She was the daughter of → Karol and Ksawera née Trzeceska, sister of → Zenon Brzozowski. She was raised under the care of her distant relative → W. Sobańska, along with her youngest daughter, Idalia.

She married Henryk Grocholski (1802-1866), grandson of → Marcin, son of Michał and Maria née Ślizniowie, a graduate of the Faculty of Physics and Mathematics of the University of Vilnius (1825), a wealthy landowner. He, in a separate act (from 20.XII.1833), along with his sister Julia, wife of → Henryka Rzewuska, received in the Podolian governorate Piatniczany, Stadnica, Michajłówka and Kołomyjówka from the Vinnytsia district, Kniażpol, Kniaże, Ternowka mała (Ternowka), Kośnica, Andryaszówka, Antonówka and Kajetanówka from the Jampol district, in Volhynia – Gubcze, Partyńce and Kupyn from the Zasław district. G. herself inherited from her father Wołowodówka, Wójtówka and Potok from the Brasław district. Additionally, she purchased from citizen J. Szembek, in 1863, Kiedrasówka, Sołomejówka and Olszanka-Wołoska from the Olhopol district.

She was a famous philanthropist. For many years, along with → R. Sobańska, she took care of Polish exiles in Siberia, particularly active in an unofficial care committee established in the early 1840s. She donated 155 rubles for the construction of a church in Tobolsk. She also organized an orphanage in Lviv – victims of the peasant uprising in Galicia in 1846 (the so-called “rabacja”). She left memoirs published by Fr. Z. Feliński with the addition of # correspondence, – “Diary of Xawera née Brzozowska Grocholski” (“Memoirs of Xaviery née Brzozowska Grocholski”, Kr., 1894).

She died at the beginning of 1872. Buried in the family chapel-mausoleum on a granite rock above the river. Southern Bug near Stryżawka, established by her husband and her (according to the design of architect Laufer) after the first Grocholski tomb in the Dominican church in Vinnytsia was destroyed (1832) following the dissolution of the Dominican order and the transformation of the church into an Orthodox cathedral (coffins from the church’s crypts were buried in a common grave).

In her marriage to Henryk Gorholski, she had children → Stanisław, → Tadeusz, Maria (→ Czartoryska) and Helena (1845-1922), who married her cousin Jan Brzozowski. In the State Archive of the Volhynia Region (ДАВО) G.’s letters to her sons are kept***.

**Aftanazy, vol. 10, pp. 286-287,299-302,406-408,413 (408*); Bobrowski, vol. І, p. 231, vol. II, pp. 392, 393,398, 407; Boniecki, vol. VII, p. 67; Iwanowski (3), vol. II, pp. 501, 509; *Sobańska, pp. 9, 17, 18, 29, 30, 31, 43,56,63,67, 109 (9’4); Uruski, vol. IV, p. 380; – Список дворян Подол. губ., p. 201; Труды ПЕИСК, p. 775; – ДАВО: ф. 200, on. 1, спр. 131, арк. 80 зв. – 81; ф. 273, оп. 2, спр. 4, арк. 83 зв-85; ф. 460, оп. 1, спр. 2, арк. 326-336 зв.; ф. 470, on. 1, спр. 76, арк. 602-603, 744-744 зв., спр. 77, арк. 158-172, спр. 296, арк. 14-19, 26 зв.-30, спр. 316, арк. 138 зв.-144, спр. 736, спр. 324, арк.41 зв- 44 зв., 155 зв-159, спр. 881, арк.41-52,спр.882; ф.470, оп. 3, спр. 20а, арк. 251-252, спр. 116; ф. 473, оп. І спр. 69, арк. 129-129 зв., спр. 406; ф. 473, оп. 2, спр. 53; ***ф. 866, оп. 1, спр. 8.

The biography comes from the book Famous Poles in the History of Vinnytsia by Ms. Wiktoria Kolesnyk.

