Authors: Bill Johnston Witold Gombrowicz
Bacacay (11 page)
“No, we are not fearful!”
squealed the countess.
“We won’t eat anyone alive!”
squealed the countess.
“We won’t eat anyone alive!”
“We won’t eat anyone, apart from .
.
.”
.
.”
“Apaht from .
.
.
!”
.
.
!”
“
Fi donc,
ha ha ha,” they burst out laughing, throwing their embroidered cushions in the air, and the countess sang:
Fi donc,
ha ha ha,” they burst out laughing, throwing their embroidered cushions in the air, and the countess sang:
It must be faced—
Everything’s a matter of taste!
Everything’s a matter of style!
For a lobster to be good you have to torture it,
For a turkey to be fat it has to hurt a bit.
D’you know the taste of my lips awhile?
Whose taste from ours diverges thus
Will never be on first-name terms with us!
Everything’s a matter of taste!
Everything’s a matter of style!
For a lobster to be good you have to torture it,
For a turkey to be fat it has to hurt a bit.
D’you know the taste of my lips awhile?
Whose taste from ours diverges thus
Will never be on first-name terms with us!
“Oh, but”—I whispered—“Countess .
.
.
green peas, carrots, celery, cabbage .
.
.”
.
.
green peas, carrots, celery, cabbage .
.
.”
“Cauliflower!”
added the baron, seized by a suspicious cough.
added the baron, seized by a suspicious cough.
“Exactly!”
I said in total confusion.
“Exactly!
.
.
.
Cauliflower!
.
.
.
Cauliflower ...
fasting .
.
.
vegetarian vegetables .
.
.”
I said in total confusion.
“Exactly!
.
.
.
Cauliflower!
.
.
.
Cauliflower ...
fasting .
.
.
vegetarian vegetables .
.
.”
“Well, what about the cauliflower—did you like it?
Eh?
Was it good?
Eh?
I expect you eventually understood the taste of the cauliflower?”
What a tone of voice!
The condescension, the barely audible but menacing lordly impatience in that tone!
I began to stammer—I didn’t know what to reply—how on earth could I deny it—yet how could I confirm it?—and then (oh, I would never have believed that noble, humanitarian individual, that poetical brother was so capable of giving one to understand that lordly
favors are fickle)—then, leaning back in his armchair and stroking his long, slim leg, inherited from Duchess Pstryczyńska, he said to the ladies in a tone that literally destroyed me: “Really, my deah countess, it’s hahdly worthwhile inviting to dinnah individuals whose taste has nevah risen beyond the uttahly primitive!”
Eh?
Was it good?
Eh?
I expect you eventually understood the taste of the cauliflower?”
What a tone of voice!
The condescension, the barely audible but menacing lordly impatience in that tone!
I began to stammer—I didn’t know what to reply—how on earth could I deny it—yet how could I confirm it?—and then (oh, I would never have believed that noble, humanitarian individual, that poetical brother was so capable of giving one to understand that lordly
favors are fickle)—then, leaning back in his armchair and stroking his long, slim leg, inherited from Duchess Pstryczyńska, he said to the ladies in a tone that literally destroyed me: “Really, my deah countess, it’s hahdly worthwhile inviting to dinnah individuals whose taste has nevah risen beyond the uttahly primitive!”
And, paying me no more heed, they began to banter amongst themselves, their glasses in their hands, in such a way that I immediately became a
quantité négligeable,
—about “Alice” and her caprices, about “Gabie” and “Bubie,” about princess “Mary,” about some “Pheasants” or other, about one fellow who is awful and another woman who is
vraiment impossible.
They exchanged anecdotes and gossip, in a few words, in a higher language, with the aid of expressions such as “crazy,” “fantastic,” “mahvelous,” “fahcical,” and even frequently resorting to crude curses such as “bothah!”
or “buggah!”
till it appeared that this sort of conversation represented the apogee of human ability, while I with my Beauty, my humanity and all the topics of the thinking reed had in some inexplicable fashion been pushed aside like a useless piece of furniture, and had no reason to open my mouth.
