A note entitled 'Mickiewicz festivities in Nowogródek' in the magazine 'Świat', 1931, no. 24, p. 9 (public domain, reprinted after Mazowiecka Biblioteka Cyforwa) describes the planned celebrations to commemorate Adam Mickiewicz, as well as the planned establishment of a museum of the poet in the former home of his parents. The museum was opened on 11 September 1938. The building suffered from the war and some of the exhibits were destroyed. What was saved after the war was taken to Poland. In 1955, the museum was reopened.

A modernised reading of the text

Mickiewicz celebrations in Novogrudok.

This year marks the centenary of the first publication in print of Adam Mickiewicz's monumental works, born out of his love for his native land of Novogrudok. This prompted the formation of a committee in Novogrudok, under the leadership of Governor Beczkovich, to make it easier for his compatriots to visit the places where the Bard spent his youth. The whole month of June was devoted to Mickiewicz celebrations in Novogrudok and the surrounding area.

These include: the completion of the laying of the Mickiewicz mound by visitors from all parts of Poland; a visit to the house that once belonged to the poet's parents and was intended to house the Mickiewicz Museum; the staging of a Mickiewicz exhibition to launch the museum; and, finally, excursions to localities connected with Adam's life and work, above all to Tuckanovichi, Lake Świteź and so on.

It's unpleasant, although there's no question of fear, such is the feeling of certainty aboard the camera, but... Our pilot leads the camera tirelessly forward. Are we breaking through?... It's getting darker and darker in front of us, to the right. The camera wobbles and begins to become like a plaything of the gale; all the worse that it is not blowing continuously, but in gusts. On top of that, it starts to cut with snow porridge. Frost, gale... and here the camera succumbs to the will of the wind - the pilot sensibly gives way. We turn back. Second time! A moment ago, the telegraphist told us that we would probably spend the night in Klagenfurt, and meanwhile... Doggone it.

We are definitely heading south again. How one flies fast with the wind! We didn't expect the rocks to give way to smaller and smaller hills. In the distance, ahead of us, the green of the plain strews itself... We're approaching Belluno when suddenly, oh joy, our bird, enchanted by the power of man, arcs and - we're sailing towards the north. The pilot has not given up. - He tries a third time. We follow the same route as before. We pass the same wilderness and, cruising along, we 'stop' above the valley behind the Karnian Alps range. How it is all low and far below us! Through shreds of cloud we can see the band of water below; everything there is in snow.

Our bird at this moment begins to descend from its height in a serpentine fashion, around its axis. We wonder, what could it be? We are falling down in great arcs. It is quite clear. The altimeter needle, which indicated 4200 m, rapidly marks the downward direction until it stands still at 110 m. We take a full course eastwards at this altitude. The pace seems tremendous, as we have a comparison with the near ground, which is running away every which way. We fly down the valley under the lowest layer of clouds, in darkness.

You can see every house, hut, homestead, village church. You can see the water wrinkling under the wind. All around, mist and dirty shreds of cloud. Snow begins to sprinkle. We rush by like a monster with three mouths of fire. We pass settlements and wildernesses. The valley descends, widens, the snow disappears, replaced by grey earth. Suddenly, space opens up before us and we pass the town of Villach. Only Villach. Such a long way to go. The camera twitches and rushes, as if it were destiny... Now it breaks off upwards. It changes route, turns more towards the north. The rudders carry us upwards. We break through a blanket of fog and in a moment we are in the sun after sailing through the milk of clouds. Below us we have a sea of woolly lambs, from which, in places, some higher hill protrudes.

In the distance, sideways from us, the icy Alps whiten. Down below, Graz. He lets us know by radio that he is waiting for us. We connect with Vienna Airport, which replies that it will receive us by half past eight. We have three quarters of an hour to go, and yet this space is normally covered in five quarters of an hour by plane. We know what this means: we will have to spend the night in Graz. The sun is hiding. A veil of gloom descends on the ground, but we still shine upwards for a long moment, like a silver-feathered bird. The machine goes into full gear, at 220 kilometres per hour.

There, below us, Graz remains. We pass settlements, villages, then Wiener Neustadt, and here is Vienna. The camera is speeding like mad. In the gloom, fire is breathing from the blast pipes of all three engines, and the engines are running like apocalyptic beasts... Vienna's Aspern airport is lit up for our party. We stagger around the curve and sit most accurately at the intersection of the light of the two headlights. We arrive lightly in front of the airport. We disembark after four wonderful hours of flying.

In less than an hour, I was sitting at a table in the Grand Hotel, in an atmosphere so different from the fresh impressions... The next day, I took off in the morning and at 3 a.m. I was in Warsaw, on a smooth, unimpressive, everyday flight. To the creative human thought, to its efforts that shortened the spaces of roads and time, to the pilots, to the sky eagles - salute!