 

Father Aleksander Jełowicki to Ksawera Grocholska

Paris, October 21, 1849

Sender: Jełowicki Aleksander

I. M. J. Praised be Jesus Christ. Most Honorable Lady! Still under the impression of Chopin’s death, I write a word about it. He died on October 17, 1849, at two in the morning. For many years, Chopin’s life was hanging by a thread. His body, always weak and frail, was increasingly consumed by the fire of his genius. Everyone was amazed that in such an emaciated body a soul still resided and did not lose the sharpness of mind and warmth of heart. His face, like alabaster, was cold, white, and translucent; and his eyes, usually covered by a mist, sometimes sparkled with the brightness of sight. Always sweet and kind, and bubbling with wit, and exceedingly sensitive, he seemed to belong little to the earth. But unfortunately, he did not think of Heaven. He had few good friends, and many bad ones, i.e., without faith; these especially were his devotees. And his triumphs in the most insightful art drowned out the unspeakable moans of the Holy Spirit in his heart. The piety he had sucked from his Polish mother’s womb was now only a family memory. And the godlessness of his companions and companions of his last years increasingly soaked into his receptive mind and settled on his soul like a leaden cloud with doubt. And only by the power of his exquisite propriety did it happen that he did not openly mock holy things, that he did not yet scoff. In such a pitiful state, he was caught by a fatal chest disease. The news of this, pale with Chopin’s approaching death, met me upon my return from Rome to Paris. I immediately ran to this childhood friend of mine, whose soul was all the dearer to me. We embraced each other, and our mutual tears indicated to us that he was already in his last moments. He visibly weakened and faded; yet he did not weep for himself, but rather for me, lamenting the murderous death of my brother Edward, whom he also loved. I took advantage of his tenderness to remind him of Mother… and her memory awakened in him the faith she had taught him. “Ah, I understand you,” he said to me, “I would not like to die without the Sacraments, not to sadden my beloved Mother; but I cannot accept them because I no longer understand them in your way. I would still grasp the sweetness of confession flowing from confiding in a friend; but confession as a Sacrament I do not understand at all. If you want, for your friendship, I will confess to you, but otherwise not.” At these and similar words of Chopin, my heart tightened, and I wept. I felt sorry, sorry for this dear soul. I comforted it as best I could, with the Blessed Virgin, with the Lord Jesus, with the tenderest images of God’s mercy. Nothing helped. I offered to bring him any confessor he wished. And he finally told me, “If I ever want to confess, it will surely be to you.” This is what I feared most after everything he told me. Long months passed in my frequent visits, but without any other effect. However, I prayed with confidence that this soul would not perish. We all prayed for it, the resurrectionists, especially during the retreat. And then on the 12th of this month, in the evening, Dr. Cruveiller urgently summoned me, saying he could guarantee nothing. Trembling with emotion, I stood at Chopin’s door, which for the first time was closed to me. Yet after a moment, he had me let in, but only to shake my hand and say, “I love you very much, but say nothing, go to sleep.” Imagine, if you can, what kind of night I spent! The next day was the feast day of St. Edward, the patron of my beloved brother. Offering a holy mass for his soul, I prayed to God: O God, have mercy! If my brother Edward’s soul is dear to You, give me today the soul of Fryderyk! So with doubled concern, I went to Chopin. I found him at breakfast, to which he invited me, and I said, “My dear friend, today is my brother Edward’s name day.” Chopin sighed, and I continued: “On my brother’s day, give me a bond.” “I will give you whatever you want,” Chopin replied, and I said, “Give me your soul!” “I understand you, take it!” Chopin replied and sat on the bed. Then an unspeakable joy, but also fear, overwhelmed me. How? To take this dear soul to give it to God? I fell to my knees, and in my heart, I cried out to the Lord: “Take it yourself!” And I handed Chopin the crucified Lord Jesus, placing Him silently on his two hands. And tears gushed from both his eyes. “Do you believe?” I asked. He replied, “I believe.” “As your mother taught you?” He replied, “As my mother taught me!” And gazing at the crucified Lord Jesus, in a torrent of his tears, he made a holy confession. And there? he received the Viaticum and the Last Anointing, which he himself requested. After a while, he ordered to give the sacristan twenty times what is usually given, and I said, “That’s too much.” “Not too much,” he replied, “because what I received is priceless.” And from that moment, transformed by God’s grace, indeed, by God Himself, he became like another person, I would say, already a saint. That same day Chopin’s agony began, which lasted four days and nights. Patience, resignation to God, and often joy accompanied him until his last breath. Amidst the highest pains, he expressed his happiness and thanked God, so much so that he shouted his love for Him and ??d? his union with Him, as soon as possible. And he shared his happiness with the friends who came to bid him farewell, and those who kept vigil in adjoining rooms. Already he was running out of breath, already he seemed to be dying, already even the groan had ceased, consciousness had fled. Everyone was frightened, and they crowded into his room, waiting with pounding hearts for the final moment. Then Chopin, opening his eyes and seeing this crowd, asked, “What are they doing here? Why aren’t they praying?” And they all fell to their knees with me, and I recited the Litany to All the Saints, to which even the Protestants responded. Day and night, he almost continuously held both my hands, not wanting to let go of me, saying, “You will not leave me in this decisive moment.” And he clung to me, as a child in danger clings to its mother. And every moment he cried out, “Jesus, Mary!” and kissed the cross with the rapture of faith and hope, and great love. Sometimes he spoke to those present, with the greatest tenderness, saying, “I love God and people!… I’m glad I’m dying like this… My dear sister, don’t cry. Don’t cry, my friends. I’m happy! I feel I’m dying. Pray for me! See you in Heaven.” Then to the doctors trying to keep him alive, he said, “Let me go, let me die. God has already forgiven me, He is already calling me to Him! Let me go; I want to die!” And again: “Oh, what a beautiful skill it is to prolong suffering. If only for something good, for some sacrifice! But for tormenting me and those who love me, a beautiful skill!” And again: “You inflict severe suffering on me in vain. Maybe you are mistaken. But God is not mistaken. He purifies me, Oh, how good God is to punish me in this world! Oh, how good God is!” In the end, he, who was always exquisite in speech, wanting to express his gratitude to me, and also the misfortune of those who die without the Sacraments, did not hesitate to say: “Without you, my dear, I would have died – like a pig!” In his very death, he once again repeated the Sweetest Names: Jesus, Mary, Joseph, pressed the cross to his lips and heart, and with his last breath uttered these words: “I am already at the source of happiness!…” And he died. Thus Chopin died! Pray for him, that he may live forever. Your humble servant in Christ Z. A. Jełowicki.