They were also telling in a few words some aristocratic jokes that caused extraordinary jollity, but at which I—who did not know their genealogy —could barely force myself to smile.
Dear Lord, what could have happened?!
What a cruel and sudden transformation!
Why were they one way over the pumpkin soup, and now completely different?
Was it really with them that not so long ago I had been disseminating humanitarian brilliance in the utmost harmony—moments before, over the pumpkin soup?
So where had it come from so suddenly and without any visible cause—all this disastrous
ingredient, all this alienness and iciness, this ironic humor, this incomprehensible inclination to painful mockery of appearance itself, this distance, this remoteness, rendering them quite unapproachable!
I was unable to explain such a metamorphosis—and the marchioness’ mention of “our circle” brought to my mind all those awful things that were said in my own middle-class sphere and to which I never lent any credence—about the double face of the aristocracy and its inner life, locked away from undesirable eyes.
quantité négligeable,
—about “Alice” and her caprices, about “Gabie” and “Bubie,” about princess “Mary,” about some “Pheasants” or other, about one fellow who is awful and another woman who is
vraiment impossible.
They exchanged anecdotes and gossip, in a few words, in a higher language, with the aid of expressions such as “crazy,” “fantastic,” “mahvelous,” “fahcical,” and even frequently resorting to crude curses such as “bothah!”
or “buggah!”
till it appeared that this sort of conversation represented the apogee of human ability, while I with my Beauty, my humanity and all the topics of the thinking reed had in some inexplicable fashion been pushed aside like a useless piece of furniture, and had no reason to open my mouth.
They were also telling in a few words some aristocratic jokes that caused extraordinary jollity, but at which I—who did not know their genealogy —could barely force myself to smile.
Dear Lord, what could have happened?!
What a cruel and sudden transformation!
Why were they one way over the pumpkin soup, and now completely different?
Was it really with them that not so long ago I had been disseminating humanitarian brilliance in the utmost harmony—moments before, over the pumpkin soup?
So where had it come from so suddenly and without any visible cause—all this disastrous
ingredient, all this alienness and iciness, this ironic humor, this incomprehensible inclination to painful mockery of appearance itself, this distance, this remoteness, rendering them quite unapproachable!
I was unable to explain such a metamorphosis—and the marchioness’ mention of “our circle” brought to my mind all those awful things that were said in my own middle-class sphere and to which I never lent any credence—about the double face of the aristocracy and its inner life, locked away from undesirable eyes.
No longer able to tolerate my own silence—which with every moment was thrusting me deeper into a terrible abyss—I finally said to the countess out of the blue, like a defunct echo of the past:
“I’m sorry to interrupt .
.
.
Countess, you promised that you would dedicate to me your triolets: ‘Musings of my Soul.’”
.
.
Countess, you promised that you would dedicate to me your triolets: ‘Musings of my Soul.’”
“How ’s that?”
she asked, not having heard me, and in high spirits.
“What was that?
You said something?”
she asked, not having heard me, and in high spirits.
“What was that?
You said something?”
“I’m terribly sorry—you promised, Countess, that you would dedicate to me your work entitled ‘Musings of my Soul.’”
“Ah, yes, that’s right,” replied the countess absently, but with her usual courtesy (her usual courtesy?
Or was it a different kind?
Was it a new kind, to the extent that my cheek, truly without my conscious participation, flushed red)—and taking a small whitebound volume from a side table, she carelessly wrote a few courteous words on the title page and signed herself:
Or was it a different kind?
Was it a new kind, to the extent that my cheek, truly without my conscious participation, flushed red)—and taking a small whitebound volume from a side table, she carelessly wrote a few courteous words on the title page and signed herself:
Countess
Havapoke.
Havapoke.
“But Countess,” I cried, pained to see her historic name distorted so—“it’s Pavahoke.”
