Ferdydurke (38 page)

"I so wish that all people could be as content and happy as we are—and if they're good, they will be happy."

Or else:

"We're young, we love each other... the world belongs to us!" and she would snuggle up to me, so I had to snuggle up to her.

Since she was convinced that I loved her, she opened up and began to confide in me, and talk sincerely and intimately as she had never done before. Until now she was frightened of people because she had been brought up by aunt Hurlecka, née Lin (now totally lost in that heap), and by servants in aristocratic isolation, she had never confided in anyone for fear of being criticized or found wanting, she was somehow left incomplete, ill-defined, unresolved, lacking inner checks and balances and therefore unsure of the impression she was creating. She badly needed kindness, she couldn't live without it, she could only talk to someone who'd be in advance,
a priori,
kindly and warmly disposed toward her ... And now, realizing that I loved her, and thinking that she had acquired a warm, an unquestioning admirer who would
a priori
accept with love anything she said because he loved her, she began to confide and unbosom herself, she told me of her joys and sorrows, of her tastes and fancies, her enthusiasms, illusions, and disappointments, her transports of joy, her emotions, memories, and all those little details—ha, she finally found someone who loved her, to whom she could unbosom herself with impunity, assured that everything would be accepted, without reprisal, and with love, warmly... And I had to accede and accept, to admire it all . . .

And she said: "Man must have a well-rounded education, he must perfect himself in body and soul, a human being must always be beautiful! I'm for the fullness of humanity. Sometimes of an evening I love to rest my brow against a windowpane and close my eyes, I can relax then. I like movies, but I love music." And I had to say "yes ... yes." And she chirped that on awakening in the morning she must rub her little nose, feeling sure that I could not be indifferent to her little nose, and she would burst out laughing, and I too would burst out. And then she would sadly say: "I know I'm stupid. I know I don't know how to do much. I know I'm not pretty..." And I had to say "oh, no, no." She knew that I was gainsaying her not in the name of truth and reality but only because I was in love with her, and she therefore accepted these negations with pleasure, delighted that she had found an unquestioning admirer
a priori,
who loved, who agreed, who took and accepted everything, everything, kindhear-tedly, warmly...

Oh, what torture I had to endure to save this pretense of maturity, here, along those country paths leading through stubble fields, while yonder, peasants and lordships were tumbling and kneading one another without shame, and, from above, the pupa, suspended at its zenith, was horribly, mercilessly flinging its shafts of light, its billion arrows—oh, the warm kindness, the deadly, restrictive tenderness, the mutual admiration and affection ... Oh, the gall these cute little women have, so greedy for love, so eager to team up in loving, so keen to become the object of admiration... How dare she, a mushy, wishy-washy nobody, acquiesce to my fervor and accept my worship, greedily and avariciously filling her appetite with my adulation? Is there anything on this earth and under the blazing, scorching pupa more terrible than that cloying, womanly warmth, that shy, intimate idolizing and snuggling? . . . And what's worse, in order to recipro-cate and fulfill this mutual admiration scheme, she proceeded to admire me—and, with due attention and interest, she proceeded to ask me about myself—not because she was truly interested but to return the favor—for she knew that if she showed interest in me I would be all the more interested in her. I was thus forced to tell her about myself while she listened, her little head resting on my shoulder, interjecting questions from time to time to let me know that she was listening. And she in turn fed me with her admiration, snuggling up to me, enamored of me, told me that she liked me oh so much, that from the word go I had made such an impression on her, that she loved me more and more, that I was so bold, so courageous ...

"You have kidnapped me," she kept saying, intoxicated by her own words, "not everyone would have dared. You fell in love and you kidnapped me, asking no questions, you simply kidnapped me, you weren't afraid of my parents ... I love those eyes of yours, bold, fearless, rapacious."

And her admiration made me squirm as if the devil himself were flogging me, and the huge, infernal pupa exulted in its glory and pierced from above like the universe's ultimate portent, like the key to all riddles and the final denominator of all things. While Zosia, snuggling up to me, worked on me, and warmly, timidly, awkwardly, she mythologized me just as she chose, and I sensed that in her clumsy way she adored my attributes and virtues, she searched for them, all the while kindling the flames and warming up to me ... She took my hand and nestled it in hers, so I nestled hers in mine—while the infantile, infernal pupa reached its zenith, its culmination, and scorched us directly from above.