Posthumous image of Maria née Grocholski Witoldowa Czartoryska from the collection of Mrs. Barbara Dubus

 

Father Aleksander Jełowicki to Ksawera Grocholska

Paris, October 21, 1849
Sender: Jełowicki Aleksander

I. M. J. Praised be Jesus Christ. Most Honorable Lady! Still under the impression of Chopin’s death, I write a word about it. He died on October 17, 1849, at two in the morning. For many years, Chopin’s life was hanging by a thread. His body, always weak and frail, was increasingly consumed by the fire of his genius. Everyone was amazed that in such an emaciated body a soul still resided and did not lose the sharpness of mind and warmth of heart. His face, like alabaster, was cold, white, and translucent; and his eyes, usually covered by a mist, sometimes sparkled with the brightness of sight. Always sweet and kind, and bubbling with wit, and exceedingly sensitive, he seemed to belong little to the earth. But unfortunately, he did not think of Heaven. He had few good friends, and many bad ones, i.e., without faith; these especially were his devotees. And his triumphs in the most insightful art drowned out the unspeakable moans of the Holy Spirit in his heart. The piety he had sucked from his Polish mother’s womb was now only a family memory. And the godlessness of his companions and companions of his last years increasingly soaked into his receptive mind and settled on his soul like a leaden cloud with doubt. And only by the power of his exquisite propriety did it happen that he did not openly mock holy things, that he did not yet scoff. In such a pitiful state, he was caught by a fatal chest disease. The news of this, pale with Chopin’s approaching death, met me upon my return from Rome to Paris. I immediately ran to this childhood friend of mine, whose soul was all the dearer to me. We embraced each other, and our mutual tears indicated to us that he was already in his last moments. He visibly weakened and faded; yet he did not weep for himself, but rather for me, lamenting the murderous death of my brother Edward, whom he also loved. I took advantage of his tenderness to remind him of Mother… and her memory awakened in him the faith she had taught him. “Ah, I understand you,” he said to me, “I would not like to die without the Sacraments, not to sadden my beloved Mother; but I cannot accept them because I no longer understand them in your way. I would still grasp the sweetness of confession flowing from confiding in a friend; but confession as a Sacrament I do not understand at all. If you want, for your friendship, I will confess to you, but otherwise not.” At these and similar words of Chopin, my heart tightened, and I wept. I felt sorry, sorry for this dear soul. I comforted it as best I could, with the Blessed Virgin, with the Lord Jesus, with the tenderest images of God’s mercy. Nothing helped. I offered to bring him any confessor he wished. And he finally told me, “If I ever want to confess, it will surely be to you.” This is what I feared most after everything he told me. Long months passed in my frequent visits, but without any other effect. However, I prayed with confidence that this soul would not perish. We all prayed for it, the resurrectionists, especially during the retreat. And then on the 12th of this month, in the evening, Dr. Cruveiller urgently summoned me, saying he could guarantee nothing. Trembling with emotion, I stood at Chopin’s door, which for the first time was closed to me. Yet after a moment, he had me let in, but only to shake my hand and say, “I love you very much, but say nothing, go to sleep.” Imagine, if you can, what kind of night I spent! The next day was the feast day of St. Edward, the patron of my beloved brother. Offering a holy mass for his soul, I prayed to God: O God, have mercy! If my brother Edward’s soul is dear to You, give me today the soul of Fryderyk! So with