“How absentminded of me!”
exclaimed the countess amid the
general jollity.
“How absentminded of me!”
Yet I did not feel like laughing.
“Tsk, tsk,” I almost tutted again.
The countess was laughing loudly and proudly—but at the same time her slim, well-bred leg was describing flourishes on the carpet in an exceptionally titillating and seductive manner, as if relishing the slenderness of its own fetlock—first to the left, then to the right, or in a circle; the baron was leaning forward in his armchair and looked as if he were on the point of uttering some noteworthy bon mot—but his little ear, characteristic of the Pstryczyński dukes, was even littler than usual, while his fingers slipped a single grape between his lips.
The marchioness was sitting with her customary elegance—but her long, thin grande dame’s neck seemed to have become even more elongated, and with its slightly withered surface seemed to be squinting in my direction.
And I must add a not insignificant detail: outside, the rain was being carried by the wind and kept lashing against the window panes like tiny whips.
exclaimed the countess amid the
general jollity.
“How absentminded of me!”
Yet I did not feel like laughing.
“Tsk, tsk,” I almost tutted again.
The countess was laughing loudly and proudly—but at the same time her slim, well-bred leg was describing flourishes on the carpet in an exceptionally titillating and seductive manner, as if relishing the slenderness of its own fetlock—first to the left, then to the right, or in a circle; the baron was leaning forward in his armchair and looked as if he were on the point of uttering some noteworthy bon mot—but his little ear, characteristic of the Pstryczyński dukes, was even littler than usual, while his fingers slipped a single grape between his lips.
The marchioness was sitting with her customary elegance—but her long, thin grande dame’s neck seemed to have become even more elongated, and with its slightly withered surface seemed to be squinting in my direction.
And I must add a not insignificant detail: outside, the rain was being carried by the wind and kept lashing against the window panes like tiny whips.
It may have been that I took my own rapid and undeserved downfall too much to heart—it may also have been that under its influence I yielded to the kind of persecution complex suffered by an individual of the lower spheres admitted to society; in addition, certain chance relations, certain, let us say, analogies stimulated my sensitivities—I have no wish to deny it, this may have been .
.
.
.
But suddenly something utterly extraordinary had drifted from them in my direction!
And I do not deny that the refinement, subtlety, courtesy, and elegance continued to be refined, subtle, courteous, and elegant, as much as could be, without a doubt—but at the same time they were so
strangulating
I was tempted to believe that all those excellent and humanitarian qualities had
become enraged, as if a bumblebee had stung them!
What was more, it suddenly seemed to me (this was undeniably the effect of the slim leg, the little ear, and the neck) that in not looking, in their lordly disregard, they nevertheless saw my confusion and could not get enough of it!
And at the same time I was struck by the suspicion that Havapoke .
.
.
that Havapoke was not necessarily a mere
lapsus linguae,
that in a word, if I am expressing myself clearly, Havapoke meant have a poke!
Have a poke?
Have a poke in the countess?
Yes, yes, the gleaming toes of her patent-leather shoes confirmed me even more in this terrifying conviction!—it seemed they were still surreptitiously splitting their sides at the fact that I had been unable to grasp the taste of the cauliflower—that for me the cauliflower had been an ordinary vegetable—they were surreptitiously splitting their sides at this, and they were preparing to do so aloud the moment I gave voice to the emotions that were agitating me.
Yes, yes—they were disregarding, not noticing, and at the same time, on the side, with various aristocratic parts of the body, a slim leg, an ear, a thin neck, they were provoking and tempting one to break the seal of the secret.
.
.
.
But suddenly something utterly extraordinary had drifted from them in my direction!
And I do not deny that the refinement, subtlety, courtesy, and elegance continued to be refined, subtle, courteous, and elegant, as much as could be, without a doubt—but at the same time they were so
strangulating
I was tempted to believe that all those excellent and humanitarian qualities had
become enraged, as if a bumblebee had stung them!