Suspended at the very summit of space, it shot its golden, glistening rays on this vale of tears and between all possible horizons. All the while Zosia snuggled ever closer, bonded with me more and more, she led me into her. I was sleepy. I couldn't walk any more, nor listen to her, nor respond, and yet I had to keep walking, listening and responding. We crossed meadows, and those meadows of greenish-green and greening grass were full of yellow buttercups, but the buttercups were timid, nestled in the grass, the grass was a bit slippery, wet on the surface and a little damp below, steaming under the relentless heat from above. Snowdrops in great numbers appeared on either side of the path, but they were slightly yellowish, like weak tea, and anemic-looking. There were lots of anemones on the slopes and melons galore. On the waters, in damp ditches water lilies—pale, wan, delicate, whitish—stagnated in the scorching, sweltering heat. While Zosia went on cuddling and confiding. And the pupa went on hitting the earth. Dwarf trees, their core sickly, puffy, almost like a puffball, were so frightened that as soon as I touched one it fell apart. Little sparrows chirped in great numbers. High above were little clouds, whitish, pinkish, and bluish, as if made of muslin, wretched-looking and mawkish. No clear outline anywhere, everything smeared, silent and mortified, waiting in concealment, unborn and so undefined that nothing was separate or distinct, everything united with everything else into a swampy, whitish, faded, quiet pulp. Frail little streams murmured, spilled over, seeped into the soil and then steamed, or bubbled here and there, creating bleb and snot. The world was becoming smaller, constricting itself, shrinking and, while shrinking, it strained and pressed, it tightened round one's neck like a softly choking dog collar. All the while the utterly infantile pupa struck and terrified one from on high. I rubbed my forehead.

"What kind of a place is this?

She turned her poor tired and frail face toward me and said bashfully and tenderly, snuggling warmly into my shoulder:

"This is my place."

Something caught me by the throat. This is where she brought me. Yes, so all this was hers ... But I felt sleepy, my head hung low, I had no energy—oh, to break loose, move away at least a step, push away to an arm's length, hit her with fury, say something unkind, shatter her—be bad, oh, to be unkind to Zosia! Oh, to be unkind to Zosia! "I must, I must," I thought sleepily, my head fallen on my breast, "I must be unkind to Zosia!" Oh, cruelty—cold as ice, life-saving, life-giving unfriendliness! It's high time to be unkind. I have to be unkind . . . But how can I be unkind while I'm kind—while she's charming me, suffusing me with her kindness and I'm suffusing her with mine, while she's snuggling up to me and I'm snuggling up to her ... no help from anywhere! In these fields and meadows, among timid grasses just the two of us—she with me and I with her—and nowhere, nowhere anyone to save us. I'm alone here with Zosia, and with the pupa as it lies dead in the firmament in its absolute continuance, brilliant and blazing, infantile and infantilizing, closed, sunken, magnified within itself and standing still at the apogee of its zenith...

Oh, for a third person! Help, rescue us! Oh, may a third human being come to the two of us, oh, salvation, come and let me latch on to you, save us! Let athird human being come now, forthwith, a stranger, cold and indifferent, pure, distant and neutral, and like an ocean wave let him hit this steaming domesticity with his separateness, let him tear me away from Zosia . . . Oh, come, you third one, come, give me a base from which to oppose her, allow me to draw from you, oh, come, life-giving breath, come, great power, unhitch me, knock me aside and carry me away! But Zosia snuggled up even more lovingly, warmly, tenderly.

"Why are you calling out and shouting? We're alone ..."

And she raised her mug to me. My strength failed me, dream assailed reality, and I couldn't help it—I had to kiss her mug with my mug, since she had kissed my mug with her mug.

And now come, oh mugs! No, I'm not saying goodbye to you, strange and unknown mugs of strange and unknown people who will read me, I say hello to you, hello, graceful bundles of body parts, now let it all begin—come, step up to me, begin your kneading, make me a new mug so I will again have to run from you and into other people, and speed, speed, speed through all mankind. Because there is no escape from the mug, other than into another mug, and from a human being one can only take shelter in the arms of another human being. From the pupa, however, there is absolutely no escape. Chase me if you want. I'm running away, mug in my hands.

It's the end, what a gas, And who's read it is an ass!

W.G.

{1}
This was Witold Gombrowicz's first book, later completed by the author and published as
Bakakaj.

{2}
See Translator's Note.

{3}
From a patriotic song.

{4}
Sokoly
in the original text. It means "falcons" and is probably based on
Sokols,
gymnastic societies in Czechoslovakia promoting festivals in which as many as ten thousand gymnasts participated simultaneously (Encyclopeadia Britannica, vol. 10, 1970).

{5}
Based on a poem by Zygmunt Krasinski.

{6}
Gutta-percha is a tough plastic substance obtained from the latex of various Malaysian trees.

{7}
Block of wood on Ash Wednesday—allegedly a custom according to which a bachelor who failed to become engaged by the beginning of Lent continues to have a small block of wood attached to him on Ash Wednesday (personal communication).

{8}
Szmonces—a
Jewish quip. Pronounced "shmontzes."

{9}
Based on excerpts from Boy Zelenski's
Words.

{10}
Zouaves—
the name given to certain infantry regiments in the French Army, first raised in Algeria in 1831 (Encyclopaedia Britannica, vol. 23,1970).

{11}
Bigos—a
Polish dish traditionally served after a hunt and consisting of sauerkraut stewed with pieces of meat. Pronounced "beegos."

{12}
In English in the original text.

{13}
Mane, Tekel, Fares
is the writing on the wall that appeared during Baltasar's feast, foretelling the doom of Babylon.

{14}
Starka—
from "stara," meaning old, and denoting mature rye vodka.