doubled concern, I went to Chopin. I found him at breakfast, to which he invited me, and I said, “My dear friend, today is my brother Edward’s name day.” Chopin sighed, and I continued: “On my brother’s day, give me a bond.” “I will give you whatever you want,” Chopin replied, and I said, “Give me your soul!” “I understand you, take it!” Chopin replied and sat on the bed. Then an unspeakable joy, but also fear, overwhelmed me. How? To take this dear soul to give it to God? I fell to my knees, and in my heart, I cried out to the Lord: “Take it yourself!” And I handed Chopin the crucified Lord Jesus, placing Him silently on his two hands. And tears gushed from both his eyes. “Do you believe?” I asked. He replied, “I believe.” “As your mother taught you?” He replied, “As my mother taught me!” And gazing at the crucified Lord Jesus, in a torrent of his tears, he made a holy confession. And there? he received the Viaticum and the Last Anointing, which he himself requested. After a while, he ordered to give the sacristan twenty times what is usually given, and I said, “That’s too much.” “Not too much,” he replied, “because what I received is priceless.” And from that moment, transformed by God’s grace, indeed, by God Himself, he became like another person, I would say, already a saint. That same day Chopin’s agony began, which lasted four days and nights. Patience, resignation to God, and often joy accompanied him until his last breath. Amidst the highest pains, he expressed his happiness and thanked God, so much so that he shouted his love for Him and ??d? his union with Him, as soon as possible. And he shared his happiness with the friends who came to bid him farewell, and those who kept vigil in adjoining rooms. Already he was running out of breath, already he seemed to be dying, already even the groan had ceased, consciousness had fled. Everyone was frightened, and they crowded into his room, waiting with pounding hearts for the final moment. Then Chopin, opening his eyes and seeing this crowd, asked, “What are they doing here? Why aren’t they praying?” And they all fell to their knees with me, and I recited the Litany to All the Saints, to which even the Protestants responded. Day and night, he almost continuously held both my hands, not wanting to let go of me, saying, “You will not leave me in this decisive moment.” And he clung to me, as a child in danger clings to its mother. And every moment he cried out, “Jesus, Mary!” and kissed the cross with the rapture of faith and hope, and great love. Sometimes he spoke to those present, with the greatest tenderness, saying, “I love God and people!… I’m glad I’m dying like this… My dear sister, don’t cry. Don’t cry, my friends. I’m happy! I feel I’m dying. Pray for me! See you in Heaven.” Then to the doctors trying to keep him alive, he said, “Let me go, let me die. God has already forgiven me, He is already calling me to Him! Let me go; I want to die!” And again: “Oh, what a beautiful skill it is to prolong suffering. If only for something good, for some sacrifice! But for tormenting me and those who love me, a beautiful skill!” And again: “You inflict severe suffering on me in vain. Maybe you are mistaken. But God is not mistaken. He purifies me, Oh, how good God is to punish me in this world! Oh, how good God is!” In the end, he, who was always exquisite in speech, wanting to express his gratitude to me, and also the misfortune of those who die without the Sacraments, did not hesitate to say: “Without you, my dear, I would have died – like a pig!” In his very death, he once again repeated the Sweetest Names: Jesus, Mary, Joseph, pressed the cross to his lips and heart, and with his last breath uttered these words: “I am already at the source of happiness!…” And he died. Thus Chopin died! Pray for him, that he may live forever. Your humble servant in Christ Z. A. Jełowicki.