What was more, it suddenly seemed to me (this was undeniably the effect of the slim leg, the little ear, and the neck) that in not looking, in their lordly disregard, they nevertheless saw my confusion and could not get enough of it!
And at the same time I was struck by the suspicion that Havapoke .
.
.
that Havapoke was not necessarily a mere
lapsus linguae,
that in a word, if I am expressing myself clearly, Havapoke meant have a poke!
Have a poke?
Have a poke in the countess?
Yes, yes, the gleaming toes of her patent-leather shoes confirmed me even more in this terrifying conviction!—it seemed they were still surreptitiously splitting their sides at the fact that I had been unable to grasp the taste of the cauliflower—that for me the cauliflower had been an ordinary vegetable—they were surreptitiously splitting their sides at this, and they were preparing to do so aloud the moment I gave voice to the emotions that were agitating me.
Yes, yes—they were disregarding, not noticing, and at the same time, on the side, with various aristocratic parts of the body, a slim leg, an ear, a thin neck, they were provoking and tempting one to break the seal of the secret.
I do not think I need to add how shocking it was, this quiet temptation, this concealed, unhealthy flirtation with all that was of the thinking reed within me.
I referred vaguely to the “secret” of the aristocracy, the secret of taste, the mystery that none could possess who was not one of the chosen, even if, as Schopenhauer says, he should know three hundred rules of
savoir-vivre
by heart.
And even if for a moment I had been dazzled by the hope that once I learned this secret I would be admitted to their circle and I would drop my
r
’s and say “fantastic” and “crazy” just like them, still,
other concerns aside, the fear and anxiety of—why should I not say it openly—of being slapped in the face utterly paralyzed my burning desire for knowledge.
With the aristocracy one can never be certain, with the aristocracy one needs to be more careful than with a tame leopard.
A certain member of the bourgeoisie, asked once by Duchess X what his mother’s maiden name was and emboldened by the apparent ease of manner prevailing in that salon and the forbearance with which his previous two jokes had been received, decided that he could permit himself anything at all and replied: “By your leave, Piędzik!”—and for that “by your leave” (which turned out to be vulgar) he was immediately ejected.
I referred vaguely to the “secret” of the aristocracy, the secret of taste, the mystery that none could possess who was not one of the chosen, even if, as Schopenhauer says, he should know three hundred rules of
savoir-vivre
by heart.
And even if for a moment I had been dazzled by the hope that once I learned this secret I would be admitted to their circle and I would drop my
r
’s and say “fantastic” and “crazy” just like them, still,
other concerns aside, the fear and anxiety of—why should I not say it openly—of being slapped in the face utterly paralyzed my burning desire for knowledge.
With the aristocracy one can never be certain, with the aristocracy one needs to be more careful than with a tame leopard.
A certain member of the bourgeoisie, asked once by Duchess X what his mother’s maiden name was and emboldened by the apparent ease of manner prevailing in that salon and the forbearance with which his previous two jokes had been received, decided that he could permit himself anything at all and replied: “By your leave, Piędzik!”—and for that “by your leave” (which turned out to be vulgar) he was immediately ejected.
“Philip,” I thought cautiously—“After all, Philip swore an oath!
.
.
.
I mean, the cook is a cook!
The cook is a cook, the cauliflower a cauliflower, the countess a countess, and on this last score may no one forget it!
Yes, the countess is a countess, the baron a baron, and the gusts of the gale and the wretched weather outside the windows are a gale and foul weather, and the child’s little hands in the darkness and the back, bruised by a father’s belt, beneath the driving waves of the downpour are a child’s little hands and a bruised back, and nothing more .
.
.
and the countess is beyond a doubt a countess.
The countess is a countess, and let’s just hope she doesn’t give someone a telling-off !”
.
.
.
I mean, the cook is a cook!
The cook is a cook, the cauliflower a cauliflower, the countess a countess, and on this last score may no one forget it!
Yes, the countess is a countess, the baron a baron, and the gusts of the gale and the wretched weather outside the windows are a gale and foul weather, and the child’s little hands in the darkness and the back, bruised by a father’s belt, beneath the driving waves of the downpour are a child’s little hands and a bruised back, and nothing more .
.
.
and the countess is beyond a doubt a countess.
The countess is a countess, and let’s just hope she doesn’t give someone a telling-off !”
Observing that I had remained in a state of complete, almost paralytic passivity, they began, as if unobtrusively, to circle me ever closer, accosting me ever more openly and revealing ever more clearly a desire to taunt me.
“Would you look at that terrified expression!”
the countess cried all of a sudden, and they started to ridicule me, saying that I must be “feahfully shocked” and “terrahstruck,”
since in my spheres surely no one “blathahed” in this way or tried to prove that here there prevailed manners incomparably better and less wild than theirs, the aristocacy’s.
Pretending to be afraid of my strictness, they set about jokingly upbraiding and reprimanding one another, as if they cared above all what I thought of them.
“Would you look at that terrified expression!”
the countess cried all of a sudden, and they started to ridicule me, saying that I must be “feahfully shocked” and “terrahstruck,”
since in my spheres surely no one “blathahed” in this way or tried to prove that here there prevailed manners incomparably better and less wild than theirs, the aristocacy’s.
Pretending to be afraid of my strictness, they set about jokingly upbraiding and reprimanding one another, as if they cared above all what I thought of them.
“Don’t talk nonsense!
You’re awful!”
exclaimed the countess (though the baron was not awful at all; there was nothing awful about him except that little ear, which he kept touching, not without satisfaction, with the tips of his slim, bony fingers).
You’re awful!”
exclaimed the countess (though the baron was not awful at all; there was nothing awful about him except that little ear, which he kept touching, not without satisfaction, with the tips of his slim, bony fingers).
“Will you behave properly!”
shouted the baron (the countess and the marchioness were behaving entirely properly).
shouted the baron (the countess and the marchioness were behaving entirely properly).
“Don’t blather—don’t sprawl on the sofa—don’t shake your leg and don’t put your feet on the table!”
(Heaven forfend!
The countess had no intention of doing these things.) “You’re hurting the feelings of this poor fellow!
Countess, your nose really is too well-bred!
Have mercy, ma’am!”
(On whom, I ask, was the countess to have mercy on account of her nose?) The marchioness remained silent, shedding tears of amusement.
But the fact that like an ostrich I stuck my head in the sand only served to excite them the more—they looked as if they had thrown the remains of their caution to the winds—as if they wanted at all costs to ensure that I understood—and, unable to contain themselves, they made ever more transparent allusions.
Allusions?
To what?
Ah, naturally to the same thing over and again, and ever more openly, ever closer and closer they orbited, ever more brazenly .
.
.
(Heaven forfend!
The countess had no intention of doing these things.) “You’re hurting the feelings of this poor fellow!
Countess, your nose really is too well-bred!
Have mercy, ma’am!”
(On whom, I ask, was the countess to have mercy on account of her nose?) The marchioness remained silent, shedding tears of amusement.
But the fact that like an ostrich I stuck my head in the sand only served to excite them the more—they looked as if they had thrown the remains of their caution to the winds—as if they wanted at all costs to ensure that I understood—and, unable to contain themselves, they made ever more transparent allusions.
Allusions?
To what?
Ah, naturally to the same thing over and again, and ever more openly, ever closer and closer they orbited, ever more brazenly .
.
.
“Might I smoke?”
asked the baron affectedly, taking out a gold cigarette case.
(Might I smoke?!
It was quite as if he was unaware
that outside, the damp and rain and awful freezing wind could at any moment make one stiff with cold.
Might I smoke?!)
asked the baron affectedly, taking out a gold cigarette case.
(Might I smoke?!
It was quite as if he was unaware
that outside, the damp and rain and awful freezing wind could at any moment make one stiff with cold.
Might I smoke?!)
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